To wit: her body. Just look at her body.
Because the sensations had started.
Once they started, she knew she had very little time left.
The boys had been asleep for over two hours. Steve was away. The opportunity was perfect.
No excuse for not listening to the urge.
Breathing hard as she felt her forearms and biceps widening … hardening. Her thighs and calves … a metamorphosis into something steely and superhuman.
At these moments, she knew she defied logic.
That or she was just plain crazy.
She really didn’t know anymore. Nor did she care.
The urge.
Her body demanding compliance.
Throwing off her nightgown … standing naked and strong.
She dashed out the back door into the cold, clear, windless night, beating her bare breast. Her skin had turned icy, was studded with goose bumps. Her face had become something strange and foreign.
Running into the garage, lifting up the heavy trunk and twirling it about. Singing songs to God and the moon. Such wonderful newfound power.
She set the case down onto the floor, then began to root through it. Steve’s old clothes. Never did get around to taking them to the Cancer Society. Tossing and throwing the vestments into the air, the cloth billowing down like sails in the wind.
So what would it be tonight?
Which shirt?
Which pair of pants?
Which pair of shoes? (That was easy. Steve’s shoes still didn’t fit her feet.) She’d have to settle for her own shoes.
Dressing quickly.
She observed her visage in a cracked mirror.
Veddy, veddy good. Urbane and suave.
The height of sophistication.
Now all she needed was a hat.
The compulsion to play was overwhelming. But Poe was known at the Needle, so he had to settle for a beer and a smoke at the bar.
Something to unwind.
His head hurt, he was tired, and he was dog-lonely. A quickie wasn’t going to cut it. He needed companionship, needed to hear the music of feminine speech. He cursed himself for not making arrangements to meet Rukmani, but took solace in being noble. She needed her sleep.
Sipping suds, glancing at the pit, feeling very antsy. He rocked on the barstool, tapped his toes without rhythm along the foot railing. Scanning the crowds, he blinked, picked up his beer, and moved a dozen seats down.
Y glanced up, returned his eyes to his poker machine. A cigarette dangled from his mouth, a long tip of ashes just waiting to be flicked into a tray. Poe removed the smoke from the old man’s mouth, dumped the discharge in a glass bowl, then placed it back between Y’s lips.
The old man’s brown face was creased with concentration. As usual, he wore a sand-colored leather shirt, a string tie with a turquoise pendant, and jeans. On his feet were Nike running shoes. His black hair was pulled back into a braid. With a touch of his hand, he discarded the eight of hearts. The machine replaced it with a two of diamonds. Again he crapped out.
Poe said, “Why’d you go for the three of a kind instead of the straight?”
“Odds are better.”
“The idea is to beat the odds.”
Y dropped another quarter into the machine. “The idea is to lose all my money, then pass out from too much alcohol.”
“Ah …” Poe licked foam off his lips, stubbed out his cigarette. “To aid you with your goal, I’ll buy you a beer.”
Y didn’t answer, steeped in indecision. He regarded the cards dealt to him on the monitor. Maybe Poe was right. Try to beat the odds. He’d try for the full house.
Poe frowned. “Go for the flush.”
“Stop kibbitzing.”
“I’m offering you sage advice.”
Again, Y crapped out. He was about to drop in another quarter. Poe put his hand over the slot. The old man looked up. “What?”
“As long as I found you—”
“Found me? I was never lost.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“I can hear and play at the same time.”
“What do you remember about the Bogeyman case?”
“Move your hand.”
Poe took his hand away. Y dropped two bits into the machine. He said, “What specifically?”
“Everything.”
Y tried for a flush. He wound up with a pair of aces. Still, it beat the machine’s queen high. He said, “Everything’s a tall order.”
Poe sipped his beer. “How about this for starters. I remember rumors that the guy had taken trophies from his victim—”
“Victims. There were two of them.”
Poe said, “Yeah, that was question number two. Why do I only remember one victim?”
“Because you were a kid and the second one wasn’t publicized. A drifter girl. No roots here. The police were able to keep it quiet. They needed to keep it quiet. ’Cause the first one caused such a storm.”
“Tell me about her … the first one.”
“A local high school teacher with local ties. The papers got wind of it, turned it into a circus. The shit really hit the fan.”
“How’d they tie the first and second victim to the same murderer?”
“How should I know? Do your homework. Go back and look in the police archives.”
Y fished out another quarter. Poe put his hand around Y’s bony fingers. “Could you stop one second?”
Y grunted, waited.
Poe said, “Do you recall something about … well, body parts?”
