psychopath are more or less opposite to those of the neurotic…
“Have you been sleeping?” he went on, his voice a little louder this time, indicating that he knew she wasn’t giving him her full attention. She took her eyes off the page.
“Hmmm, sleep?” Mak furrowed her brow and looked to the ceiling, making a show of racking her brain even though the only audience she had for her little performance was her house plants. “Oh. Oh, that. Overrated.”
“Makedde—”
She held the phone from her ear as he raised his voice, and with the other hand marked her page and lowered the book into her lap.
“Dad,” she finally said. “Calm down. I’m fine. I’m sleeping fine.” A lie.
“Who do you think you’re kidding?” her father said. “Ann thinks she can help you. She knows all about that stuff. She said she would be very happy to talk to you about it, or perhaps recommend someone.”
“Oh really?”
“I think you should take her up on it,” he said.
“You do, eh? So, when did she get divorced anyway?” Mak asked.
Pause. “I guess they divorced a few years ago.” Bingo . “What has that got to do with the price of tea in China?”
“Nothing.” She wondered just how interested her father was in Ann. “I just saw how you were looking at her. I like her, Dad. She’s nice.”
“Good. Then maybe you’ll consider taking her up on her offer. She wants me to give you her number, just in case you ever need it.” “Okay, go ahead.” He gave her the details, and she took them down dutifully, with no intention whatsoever of calling.
“Now, you got another message from Detective Flynn.”
“Andy?” Oh, damn.
“He left a number for you to call him at Quantico. I think he was afraid to ask for your home number. He said he would only be available on that number until tomorrow afternoon, though.”
“Okay.”
She took it down and stared at the digits after she hung up the phone. The piece of paper in her hand held two phone numbers of people she didn’t really want to speak to. Talking to either of them would only open up a can of worms.
It was too late to call Andy in Virginia anyway. She’d leave it till tomorrow.
Maybe.
That night Makedde dreamt of psychiatrists, FBI agents and psychopaths. And the devil. Right before she woke up screaming, he shot flames from his eyes and Makedde—dressed in her father’s police uniform—fell backwards, her hands still frozenuselessly on the trigger of her gun. Once again the devil violently ripped her mother’s life away before her eyes.
That was at 3.00 am.
She couldn’t get back to sleep after that.
CHAPTER 11
Harold G Gosper PhD, a Professor of Social Psychology, arrived at the University of British Columbia at eight-thirty and chose a seat at the back of the Graduate Center Ballroom. He wore his favourite forest-green cardigan and matching corduroy pants with a mauve button-down shirt. As he scratched at a spot of toothpaste on his pants, he vaguely recalled some protest from his wife when he had left the house, something about his wearing the same thing for four days in a row. But no matter. She’d hardly said a word to him the last few days and he didn’t really care.
He wet the toothpaste mark with a bit of saliva, and once satisfied, pulled his hand away and ran a palm over his slick hair. He adjusted himself in the stiff plastic chair and licked his lips. Professor Gosper had picked a spot in the far corner of the room specifically so that he could leave quietly when things got boring. There were heavy exit doors to his right and hisvantage point offered a full view of the room and its occupants. He liked watching people. More than attending psychology lectures that was for sure. He was interested in social not forensic psychology, and the truth was he didn’t have a lot of time for “psychopathy” and Dr Hare’s theories on the psychopathic mind.
Sure, Dr Hare had his awards and his honorary medals and his documentary
“Have you been sleeping?” he went on, his voice a little louder this time, indicating that he knew she wasn’t giving him her full attention. She took her eyes off the page.
“Hmmm, sleep?” Mak furrowed her brow and looked to the ceiling, making a show of racking her brain even though the only audience she had for her little performance was her house plants. “Oh. Oh, that. Overrated.”
“Makedde—”
She held the phone from her ear as he raised his voice, and with the other hand marked her page and lowered the book into her lap.
“Dad,” she finally said. “Calm down. I’m fine. I’m sleeping fine.” A lie.
“Who do you think you’re kidding?” her father said. “Ann thinks she can help you. She knows all about that stuff. She said she would be very happy to talk to you about it, or perhaps recommend someone.”
“Oh really?”
“I think you should take her up on it,” he said.
“You do, eh? So, when did she get divorced anyway?” Mak asked.
Pause. “I guess they divorced a few years ago.” Bingo . “What has that got to do with the price of tea in China?”
“Nothing.” She wondered just how interested her father was in Ann. “I just saw how you were looking at her. I like her, Dad. She’s nice.”
“Good. Then maybe you’ll consider taking her up on her offer. She wants me to give you her number, just in case you ever need it.” “Okay, go ahead.” He gave her the details, and she took them down dutifully, with no intention whatsoever of calling.
“Now, you got another message from Detective Flynn.”
“Andy?” Oh, damn.
“He left a number for you to call him at Quantico. I think he was afraid to ask for your home number. He said he would only be available on that number until tomorrow afternoon, though.”
“Okay.”
She took it down and stared at the digits after she hung up the phone. The piece of paper in her hand held two phone numbers of people she didn’t really want to speak to. Talking to either of them would only open up a can of worms.
It was too late to call Andy in Virginia anyway. She’d leave it till tomorrow.
Maybe.
That night Makedde dreamt of psychiatrists, FBI agents and psychopaths. And the devil. Right before she woke up screaming, he shot flames from his eyes and Makedde—dressed in her father’s police uniform—fell backwards, her hands still frozenuselessly on the trigger of her gun. Once again the devil violently ripped her mother’s life away before her eyes.
That was at 3.00 am.
She couldn’t get back to sleep after that.
CHAPTER 11
Harold G Gosper PhD, a Professor of Social Psychology, arrived at the University of British Columbia at eight-thirty and chose a seat at the back of the Graduate Center Ballroom. He wore his favourite forest-green cardigan and matching corduroy pants with a mauve button-down shirt. As he scratched at a spot of toothpaste on his pants, he vaguely recalled some protest from his wife when he had left the house, something about his wearing the same thing for four days in a row. But no matter. She’d hardly said a word to him the last few days and he didn’t really care.
He wet the toothpaste mark with a bit of saliva, and once satisfied, pulled his hand away and ran a palm over his slick hair. He adjusted himself in the stiff plastic chair and licked his lips. Professor Gosper had picked a spot in the far corner of the room specifically so that he could leave quietly when things got boring. There were heavy exit doors to his right and hisvantage point offered a full view of the room and its occupants. He liked watching people. More than attending psychology lectures that was for sure. He was interested in social not forensic psychology, and the truth was he didn’t have a lot of time for “psychopathy” and Dr Hare’s theories on the psychopathic mind.
Sure, Dr Hare had his awards and his honorary medals and his documentary
Similar Books
