fine," I said.
The guard looked at me and then at Cassie, as if trying to decide if we were both crazy. After a few seconds he shook his head and left, pulling the door closed behind him.
"You didn't have to do that," I said. I rubbed the rising bump on my head.
"Didn't I? You believe me now, don't you?"
I nodded, righted the chair, and retrieved my notes and the pencil. Sitting down, I touched the bump again, half-expecting my hand to come away bloody. It didn't.
"You should put ice on that," she said.
"Yeah, thanks."
"Don't be pissed. I needed you to know that I'm not making this up. Now you do."
I nodded, sullen, embarrassed. My whole body hurt.
"One of the cops swears that he shot you, says he couldn't have missed. The others say he's nuts. But . . ."
I stopped, my mouth falling open. Cassie had taken hold of the collar of her shirt and pulled it down so that I could see the top of her left breast. There was a small white crater there, about the size of a penny. It was perfectly round and slightly puckered in the center. I got up and walked around the table so I could take a closer look, all fear of her forgotten for the moment.
"He did hit you," I whispered.
Cassie nodded. "It hurt like a sonofabitch, but only for a second."
"Tell me how it happened."
"I was at some diner, listening as this older guy tried to pick up my waitress. I stayed to closing time. So did he. He hung around the diner and I pretended to leave. When the waitress came out a while later, he offered to walk her home. One thing led to another, and eventually he forced her into an alley and tried to rape her. I killed him before he could hurt her, but I was still in the alley when the cops showed up. I guess there were two of them -- cops, I mean -- and they entered the alley from opposite ends. I ran from one of them and ended up face to face with the other. I tried to shove him aside . . ."
I looked at her and she shook her head.
"Not literally. I used my . . . I did it the same way I knocked you over, the same way I killed Kenny and the others. Anyway, I wasn't quick enough and he managed to get a shot off."
That was pretty much the story I'd gotten from the cop.
For months before that episode the press -- mostly the tabloids -- had been writing about the supposed supernatural powers of this "vigilantess" known as Hell's Fury. Not only could she kill with her eyes, but she could make herself invisible. She could fly, and summon the dead to her aid. The police, of course, dismissed all of this as nonsense. She was just another wack-job serial killer who happened to be taking out creeps instead of more respectable folk. Then patrolman Peter Silofsky told his story about shooting her through the heart. After that no one was certain of anything anymore. Not the cops, not the press.
Even as I stared at that tiny crater on Cassie's chest, I didn't know what to think. I didn't say anything. I just stood there, not believing it, yet not having any choice but to believe it.
"There's a mark on my back, too," she said, "where the bullet left my body."
I straightened, then hesitated. "May I?"
She nodded.
I stepped around to the back of her chair and as she leaned forward I lowered the back of her collar so I could see. Sure enough, there it was: larger than the entry wound, less perfect, but still vaguely round. Spidery lines radiated from the scar in every direction so that it resembled a child's drawing of the sun. Given where the bullet had gone in and the path it had taken through her body, I didn't see how it could have missed her heart. I let go of her shirt and backed away from her. After a moment I returned to my chair, happy to have that table between us. I felt queasy, though whether from the smoke or the sight of that wound I couldn't say.
"You should be dead."
"I know," she said. "But they can't kill me. No one can. You want to know why I'm in jail? Why I let myself get caught? Why I haven't escaped? Because I'm tired of
The guard looked at me and then at Cassie, as if trying to decide if we were both crazy. After a few seconds he shook his head and left, pulling the door closed behind him.
"You didn't have to do that," I said. I rubbed the rising bump on my head.
"Didn't I? You believe me now, don't you?"
I nodded, righted the chair, and retrieved my notes and the pencil. Sitting down, I touched the bump again, half-expecting my hand to come away bloody. It didn't.
"You should put ice on that," she said.
"Yeah, thanks."
"Don't be pissed. I needed you to know that I'm not making this up. Now you do."
I nodded, sullen, embarrassed. My whole body hurt.
"One of the cops swears that he shot you, says he couldn't have missed. The others say he's nuts. But . . ."
I stopped, my mouth falling open. Cassie had taken hold of the collar of her shirt and pulled it down so that I could see the top of her left breast. There was a small white crater there, about the size of a penny. It was perfectly round and slightly puckered in the center. I got up and walked around the table so I could take a closer look, all fear of her forgotten for the moment.
"He did hit you," I whispered.
Cassie nodded. "It hurt like a sonofabitch, but only for a second."
"Tell me how it happened."
"I was at some diner, listening as this older guy tried to pick up my waitress. I stayed to closing time. So did he. He hung around the diner and I pretended to leave. When the waitress came out a while later, he offered to walk her home. One thing led to another, and eventually he forced her into an alley and tried to rape her. I killed him before he could hurt her, but I was still in the alley when the cops showed up. I guess there were two of them -- cops, I mean -- and they entered the alley from opposite ends. I ran from one of them and ended up face to face with the other. I tried to shove him aside . . ."
I looked at her and she shook her head.
"Not literally. I used my . . . I did it the same way I knocked you over, the same way I killed Kenny and the others. Anyway, I wasn't quick enough and he managed to get a shot off."
That was pretty much the story I'd gotten from the cop.
For months before that episode the press -- mostly the tabloids -- had been writing about the supposed supernatural powers of this "vigilantess" known as Hell's Fury. Not only could she kill with her eyes, but she could make herself invisible. She could fly, and summon the dead to her aid. The police, of course, dismissed all of this as nonsense. She was just another wack-job serial killer who happened to be taking out creeps instead of more respectable folk. Then patrolman Peter Silofsky told his story about shooting her through the heart. After that no one was certain of anything anymore. Not the cops, not the press.
Even as I stared at that tiny crater on Cassie's chest, I didn't know what to think. I didn't say anything. I just stood there, not believing it, yet not having any choice but to believe it.
"There's a mark on my back, too," she said, "where the bullet left my body."
I straightened, then hesitated. "May I?"
She nodded.
I stepped around to the back of her chair and as she leaned forward I lowered the back of her collar so I could see. Sure enough, there it was: larger than the entry wound, less perfect, but still vaguely round. Spidery lines radiated from the scar in every direction so that it resembled a child's drawing of the sun. Given where the bullet had gone in and the path it had taken through her body, I didn't see how it could have missed her heart. I let go of her shirt and backed away from her. After a moment I returned to my chair, happy to have that table between us. I felt queasy, though whether from the smoke or the sight of that wound I couldn't say.
"You should be dead."
"I know," she said. "But they can't kill me. No one can. You want to know why I'm in jail? Why I let myself get caught? Why I haven't escaped? Because I'm tired of
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