I closed my eyes. The monster had named itself now— stolen its name from the Son of Sam, who'd called himself Mr. Monster in a letter to the paper. He'd begged the police to shoot him on sight, so he wouldn't kill again. He couldn't stop himself.
But I could. I am not a serial killer.
I put down the knife.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry I yelled at you. I'm sorry I scared you."
Her fear flooded out of me, the exquisite joy of connection drained away, and the link severed. I was alone again. But I was still me.
"I'm sorry," I said again, and walked around the corner, down the hall, and into my room. I locked the door.
I clutched desperately to a thin veneer of self-control, but the monster was still in there, still strong, and madder than ever. I'd beaten it, but I knew it would come out again, and I didn't know if I could beat it a second time. '
That was how the Son of Sam had ended his letter: "Let me haunt you with these words: I'll be back! I'll be back!"
16
New Year's Eve passed without incident—some fireworks on TV, some fake champagne from the supermarket, and nothing. We went to bed. The sun came up. It was the same world it had always been, only older. One step closer to the end of time. Hardly worth celebrating at all.
Almost all I did these days was watch Mr. Crowley, peeking out of my window during the day, and peeking into his at night. One day, helping out with chores,
I stole a key to his basement, and slipped it in a tiny hole in the lining of my coat. I knew their schedule to the minute, and the layout of their house to the tiniest detail. Soon they left together on a combined shopping trip—she needed groceries, he needed a new faucet for the kitchen sink—and while they were gone, I slipped in through the cellar door. There was the maze of storage in the basement, leading to the upstairs rooms. There was the chair where he watched TV, there was the bed they slept in. I left a note under his pillow:
GUESS WHO?
On Friday morning, January fifth, Max's dad arrived at the mortuary—cleaned, examined, and carried out of the police van in three white bags. Crowley had slashed him up and torn him in half, and I knew the FBI must have cut him up further, looking for evidence. Mom would need a photo just to put him back together again. I stood on the edge of the bathtub and watched out the bathroom window as Ron, the coroner, and someone in an FBI cap carried the bags into the embalming room. Mom and Margaret came out, and the four
of them chatted while they made the transfer and signed the papers. Soon the men got back into their truck and pulled away. The embalming ventilator clanked into life below me, and I shut the window.
Mom was coming up the stairs, probably looking for a snack before they got started. I retreated quickly to my room, locking the door behind me; I'd been avoiding her almost pathologically since threatening her the other night. To my surprise, her footsteps bypassed the kitchen, the bathroom, the laundry room, and even her own bedroom. She reached the end of the hall and knocked on my door.
"John, can I come in?"
I said nothing, and stared out the window at Crowley's house. He was in his living room—I could see the light on, and the blue flickers on the curtain reflecting from the TV set.
"John, I have something I need to talk to you about," said Mom again. "A peace offering."
I didn't move. I heard her sigh and sit down in the hallway.
"Listen, John," she said. "I know we've had some hard times—we've had plenty—but we're still together, right? I mean, we're the only two people in the family who've managed to stick it out. Even Margaret lives alone. I know we're not perfect, but. . . we're still a family, and we're all we've got."
I shifted on the bed, glancing away from the window to her shadow below the door. My bed creaked as I moved, almost imperceptibly, but I knew she'd heard it. She spoke again.
"I've been talking with Dr. Neblin a lot, about what you're feeling and what you need. I'd like to talk to you instead, but.. . well, we're going to try something. I know this is crazy, but. . ." Pause. "John, I know you love helping us embalm, and I know that you haven't been the same since we banned you from it. Dr. Neblin thinks that you need it more than I thought. He says it might do you some good. You were a lot more . . . in control back then, anyway, so maybe he's right, and it does help. I don't know. It's the only real time we ever spend together, too, so I thought. . . Well, Mr. Bowen's body is here, and we're going to get started, and . . . you're welcome to come help us if you want."
I opened the door. She stood up quickly, and I noticed as she rose that her hair was streaked with a little more gray than I remembered.
"You sure?" I asked.
"No," she said, "but I'm willing to give it a shot."