stairs, and we wouldn’t club a basket of newborn puppies to death with
an iron bar-at least without good reason.”
Her laughter lacked a full measure of humor.
“Listen,” he said, “you’re a good person. You’ve got a good heart, and
nothing you did to Rasmussen blackens it at all.
“I hope you’re right. It’s a hard world sometimes.”
“Another drink will soften it a little.”
“You know the calories in these? I’ll be fat as a hippo
“Hippos are cute,” he said, taking her glass and heading back toward the
kitchen to pour another drink. “I love POS.”
“You won’t want to make love to one.”
“Sure. More to hold, more to love.”
“You’ll be crushed.”
“Well, of course, I’ll always insist on taking the top.”
CANDY WAS going to kill. He stood in the dark living room of a
stranger’s house, shaking with need. Blood. He needed blood.
Candy was going to kill, and there was nothing he could do to stop
himself. Not even thinking of his mother could shame him into
controlling his hunger.
His given name was James, but his mother-an unselfish soul, exceedingly
kind, brimming with love, a saint-always said he was her little candy
boy. Never James. Never Jim or Jimmy. She’d said he was sweeter than
anything on earth, and “little candy boy” eventually had become “candy
boy,” and by the time he was six the sobriquet had been shortened and
capitalized, and he had become Candy for good. Now, at twenty-nine,
that was the only name to which he would answer.
Many people thought murder was a sin. He knew otherwise. Some were
born with a taste for blood. God had made them what they were and
expected them to kill chosen victims. It was all part of His mysterious
plan.
The only sin was to kill when God and your mother did not approve of the
victim, which was exactly what he was about to do. He was ashamed. But
he was also in need.
He listened to the house. Silence. Like unearthly and dusky beasts,
the shadowy forms of the living-room furniture huddled around him.
Breathing hard, trembling, Candy moved into the dining room, kitchen,
family room, then slowly along the hallway that led to the front of the
house. He made no sound that would have alerted anyone asleep upstairs.
He seemed to glide rather than walk, as if he were a specter instead of
a real man.
He paused at the foot of the stairs and made one last feeble attempt to
overcome his murderous compulsion. Failing he shuddered and let out his
pent-up breath. He began to climb toward the second floor, where the
family was probably sleeping.
His mother would understand and forgive him.
She had taught him that killing was good and moral only when necessary,
only when it benefited the family.
She had been terribly angry with him on those occasions when he had
killed out of sheer compulsion, with no good reason. She had no need to
punish him physically for his errant ways, because her displeasure gave
him more agony than any punishment she could have devised. For days at
a time she refused to speak to him, and that silent treatment caused his
cheeks to swell with pain, so it seemed as if his heart would spasm
cease to beat. She looked straight through him, too, as if he no longer
existed.
When the other children spoke of him, she said, “Oh, you mean your late
brother, Candy, your poor brother. Well, remember him if you want, but
only to yourselves, not to me, never to me, because I don’t want to
remember him, not that bad seed. He was no good, that no good at all,
wouldn’t listen to his mother, not him, he thought he knew better. Just
the sound of his name makes me feel sick, revolts me, so don’t mention
him in my hearing.”
Candy had been temporarily banished to the world of the dead for having
misbehaved, no place was set for him at the table, and he had to stand
in a corner, watching the others eat, as if he was a visiting spirit.
She would not favor him with either a frown or a smile, and she would