The Prettiest Feathers (38 page)

TO: Lane
FROM: Pop
Sorry to shut you off. Haven’t been sleeping well, and I’m off my feed. Also too much porter. It takes a while to cleanse an aging mind. Haven’t even started on the soul (although I did buy a new CD: Clapton,
From the Cradle
, but haven’t played it yet).

It’s funny—I don’t know where to begin, but I do know where this will end. I would have preferred to tell you all this over dinner, then take in a movie (a musical? a comedy? do they make those anymore?).

When I got back to the lake, I picked up Max the cat from the friend who was caring for him (not that he requires much). We crossed the water at night, by boat—something he and I have done a dozen times. Max usually wants to sit in the stern with me, but that night he curled up on top of the rope at the bow, glaring at me with hateful eyes. A spiteful cat angry at a neglectful owner (if, in fact, a cat
can
be owned)? Or a talented predator who picks up the scent of another in the same confined space?

After we were home, he avoided me for two days. Only time he would come out to eat was when I wasn’t around.

When I did sleep, the dreams came. Explosions. Blood. The stench of death (how many bodies did they end up finding in Wolf’s cellar?). And the worst part of all: looking into a mirror and not recognizing the man
who looks back at me. I tell you all this for one reason. Never again. Not even for you. I don’t think I’ve ever feared death. Haven’t really thought a whole lot about it. But what I
do
fear is going out there one time too many, and one inch too far. I’m afraid that I’ll lose myself, that I’ll go irretrievably mad. A single, final thread will snap, leaving me sitting in a puddle of my own waste.

So, please. No more. There is so little that separates us from them.

A man like Wolf feels nothing. He is moved only by vengeance. The destruction he brings to the world is payment for the injustice he has suffered. He believes that only he has endured pain. To be in his mind is to be in a primal black hole of sensory disregard. He is a walking impulse, a bundle of short bursts of static, surges regulated only by his obsession with control and design. We matter to him only as objects, pieces of his community in need of rearrangement. Murder is his way of imposing order on his world. When you are the reaper, you do not fear the reaper.

No doubt the feds are still celebrating their victory—and you, by now, are enshrined as the patron saint of tall, tan, feminist sleuths. But I think you will be as sobered as I was by what follows. It arrived here shortly after I did.

Dear Dr. Frank:

I have so little time to say all that needs to be said. If you are as good as your reputation, you will be arriving soon.

But don’t flatter yourself. You’ve had a willing coconspirator.

Near the end in Hasty Hills, I experienced something I never had before. I believed, for Several minutes at least, that I couldn’t continue, that it would be best if
I just stood in place and allowed the inevitable to happen. Obviously, that passed.

I expose myself to death because I refuse to be locked away. And what do you get? A confession? Gladly. I would enjoy talking about my exploits.

If you’re reading this, you beat me. And there’s only one way you could have done that. Was it so grand a conquest? Are you sleeping well? Dreams, Doctor? I don’t share your liability of conscience, or your need to pull back from the edge. This is what gives me my strength. It is also what causes my bouts of weariness.

In Sarah, I found a woman who wanted to die, one who participated in her own death, and in her eyes I saw myself. Think carefully about what you saw in mine, Dr. Frank—and don’t push your luck.

Wolf

JOHN PHILPIN
is a nationally renowned forensic psychologist. His advice and opinions on violence and its aftermath have been sought by police, newspaper writers, TV producers, mental health professionals, private investigators, attorneys, and polygraph experts throughout the country. He is the author of
Beyond Murder
, the story of the Gainesville student killings, which was published by NAL/Dutton in 1994. His forthcoming true crime book,
Stalemate
, which tells the story of a series of child abductions, sexual assaults, and murders in the San Francisco Bay Area, will be published in August 1997 by Bantam Books. He lives in Reading, Vermont, with his wife and son.

PATRICIA SIERRA
is an award-winning writer whose short fiction and poetry have been published in several small literary magazines. She has written three young adult novels as well, all of which were published by Avon Books. Her interest in crime and law enforcement led to a brief career as a private investigator. An avid lifelong fan of true crime books and mysteries, Sierra lives in Toledo, Ohio.

THE PRETTIEST FEATHERS
A Bantam Book/May 1997
All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1997 by John Philpin and The Patricia Sierra Living Trust

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

For information address: Bantam Books.

eISBN: 978-0-307-42274-3

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