The Steel Kiss (Lincoln Rhyme 12)

I didn't take Alicia to the Toy Room.

I debated, but no.

She's left--she's never stayed over--and I'm in bed, 11 p.m. or so. I don't know. Thinking of us in the bedroom earlier: unzipping Alicia's blue dress, the teacher's dress, the zipper at the back. Modest. Bra was complicated, not to undo, but the structure. Hard to see for certain, though, because, of course, we both prefer the lights dim.

Then my clothes were off too, my clothes like queen sheets on a twin bed. Her tiny hands moved fast as hungry hummingbirds. Truly deft. And we played our game. Love that. Just love it. Though I have to be careful. If I don't think of something else, it's over too soon. Trot out thoughts and memories: A steel chisel I bought last week, considering what it would do to bone. Dinner at my favorite take-out place. The screams of the victim recently in the construction site near 40deg North, as the ball-peen hammer came down on his skull. (I take this as proof I'm not truly a monster. Picturing the blood, the snap, doesn't make me finish faster but dulls me a bit.)

Then Alicia and I found the pulse and all was well... until, damn it, the image of that police girl came to mind. Red. I pictured looking toward the screams from the escalator, seeing her, badge and gun and all, as she was looking toward me. Shadowed eyes, red hair flying. Looking away from the bloody escalator and the screams, looking for me, me, me. But, odd, though she gave me a terrible scare at the mall, though she's as bad as the worst Shopper ever, picturing her as I pulsed atop tiny Alicia didn't slow me down. Just the opposite.

Stop it! Go away!

My God, did I say that aloud? I wondered.

Glanced at Alicia. No. She was lost in whatever place she goes to at times like this.

But Red didn't go away.

And it was over. Snap. Alicia seemed surprised a little at the speed. Not that she seemed to care. Sex feeds women many different courses, like tapas, where a man wants a single entree to wolf down and wolf fast.

After, we dozed and I awoke thinking I was still empty somehow and thought about the Toy Room, taking her there.

Yes? I'd wondered. No?

Then I told her to leave.

Goodbye, goodbye.

Nothing more than those words.

And she left.

Now I find my phone, listen to a voice mail message from my brother. "Yo. Next Sunday. Anjelika or Film Forum? David Lynch or The Man Who Fell to Earth? Your call. Ha, no actually it's my call. 'Cause it's me who dialed you!"

Love to hear his voice. Like mine, yet not like mine.

I then wonder what to do with my wakefulness. There are plenty of plans I have to consider for tomorrow. But instead I fumble through the bedside table drawer. Find the diary and continue writing passages. I'm transcribing, actually, from the MP3 player. It's always easier to talk, let the thoughts fly like bats at dusk, going where they will. Then write it down later.

These passages from the difficult days, the high school days. Who isn't glad to have left those times behind? I write in pretty good script. The nuns. They weren't bad, most of them. B

ut when they insisted, you listened, you practiced, you pleased them.

Well. What a day. At school until four. Civics club project. Mrs. Hooper was happy about my work. Took the secret way home. Longer but better (know why? Obvious). Past the house that drapes out cobwebs at Halloween, past the pond that seems smaller every year, past Marjorie's house, where I saw her that one time blouse open and she never knew.

Was hoping, praying I'd get home today okay and I think I will. But then there they are.

Sammy and Franklin. They're leaving Cindy Hanson's house. Cindy could be a fashion model. So pretty. Sam and Frank, so handsome, are the sort could go out with her. I don't even talk to her. I don't exist to her, I'm not on this planet. Complexion clear but too skinny too gawky too awkward. That's okay. That's the way the world works.

Sam and Frank have never slugged me, pushed me down, rubbed my face in dirt or dog shit. But never been alone with them. Know they've looked at me some, well, of course, they have. Everybody in school has. If this was Duncan or Butler, I'd get whaled on, the crap totally beaten out of me, cause there aren't any witnesses around. So I guess same is going to happen with them. They're shorter than me, who isn't? But stronger and I can't fight, don't know how. Flail, that's what somebody said I was doing. I looked silly. Asked Dad to help. He didn't. Put on a boxing show on TV and left me to watch it. Lotta good that did.

So now, getting beat up.

Because there aren't any witnesses around.

No way I can turn. I just keep walking. Waiting for the fists. And they're grinning. What the boys in school always do before the hitting.

But they don't hit. Sam's like hi, and asks if I live near here. A couple blocks away, I tell him. So they know now this is a really weird way for me to get home from school, but they don't say anything.

He just says nice neighborhood here. Frank says he lives closer to the tracks which is noisy and it kind of sucks.