I know all too well about the monsters who prey on the system.
I blink the dark spots from my vision, eyelids heavy. My thoughts are getting muddled. If not for London, I probably would’ve already killed Nelson. It seems the most logical solution.
But if he dies, the proof of his secret persona dies with him.
No one would believe there was a copycat killer. Especially if the finger points to a federal agent.
London’s right. We still need him. Patience.
I keep on the move, circling back to Rockland, sitting on the Refuge in preparation for Nelson. He’ll show up there eventually. But first, I just want a glimpse of London’s building. Just one peek—like a small hit for a junkie. Feeding the cravings. The buss passes her building, and I take in the scene.
A group of protestors circle before the steps. A smile twitches at my mouth when I realize they’re chanting about London.
The protesters are enraged, angered with the system that lets animals like the Angel of Maine free.
I suppose clueing them in to the fact that psychologists have very little to do with government probably wouldn’t help. These people can’t be swayed; they don’t want to be. They’re righteous in their beliefs—no matter how ridiculous. Demanding peace by enforcing the death penalty for convicted murderers.
How ironic.
Their singsong chant gets stuck in my head. I rather like it.
The truth is, we are a violent species. We will never be peaceful. Earth itself was conceived in a womb of violence. She didn’t sneak into the void of space with a whisper to be populated. She burst into existence with a bang—a violent explosion. We are predisposed to violence because it exists in the very atoms we’re made of.
Murder.
War.
Hitler. Genghis Khan. Alexander the Great. They killed in the thousands, millions. They killed for power. They wielded fear and mercy as a weapon. Evil in its purest form. Civilizations were built on the blood they shed.
I’ve heard scholars argue that these men were mad—but what is genius if not madness? Mental illness is a common euphemism for evil.
Very few sadistic killers are actually insane. Quite the opposite. They have to be in control of all their facilities to get away with murder. And to profit from it.
The cheering fanatics worship me and they worship London. Bowing at the foot of her office building, praising her as a goddess, while the protesters spit in their face.
We might as well be gods.
Through the ages, gods have been banished as much as worshiped. The masses loathing their failure, and yet they were always feared. Fear is more powerful than love. Gods have no compassion. That’s how they’re able to slaughter the multitudes.
Someone has to wield that fear, that power. And those who are too weak to stomach the natural order can only hide and judge from their safe corners. We are gods, and we must be feared.
I laugh to myself.
Or, I’m probably just insane.
18
Oceans Apart
London
There’s a reason why I don’t drive.
I curse and try to downshift the gears of the tiny, foreign rental car, grinding as I steer one-handed. I swerve into the wrong lane and quickly right the car. “Dammit.”
I’m a horrible driver.
I landed in Dublin an hour ago, was making good time, until I discovered there were no early morning trains or busses to Kells. With time already against me, my only option was to swallow my fear and rent a car. I used Sadie’s credit card, and here I am, grinding my way down a winding two-lane highway in the wee hours of the morning.