By Reason of Insanity (16 page)

Again and again he studied the words for hidden meanings. He felt that Chessman was somehow behind the words trying desperately to reach him. Laboriously he began to fit the true pieces together. Women were in constant and perpetual agony, suffering perhaps because of a God-given curse. They painfully brought life into the world, knowing that the only result of that life would be death. Such knowledge, visceral and inescapable, maddened them beyond endurance. In their horrifying torment they lashed out at men, those who gave them the seed of life and thereby brought them death. Using every wile at their command they enticed, enslaved and destroyed any man within their grasp, instinctively, mercilessly, in a titanic battle for survival in a totally crazed world. But they could not win, of course. They were doomed because without death there was no life, and as they sought in their monstrous grief to kill that which brought life, they accepted in their grotesque bodies the seed which brought death. And so the horrific cycle continued unbroken, leaving only victims in its bloodied wake.

Ultimately Bishop realized that the demons of his dreams were not only women monsters who had to be destroyed because they were evil, but women who suffered terribly and who desired to have their unspeakable torment ended by the final welcome release of death. That both the incarnate evil and the incalculable suffering should be lodged within the same body seemed to him as reasonable as a woman having two breasts.

After his close examination of the story was completed, he carefully tore the several pages out of the magazine and neatly folded them in half, and half again, until they could fit into a pocket. He then began to write a brief letter to the editor in a disguised hand. Unfamiliar with writing anything, he labored over the words. To an unseen observer he would have looked at those moments like a college student at his books.

In the cheap furnished room the television set was revealing the twisted emotional lives of a seemingly nice town caught in the grip of a soap opera. On the dresser the banana-half slowly turned to a soft, fragrant brown. The roach was gone from the window, and outside the noise increased as the lazy afternoon wore on toward the last night of July.

On the first night of that fateful month Bishop had sat by a window at Willows waiting for rain that did not come. His plans had been made. He knew what he had to do to get out and generally what had to be done afterward. His clothes were in order; the harmonica, the comb, the wallet, the ring, the watch, the axe, all were in readiness. He even had the can of whipped cream, bought from one of the kitchen staff at a profit of course, to silence the roof alarm, a trick he learned from a French movie on TV years earlier. Everything, including Vincent Mungo, was waiting for the one thing over which he had no control. But he hoped the rain would come soon.

His rage at being locked up was now so overwhelming that only marvelous self-control had kept him from exploding his new role of subservience. Often in past months he had been on the verge of running amok, but his animal cunning saved him each time from disaster. Vihcent Mungo was part of his plan and had to be destroyed yet he wasn’t one of them, he wasn’t a demon. Bishop found himself wishing that Mungo were a woman.

Sitting by the window, he reviewed the plan again and again in his mind. After they jumped off the roof to the soft wet ground below he would kill Mungo with the axe and hurry to the drain, where he would slip under the wall to freedom. The axe would go with him since it was lost before Mungo arrived and might thus give the plan away if found. Without proof the gardeners would never admit to a missing tool.

Mungo’s body, the face gone, would be wearing his clothes and carrying his possessions. His watch and ring would be missing. Fingerprints would be useless because Mungo’s prints had never been taken since he had never been arrested. Neither had his. The plan was subtle and it was foolproof, and Bishop believed that he had once again proved his brilliance and superiority of mind.

To make absolutely sure he built one final safeguard into his scheme, though he didn’t expect it would ever be needed. When Mungo first arrived at Willows, Bishop quickly made friends with him and soon they were taking showers side by side, laughing and joking and masturbating simultaneously. Bishop surreptitiously examined his new friend’s body for scars and tattoos. To his relief there were none.

He, however, had a recent scar on his upper right shoulder. He suggested that Mungo get the same so they could be buddies forever, even long after they escaped—sort of blood brothers, he said to Mungo, and winked. Mungo had at last found a friend and being somewhat dull-witted, he readily agreed. That afternoon when they were alone Bishop carefully made a small V-shaped cut on the same spot as his. Every day he dressed the wound, and it rapidly formed scar tissue. By the time of the escape they had identical scars.

On July 3 the rains came and Bishop went, over the roof and under the wall into a world he knew much about from watching television. Behind him he left his surrogate body and all the curses he could muster. He knew he was never going back.

In the pouring rain he walked for hours, heading due south, as best he could tell, trying to keep to a fairly straight line away from Willows. Somewhere along his trek he hid the axe in dense woods where it would not be found. Somewhere else he buried the ring and watch deep in the ground. The severed finger he threw to the insects.

The night was dark and fearful and afforded him good protection. No one was out, no cars moved. He felt alone in the universe and the feeling pleased him. Everything he touched filled him with delight, even the rain seemed friendly. He passed sleeping houses full of silent shadows that ignored him. Without breaking stride he crossed roads and culverts, gradually making his way unseen down the California land.

Toward morning the rain stopped. He had only a few hours left before the body was discovered. He kept moving, running at times across fields and along the edges of roads, always listening for sounds of danger. At daybreak he came to a small community bordering woods. He paused to rest, hiding in a makeshift lean-to a few hundred yards from a clump of houses. Wheezing loudly, he tried to slow his breathing down; he was desperately weary but not particularly sleepy, sheer excitement was keeping him awake. He thought of how far he had come during the night. Eight miles? Ten miles? A good enough distance for immediate safety. “But not good enough,” he muttered savagely. Not good enough if he didn’t change his clothes fast. What he needed was to get into a home on this Fourth of July morning or he would surely be picked up as he was.

As he was … The phrase made him smile, thinking of his plan and how it all had started. He suddenly wished for his wallet with the picture of his mother, that was his only regret. He had carried the little wallet all the years he was at Willows; someone had given it to him when he was very young. He loved his mother and always carried her picture with him. Now it was gone. He laughed, saddened by the loss.

An hour later he saw activity in one of the houses, people coming out. He watched as a young man and woman got into a car and drove away, his eyes following the car until it disappeared. If he could only drive … He left the thought unfinished. Quickly he skirted the backs of the other homes, keeping himself among the trees. The house he had been watching was at the end of the row. If he could approach it from the blind side he might have a chance. He waited another hour, then walked toward the house and up the steps, intending to ask directions if anyone was inside. He knocked on the door, waited, knocked again. No answer. He turned the doorknob. Locked. Swiftly he went around to the blind side and raised a window. In a moment he was in the dining room.

Another few seconds and he found the bedroom. From the closet he grabbed a brown pair of pants and a yellow dress shirt. He changed clothes, tightening the belt to the last notch on the loose pants. He traded his black institutional shoes, worn and mud-caked, for a pair from the closet. Almost a perfect fit. The other closet held women’s clothes. He searched through several pocketbooks; in a purse was a twenty-dollar bill. Luck was still with him.

Within minutes he was walking toward the kitchen, his old clothes bundled under his arm. Something moved, ahead of him. He froze. Something else moved. He looked down. Cats. He swore softly. A bunch of cats was running around the kitchen. Under the sink he found what he needed. Kerosene. He took the can with him.

Back in the dining room he stopped at a small writing desk by the window, leafed through the papers on top. Nothing he could use. In the drawer were a handful of paycheck stubs made out to a Daniel Long. On each was a social security number. He stuck two in his shirt pocket. He also took a used envelope addressed to Daniel Long at that location.

At a clearing in the woods a half mile away he poured kerosene on the clothes and burned them. The shoes he buried farther on, then walked to the next town where he bought a small cardboard suitcase and shaving gear. After breakfast he waited with several others for the bus south. With his new dress clothes and suitcase he looked respectable, a young man on a short business trip or a brief vacation; certainly no one to be feared or even to create suspicion.

That evening in Yuba City he stopped in a bar; he had never tasted alcohol. He ordered a beer, liked it, ordered another. “That’s very good,” he told the bartender in his most engaging manner. The woman next to him said she drank beer now and then, mostly on hot days. “Makes you sweat, you know?” She glanced at him, smiled. “It’s good when you sweat a little.”

He returned the smile. When she ordered another martini he saw the roll of bills in her pocketbook. Soon they were deep in conversation. She was from Los Angeles, owned a beauty parlor there. Decided to take a month off, drive around her adopted state to really see it. “Most people don’t even know what they got here,” she said emphatically. “It’s beautiful, really beautiful, you know?”

She was fifty-four years old, originally from Milwaukee. Married at twenty, her husband deserted her eight years later. No children. She worked a few jobs, then went to a trade school for four months to learn the beauty-parlor business. After six more years in Milwaukee she moved to Los Angeles. Her parents were dead, her sisters married and scattered. She worked in a dozen different salons in Los Angeles, managed a few of them over the next ten years. When she saved enough money she opened her own shop. She was good at her trade and she had a head for figures. The business prospered.

“Twenty years I’m here,” she told him, “and I’m never going back.” She shook her head. “Never going back.” She ordered another martini. “It’s too cold in Milwaukee, you know? I don’t like the cold.” She giggled. “I like to be kept warm.” She looked at him, a warm smile painted on her face.

He looked good to her and there was no use denying that. She was essentially an honest woman and long past the coy stage, and what she regretted most about her younger years were all the boys and men she had rejected out of traditional feminine virtue. Whenever she thought of it her anger flashed, and in recent years she found herself thinking about it more and more. Such a damn loss, she would say to herself bitterly. All those lost years of good feeling and good times because she was taught to guard herself and her stupid damn virtue. What was that her mother used to tell the girls growing up? A lady always keeps her pocketbook closed until after the marriage. Well, this lady’s goddam pocketbook was going to open any goddam time she felt like it. And she felt like it right now.

She squeezed the young man’s hand, rubbed against his index finger. It was long and slim, that meant he had a long slim cock. She shivered in anticipation. She could always tell the size of a man’s cock by his fingers. God knows, she had seen some in her years. But not enough, not goddam near enough, she told herself bitterly.

They had another round of drinks, for which she paid. Sometime during the evening a television newsman announced the escape of a homicidal maniac from somewhere up north. His picture was shown on the screen. Nobody paid any attention. The bartender, wise and weathered, turned the volume down a bit; nut talk was bad for business. He looked his customers over; the only maniac at the moment was the dumb old blonde trying to pick up that nice-looking young guy. He shook his head sadly. They’ll never learn, he said silently for the millionth time in his bartending life.

She must have had about seven drinks, she told herself on the way out. Not too much for someone who can handle it. She hiccupped. When they got to her car he helped her in. She liked that, such a gentleman. Must have had a good mother, She was not a mother herself, didn’t even like kids. But if you’re a mother be a good mother, that’s the only way. She felt a little light-headed in the cool night air but otherwise she was fine. And she expected to feel even better very shortly.

She started the motor, touching his hand again for luck. He sat there quietly, smiling whenever she turned to him. Behind his eyes a plan was slowly forming.

A few minutes and they were at the motel. She wheeled the car round the gravel driveway to the rear, parking in front of her room. In the soft porch light he looked awfully good to her, good enough to eat, she thought lewdly. He was young, twentyfive he had said, and lately she had been seeking younger men. Not just lately, she corrected herself; for a lot of years now she had this thing for young men. The older she got the younger she tried to get them. But this was the youngest she had ever lucked into, just a boy really, and she was not going to let it get away. She would get its long slim fingers inside her if she had to kidnap and rape it. And if she had to, she would even pay for it.

In the room she turned on one small lamp. Not being romantic but realistic, she knew it would be better if the boy didn’t see her in harsh light. With a giddy schoolgirlish squeak of delight, she sat on the love seat in front of the curtained window, pulling him down next to her. She held his hand, soon placing it on her breast. She stroked his thigh. He was shy, and she liked that. Cooing softly, she brought her face near to his until they were kissing, timidly, awkwardly. As he started to separate, she moved her hand up the back of his head and pressed forward. Their mouths joined again and she opened his with her insistent tongue, weaving in and out like a silky snake. After some moments she released him and pretended to be shocked by his wildly passionate behavior.