Roses Are Red

it was still brightly sunny outside. He’d gone for a nice walk in the fields. He’d thought everything through. Now he was returning to the farmhouse.
    He entered through the front screen door and let his eyes crawl over the bodies. The crew members were dead, all six of them. Their bodies were strangely twisted and contorted, the way metal can get in a firestorm. He had seen that phenomenon once, after a fire that raged through the hillsides outside Berkeley, in California. He’d loved that: the sheer beauty of a natural disaster.
    He stopped and studied the dead. They were murderers, and they’d suffered for it. He’d used Marplan as the poison this time. Interestingly, the antidepressant was most potent when ingested with cheese or red wine, especially Chianti. The odd chemical combination induced a sharp increase in blood pressure followed by cerebral hemorrhage, and finally circulatory collapse.
Voilà.
    He looked more closely at the dead, and it was extraordinarily fascinating. Their pupils were dilated. The mouths were open in horribly twisted screams. Bloated bluish tongues hung out of the sides of the mouths. Now he had to get them out of here. He had to make the bodies disappear, almost as if they had never existed.
    A girl named Gersh Adamson was sprawled on the floor near the front door. She’d tried to run outside, hadn’t she? Good for her. She was Ms. Green, a tiny blond lady who said she was twenty-one, but who looked no more than fifteen. Her mouth was frozen in an anguished scream that he simply loved. He almost couldn’t tear his eyes away from Gersh Adamson’s lips.
    He figured that she was the lightest to carry; she probably weighed no more than a hundred pounds.
    “Hello, Ms. Green. I’ve always liked you, you know. I’m a little diffident, though. I should say that I
used
to be shy. I’m getting over it.”
    He reached out and touched her small breasts. He was surprised to find that Ms. Green wore a push-up bra under her blouse. Not quite the little dippie-hippie she seemed to be. He unbuttoned her blouse, then pulled it off and stared at her breasts.
    He unbuttoned the dead girl’s jeans. Then he inserted a finger inside her panties. The flesh was a little cool. She had a silver ring in her belly button. He touched it. Pulled on it like a pop-top.
    She was wearing satiny gray platforms with high heels, and he carefully took those off her feet. He pulled the tight jeans down and then wriggled them off, too. Ms. Green’s toenails were painted bright blue.
    The Mastermind unclasped the lacy push-up bra and kneaded her smallish breasts. He rubbed them together with his palms. Then he pinched the tiny, perfect nipples hard. He’d wanted to do that from the first time he saw her. He’d wanted to hurt her a little, or maybe a lot.
    He looked out the farmhouse window, then around at the dead bodies again. “I’m not grossing any of you out, am I?” he asked.
    He dragged Ms. Green by her bare feet to the faded rug at the center of the room. Then he took off his own trousers. He was getting hard. He never got this way anymore. Maybe the FBI was right: He might be a pattern killer, after all. Maybe he was just beginning to understand who he really was.
    “I’m a ghoul,” the Mastermind said, then he pulled aside her panties and thrust himself inside the dead woman’s vagina. “I’m crazy, Ms. Green, and that’s the biggest joke of all.
I’m the one who’s crazy.
If the police only knew. What a great clue.”

Part Three
    HANGING WITH THE BIG DOGS

Chapter 48
    THREE DAYS PASSED without another robbery. One of them was a Saturday, and I got to spend the afternoon with the Boy. At around six, I finally brought him back to Christine’s.
    Before we went inside, I carried little Alex around the flower garden behind her apartment in Mitchellville. Her “country estate,” I liked to call it. The garden was glorious. Christine had planted and nurtured it herself. It was filled with a variety of roses: hybrid teas, floribunda and grandiflora. It reminded me of how she had been before the kidnapping in Bermuda. Everything about the garden was visually pleasing. Which was probably why it felt so damn sad to be there without her.
    I carried the Boy easily on my hip, talking to him, pointing out the manicured lawn, a weeping willow tree, the sky, the setting sun. Then I showed him the similarity in our faces: nose to nose, eyes to eyes, mouth to mouth. Every few minutes I’d stop to