Michael Prescott - In Dark Places

Robin needed a moment to process this information, then another moment to find the correct button on the lighted keypad.

Justin Gray's voice crackled over the earpiece.

"Yo, Doc Robin. How's tricks?"

"Justin, why are you calling me?"

"Why not? Always fun to shoot the breeze. Hope I didn't wake you."

"Shouldn't you be in your cell at this hour?"

"I'm in my cell at every hour. Got a jail phone in here. All the comforts of home. See, they gotta give me a phone, or my First Amendment rights would be violated. Us cons gotta have access to communication with the outside worldeven us ultra-bad boys in the high-power ward. Besides, this way the hacks don't gotta drag their sorry asses out of the control booth and escort me out of my cell. They don't like to mess with me. I'm a dangerous individual."

"How did you get my cell phone number?"

"It's on your business card. I swiped one from your office a while back."

"You should be asleep."

"I don't sleep much. Night's the best time for me. It's so quiet and dark. I can move in the shadows. Silence 'n' violence, babywhat I live for."

"You're not moving in any shadows now, Justin."

"Got that right. But I still don't sleep much. Bad dreams, you know."

She was surprised to get a straightforward response. "Do you have bad dreams often?"

"They come and go."

"What do you dream about?"

"The ones I killed. The girls."

"What about them?"

"How they must've suffered. And how, you know, now that I'm in here amp;"

"Yes?"

"I'll never get to do it again. Really pisses me off."

She released a breath, angry at herself for having been suckered in. "Justin, I don't want you calling me."

"That's the sort of thing that could hurt my feelings. Mess me up, do all kinds of serious psychological damage."

"I'm serious. My patients call me to set up an emergency appointment, that's all. I don't do therapy over the phone."

"Don't flatter yourself, college girl. I'm not calling you for help. Just checking in, saying hi. It's what friends do."

"Not at midnight."

"If you're sleepy, maybe I can chat with Meg instead. I bet she's a night owl. Her and me got along real good, that time we met."

"Don't talk about her."

"I don't know, Doc. She's a fine piece of snatch, all right."

"Justin"

"Hey, hey. Chill, Freud. Sorry if I offended. I guess it's wrong for me to be making crude remarks about a virginal young maiden. Except I got news for you, Doc. She ain't no virgin."

"I don't need to hear this."

"Hey, it's no bullshit. I can tell these things. Got a sixth sense about 'em."

"She's not even dating," Robin snapped.

"Not that you know about. I tell you true, Doc, these kids today start early. She's wettin' her whistle, all right. I bet she's gettin' more action than you."

"Be quiet."

"You think she's daisy fresh, never got her cherry popped? Fuck me, I can smell the jizz on her. She been doing the nasty, big-time. No surprise. She gets plenty of offers, for sure. Me, I'd like to bone her myself"

" Shut up !" She took a breath, fighting for calm. "Did you call just to tell me this? What are you trying to do?"

"Me? I'm just performing a public service. What can I say? It's my nature to help people."

"Don't ever call me again. And I don't want to hear any more lies about Meg."

"You got it, Doc. Just keep your eyes shut tight. See no evil, right?"

"Stop it, Justin. Stop it."

"If Meg gets tired of whoever's dicking her now, send her my way. I'll show her what a real man can do."

Robin shut off the phone, then sat on the bed, shaking.

She shouldn't let him get to her like that. He was playing games, sick mind games, the kind he'd played when he was still at large. Now he was safely caged, but he could still use a telephone, still find a way to inflict pain on the world.

And she was trying to help him, make him better. She asked herself why.

"Because he's dysfunctional," she whispered.

Dysfunctional. Such a nice clinical term, so much more scientific and sanitized than other words she might have used. Words like soulless amp; malevolent amp; evil .

How much did she really believe in evil? Justin Gray was evil by any reasonable definition. Yet she treated him as someone with a disorder, someone to be cured. Then was there no evil, only illness? No morality, only the interaction of dopamine, serotonin, epinephrine?

She didn't know what she believed. She half suspected she didn't want to believe in evil, didn't want it to be real, because then her father amp; she would have to label him as amp;

She left the thought unfinished. The past wasn't the issue, anyway. It was the future that counted. A new method of treatment. Lowered rates of recidivism. A safer, saner society. Fewer victims. And an end to warehoused offenders, wasted lives.

Robin lay back in bed and closed her eyes.

New hope for people like her fatherand their families. New lives. For that, she would endure Gray's games. She would endure anything.

Gray hung up, smiling, and climbed onto his rack, hands laced behind his head.

Now that had been some good, clean fun.

He'd never called the doc before, but tonight he was so goddamn jazzed, he had to work off his nervous tension somehow. And the best way to do it was with a little old-fashioned, ail-American mind fucking.

That had been part of the sport all along. One of the best parts, always. He'd made it his trademark. He'd become known for the mind games he played on the parents of his victims.

Hours after one of his girls was dead, he would call her folks, using a stolen cell phonea different phone each time. It had been fun, like making prank calls when he was a kid. Being drunk hadn't hurt. Typically he stayed wasted for a day or two after a kill, enjoying the buzz. And the conversations with the parents only made the high that much sweeter.

He could remember every word.

"I'm the one what took your baby girl, ma'am," he would say in a trailer-trash drawl. "And the thing is, I'm wondering if you had any preferencesy'know, as to where you'd like to pick her up."

"You're letting her go?"

"Oh, sorry. I meant where you want to pick up her body."

"Oh, God, please, please don't, she's a good girl, she's all we have."

"You're telling me you want the little bitch alive ?"

"Please amp;"

" 'Cause I just assumed you were glad to be rid of her. No offense, but she's kind of a pain in the ass."

"Don't hurt her."

"Here I thought you'd be grateful to me for taking her off your hands. I was doing you a major favor. Now all of a sudden I'm the bad guy?"

"She's a good girl; everybody loves her"

"If she's such a good girl, where'd she learn to give those high-quality blow jobs?"

"God, oh, dear God amp;"

"Sorry, must be some miscommunication. This ain't God you're talking to. My name's Willy. As in Free Willy. 'Cause I'm free and I intend to stay that way, and since your bitch daughter's seen my face amp;"

"She's all we have"

"Then you better get started on another one. Biological clock's ticking, lady. Tick-tock. Tick-tock."

Some of his games were more elaborate. He would call the parents and playact as a concerned citizen, saying he'd found their daughter wandering down Olympic Boulevard, dazed but unharmed. Or he would be a doctor at UCLA Medical, reporting that their daughter had been brought to the emergency room. Or a reporter asking to confirm the rumor that their daughter had been picked up in San Diego, suffering from amnesia and sexual abuse.

He chuckled, remembering. He hadn't played that game in a year, but he'd picked the right time to get his groove back. With any luck, the doc would be up all night worrying. Tomorrow she'd be tired and distracted and pissed off. Hate would make her careless. It worked that way for people like her.