Primal Fear

ONE FEBRUARY 26, 1983 When Archbishop Richard Rushman, known to Catholic, Protestant and Jew alike as "the saint of Lakeview Drive" because of his great charitable works, stepped out of the shower, he had less than ten minutes to live. Death stood in the doorway. The hot shower had relieved the bishop's tension, and he started to hum along with the stereo playing in the bedroom. Beethoven's Ode to Joypossibly his favorite piece of music. The majesty of the chorus never ceased to thrill him. It was so loud he did not hear the apartment's kitchen door open. The kitchen door's unlocked. Good. The room so spotless, so sterile-clean, stainless steel and tile, like the autopsy room at the hospital. The music. So fitting. Lovely. Overpowering. Volume all the way as usual, he won't hear a thing. In the bedroom, conducting the orchestra, eyes closed, imaginary baton in hand, humming along. So fucking predictable. The archbishop stood in the doorway of the bathroom, dabbing himself dry with the plush Turkish towel. He was a tall, handsome man, muscular and hard, with a tan line from shoulder to shoulder where his T-shirt usually ended. Dark, thick hair tumbled down over his forehead. He flexed his bicep, admiring the bulge as he dabbed under his arm. When he finished, he threw the towel on the bathroom floor and began to sway with the music as he stood naked in the middle of the room. Chocolate for energy. Can almost feel it zooming up like an electric charge, down there, too, swelling me up, preparing the big O. That's what he calls it, the big O. Don't screw up, hold your hand against the big six-foot refrigerator door so it doesn't make that little popping sound when it opens. Like that, perfect. There they are, all those little pony bottles of chocolate milk. Soldiers on the door shelf. The intruder twisted the small bottle upside down, right side up, watching the drink turn to thick, chocolatey brown before he twisted off the top and drank it. Then instead of pressing the foot pedal on the garbage container, he lifted the cover by hand and placed the bottle silently into the plastic liner. So neat, so clean. So fucking sterile. The archbishop sprinkled talc into a folded washcloth and, closing his eyes, rubbed it into his body. He was lost in the music, using his voice like a bass fiddle as the brass came in. Bum bum bum bum bumbumbum buuum . . . God, I love the way the knives feel. Light, balanced, cold. So smooth, slick, oily, like she is when she wants it, when she's ready. The intruder slid open the hidden tray under the cabinet where the carving knives were stored, ran his fingertips lightly across the handles, so carefully rubbed with linseed after they were washed. He stopped at the largest one, the carving knife, its broad, long, stainless blade honed until the cutting edge was almost invisible. It shimmered in the soft rays of the night light recessed under the cabinets. He removed it, ran his middle finger down the length of the blade, leaving a thread of blood on its ridge from the slice in his finger. The intruder licked off the blood. The chorus is beginning to build. And me, tightening, tingle in my belly, pulse in my temples, the spasms. Not much time left before it's time to explode. He walked through the living room with the knife held down at his side. The bedroom door was open. Sanctum sanctorum. Scarlet drapes and bedclothes, blood of the Father. White carpeting, purity of soul. Candles glowing, clean the air. Incense . . . And the ring, lying on the night table where he always put it when he showered afterward. There he is. All purity and light. His Eminence, His Holiness . . . His Crassness. Blessed saint of the city? Saint, wDiehl, William is the author of 'Primal Fear' with ISBN 9780345388773 and ISBN 0345388771.