It was strange, standing in a place where somebody had died. Cars buzzed slowly by on the street, muted by walls and distance. I tried to imagine what had happened here—where Jeb had been coming from, where he was going, why he cut through a back lot, and where he had been standing when the killer attacked. Perhaps he had been late for something and rushed through to save time, or maybe he was drunk and weaving dangerously, uncertain where he was. In my mind I saw him red-faced and grinning, oblivious to the death that stalked him.
I pictured the attacker, too, thinking—only for a moment— where I would hide if I were going to kill someone here. There were shadows all over the lot—odd angles of fence and wall and ground. Perhaps the killer had lain in wait behind an old car, or crouched behind a telephone pole. I imagined him lurking in the dark, calculating eyes peering out as Jeb stumbled past, boozy and defenseless.
Was he angry? Was he hungry? The shifting theories of the police were ominous and tantalizing—what could attack so brutally, yet so carefully, that the evidence pointed to both man and beast? I imagined swift claws and bright teeth slashing through moonlight and flesh, sending arcs of blood high onto the wall behind.
I lingered a moment longer, guiltily taking it all in. Dr. Neblin would wonder why I was late, and would chastise me when I told him where I had gone, but that's not what bothered me. In coming here, I was digging at the foundations of something larger and deeper, scratching tiny lines in a wall I dare not breach. There was a monster behind that wall, and I had built it strong to keep the monster at bay; now it stirred and stretched, restless in its dreaming. There was a new monster in town, it seemed — would its presence awaken the one I kept hidden?
It was time to go. I got back on my bike and rode the last few blocks to Neblin's office.
"I broke one of my rules today," I said, looking down through the blinds over Dr. Neblin's office window to the street below.
Bright cars rolled past in an uneven parade. I could feel Neblin's eyes on the back of my head, studying.
"One of your rules?" he asked. His voice was even and steady. He was one of the calmest people I knew, but then again, I spent most of my time with Mom and Margaret and Lauren.
His calmness was one of the reasons I came here so willingly.
"I have rules," I said, "to keep myself from doing anything . . . wrong."
"What kind of things?"
"What kind of wrong things?" I asked, "Or what kind of rules?"
"I'd like to hear about both, but you can start with whatever you want."
"Then we'd better start with the things I'm trying to avoid,"
I said. "The rules won't make any sense to you if you don't know those."
"That's fine," he said, and I turned back to face him. He was a short man, mostly bald on top and wearing small round glasses with thin black frames. He always carried a pad of paper, and occasionally made notes while we talked. That used to make me nervous, but he offered to let me see his notes anytime I asked. He never wrote things like "what a freak," or "this kid is insane," just simple notes to help him remember what we talked about. I'm sure he had a "what a freak" book somewhere, but he kept it hidden.
And if he didn't have one yet, he was going to make one after this.
"I think," I said, watching his face for a reaction, "that fate wants me to become a serial killer."
He raised an eyebrow, nothing more. I told you he was calm.
"Well," he said, "you're obviously fascinated by them— you've read more on the subject than probably anyone in town, including me. Do you want to become a serial killer?"
"Of course not," I said. "I specifically want to avoid becoming a serial killer. I just don't know how much chance I have."
"So the things you want to avoid doing are, what—killing people?" He peered at me crookedly, a sign I had come to know meant he was joking. He always said something a little sarcastic when we started getting into the really heavy stuff. I think it was his way of coping with anxiety. When I told him about the time I dissected a live gopher, layer by layer, he cracked three jokes in a row and almost giggled. "If you've broken a rule that big," he continued, "I am obligated to go to the police, confidentiality or no."
I learned the laws about patient confidentiality in one of our very first sessions, when I first talked about starting fires. If he thought that I had committed a crime, or that I was intending to, or if he thought that I was a legitimate danger to anyone, the law required him to tell the right authorities. He was also free under the law to discuss anything I said with my mother, whether he had a good reason or not. The two of them had held plenty of discussions over the summer, and she'd made my life hell because of them.
"The things I want to avoid are much lower on the ladder than killing," I said. "Serial killers are usually—virtually always, in fact—slaves to their own compulsions. They kill because they have to, and they can't stop themselves. I don't want to get to that point, so I set up rules about smaller things—like how I like to watch people, but I don't let myself watch one person for too long. If I do, I force myself to ignore that person for a whole week, and not even think about it."
"So you have rules to stop yourself from small serial killer behaviors," said Neblin, "in order to stay as far away from the big stuff as you can."