"Then the websites, the one you found on Stan Prescott's computer, where you could see crime scene pictures. And buy fifteen-minute clips of actresses getting shot or stabbed."
She said, "And pretty soon even they weren't enough."
He nodded and there was some desperation in his voice as he said, "Then everything changed."
"What happened?"
"Jessica," he whispered. And his eyes stroked her face and neck once more. "Jessica."
Chapter 85
I was in my early teens. There was an accident. It was Route Thirty-five and Mockingbird Road. Minnesota countryside. I called the incident the Intersection. Uppercase. It was that significant to me.
"I was driving with my parents, home from a family funeral." He smiled. "That was ironic. A funeral. Well, we were driving along and turned this corner in a hilly area and there was a truck in the intersection right in front of us. My father hit the brakes..." He shrugged.
"An accident. Your family was killed?"
"What? Oh, no. They were fine. They're living in Florida now. Dad's still a salesman. Mom manages a bakery. I see them some." A pallid chuckle. "They're proud of the humanitarian work I do."
"The Intersection," Dance prompted.
"What happened was a pickup truck had run a stop sign and slammed into a sports car, a convertible. The car had been knocked off the road and down the hill a little ways. The driver of the BMW was dead, that was obvious. My parents told me to stay in the car and they ran to the man in the truck--he was the only one alive--to see what they could do.
"I stayed where I was, for a minute, but I'd seen something that intrigued me. I got out and walked down the hill, past the sports car and into the brush. There was a girl, about sixteen, seventeen, lying on her back. She'd been thrown free from the car and had tumbled down the hill.
"She--I found out later her name was Jessica--she was bleeding real badly. Her neck had been cut, deep, her chest too--her blouse was open and there was a huge gash across her left breast. Her arm was shattered. She was so pretty. Green eyes. Intense green eyes.
"She kept saying, 'Help me. Call the police, call somebody. Stop the bleeding, please.'" He looked at Dance levelly. "But I didn't. I couldn't. I pulled out my cell phone and I took pictures of her for the next five minutes. While she died."
"You needed to take the next step. To a real death. Seeing it in real time. Not a game or a movie.
"
"That's right. That's what I needed. When I did, with Jessica, the Get went away for a long time."
"But then you took another step, didn't you? You had to. Because how often could you happen to stumble on a scene like Jessica's death?"
"Todd," he said.
"Todd?"
"It was about four, five years ago. I wasn't doing well. The college failures, the boring job... And, no, the video games and movies weren't doing it for me anymore. I needed more. I was in upstate New York, a sales call at Cornell. I drove off campus and took a walk in the woods. I saw this bungee jumping. It was illegal; not like it was a tourist attraction or anything. These people, kids mostly, just put on helmets and GoPro cameras and jumped."
"What you mentioned earlier? The tape you sold to Chris Jenkins."
He nodded. "I got talking to this one kid. His name was Todd." March fell silent for a moment. "Todd. Anyway, I just couldn't stop myself. He'd hooked his rope to the top of the rock and walked away to the edge, to look over the jump. There was nobody around."
"You detached it?"
"No. That would've been suspicious. I just lengthened it by about five feet. Then I went down to the ground. He jumped and hit the rocks below. I got it all on tape." March shook his head. "I can't tell you...the feeling."
"The Get went away?"
"Uh-huh. From there, I knew where my life was going. I met Chris and I was the luckiest person in the world. I could make a living doing what I had to do. We started small. A single death here or there. A homeless man--poisoning him. A girl on a scooter, no helmet. I'd pour oil on a curve. But soon one or two deaths weren't enough. I needed more. The customers wanted more too. They were addicts, just like me."
"So, you came up with the idea of stampedes."
"The blood of all."