At Risk (26 page)

“Liz?”

Her foggy brain recognized her sister’s voice. “Crystal? What’s wrong? It’s the middle of the night here.”

“I know what time it is. You are not going to believe this.”

Liz sat up, adrenaline pulsing through her body. She heard something more than sarcasm in Crystal’s tone. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Didn’t know you gave a damn. Hey, maybe we’re both mellowing a little.” Crystal sounded sober. “It’s her,” she said.

“Her? Her who?”

“Jeez, Liz, I know you’re not stupid. Patsy, our sainted mother. I’ve been away. Well, I moved, not to Nevada, but to Arizona. It’s a long story, but that guy I told you about?”

“Guy?”

“You know, the one without hair, the one who had the hots for me?”

“Yes, I remember. What about him?”

“We went to Las Vegas for this long weekend and he hit the slots pretty big, fifty thou big, if you can imagine. Anyway, we both did some celebrating, and before I knew it, he asked me to marry him.”

“You’re getting married?” Liz asked. Had her sister called her at three o’clock to tell her she was engaged? “But what’s that got to do with Mom?”

“Not
getting
married,
got
married. Ring, minister, and certificate. I am now Mrs. Henry Webster, can you believe it? Turns out that Henry’s fixed better than I thought. His family has this chain of funeral homes in Phoenix. Don’t laugh. Okay, laugh, but they’re established businesses. His uncle and his father were in it together, and the father’s real old, but the uncle died. So, we moved into the uncle’s house—you should see it—four bedrooms, a pool, and a three-car garage. Henry’s a good guy, Liz. You’d like him. He treats me like a queen. He might not be the handsomest, but he makes me laugh. And there’s nothing wrong under the hood, if you get my meaning.”

“That’s wonderful news, Crystal. I’m so happy for you. But what does this have to do with our mother?”

“Oh, yeah. It was because of me marrying Henry and moving, sudden like, that my phone got turned off. Henry had the mail forwarded, but I got this letter from a nursing home in Texas, some little nothing town outside Dallas. They said Patsy Clarke was a patient there, and they were trying to locate her family.”

“You didn’t get the letter tonight?”

“No, I got it two days ago. Henry read it, and he thought I should call the nursing home. I mean, if she’s dying or something, he felt as though I should know. I would have ignored it. To hell with her, I say. She didn’t want us, so why should we bother with her now? But—”

“Is she? Dying?” Liz shivered. How could it hurt? Her mother was a stranger. She hadn’t laid eyes on her in decades.

“Yep. Henry called this morning, and talked to a Dr. Maria Gonzales. She said that Mom was too sick and too sedated to talk. She’s got about everything wrong with her that you can have wrong and still be alive, and she’s in a lot of pain. I’d guess cancer, but Dr. Gonzales didn’t say exactly. She did say that they don’t expect Mom to last out the week, and they’d like a relative to tell them whether or not to . . . you know . . .”

“Resuscitate?” Liz supplied.

“Right. I said I’d have to check with my sister. I wanted to call you, but I misplaced your number in the move. Then, just a little while ago, I got a call from a Paul Sutherland in Texas. He says he’s a Baptist minister and has gotten to know Patsy since she’s been at Riverview Rest. Sounds like a graveyard, doesn’t it?” Crystal made a sound of amusement. “Riverview Rest? Give me a break. Anyway, the old gal’s on her way out and wants to see us.”

“So how did you get my number tonight?”

“Henry called the operator and said it was a life-and-death emergency. He used a business phone, so the operator gave him your unlisted number.”

“Henry and everyone else, I suppose. Are you going?”

“To Texas? Hell, no. Henry told the doctor that we’d take care of the funeral and interment. Henry wants to have her cremated and the ashes mailed here. There’s room for her in this wall they have for those little urns in the Webster Memorial Park. Henry’s family owns that too. I don’t see the need for a service or anything, but Henry said we can put her name and birth and death dates on this little bronze plaque. You don’t have to worry that she’s going out with the trash or anything.”

“Do you have the number?”

“Of the nursing home? Sure. She’s on the second floor of Riverview Rest, East Wing. I bet there’s no river either, probably just a muddy ditch. She doesn’t have a cent, so I don’t imagine that it’s the Ritz.” Crystal read off the number. “You don’t want to talk to her, do you?”

“No,” Liz answered. “I want to go there and see her.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Maybe.”

“It’s a waste of time and money. Don’t you have to teach school or something?”

Liz swallowed. “I’ve spent a lot of time hating her, Crystal. Maybe it’s time I forgave her.”

“She’s not worth it. Patsy wouldn’t cross the street for you if there wasn’t something in it for her.”

“It’s not for her,” Liz said thickly. “It’s for me.”

“She won’t appreciate it.”

“I don’t expect her to. But I’m glad you called me, and I’m glad you’ve found someone who makes you happy.”

“Me too,” Crystal said. “Don’t be a stranger. Maybe you could come out and see us this summer. Spend a few days hashing over old times.”

“I’d like that.”

“I’m serious. We’ve got plenty of room. It’s just us and the spaniels knocking around in this house. Henry’s got these two King Charles spaniels. Spoiled rotten, but really cute. You’ll love them.”

“Thanks, sis.”

“You’re really going to see the old bitch before she croaks?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Don’t expect me. We’re doing enough for her, what with Henry offering to foot the bill.”

“I’ll share it with you,” Liz said.

“No need. Henry says he gets a special cut rate on the cremation. Something about professional courtesy. This one’s on me.”

“I’ll call you when I get there.”

“Okay, you do that,” Crystal said. “But if she’s dead when you get there, and you wasted your money on a plane ticket, don’t blame me.”

Barefooted, naked except for a twist of dull green cloth around his loins, the Game Master paced the confines of his secret place. Being here, underground, almost in his mother’s womb, usually brought him some measure of peace. Not tonight. Tonight, tonight, his cravings ate at him, gnawing at his vitals, urging him to strike now—to finish the game—while the professor remained within his reach.

The Game Master admired her, even felt some measure of pity for her. He’d played cat-and-mouse with the professor for months, had planned this game for nearly two years, yet he could not deny that destroying her unique personality would be a sacrifice. But now, with the shriek of steel doors slamming shut in his head and salt-sweat oozing from his pores, he could delay no longer. The agony would not end until he tasted her hot blood. This was survival of the fittest, and one of them must die that the other could live.

He’d read that some so-called serial killers wanted to be caught, but that had never been true of him. He was far too intelligent, and he loved life. He had never fit the mold of ordinary humans, and he wasn’t a carbon copy of those sick bastards who killed out of lust or for financial gain. He was what he was, and there were no others of his kind. Had the world been a more enlightened place, he would be admired rather than mocked.

The Game Master knew that he was a creature born in the wrong time. There had been times in human history when women understood their subservient roles and willingly served men as they were meant to do by the Creator. Power was never meant to be held by the weaker sex.

He’d understood—almost from the moment of birth—the injustices that stemmed from society’s departure from sanity. A man had only to turn on the television or open a newspaper or magazine to find evidence of the decline of civilization. He supposed it had begun simply enough: allowing women to speak freely in the presence of their masters, permitting them to vote and hold public office, allowing them to control money, even to discipline male children. The sheer mass of compounded errors sickened him, yet even his own suffering at the hands of these female monstrosities did not slice away at the core of his will like it did with so many men.

No, the Game Master did not seek his own destruction. Such drivel was absurd. He walked faster, keeping pace with the thoughts that raced through his mind. Ten paces west, then twelve south. Stop, turn, now east.

“Why would I want that?” he shouted. “Why would I want to be arrested—to come under a depraved legal system where a mindless female might sit in judgment of me? Where a woman could theoretically condemn me for acting as my primal nature demands?”

Ten paces exactly. Stop; pivot north. He threaded his fingers together, clasping both hands behind his back, blinking to clear his eyes of the sweat trickling down his forehead.

Voices echoed and reechoed in his ears. Weeping, begging, shouting. He ignored them.

The same intellect that ruled his every action recognized the need to pit his wit against ever greater challenges and to escalate each level of play. “If it were not so, might I tire of the great game?”

He gritted his teeth against the grinding pain in his head.

Had his skin been a different color, he might have found happiness in the more primitive societies in Africa or Asia, cultures that recognized the superiority of men and the right of the strong to prevail over the weak.

But he had been born here in this insignificant spot, and he was what he was. Stop, turn, walk. The Game Master could not allow himself to grieve over what had happened in his past, his cruel confinement behind barred windows and steel doors, the indignities he had been subjected to by lesser mortals. He was the Game Master. Control was his. His power increased with each sunrise, and soon he would not count his trophies by dozens but by hundreds.

“Why? Why have I allowed her to live this long?”

It remained an enigma. She was no longer in the full bloom of youth, certainly not as beautiful as others in his collection. But, in fairness, he had to admit that she possessed other qualities that he admired. She was wary and bold, and despite her attempts to hide her true feelings, he knew that she lusted after his magnificent body and the carnal pleasure he could give her.

“Does your daughter possess those same qualities? Or is she weak like her father?”

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He stopped, closed his eyes, and sank to his knees as he imagined watching the daughter stepping naked and dripping from the shower, her young breasts proud and jutting, her legs long and sleek and shapely.

“She’s young,” he said. “But has she inherited the professor’s courage?” Would she have the nerve to return to the farmhouse after her mother’s disappearance, or would he be forced to hunt her elsewhere?

The two were a package now in his mind; first the professor, and then the daughter. Their photos, which he planned to take at the exact moment of death, would fit perfectly here on the south wall between
the cop
and
the hooker
. He regretted that he didn’t have pictures of all his
girls
in his gallery.

The Game Master brushed a spiderweb away from the hand-knotted net that hung on the cedar-shingled wall. The spider, a small gray one, ran up his wrist. He caught it and squashed it between his fingers.

Various mementos, secured on rusty fishhooks, adorned the net. Sometimes even he was forced to make do with a souvenir. If he was lucky and had the time, as with
the sophomore
, he might get both photos and a slender finger complete with polished nail, a dainty earlobe and earring, or some other choice item. Pinky toes were his favorite, but he refused to handle any that showed careless hygiene. He was a man of refined taste.

How he hoped the professor’s daughter wouldn’t disappoint him as the little tramp had done. Too easy . . . no more difficult than snuffing the life from a kitten. A few screams, futile thrashing, and she was dead. A pity.

It was his own fault. Had he known how inadequate the tramp was, he would have driven past without stopping. Let the bitch walk; he could have found finer game.

The same compelling urge that troubled him tonight had driven him to seek out the stranger. He could have taken the professor instead, had planned to close the trap.

The Game Master closed his eyes and balled his fists as energy built within him. Amoan escaped his throat. He could feel the killing rage turn him from a man to something more, a creature apart. His face contorted and he arched his back in an attempt to harness the churning power. His muscles locked. He opened his mouth, threw back his head and howled.

Blackness took him.

Later, much later, he became aware of himself again. He lay on the dirt floor, his legs and diaper fouled with his own vomit, urine, and feces. His head pounded, his mouth tasted of rotting meat.

He wept.

How long? How long must he suffer the agony of torture that he knew would recede into shadow when he tasted her blood? He would have peace. He would walk among men and be almost one of them for weeks . . . months . . . until the need to seek his next victim flared within him.

The thought that he should spare the professor, much as a sportsman releases a trophy catch, flashed through his mind. He could do that. The Game Master rose shakily to his feet, stumbled, and caught himself on the section of tree stump that served as his chopping block.

His hand brushed the bloodstained hatchet, jerking him back to reality. He could no more forfeit the game than he could chop off his own hand. No, mutilating himself would be easier. He chuckled, wrenched the hatchet from the scarred stump.

Closing his eyes again, he savored the tangy richness of the old blood. Strength flowed through him, renewing his spirit and soul. He had soiled himself, but no one would discipline him. No woman would beat him with leather belts or wire hangers. No whore would kick or starve him, and none would shame him with jeers and curses. The weak, sniveling cub had become a lion. All feared the lion, and well they should.