IGMS Issue 9 (12 page)

"How long was it before the papers started writing about you?"

"It was the next morning. I had to take a cab to keep up with them, and the cabbie remembered me. His description was way off, but that's when the headlines started. Pretty soon they started putting other things together. People remembered seeing me at several of the bars where I found the guys I killed. Without meaning to, I'd been wearing my hair differently from night to night, so the police sketches weren't very good. But they were looking for me."

I nodded again. The headlines had been sensational right from the start. "The Avenging Angel," they called her at first. But when that didn't prove lurid enough, they went the other way: "Hell's Fury." From that famous quote: "Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned." That was Cassie.

"You didn't stop, even after the stories started," I said. "Why?"

"I wasn't scared. I didn't think anyone could stop me." She took a long pull on the cigarette, her eyes locked on mine. "Do you have any idea what it's like to have the power I have? I can make people do whatever I want. I can kill with a thought. I can . . ." She trailed off. "You don't believe me, do you? You don't believe any of this."

I wasn't sure what I believed, but in that moment I was terrified, of her, of the anger I saw in her eyes.

"I just . . . I'm just wondering why, if you can do all these things, you're still here in this jail."

"Is that all you're wondering, Eric? Aren't you wondering if I ever considered killing you? You bought me drinks, you drove me back to my place, and you screwed me -- twice as I remember it, though that first time didn't amount to much. And then you ignored me. You didn't call, or speak to me, or acknowledge what had happened in any way. After I was arrested -- after you read and heard everything they were saying about me -- you must have wondered."

She was right about this, too. I did wonder. I was wondering at that very moment. If she really was all she claimed to be, all she appeared to be, then she held my life in her hands. Or in her mind.

"Yeah," I admitted. "I thought about it. I'm out of my depth here, Cassie. I've never dealt with anything like this before. The things they're saying about you -- the things you're saying about yourself . . . I don't know what's real."

"Yeah, well, welcome to my world."

She stared at me for a moment. And then without warning, my chair flipped backwards. My pad and pencil went flying. I crashed onto the floor, the back of my head smacking the linoleum, the air leaving my body in a rush. I lay there for several seconds, trying to breathe and clear my vision.

"You all right?" Cassie asked, her voice calm and even.

Before I could answer, the door swung open and one of the guards stepped in. "Everything all right in here?"

I rolled off of the upended chair and climbed to my feet. "Everything's fine," I said.

The guard looked at me and then at Cassie, as if trying to decide if we were both crazy. After a few seconds he shook his head and left, pulling the door closed behind him.

"You didn't have to do that," I said. I rubbed the rising bump on my head.

"Didn't I? You believe me now, don't you?"

I nodded, righted the chair, and retrieved my notes and the pencil. Sitting down, I touched the bump again, half-expecting my hand to come away bloody. It didn't.

"You should put ice on that," she said.

"Yeah, thanks."

"Don't be pissed. I needed you to know that I'm not making this up. Now you do."

I nodded, sullen, embarrassed. My whole body hurt.

"One of the cops swears that he shot you, says he couldn't have missed. The others say he's nuts. But . . ."

I stopped, my mouth falling open. Cassie had taken hold of the collar of her shirt and pulled it down so that I could see the top of her left breast. There was a small white crater there, about the size of a penny. It was perfectly round and slightly puckered in the center. I got up and walked around the table so I could take a closer look, all fear of her forgotten for the moment.

"He did hit you," I whispered.

Cassie nodded. "It hurt like a sonofabitch, but only for a second."

"Tell me how it happened."

"I was at some diner, listening as this older guy tried to pick up my waitress. I stayed to closing time. So did he. He hung around the diner and I pretended to leave. When the waitress came out a while later, he offered to walk her home. One thing led to another, and eventually he forced her into an alley and tried to rape her. I killed him before he could hurt her, but I was still in the alley when the cops showed up. I guess there were two of them -- cops, I mean -- and they entered the alley from opposite ends. I ran from one of them and ended up face to face with the other. I tried to shove him aside . . ."

I looked at her and she shook her head.

"Not literally. I used my . . . I did it the same way I knocked you over, the same way I killed Kenny and the others. Anyway, I wasn't quick enough and he managed to get a shot off."

That was pretty much the story I'd gotten from the cop.

For months before that episode the press -- mostly the tabloids -- had been writing about the supposed supernatural powers of this "vigilantess" known as Hell's Fury. Not only could she kill with her eyes, but she could make herself invisible. She could fly, and summon the dead to her aid. The police, of course, dismissed all of this as nonsense. She was just another wack-job serial killer who happened to be taking out creeps instead of more respectable folk. Then patrolman Peter Silofsky told his story about shooting her through the heart. After that no one was certain of anything anymore. Not the cops, not the press.

Even as I stared at that tiny crater on Cassie's chest, I didn't know what to think. I didn't say anything. I just stood there, not believing it, yet not having any choice but to believe it.

"There's a mark on my back, too," she said, "where the bullet left my body."

I straightened, then hesitated. "May I?"

She nodded.

I stepped around to the back of her chair and as she leaned forward I lowered the back of her collar so I could see. Sure enough, there it was: larger than the entry wound, less perfect, but still vaguely round. Spidery lines radiated from the scar in every direction so that it resembled a child's drawing of the sun. Given where the bullet had gone in and the path it had taken through her body, I didn't see how it could have missed her heart. I let go of her shirt and backed away from her. After a moment I returned to my chair, happy to have that table between us. I felt queasy, though whether from the smoke or the sight of that wound I couldn't say.

"You should be dead."

"I know," she said. "But they can't kill me. No one can. You want to know why I'm in jail? Why I let myself get caught? Why I haven't escaped? Because I'm tired of killing. And I'm tired of being hunted. It was either kill myself, keep going, or get caught."

"You could have left," I said. "Gone somewhere else and started over again."

"I don't think so." She smiled, though sadly. "I'm Hell's Fury, remember? Those sketches would have followed me anywhere I went."

"They didn't look that much like you. Cut your hair, maybe dye it; no one would have recognized you."

"It's not that easy. Given the chance to kill those bastards again, I'd do it in a heartbeat. Even Kenny. Especially Kenny. I don't feel guilty at all. But that's no way to live. And I would have kept on doing it. I'm sure of that. Once I started hearing those conversations, the violence hidden in those words, I couldn't get away from it. It's everywhere, Eric. What I said about you before . . ." She shook her head. "I didn't mean that. I never for a moment thought about doing anything to you. You're a putz. But you were sweet that night and I don't think you're capable of hurting anyone."

I kept my mouth shut, sifting through my past, fearing that I'd find something -- anything -- that might prove her wrong.

"But the violent ones," she went on. "There's lots of them. More than you'd believe. And if I was out there, I'd still be killing them. I wouldn't be able to help myself. How long do you think a person can do what I've done before it starts to eat away at their soul?" She lifted the cigarette to her lips, only to find that it had burned to the end.

I made myself look her in the eye. "I don't know."

For a while neither of us spoke. She lit up again, her eyes wandering the empty room, one of her legs bouncing impatiently. I could tell that she wouldn't give me much more.

"So what will you do?" I asked. "If they can't kill you . . ."

"I'll do it myself," she said. "But first I wanted to get my story told. I wasn't happy when I first saw they had sent you."

"Yeah," I said. "I noticed that."

Cassie smiled faintly. "Well, maybe I was wrong. There's hope for you, yet." She toyed with the matches. "Anyway, once the story's out . . ." She shrugged.

Probably I should have said something, tried to talk her out of killing herself. But had I been in her position I would have been thinking along the same lines. She deserved more from me than empty words about not throwing her life away.

"You'll write it, won't you?" she asked.

"Of course I will. That's why I came."

"But you don't think they'll print it."

I exhaled, a frown on my face. "I don't know, Cassie. It's . . . it's quite a story."

"You believe it, though, right?"

For one last time, I forced myself to meet her gaze. "Yes, I do. Every word. I've got the bump to prove it." I smiled. She didn't. More seriously, I added, "And I've seen your scars."

"You think the scars would convince other people? You could take pictures." For just a moment she looked so hopeful. Then she shook her head. "Pictures wouldn't convince anyone, would they?"

"Probably not. Pictures can be doctored." I closed the pad and put it back in my pocket. "I'll write it," I said. "And I'll do what I can."

A faint smile touched her face and for a fleeting moment I saw the old Cassie, the smart-mouthed beauty with the wry sense of humor. "You haven't asked me the obvious question," she said.

I pulled the pad and pencil out once more. "Why you?" I asked. "Why do you think you wound up with these powers? Or whatever you want to call them? You're certainly not the only woman who's been abused."

"The short answer is that I don't know."

"And the longer answer?" I asked, knowing she wouldn't have brought it up if she didn't want to talk about it.

Cassie eyed me for a moment and then gazed toward the door, looking so wistful, so sad, that I thought she might just get up and walk out. And after all, who could have stopped her had she chosen to?

"I don't think I'm special at all," she finally said, her voice so low I had to lean in to hear her. "I think the power resides in all of us."

"But Cassie --"

She lifted a hand, stopping me. "It's in every one of us, Eric. But I found it. I was scared and I was pissed and I'd had enough. And somehow I found it."

"You can't have been the only woman to have felt those things," I said, expecting her to cut me off again. "And lots of them die at the hands of their boyfriends or husbands. How do you explain that, if they have this power, too?"

"I can't explain it. You're right: lots of women don't manage to save themselves. For some reason they can't find the power that I did. But I believe many of them do. More than you'd think."

I tried to keep from looking skeptical, but clearly I failed.

"How many guys die each year in ways the cops can't explain or only think they understand?" she asked, sounding so reasonable, so sure of herself. "That was Kenny for a long time, until they reopened the investigation. How many times have women protected themselves the way I did, but without actually killing the guy who was hitting them? We don't know, do we? Because it never draws the attention of the police or the press. It happens, then it slides by, unnoticed.

"If I could describe how I did it, if I knew some secret to finding the power, I'd write the damn article myself and make sure all of those women knew." A sad smile settled on her face. "Maybe what made me different wasn't the power itself, but my willingness to use it. I mean really
use
it. If I'd stopped with Kenny, we wouldn't be having this conversation. I'd still be working at the paper, getting laid now and then, leading a normal life. Maybe I wouldn't even believe it myself. But I couldn't leave it alone." She let out a small laugh. "Turns out I was different because I liked the way it felt. It felt good, you know? I wanted to do it again."

I wasn't sure what to say. As explanations went, hers didn't amount to much. But I could tell she believed it and I wasn't sure I wanted to challenge her.

"Go," she said. "I'm talked out. And you need to write this thing if it's going to run tomorrow."

I stood, reluctant to leave her like this. "I can come back --"

"No. Like I said, I'm talked out."

"How soon . . . ?" I trailed off, not certain how to ask the question.

She wouldn't look at me. "Take care of yourself, Eric. Be good."

I stood there for several seconds, then nodded, crossed to the door, and knocked once for the guard. "If you change your mind," I said, my back to her. "If you decide you want to talk again, call me."

Cassie didn't answer. In the next moment the door opened.

As I started to walk out, she said, "Sorry about your head. And also about your recorder."

The recorder? I hesitated, my hand straying to my pocket. All I could do was laugh and shake my head.

A guard waited for me in the corridor, a tall, rail thin white kid who couldn't have been more than twenty years old.

"Is that girl crazy or what?" he asked, grinning like a ghoul.

I grunted a response.

He led me through the twists and turns of the hallways and buzzed me through a series of locked, steel doors. I'd noticed the doors coming in and had meant to count them going back out, but I didn't remember until after I'd signed out and was outside, beyond the fences and the razor wire. The air felt cool and clean, and I realized that I must have reeked of cigarette smoke. It had rained while I was in the jail, but now the sun was shining, and faint wisps of steam rose from the damp blacktop.