The Admirer Read online

  A warm breeze blew under the umbrellas shading the porch. Geraniums, petunias, and sweet Alberts grew in urns along the railing, their red, white and blue a leftover from the Fourth of July weekend.

  Drummond spoke thoughtfully. “Do you know who Adrian Meyerbridge is?” He sipped his coffee.

  “I’ve read the alumni prospectus,” Helen said. “Meyerbridge made his fortune in the tech boom and invested wisely when it went bust. We estimate his net worth at three billion. He’s an influential donor.”

  “Full marks. He also has ALS. Did you know that?”

  “No. That’s too bad,” Helen said.

  “It is too bad.”

  These conversations were always delicate.

  “Adrian recently finalized a significant estate gift to Pittock,” he said. “Upon his passing, the college will receive a considerable sum as well as a portfolio of holdings that, if we manage them properly, will be a meaningful asset to the college. Meyerbridge Hall was recently renamed in Adrian’s honor.”

  Helen knew it was not that simple. The naming and renaming of campus buildings was as romantic as the sale of beef. The price was negotiated, the term established by contract. Modern colleges did not name buildings in honor of great men; they named them for the highest bidder.

  “Here’s what’s on my mind,” Drummond said. “Adrian has heard about the legs. I won’t lie to you. I know Adrian personally, and I wanted to keep this from him. I studied at Pittock, you know. Adrian and I both did. We were best friends.” Drummond fingered the purple stone on his Pittock class ring. “ALS is an awful disease. Adrian can’t move or speak. But he could make a donation that would make Pittock his progeny. I invited him to convocation this fall, and I want to keep him as far away from this business as possible.” Drummond was quiet for a moment. “I’m worried that he’s going to withdraw his gift.”

  “We’ll figure something out,” Helen said. For the first time in days, she was on solid ground. She knew how to handle this kind of the crisis.

  Drummond raised his coffee mug to hers. “To the difficult beginning and the bright future.”

  “The bright future,” Helen repeated.

  “The college really is lucky to have you.” Drummond toyed with his fork, staring at his white china plate. “We need someone who can talk to the students and handle people like Adair Wilson. I didn’t see that when the board made their decision.” He looked up. “Friends?”

  The waiter appeared to place a three–tiered tray of tea sandwiches in front of them. They both started as if a tiny UFO had landed on their table. Helen laughed, and a smile pulled at Drummond’s mouth, making him look almost boyish. He cast his eyes upward as if to say, what a strange world we live in.

  “Friends,” Helen said. She chose her next words carefully. “I was eavesdropping in the quad. You know you should never do that.”

  They both chuckled.

  “I heard the students saying your son used to date Carrie Brown, the one who transferred to UMass.”

  She could not bring herself to place Wilson in Drummond’s crosshairs, but there had to be something to discredit her accusations or ground them in reality—however misperceived.

  Drummond’s smile disappeared, as though a cloud passed over the sun.

  “I’m sorry,” Helen said quickly. “That’s student gossip, and it’s none of my business.” For a moment she thought Drummond was going to concur: it was not any of her business. She knew better. Students lied.

  He closed his eyes and said, “No. You should know. Ricky and Carrie Brown did have an understanding. They were intimate. I did not approve. Carrie wanted a relationship. Perhaps she wanted to marry. I don’t know.” Drummond moved his plate to the center of the paper placemat, then exchanged the dinner and desert forks so the smaller implement was on the outer edge of the place setting. “I would never sanction him using a woman like that,” he went on. “I also felt it was not my place to meddle, especially since the relationship was consensual. Carrie was twenty–five. She was not a child.

  “I think that’s why she transferred. She’s starting a new life without Ricky. I’m not proud of how my son treated her. But there is one thing I know: Ricky was home with me that night.” He did not need to say which night.

  “That’s not what I was asking,” Helen said.

  Was it? She felt a sudden chill despite the warm breeze.

  “Hornsby even checked my computer. Ricky was logged onto an online video game. He talked to his friends on the computer all night.”

  An IP address in Pittock.

  “Now that my wife has passed on,” Drummond said, “Ricky is my pride, my life. He’s my world. He would never hurt anyone.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Every student at Pittock was someone’s pride and joy, Helen thought, as she settled back at her desk. They certainly were hers. Sometimes she thought it was her great failing: the people she cared for the most were kids she watched from a distance. Boys like Labrador puppies tearing up the grass with their cleats. Girls like preening swans, adorning the steps of the library. She knew only a dozen by name, but she loved them all in a distant, distracted way.

  She opened the file from the Devotees of Boston. The email began with the words WE ARE NORMAL typed in all caps by Blake, the president and webmaster of the Devotees of Boston. In the email, he had pasted long threads from the web forum. Some were dated. Most included multiple voices.

  The first threads that Helen read struck her as a cross between a disability rights forum and a fetish website. A participant named GothGrrl33 wrote, “How hard is it to install a fucking wheelchair ramp? We are talking about people’s human rights here.” In response, Gimpy_Hal wrote, “I love your casts. Last time, I couldn’t take my eyes off them. Atrophy sets in after only a week. Thank God!” Helen was about to delete the message, when she came to a post Blake had flagged with the words, READ THIS ONE. The post, by someone named Cutter_01240, read, “You will always be alone, because you are a mule.”

  Helen’s phone rang. The caller ID listed “V–Theater Costume.” Adair’s office. She ignored it and read on.

  Scanning the email, Helen found the next post by Cutter_01240: “Your fetish is inherently a lie. You pretend. Even your most devout followers are “wannabes.” You mules. You mules. I will cut the tendon from the bone.”

  Another read, “You took her away from me. You liars. You say you want and yet you hide behind your diseases and your excuses. But you don’t know my need, and how I made her right. Can you feel the saw?”

  Helen called the Devotees of Boston.

  “I’m surprised.” The man on the other end of the phone sounded petulant. “Most people don’t care. We’re not sick, you know. We have a right to be treated like human beings.”

  “Right,” Helen said. “Can you tell me a little more about your group?”

  “We’re a social group for amputees, devotees, and wannabes. We want to be amputees or be with amputees. But everyone treats us like freaks. Just because I get off on being in my wheelchair, doesn’t mean I deserve to be stalked by this fucking psycho. So I feel safe when I’m in my chair. So I like to get my dick sucked when I’m on wheels. Does that make me a pervert?”

  Yes. That was as good a definition of “pervert” as Helen could imagine. She said only, “You don’t need to share the intimate details with me. I’m calling to find out what you know about the Pittock legs and what you think I can do for you.”

  “Get this guy. Bust him. You have to do something. The police don’t give a shit about some ‘perverts’ in Boston. But this guy is writing from your town. His screen name is Cutter_01240. That’s your zip code.”

  “That’s the zip code for all of Berkshire County. Mr….?”

  “I’m not giving you my last name.”

  “You contacted me. I don’t know how much I can do for you, but the first thing I need is your real name.”

  There was a long silence. Blake cleared his throat.

&nb
sp; “What do you want?” he asked. “What do you really want? How do I even know who you are?”

  “I don’t want to play games, Blake. We are getting hundreds of calls about this. If you have something to tell me, do it now.”

  “You don’t get it! Everybody looks down on us. Do you know what would happen if my work found out about me? That I use a wheelchair when I’m not at work? The guys at the mill would fucking beat the crap out of me. If I talk to you, you have to swear none of this is going into the papers. Do you know what would happen if this guy Cutter finds out I’ve been talking to the police? I don’t know what he’d do. Shit, maybe he’s someone in our group. Maybe I know him already. I won’t talk to you unless you swear no one is going to find out.”

  “I’ll do my best, but if you have information that leads to the killer, I’ll have to tell the police.”

  The next thing Helen heard was the dial tone. When she called back the phone rang, but neither Blake nor his voicemail picked up.

  She leaned back in her chair and wrapped her arms around her chest. A glass of water on her desk threw a long shadow. Autumn had arrived. Convocation was approaching. Fall term students were already arriving on campus, lugging suitcases and greeting each other with squeals. Their parents, hugging them goodbye, trusted that Pittock College would keep their children safe. Up until a week ago, Helen had been certain the college would do that. Now she wasn’t sure.

  Chapter Eighteen

  He slammed his hand on the desk. He was at home watching Internet pornography, irritated by banners that flashed at the top of the screen. “Live hot girls want to talk to you! More Asian action! Trans–Girls!” He did not want to talk, and he did not want to read the inane comments posted by other viewers.

  On the screen, a girl with a below–the–knee amputation touched herself. How could she lose a foot and not amputate above the knee? It wasn’t finished. It was too long. He wanted to crack the knee joint. He wanted her prone. He wanted to strip away the banners and the comments—“Big tits! She’s hot!”—and have her alone in a gray room.

  He clicked through the website, looking for another video. They were all so inadequate, brightly lit and overly coiffed, all the girls trying to look like supermodels. Even the midget amputees—those mules!—wore lipstick and black lace panties. Watching them was like trying to lick water from a sponge. The need was so strong, and everything on the Internet was a sham. He wanted something real. He needed Helen Ivers.

  Angry, he stomped from the house. He wasn’t sure where he was going. Then he saw her.

  She stood in the space between the art building and Pittock’s small art museum, examining the sculpture in the center of the courtyard. The sun illuminated the bronze. It was a Rodin, a muscular male torso without arms, legs or head. He had walked by the sculpture a thousand times. Certainly she had too. For a moment, they both paused and looked at it as if for the first time. She smiled at him.

  “Amazing work,” she said.

  “I do a little sculpting myself.” It was thrilling to come so close to the truth, right there in the open. “Nothing as dramatic as this, of course,” he added.

  Who would take the arms? Who would take the head? That was just butchery.

  “I’d love to see your work sometime,” she said.

  She stepped closer. Did she know? She looked like Mother, and Mother always knew everything without speaking. It was the way of women of quality. Carrie and the whores in Battambang screamed, “Do it, do it, do it” as he took them.

  Ivers just blinked slowly, and said, “Well, I guess I should get back to work.”

  Did she know? Could she already feel the phantom pain where her legs had been?

  “Me too,” he said.

  Oh, he had work to do! He’d been distracted, but everything was clear now.

  ****

  The night was hot. He could smell the warm earth and dry foliage as walked to the asylum. When he arrived, he found the deepest asylum well and lifted the trapdoor, hoping that Carrie remained submerged, held down by her leather jacket. Still, he knew enough about death and physics not to hope too fervently. Shining his flashlight into the depths, he saw her floating face down, her clothes bubbling around her bloated body. The smell of putrefaction rose from the water. He could not believe he had been so careless. Luckily, he’d arrived in time. No one had been here.

  Earlier that day, on a casual walk around the asylum, he had seen the equipment he needed: a pile of heavy chain, the links as thick as a girl’s wrist. He flicked his flashlight off until he neared the spot where the chain lay, then turned it on to find the rusted metal in the underbrush. The asylum was a remarkable place. It took everything, and yielded everything. He pulled a pair of pristine work gloves out of his pocket, and began lugging the chain toward the well.

  Fortunately, it was not a solid length. The section he grabbed was a manageable ten or twelve feet. If he needed more, he could go back. Once he returned to the well, he opened the trapdoor again. He flashed his light down on the water, memorized the location of Carrie’s body, set the flashlight down, and cast the heavy chain into the well.

  The splash echoed in the dark woods. No one was nearby. When he turned his light on the water again, Carrie had disappeared except for one corner of her shirt, which floated stubbornly on the surface like a fallen leaf. Panting from the exertion, he returned to the pile of rusted chain, pulled another section to the well, and dropped it in. This time, Carrie disappeared entirely.

  “Good bye,” he whispered. He turned back toward the road, whistling as he walked. The Pittock woods were beautiful at night, and he felt almost giddy. The need was bubbling up inside him. Unlike Carrie’s body, the need would always rise again. He had work to do.

  ****

  He hoped his next kill would lessen the need, at least make it tolerable for a few days while he waited for Helen Ivers. Careful not to let his footsteps crackle in the underbrush, he moved through the moonlit trees. The homeless camp was located three miles from the asylum, near an abandoned shoe factory. He needed to get there before the moon set below the trees.

  Everyone in Pittock knew about the homeless camp. The Pittock Gazette reported on the deplorable conditions about once a month. Men living in filth. Women raped and prostituting themselves. Drugs. Alcohol. There had once been an outbreak of tuberculosis. It shocked all the liberal do–gooders but, except for the occasional reporter, no one came out there. Certainly no one of quality. Certainly not at night.

  He could smell the homeless before he saw them: urine, body odor, cigarettes. Mules. The smell rose from the very ground. Cigarette tips glowed in the darkness. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. He did not have to disguise himself well. These people were so drunk and insane they wouldn’t recognize their own mothers. They would certainly not know who he was. Still, they might offer a description, enough to alert Hornsby that an outsider had trespassed.

  A few men sat by a campfire, one of them eating out of a can. In the darkness, he heard a woman’s voice, shrill and self–important.

  “Don’t look at me. I’m pissing,” she yelled, as though she had any right to privacy while she lived in filth.

  He moved toward the voice. In the dark, it was hard to determine the woman’s age, but she had long hair like a girl. She wore a pink halter top, and had long, slender legs, which were folded up around her as she hunkered, bare–assed over the ground. She would do.

  As he approached, he could see the shadow between her buttocks or perhaps it was excrement smeared up her crack. Filthy mule. The woman was talking to herself, at least no one else was visible. She hadn’t noticed him.

  “Why are you always looking at me? I’m fucking Princess Diana,” she yelled. “In that big, white limousine, but you think you can fuck me? Don’t look at me while I’m pissing.”

  She continued to rant, still squatting.

  He took a towel from the poncho pocket on the front of his sweatshirt. He had one chance. He lung
ed and clasped the towel to the woman’s nose and mouth. At the same moment, he slammed his knee into her back. Her face hit the ground, and he fell on top of her, his hand still pressed to her lips. He had planned on suffocating her. He was patient. She would thrash. He just had to wait. Three minutes. Maybe less. Then she would go limp.

  Now she was writhing. He had not counted on her madness. She was half–naked and snaking out from under him, like an animal worming out of the slaughterhouse chute. She must not get away. He brought one knee up and dropped it onto the back of her neck. Her face hit the ground again. This time, he released the towel to keep his hand from being smashed between her face and the ground. She gasped. Before she could draw in breath to scream, he pulled the back of her head up by the hair. Some essential piece of cartilage snapped. He felt the grind of bone on bone. She went limp.

  Making Carrie on the railroad tracks had been half seduction. Even though he had been furious with her, she was still his, and she had wanted it in the end. In the last ecstatic moment, when the train crossed her legs and her scream arched into the sky, Carrie had said yes. The homeless woman just cracked and went limp. It was like pulling the wing off a chicken. He waited for the rush of pleasure, and felt nothing.

  He stood and kicked her ribs. Then he bent back down, and shoved a handful of zip-ties in the pocket of her bra. Recoiling at the touch of her flaccid body, he lifted her to his shoulder and began walking. She would do. The amputation was gory and joyless, performed in the asylum in a cell in one of the men’s wards. He tried to focus on the anatomy of the woman’s legs, to remember the crisscross of tendons over the knee, the exact pressure needed to saw the bone. He was training for the ultimate surgery, for Helen’s surgery. Somehow it did nothing to make the process appealing. Beneath his saw, the woman was just meat. He was done with corpses. He was done with mules.