Cooked Goose

complex. There are basically two types of rapists,” she continued in a practiced, scholarly monotone, “psychiatric offenders and criminal offenders. If he is a psychiatric rapist, he will have an I.Q. that is higher than average, a good education, and may have achieved a high level of success. He lives in a fantasy world, his escape from the normal world where he feels inadequate. He probably knows he’s a sicko and may even feel guilty about it. He may worry about his victims and be ashamed of what he does to them.”
    “Yeah, right,” Margie muttered, shaking her psychedelic- colored head.
    “Do you have something to add, Margie?” Savannah asked.
    The girl shrugged. “From what I read in the paper, he sounds pretty mean, like he enjoys what he’s doing.”
    “I agree,” Tammy said. “From what I’ve read and heard bout this rapist, I would classify him as the second kind of rapist, a criminal offender, a sociopath who doesn’t care who he hurts as long as he satisfies his own twisted needs. He thinks everyone else is stupid or crazy... not him. He’s the smart one—at least in his own not-so-humble opinion.”
    “That’s true,” Savannah added. “From the victim’s reports, we can assume this guy is motivated by his hatred toward women. He’s dangerous, ladies. I don’t want to scare you any more than you already are, but you need to know as much as possible about the enemy, to be fully prepared.”
    “What are you saying?” One of the softer, sweeter, Sunday-school-teacher types asked, her eyes bright with fear.
    “Exactly what you think I’m saying.” Savannah drew a deep breath and decided to be honest with her students. She knew the librarian was listening. The San Carmelita Recreation Department had wanted a much lighter, more upbeat, fun class than the one she was teaching. She would catch hell when the class broke up, but this wasn’t the time to chocolate dip the bitter truth.
    “His attacks are becoming more and more violent,” she told them. “We have to arm ourselves with self-defense skills, criminal knowledge and a generous dose of plain ol’ street smarts against this dangerous predator. And then we have to hope to God we don’t run into him. Because he’s on a frighteningly predictable path. Unless he’s caught soon, it’s just matter of time until he kills one of his victims.”

    * * *

    8:17 P.M.

    Christmas bites, Charlene Yardley thought as she watchee one of Santa’s overgrown, slightly disgruntled elves lift a chubby-cheeked cherub onto the big guy’s lap. The two-year old shrieked. The toddler’s mom yelled, “Hurry up and take the picture, stupid!” to a weary Mrs. Claus behind thecamera. The bulb flashed, capturing the precious memory for all time... and for the nominal price of $19.95.
    Charlene fought back the tears as she turned away from the mail’s center with its twenty-foot tree, cotton batting snow, plywood sleigh and gilded Santa’s throne. This year he would be taking the children... her children... to see Santa Claus. And even though no one had said so, Charlene knew that she would be going along, too. Just one big happy family.
    Home-wrecking bitch, Charlene silently added. May she be impaled on a reindeer’s horn or choke on a plum pit in her Christmas pudding.
    As Charlene passed the Victoria’s Secret window she tried not to notice the red velvet and emerald-green lace corset and stocking set in the window, tried not to remember... what was it he had said that day? Something like, “If you hadn’t turned into a fat slob after you had the kids, if you had worn something sexy for me once in a while—like she does—I wouldn’t have had to go elsewhere for it.”
    Okay, he hadn’t said something like that; he had said exactly that. Now Charlene, who had once enjoyed wearing such things herself, couldn’t see a lingerie ad or watch a diet commercial without considering suicide... or homicide, depending on the depth of her depression at that given moment.
    Well, Miss Corset and Garters was welcome to him. It would only be a matter of time until he fooled around on her, too.
    They deserved each other.
    But the kids...
    It was Christmas, and Charlene couldn’t believe how much her heart hurt to have to share the children with her soon-to-be-ex and his new honey. Her shoulders ached with the burden of packages she carried under each arm, far heavier than her credit card balance could support. The price of guilt. Guilt for not