the hell
did he come from?”
He had no answer.
“Jimmy … what is it you’re still not telling me?”
He smiled at her sudden intuition. “Did I forget to mention that he’s injecting the victims with LSD before he kills them?”
There was an indeterminate noise on the line. “You didn’t forget to tell me that.”
“Maybe I was afraid when you knew, you wouldn’t be able to think about anything else.”
“Bastard.” She was laughing now. “You think I’m that obsessed?”
“I need your help, Willie.”
“Injecting them with LSD. I can’t believe it.”
“What I need to know is
why
?”
“Right.” She had caught his soberness. “I can imagine one reason,” she said after a moment, “but it’s really out there. You
need to give me a little time to think about it. And fax me your reports … and the VICAP forms. Hell, fax me everything you’ve
got. Forget the conventional wisdom that a profiler can have too much information.”
“So you wouldn’t mind giving me a little help?”
Her laugh rang again on the line. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Sakura.”
Gothic spires, needles penetrating the pillow of darkness, soared above the exoskeleton of flying buttresses. Beneath, vaulting
arches doubled and tripled upon themselves, competing in a controlled but maddening race toward the heavens. The whole structure
was an exercise in opposing forces, the impossible resolution of an exquisite geometric conflict.
Michael Darius stared at his work, his intense blue eyes surprising in his naturally tanned face. His Greek Welsh heritage
made for an interesting, if not conventionally handsome, combination. He ran his hand through his dark wavy hair; then with
all deliberateness his fist came down hard, skin split on impact. Shadow, wood, table, shimmied, but the cathedral remained
intact. His model possessed the same engineering integrity as the original in Chartres.
He sucked at his wound, tasting the iron in his blood, inhaling the scent of raw wood that flavored the rough skin of his
carpenter’shands. It was an unorthodox test, but one he executed each time he completed one of his models. Of course, there was risk
in what he did, but that instant before his fist fell was as exhilarating as it was frightening. Walking the tightrope between
success and failure always made him light-headed. But it was his pain, not his victory, that gave him the giddiness of a first-time
drunk. The pain was real, more substantive and more important to him than the building. It made him human.
From the adjacent bedroom a bubble of blue illumination, a flickering ghost from the television set, spilled into the dark
corners of the workroom. The reflection danced in his peripheral vision, accompanied by the droning libretto of late-night
news functioning as a kind of mantra, pieces of his environment sensed rather than seen or heard.
It wasn’t until the disembodied voice spoke the name he himself had spoken hundreds of times that he became fully aware of
what he was hearing. He froze, forgetting the pain, willing his brain to register exactly what the reporter was saying….
Serial murder… homosexual victims… task force headed by Lieutenant James Sakura.
A large bead of sweat ran from his hairline down the center of his face. He walked over to where he’d left the remote lying
and hit mute.
It was then he heard the knocking. For a moment he considered ignoring it, then walked to the entrance. Jimmy Sakura was standing
at his door.
“Jimmy.” He moved back into the living room.
Sakura closed the door.
“It’s after eleven.”
Sakura nodded in agreement.
“You been home today?”
“Not yet.”
“Hanae can’t like that.”
“Hanae understands.”
Darius smiled. “Does she?”
Sakura walked to a chair but didn’t sit. “Have you been keeping up with the news?”
Darius almost smiled again. “If you mean the serial killer … the answer is no.”
“I like
did he come from?”
He had no answer.
“Jimmy … what is it you’re still not telling me?”
He smiled at her sudden intuition. “Did I forget to mention that he’s injecting the victims with LSD before he kills them?”
There was an indeterminate noise on the line. “You didn’t forget to tell me that.”
“Maybe I was afraid when you knew, you wouldn’t be able to think about anything else.”
“Bastard.” She was laughing now. “You think I’m that obsessed?”
“I need your help, Willie.”
“Injecting them with LSD. I can’t believe it.”
“What I need to know is
why
?”
“Right.” She had caught his soberness. “I can imagine one reason,” she said after a moment, “but it’s really out there. You
need to give me a little time to think about it. And fax me your reports … and the VICAP forms. Hell, fax me everything you’ve
got. Forget the conventional wisdom that a profiler can have too much information.”
“So you wouldn’t mind giving me a little help?”
Her laugh rang again on the line. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Sakura.”
Gothic spires, needles penetrating the pillow of darkness, soared above the exoskeleton of flying buttresses. Beneath, vaulting
arches doubled and tripled upon themselves, competing in a controlled but maddening race toward the heavens. The whole structure
was an exercise in opposing forces, the impossible resolution of an exquisite geometric conflict.
Michael Darius stared at his work, his intense blue eyes surprising in his naturally tanned face. His Greek Welsh heritage
made for an interesting, if not conventionally handsome, combination. He ran his hand through his dark wavy hair; then with
all deliberateness his fist came down hard, skin split on impact. Shadow, wood, table, shimmied, but the cathedral remained
intact. His model possessed the same engineering integrity as the original in Chartres.
He sucked at his wound, tasting the iron in his blood, inhaling the scent of raw wood that flavored the rough skin of his
carpenter’shands. It was an unorthodox test, but one he executed each time he completed one of his models. Of course, there was risk
in what he did, but that instant before his fist fell was as exhilarating as it was frightening. Walking the tightrope between
success and failure always made him light-headed. But it was his pain, not his victory, that gave him the giddiness of a first-time
drunk. The pain was real, more substantive and more important to him than the building. It made him human.
From the adjacent bedroom a bubble of blue illumination, a flickering ghost from the television set, spilled into the dark
corners of the workroom. The reflection danced in his peripheral vision, accompanied by the droning libretto of late-night
news functioning as a kind of mantra, pieces of his environment sensed rather than seen or heard.
It wasn’t until the disembodied voice spoke the name he himself had spoken hundreds of times that he became fully aware of
what he was hearing. He froze, forgetting the pain, willing his brain to register exactly what the reporter was saying….
Serial murder… homosexual victims… task force headed by Lieutenant James Sakura.
A large bead of sweat ran from his hairline down the center of his face. He walked over to where he’d left the remote lying
and hit mute.
It was then he heard the knocking. For a moment he considered ignoring it, then walked to the entrance. Jimmy Sakura was standing
at his door.
“Jimmy.” He moved back into the living room.
Sakura closed the door.
“It’s after eleven.”
Sakura nodded in agreement.
“You been home today?”
“Not yet.”
“Hanae can’t like that.”
“Hanae understands.”
Darius smiled. “Does she?”
Sakura walked to a chair but didn’t sit. “Have you been keeping up with the news?”
Darius almost smiled again. “If you mean the serial killer … the answer is no.”
“I like
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