He looks at his watch again. She's later than normal today. His palms are sweating. It's been a thrilling morning so far; preparing the candy, leaving it for Jack, getting her address. Now comes uncertainty.
The Gingerbread Man leaves very little up to chance, but grabbing a person has too many variables to account for them all. He'd originally intended for Theresa to be the first, but when the day came to snatch her, she'd uncharacteristically walked to work with her roommate.
Potential witnesses, the weather, traffic, and unpredictable human nature all conspire to make an abduction very delicate and tricky. He doesn't know if she carries Mace. He doesn't know if she has a black belt in karate. He doesn't know if she will scream and attract attention. All he can do is plan as best he can, and hope for luck.
He watches the blinds close in the window. Good. She'll be coming down the stairs in a few minutes.
"You open?"
He quickly drops the binoculars and looks to his right. A boy, no more than ten, is staring in at him. Black kid, big head, wide eyes.
It had been a long time since he'd killed a child. Almost another life. Before prison. The last one was a little girl. She'd been playing in front of her house. He grabbed her on impulse. She was so fragile and small. Screamed like an angel.
"What do you want?"
"Bomb Pop."
He reaches into the cooler behind him and pulls out a Bomb Pop. First sale of the day, not including the freebie he'd given that cop earlier. It sells for two dollars. He pays a dime wholesale. Since he works independently and the truck is his, the only overhead is gasoline. Not only does he have the perfect urban camouflage, but he's even making a profit.
The kid pays him in change, counting it carefully. Little shit has no clue how close to death he is. Just a quick tug on the shirt, and the boy could be his. He scans down the street for witnesses and sees nary a soul.
But not today. Today he has other plans.
The kid lopes off, licking his ice cream.
The front door to the apartment opens, and the whore strides out. He runs through the grab one more time in his head. Pull out in front of her. Jump out. Stick her with the needle and haul her in back. Shouldn't take more than ten seconds. Then he'll have her for his use, for as long as he can keep her alive.
Tapping his foot, impatient, he lets her get a block ahead of him before he starts the truck. His hands are sweating and he has a sudden attack of the giggles. The syringe is in his pocket, filled with fifty milligrams of Seconal. Not much, but a little goes a long way. He'll pump it straight into her arm, and it'll begin to take effect within five seconds.
First she'll become drowsy and disoriented. Then she'll begin losing muscle control. It takes about five full minutes before she will be under completely, but until then he should be able to handle her without difficulty. Seconal has a soothing effect, and so far everyone he's used it on has remained compliant, if not downright helpful.
He practiced on winos when he'd first gotten the Seconal. There are plenty littering the streets of Chicago, begging for handouts. The first one he gave six ccs, killing him almost instantly. He halved the dosage, and the next one never woke up. One to 1.5 milliliters turned out to be the right dose for women, depending on how chunky they were. These whores aren't chunky. They're racehorses. Whorses. He giggles.
The alley is coming up. He pulls into it ahead of her, taking in everything. There's no one nearby. Perfect. She approaches the truck without even noticing it.
Wait! She's crossing the street! He's watched her walk to work almost a dozen times, and she's never crossed until she reaches the intersection. His mind races. Call it off, or improvise?
"Theresa?"
He's out of the truck, coming at her on an angle, syringe palmed in his right hand.
"Theresa?"
She stops and looks at him. He smiles brightly. Smiles disarm people. His pace is fast, but he puts some bounce in his step and tries to look in a hurry rather than threatening.
"I thought it was you. Charles, remember?"
He says it at normal speaking level, which is too low for the twenty-foot distance between them.
"Pardon me?"
She cranes her neck forward a bit. Her posture isn't defensive, but her expression is confused. She isn't sure if she recognizes him or not.
He takes two more steps. "I'm sorry, you don't remember me, do you? I'm Charles."
Her eyes narrow slightly, trying to place him. "Sorry, I..." She shrugs.
"You mean you don't even remember the truck?" He takes three more steps and makes a grand sweeping gesture toward his ice cream truck. "I thought you'd remember the truck."
"Look -- I'm late for work..."
"At Montezuma's. That's where you work, right?"
"Have I served you before?"
"No." The Gingerbread Man grins. The smile is genuine now. "But you will."
The girl doesn't like his leer and subconsciously shifts her weight away from his approaching form. He detects the subtle change, and knows that if she bolts or screams, he won't get a second chance.
"Here, let me..." Reaching into his pockets, he pulls out a handful of quarters. Trying to look clumsy, he lets the change spill from his hand and all over the curb.
"Aw...my boss is gonna kill me!"
He kneels down and begins picking up coins, hoping he looks really pathetic.
He must, because she only watches for a few seconds before coming over to help.
"Thanks. This is a whole morning's work here."
She crouches down, picking up a quarter. "What did you say your name was?"
He checks for witnesses. A guy on the end of the street, walking past, not paying attention.
"Charles."
"And where do I know you from?"
She reaches out to hand him some coins. He snatches her wrist and yanks her to him, jabbing the needle home, hugging her close so to any casual observer it looks like an embrace.
She tries to twist, but he has sixty pounds on her and his hold has taken away her leverage. Leaving the syringe still sticking in her arm, he brings his hand up to the back of her head and crushes her face to his, drowning out the cry welling up inside her with a kiss.
He tastes fear. She has the nerve to try to bite him, and that gets him excited. He likes to bite too. He sinks his teeth into her lower lip, and then her body begins to relax.
Half pulling, half carrying, he gets her over to the truck. A cab rolls past, but doesn't slow down. Once she's in back, he handcuffs her to the metal bar he's bolted to his freezer. Then he removes the needle from her arm and puts it back in his pocket.
Theresa Metcalf shakes her head, as if she is trying to clear it. When she notices the handcuffs, she screams.
In the driver's seat, Charles flips on the music. A recorded pipe organ version of "The Candyman" trumpets through the speakers at full volume. He checks his mirrors and carefully backs out of the alley. She screams again, but he's confident that he's her only audience.
"I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream." He giggles.
Quite a day. Quite a day indeed. And quite a night it will be as well.
He's bought three new videotapes. He's planning on filling them all.
"Wait till we get back to my place," he tells T. Metcalf. "Then you'll have something to scream about."
She is too drowsy to hear him.
Chapter 8
HOW DID YOU KNOW," HERB SAID, smacking his lips, "that I was in the mood for candy?"
I glanced over at Benedict. He was clutching a bag of chocolate, eyes twinkling.
"Do you keep an emergency supply in your jacket?" I asked.
"Me? These are yours. They were on the seat."
"Where?"
"In your car here, on the passenger seat."
I started the Nova and frowned, puzzled.
"They're not mine. Was there a note?"
"Nope. Just candy. Maybe it was Don."