“I’m fine,” said Jimmie, sitting up straight. “No problem.”
“You look kinda shaky.”
“No, I’m fine. But thank you for your concern.”
And he put The Dream away once again, as a gun is put away in its case.
In Los Angeles, having studied the city quite thoroughly, Jimmie took a cab directly into Hollywood. The fare was steep, but money was never an issue in Jimmie’s life; he paid well for services rendered, with no regrets.
He got off at Highland, on Hollywood Boulevard, and walked toward the Chinese Theater.
He wanted two things: food and sexual satisfaction.
First, he would select an attractive female, take her to dinner and then to his motel room (he’d booked one from the airport), where he would have sex. Jimmie never called it lovemaking, a silly word. It was always just sex, plain and simple and quickly over. He was capable of arousing a woman if he chose to do so, of bringing her to full passion and release, but he seldom bothered. His performance was always an act; the ritual bored him. Only the result counted.
He disliked prostitutes and seldom selected one. Too jaded. Too worldly. And never to be trusted. Given time, and his natural charm, he was usually able to pick up an out-of-town girl, impress her with an excellent and very expensive meal at a posh restaurant, and guide her firmly into bed.
This night, in Hollywood, the seduction was easily accomplished.
Jimmie spotted a supple, soft-faced girl in the forecourt of the Chinese. She was wandering from one celebrity footprint to another, leaning to examine a particular signature in the cement.
As she bent forward, her breasts flowed full, pressing against the soft linen dress she wore — and Jimmie told himself, she’s the one for tonight. A young, awe-struck out-of towner. Perfect.
He moved toward her.
“I just love European food,” said Janet.
“That’s good,” said Jimmie Prescott. “I rather fancy it myself.”
She smiled at him across the table, a glowing all-American girl from Ohio named Janet Louise Lakeley. They were sitting in a small, very chick French restaurant off La Cienega, with soft lighting and open-country decor.
“I can’t read a word of this,” Janet said when the menu was handed to her. “I thought they always had the food listed in English, too, like movie subtitles.”
“Some places don’t,” said Jimmie quietly. “I’ll order for us both. You’ll be pleased. The sole is excellent here.”
“Oh, I love fish,” she said. “I could eat a ton of fish.”
He pressed her hand. “That’s nice.”
“My head is swimming. I shouldn’t have had that Scotch on an empty stomach,” she said. “Are we having wine with dinner?”
“Of course,” said Jimmie.
“I don’t know anything about wine,” she told him, “but I love champagne. That’s wine, isn’t it?”
He smiled with a faint upcurve of his thin lips.
“Trust me,” he said. “You’ll enjoy what I select.”
“I’m sure I will.”
The food was ordered and served — and Jimmie was pleased to see that his tastes had, once again, proven sound. The meal was superb, the wine was bracing and the girl was sexually stimulating. Essentially brainless, but that really didn’t matter to Jimmie. She was what he wanted.
Then she began to talk about the sniper killings.
“Forty people in just a year and two months,” she said. “And all gunned down by the same madman. Aren’t they ever going to catch him?”
“The actual target figure is forty-one,” he corrected her. “And what makes you so sure the sniper is a male. Could be a woman.”
She shook her head. “Whoever heard of a woman sniper?”
“There have been many,” said Jimmie. “In Russia today there are several hundred trained female snipers. Some European governments have traditionally utilized females in this capacity.”
“I don’t mean women soldiers,” she said. “I mean your nutso shoot-’em-in-the-street sniper. Always guys. Every time. Like that kid in Texas that shot all the people from the tower.”
“Apparently you’ve never heard of Francine Stearn.”
“Nope. Who was she?”
“Probably the most famous female sniper. Killed a dozen schoolchildren in Pittsburg one weekend in late July, 1970. One shot each. To the head. She was a very accurate shootist.”
“Never heard of her.”
“After she was captured, Esquire did a rather probing psychological profile on her.”
“Well, I really don’t read a lot,” she admitted. “Except Gothic romances. I just can’t get enough of those.” She giggled. “Guess you could say I’m addicted.”
“I’m not familiar with the genre.”
“Anyway,” she continued. “I know this sniper is a guy.”
“How do you know?”
“Female intuition. I trust it. It never fails me. And it tells me that the Phantom Sniper is a mam”
He was amused. “What else does it tell you?”
“That he’s probably messed up in the head. Maybe beaten as a kid. Something like that. He’s got to be a nutcase.”
“You could be wrong there, too,” Jimmie told her. “Not all lawbreakers are mentally unbalanced.”
“This ‘Deathmaster’ guy is, and I’m convinced of it.”
“You’re a strongly-opinionated young woman.”
“Mom always said that.” She sipped her wine, nodded. “Yeah, I guess. I am.” She frowned, turning the glass slowly in her long-fingered hand. “Do you think they’ll ever catch him?”
“I somehow doubt it,” Jimmie declared. “No one seems to have a clear description of him. And he always seems to elude the police. Leaves no clues. Apparently selects his subjects at random. No motive to tie him to. No consistent M.O.”
“What’s that?”
“Method of operation. Most criminals tend to repeat the same basic pattern in their crimes. But not this fellow. He keeps surprising people. Never know where he’ll pop up next, or who his target will be. Tough to catch a man like that.”
“You call them ‘subjects’ and ‘targets’ — but they’re people! Innocent men arid women and children. You make them sound like... like cutouts at a shooting gallery!”
“Perhaps I do,” he admitted, smiling. “It’s simply that we have different modes of expression.”
“I say they’ll get him eventually. He can’t go on just butchering innocent people forever.”
“No one goes on forever,” said Jimmie Prescott.
She put down her wine glass, leaned toward him. “Know what bothers me most about the sniper?”
“What.”
“The fact that his kind of act attracts copycats. Other sickos with a screw loose who read about him and want to imitate him. Arson is like that. One big fire in the papers and suddenly all the other wacko firebugs start their own fires. It gets ’em going. The sniper is like that.”
“If some mentally-disturbed individual is motivated to kill stupidly and without thought or preparation by something he or she reads in a newspaper then the sniper himself cannot be blamed for such abnormal behavior.”
“You call what he does normal?”
“I... uh... didn’t say that. I was simply refuting your theory.”
She frowned. “Then who is to blame? I think that guy should be caught and—”
“And what?” Jimmie fixed his cool gray eyes on her. “What would you do if you suddenly discovered who he was... where to find him?”
“Call the police, naturally. Like anybody.”