put asses on seats. What you do, Hunter, well, it just ain’t pretty to watch.”
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll lose your edge?” I asked. I was being serious.
Rink looked pensive for a moment. Then he hit me with his enigmatic look, all hooded eyes and downturned mouth.
“Hunter,” he said slowly, “we ain’t in the military no more. We don’t have a license to kill. Hasn’t that sunk in yet?”
It didn’t take much ruminating over.
“Yeah,” I finally said.
But it was a sore point.
11
ONLY EIGHT MILES FROM LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL Airport and thirteen miles from downtown L.A., Santa Monica was pretty much Tubal Cain’s most favorite place on the western coast. He’d visited there many times before but never grew tired of it. How could you be bored with its striking contemporary style and architecture or its shameless attempt at snaring a buck from the tourist market?
Santa Monica had been a playground of chic Victorians. Then in the early 1900s it blossomed again with movie-star glamour. As early as the 1920s, stars such as Will Rogers, Greta Garbo, and Marion Davies had built mansions there. During the 1980s it boomed again after a multimillion-dollar restoration transformed the city.
Many people thronged to take up residence there, but many of them were transients with no roots to speak of. It was the perfect hunting ground for one who preyed primarily on strangers who wouldn’t be missed.
Cain was hunting one of those transients now.
A certain thief of a certain knife dear to him.
Traversing Lincoln Boulevard in his Bundyesque VW, he grinnedat the characters he saw swarming the sidewalks. Here were wannabe actors, wannabe directors, wannabe rock stars. You name it, they were there. Then there were the others . They were there to gawk in wonder at all the other wannabes, to rub shoulders with the wannabe rich and famous. To be sure, no one truly rich and famous would wander along those sidewalks for fear of being torn to pieces by starstruck souvenir hunters. Yet Cain could see a half dozen Michael Jackson look-alikes, a handful of Marilyn Monroes. Who would know if the star was real or not?
The world was twisted full tilt in this wondrous place. But that was what Cain loved so much. It was an escape from humdrum reality, a dimension to which one of his kind belonged. He knew that he didn’t exist in the everyday world that most others belonged to. As a sociopath, he understood that what he was doing wasn’t acceptable in ordinary society. But as a psychopath, he didn’t care. Here in this modern-day Babel he could thrive and grow, easy in the knowledge that he was surrounded by a myriad of like minds.
Cain liked to speak to his dead victims. They tended not to butt in. For the same reason, he was equally happy conversing with himself. He could be as verbose as he wished. “Rule two, thief: The easiest place to hide is in full sight. Here, I’m a sardine in a massive shoal of sardines. I’m indiscernible from the thousands of others, and unlikely to be picked out when there are so many to choose from.” Not that he particularly liked the sardine metaphor, but he had to admit that it served his purpose. He tended to think of himself more as a shark or a swordfish, lurking within the shoal, ready to spring forth from concealment to show his ripping teeth or flashing blade.
No doubt about it. The thief was most likely to be holed up in his hotel room.
“You’re making it too easy for me, thief. You should be out here in the sunshine, mingling with everyone else in this crazy, topsy-turvy place. What chance would I have of finding you then?”
He parked the car in a massive lot filled almost to capacity. Nearby was the promenade that led to the pier, an easy stroll he relished after driving so far. Day or night, it made no difference; people would be on the pier fishing, watching the waves, entertaining themselves in the arcades or shopping for souvenirs, riding the carousels or
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll lose your edge?” I asked. I was being serious.
Rink looked pensive for a moment. Then he hit me with his enigmatic look, all hooded eyes and downturned mouth.
“Hunter,” he said slowly, “we ain’t in the military no more. We don’t have a license to kill. Hasn’t that sunk in yet?”
It didn’t take much ruminating over.
“Yeah,” I finally said.
But it was a sore point.
11
ONLY EIGHT MILES FROM LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL Airport and thirteen miles from downtown L.A., Santa Monica was pretty much Tubal Cain’s most favorite place on the western coast. He’d visited there many times before but never grew tired of it. How could you be bored with its striking contemporary style and architecture or its shameless attempt at snaring a buck from the tourist market?
Santa Monica had been a playground of chic Victorians. Then in the early 1900s it blossomed again with movie-star glamour. As early as the 1920s, stars such as Will Rogers, Greta Garbo, and Marion Davies had built mansions there. During the 1980s it boomed again after a multimillion-dollar restoration transformed the city.
Many people thronged to take up residence there, but many of them were transients with no roots to speak of. It was the perfect hunting ground for one who preyed primarily on strangers who wouldn’t be missed.
Cain was hunting one of those transients now.
A certain thief of a certain knife dear to him.
Traversing Lincoln Boulevard in his Bundyesque VW, he grinnedat the characters he saw swarming the sidewalks. Here were wannabe actors, wannabe directors, wannabe rock stars. You name it, they were there. Then there were the others . They were there to gawk in wonder at all the other wannabes, to rub shoulders with the wannabe rich and famous. To be sure, no one truly rich and famous would wander along those sidewalks for fear of being torn to pieces by starstruck souvenir hunters. Yet Cain could see a half dozen Michael Jackson look-alikes, a handful of Marilyn Monroes. Who would know if the star was real or not?
The world was twisted full tilt in this wondrous place. But that was what Cain loved so much. It was an escape from humdrum reality, a dimension to which one of his kind belonged. He knew that he didn’t exist in the everyday world that most others belonged to. As a sociopath, he understood that what he was doing wasn’t acceptable in ordinary society. But as a psychopath, he didn’t care. Here in this modern-day Babel he could thrive and grow, easy in the knowledge that he was surrounded by a myriad of like minds.
Cain liked to speak to his dead victims. They tended not to butt in. For the same reason, he was equally happy conversing with himself. He could be as verbose as he wished. “Rule two, thief: The easiest place to hide is in full sight. Here, I’m a sardine in a massive shoal of sardines. I’m indiscernible from the thousands of others, and unlikely to be picked out when there are so many to choose from.” Not that he particularly liked the sardine metaphor, but he had to admit that it served his purpose. He tended to think of himself more as a shark or a swordfish, lurking within the shoal, ready to spring forth from concealment to show his ripping teeth or flashing blade.
No doubt about it. The thief was most likely to be holed up in his hotel room.
“You’re making it too easy for me, thief. You should be out here in the sunshine, mingling with everyone else in this crazy, topsy-turvy place. What chance would I have of finding you then?”
He parked the car in a massive lot filled almost to capacity. Nearby was the promenade that led to the pier, an easy stroll he relished after driving so far. Day or night, it made no difference; people would be on the pier fishing, watching the waves, entertaining themselves in the arcades or shopping for souvenirs, riding the carousels or
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