his pen again and entered a final sentence:
As we write this, we feel the stirrings, the pleading for further action, more glorious beatifications . . .
Another wave of retched memories swept over him.
The other
He
who dwelled within him crawled up from his bowels like a cancerous cloud, bringing with it the memories of the inception of the black days: the gates of the prison and a descent into a hell so abhorrent that he’d bargained away his soul for a pitiful life among the damned; losing control of his bowels as he peered at a door opened just enough to let out a blinding light, as an unseen force propelled him slowly to the operating room where he dared not go, consuming him again and again until he could no longer look upon the world in cleanliness: visions and voices haunting a weak man until he breaks.
He shot up from his chair, his hands gripping the edge of the table for support. He was completely naked. The frigid air cramped his muscles and stung his skin.
Discomfort is not enough.
He took the lantern and descended a set of rickety stairs. He came to a floor-standing mirror. He could gaze upon only his naked torso, the upper third of the mirror painted black so he could not see his face and—most important—
his eyes
. From a table he picked up a short leather strap he had fashioned. Short nails protruded through the leather with a rawhide string attached on either end.
He placed the lantern on the table and wrapped the strap around the base of his penis and scrotum. He turned with reverence to a man-sized representation of the cross his mother had worn around her neck, the cross that had dangled near her breasts as she bent low and prayed for his condemned soul. With a rawhide string in either hand, he took one deep breath and yanked. He bit his lip to stifle a scream. He fell to his knees, doubled over in agony. Even as he did so, his penis became erect. There was no sexual gratification. His penis responded to pain. Just as it stood erect with the ecstasy of each beatification. Just as it had, the previous morning on the street, when he’d passed his next Chosen One. The excitement of knowing rushed hot blood to his groin. When he had caught a glimpse of the Chosen One’s face he knew the voices had brought him someone in the likeness of a suffering innocent he had once known, his first encounter, his first initiation into an abominable existence.
The excruciating pain forced the other
He
back into his bowels.
He
was gone, for now. The unrelenting visions, the screams of the innocents, the memory of his sins quieted, if for only a few hours. But the strap would stay on for a few more minutes. Then sleep would come.
We must rest, for we have glorious plans.
SIX
M ason entered the narrow alley that ran along the rear of the factory where the victim had been found. The morning sun hid behind a heavy veil of fog that froze to anything it touched. He shivered once from the cold, and his feet ached from the close call with frostbite during the previous year’s horrible winter.
I should have asked for a post on the damned equator
.
He stopped next to the fire escape and looked up to the fourth-floor landing where the killer had rigged the booby trap and left his grim message.
Wolski came around the corner, stifling a yawn. “You got here early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Wolski lifted a Thermos. “Coffee?”
Mason accepted, and Wolski poured some into the Thermos cap. “Colonel Walton thinks you’re out investigating the train robbery. Corporal Manganella told me where you really were.”
Mason looked at Wolski, who turned an imaginary key to lock his lips. Mason took a sip of coffee. “I’ve been out here trying to imagine how someone could kill and dismember a body in one place then transport it here. All the surrounding buildings have been searchedfor blocks around. No sign of the killing taking place there, so he had some distance to travel.”
“He sure as hell couldn’t have
As we write this, we feel the stirrings, the pleading for further action, more glorious beatifications . . .
Another wave of retched memories swept over him.
The other
He
who dwelled within him crawled up from his bowels like a cancerous cloud, bringing with it the memories of the inception of the black days: the gates of the prison and a descent into a hell so abhorrent that he’d bargained away his soul for a pitiful life among the damned; losing control of his bowels as he peered at a door opened just enough to let out a blinding light, as an unseen force propelled him slowly to the operating room where he dared not go, consuming him again and again until he could no longer look upon the world in cleanliness: visions and voices haunting a weak man until he breaks.
He shot up from his chair, his hands gripping the edge of the table for support. He was completely naked. The frigid air cramped his muscles and stung his skin.
Discomfort is not enough.
He took the lantern and descended a set of rickety stairs. He came to a floor-standing mirror. He could gaze upon only his naked torso, the upper third of the mirror painted black so he could not see his face and—most important—
his eyes
. From a table he picked up a short leather strap he had fashioned. Short nails protruded through the leather with a rawhide string attached on either end.
He placed the lantern on the table and wrapped the strap around the base of his penis and scrotum. He turned with reverence to a man-sized representation of the cross his mother had worn around her neck, the cross that had dangled near her breasts as she bent low and prayed for his condemned soul. With a rawhide string in either hand, he took one deep breath and yanked. He bit his lip to stifle a scream. He fell to his knees, doubled over in agony. Even as he did so, his penis became erect. There was no sexual gratification. His penis responded to pain. Just as it stood erect with the ecstasy of each beatification. Just as it had, the previous morning on the street, when he’d passed his next Chosen One. The excitement of knowing rushed hot blood to his groin. When he had caught a glimpse of the Chosen One’s face he knew the voices had brought him someone in the likeness of a suffering innocent he had once known, his first encounter, his first initiation into an abominable existence.
The excruciating pain forced the other
He
back into his bowels.
He
was gone, for now. The unrelenting visions, the screams of the innocents, the memory of his sins quieted, if for only a few hours. But the strap would stay on for a few more minutes. Then sleep would come.
We must rest, for we have glorious plans.
SIX
M ason entered the narrow alley that ran along the rear of the factory where the victim had been found. The morning sun hid behind a heavy veil of fog that froze to anything it touched. He shivered once from the cold, and his feet ached from the close call with frostbite during the previous year’s horrible winter.
I should have asked for a post on the damned equator
.
He stopped next to the fire escape and looked up to the fourth-floor landing where the killer had rigged the booby trap and left his grim message.
Wolski came around the corner, stifling a yawn. “You got here early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Wolski lifted a Thermos. “Coffee?”
Mason accepted, and Wolski poured some into the Thermos cap. “Colonel Walton thinks you’re out investigating the train robbery. Corporal Manganella told me where you really were.”
Mason looked at Wolski, who turned an imaginary key to lock his lips. Mason took a sip of coffee. “I’ve been out here trying to imagine how someone could kill and dismember a body in one place then transport it here. All the surrounding buildings have been searchedfor blocks around. No sign of the killing taking place there, so he had some distance to travel.”
“He sure as hell couldn’t have
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