“I thought he was a dickhead.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “Did you think he was capable of this?”
“Of what, slitting throats and burying people alive? No, Cope. I didn’t think that.”
“He didn’t kill Gil Perez.”
“But he killed those other people. You know that.”
“I guess.”
“And come on, you know he had to be the one who killed Margot and Doug. I mean, what other theory is there—he happened to be a counselor at a camp where murders took place and then took up killing himself?”
“It’s not impossible,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Maybe those murders set Wayne off somehow. Maybe he had that potential and that summer, being a counselor at a camp where throats were slit, maybe that was the catalyst.”
“You really buy that?”
“Guess not, but who knows?”
“One other thing I remember about him,” she said.
“What?”
“Wayne was a pathological liar. I mean, now that I have that big-time psychology degree I know the technical term for it. But even then. Do you remember that at all? He would lie about anything. Just to lie. It was his natural reaction. He’d lie about what he had for breakfast.”
I thought about it. “Yeah, I do remember. Part of it was normal camp boasting. He was this rich kid and he’d try to fit in with us wrong-siders. He was a drug dealer, he said. He was in a gang. He had this girlfriend from home who posed in Playboy. Everything he said was crap.”
“Remember that,” she said, “when you talk to him.”
“I will.”
Silence. The sleeping snake was gone. Now I felt other dormant feelings stir. There was still something there, with Lucy. I don’t know if it was real or nostalgia or a result of all this stress, but I felt it and I didn’t want to ignore it and I knew I’d have to.
“You still there?” she said.
“I am.”
“This is still weird, isn’t it? Us, I mean.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Just so you know,” Lucy said, “you’re not alone. I’m there too, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Does that help?”
“Yes. Does it help you?”
“It does. It would suck if I was the only one feeling this way.”
I smiled.
“Good night, Cope.”
“Good night, Luce.”
Serial killing—or at least, having a severely compromised conscience—must be pretty stress free, because Wayne Steubens had barely aged in twenty years. He had been a good-looking guy back when I knew him. He still was. He had a buzz cut now as opposed to those wavy, out-sailing-with-Mummy locks, but it looked good on him. I knew that he only got out of his cell an hour a day, but he must have spent it in the sun because he had none of that typical prison pallor.
Wayne Steubens gave me a winning, near-perfect smile. “Are you here to invite me to a camp reunion?”
“We’re having it in the Rainbow Room in Manhattan. Gosh, I hope you can attend.”
He howled with laughter as if I had just cracked the gem of gems. It wasn’t, of course, but this interrogation was going to be a dance. He had been questioned by the best federal officers in the land. He had been probed by psychiatrists who knew every trick in The Psychopath’s Handbook. Normal venues wouldn’t work here. We had a past. We had even been somewhat friendly. I needed to use that.
His laughter segued into a chuckle and then the smile slipped away. “They still call you Cope?”
“Yes.”
“So how are you, Cope?”
“Groovy,” I said.
“Groovy,” Wayne repeated. “You sound like Uncle Ira.”
At camp we used to call the elders Uncle and Aunt.
“Ira was one crazy dude, wasn’t he, Cope?”
“He was out there.”
“That he was.” Wayne looked off. I tried to focus in on his powder blue eyes, but they kept darting around. He seemed a bit manic. I wondered if he was medicated—probably—and then I wondered why I hadn’t checked on that.
“So,” Wayne said, “are you going to tell me why you’re really here?” And then, before I could answer, he held up his palm. “Wait, no, don’t tell me. Not yet.”
I had expected something different. I don’t know what exactly. I expected him to be more outwardly crazy or obvious. By crazy, I meant like the raving lunatics you conjure up when you think of serial killers—the piercing gaze, the scenery chewing, the intensity, the lip smacking, the hands clenching and unclenching, the rage right under the surface. But I didn’t feel any of that with Wayne. By obvious, I meant the type of sociopaths we stumble across every day, the smooth guys you know are lying and capable of horrible things. I wasn’t getting that vibe either.
What I got from Wayne was something far more frightening. Sitting here and talking to him—the man who in all likelihood had murdered my sister and at least seven others—felt normal. Okay, even.
“It’s been twenty years, Wayne. I need to know what happened in those woods.”
“Why?”
“Because my sister was there.”
“No, Cope, that’s not what I meant.” He leaned in a little. “Why now? As you pointed out, it’s been twenty years. So why, old friend, do you need to know now?”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
His eyes settled and met mine. I tried to stay steady. Role reversal: The psychotic was trying to read me for a lie.
“The timing,” he said, “is very interesting.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you’re not my only recent surprise visitor.”
I nodded slowly, trying not to seem too anxious. “Who else came?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Why not?”
Wayne Steubens sat back. “You’re still a good-looking guy, Cope.”
“So are you,” I said. “But I think us dating is out of the question.”
“I should be angry with you, really.”
“Oh?”
“You spoiled that summer for me.”
Partitioning. I talked about that before. I know that my face showed nothing, but it was like razors were slicing through my gut. I was making small talk with a mass murderer. I looked at his hands. I imagined the blood. I imagined the blade up against the exposed throat. Those hands. Those seemingly innocuous hands that now sat folded on the steel tabletop. What had they done?