Broken Prey

how good it feels . . .”
    “Jeez . . .”
    “Hey, you ever see any of those terrorist guys on TV? Cuttin’ somebody’s head off or something? Everybody says it’s because they’re Moslems or something. I know better—I can tell by looking at them. They like it. They’re having a good old time. That’s what gets their rocks off—it ain’t Mohammed. They like killing people. They’re like me. They’re like lots of us. And if you look at it that way, how many people are like us, it’s really pretty normal.”
    Ignace was calculating now. Didn’t Jimmy Breslin have something to do with the .44-caliber killer, the Son of Sam? Didn’t he get more famous because of it? “Look: if you come in, I can cut a deal for you. I could cut a deal that would get you nothing but treatment . . .”
    “Uh-uh. I ain’t coming in, Ruffe. Never. I had treatment, remember? That fuckin’ treatment . . . anyway, ain’t you gonna ask me what I’m gonna do next?”
    “Okay. What’re you gonna do next?” Ignace was taking it all down in Gregg, word for word, trying to get it precisely right, every ain’t and nothin’ with a dropped g.
    “I’m gonna hunt somebody down. Gonna take her out someplace, I’m gonna give her a head start, and then I’m gonna hunt her down. A woman this time. Take her out to the Boundary Waters, strip her out of her clothes, then turn her loose and watch her run. Give her a hope. A forlorn hope.”
    Ignace could feel the skin tighten at the back of his neck: there was no longer a question in his mind—he was talking to Charlie Pope.
    “But what’s all this bulls . . . What’s all this stuff about hunting people? I mean, I’m sorry, but . . .”
    “That’s nuts.” The whispery laugh again: “Of course it is. I am nuts. You seem to have a hard time getting over that. Write it down: N-U-T-S. The state says I’m nuts, and I’m nuts. What’d they think I was gonna do, lift garbage cans all the rest of my life? Fuck ’em.” He laughed then, his ragged voice sounding as though a piece of paper were being torn through.
    Ignace was writing frantically. “How did this get started? You never . . . I mean, your reputation wasn’t for this kind of thing.”
    “There were some Gods Down the Hall from me, at St. John’s. They made me see how much like God you can get to be, if you got the balls to go out and do it. I talked to them and they talked to me, and I can still hear their voices. They were right: it’s just like being God.”
    “How are you staying ahead of the police?” A woman from the desk walked up, a piece of paper in her hand, and Ignace waved her away. She said, “We need . . .”
    Ignace said into the phone, “Hang on just a second,” turned to the woman and barked, “Go away. Go away.”
    She persisted. “We need . . .”
    “Go the fuck away,” he shouted and, as she stepped backward, he went to the phone again. “I’m back.”
    “Little trouble there, Ruffe?”
    “I’m the night guy; they want me to do some horseshit. Listen, how’d you know I’d be here?”
    “I didn’t. I just kept calling your line every couple hours, until you answered.”
    “I can’t hear you very well . . .”
    Louder: “I said, I kept calling your line every couple of hours . . . that damn Rice tried to kick me, caught me one in the throat, I think he fucked me up. I can’t hardly eat nothin’.”
    “You’re hurt?”
    “Yeah, I’m hurt. Nobody said this was gonna be easy,” the whisperer said. “You can’t believe the shit I go through. I gotta plan, I gotta find the right person. I’m already watching two or three of these chicks, now I gotta decide which one to take. There are a lot of angles to figure out. You know, how much will they fight, will there be anybody around who might jump in to help them, maybe they got a gun, there’s all kinds of shit to figure out. Makes my head hurt. Hard work. But I’m gonna do it soon. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day.”
    “What do you . . .”
    “I gotta go. I can see a cop car on the next street. I don’t want him looking at me. Maybe I’ll call again, after I do the next one.”
    “Wait, wait. If you’d like to talk to a doctor, or a lawyer . . .”
    The whispery laughter, then, “Too late for that. But I do got one more thing for you, a message for the cops. I ain’t gonna quit. I’m gonna do twenty or thirty of them if I can. If they catch me, they better be ready