Бесплатный фрагмент - The Knight, the Beauty, the Beast, the Fool

All the imperishable — that’s but a simile, and the poets lie too much.

— Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

1. Dollhouse

[United States, Baltimore, Reservoir Hill]

Another high stoop, a brick facade of a house with maisonettes, a carved door and a bell that makes a typical, pompous and booming sound of a gong. Did they all conspire? This is the seventh, fortunately the last address on the list, with the same audible signal — it turns out, the local wealthy people are completely lacking in imagination and imitate each other.

Allex sighed, glanced at the squares of the windows, shifted from one foot to the other, tapping his thigh with the clipboard with the sheets of paper attached to it. He secretly hoped there would be no one in the apartment — and then he would finally take a break for lunch … He was tired and terribly hungry.

He should at least see who lives in the dollhouse … Allex usually needed a couple of seconds to get the necessary information, he could read diagonally, he looked at the clipboard only before the visit — as a rule, already on the approach. He improvised — because he knew, what was planned in advance would have to be re-acted anyway.

Footsteps were heard behind the door, light and rhythmic. His future interlocutor was some female artiste … Allex knew nothing about films, movie stars, singers or musicians, he was not interested in media life — and today, as luck would have it, he came across one arrogant bon ton, each more bizarre than the last.

One of them even looked askance at Allex’s dusty boots with chipped toes as he walked across the antique handmade carpet … If the person-number-seven on the list is just as arrogant — and the likelihood is high — he’ll just— What will he do? He’ll have to interview her — that is his job.

This was not how he had imagined his first week on the job in a new department, on a new team, on a new investigation. He was once again being sent to do what others would consider boring work — but he could be of real use!

The door opened, and a tall young woman with golden hair and a pale, thin, textured face appeared before him. Allex instantly emerged from the whirlpool of thoughts, for some reason perked up, and it seemed to him that an autumn sunbeam ran across the glass and the facade, the colors became brighter.

Most likely, this is the effect of the combination of hues — the hairstyle and the gray-blue blouse, perfectly ironed, matching the color of the eyes.

Allex was observant, sometimes too much. He habitually absorbed the entire image in front of him, memorized every detail, noted the neutral makeup in the ‘no makeup’ look and the barely perceptible light foundation — which made the lady of the house look very young — the asthenic physique with thin wrists, narrow shoulders, and high set breasts, expressive eyebrows and long eyelashes.

Her eyelashes fluttered, and Allex didn’t even have time to open his mouth to announce the purpose of his visit when the golden-haired artiste said, “Unfortunately, Mr. de Lavender is not at home, but I can tell him that you came.”

Allex blinked and shook his head.

“Wilhelmina Gustavsson?” he said to her. “Agent Allex Serret, FBI. I need to ask you a few questions, it won’t take long.”

Allex reached into his pocket, pulled out the documents and showed them, pressing the clipboard to his ribs under his arm, his jacket bulging at the side, covering the holster. For a moment, a shadow seemed to flicker across Miss Gustavsson’s face, but it immediately took on the friendly, neutral expression, the same that had been a moment ago.

“No need to worry, the questions won’t be about you, but about Dr. Lukas Gasztold. He’s your therapist.”

Obviously, Miss Gustavsson knew that Gasztold was her therapist … A psychotherapist. She went to him twice a week. Allex had gotten used to the fact that Dr. Gasztold’s patients were scared by the badge, by the very mention of the FBI, and couldn’t decide how to talk to him — looking down, as they would usually look at a shabby guy in shabby shoes, too young to be an agent, or looking up, obsequiously, so that Allex wouldn’t get wind of their dealings …

Allex Serret had no interest in the affairs and petty dirty tricks of wealthy clients of successful psychiatrists. His focus was on killers, especially serial killers, especially those who calmly wandered the streets of Baltimore and committed another cruel and terrible crime.

While he’s been going door-to-door interviewing possible — but unlikely — witnesses, his new team has been sent to re-examine the latest crime scene since Special Agent William Gatti has had another epiphany.

“Yes, of course,” Miss Gustavsson replied. “Please come in.”

Allex crossed the threshold of the dollhouse, walked inside along a bright corridor, past a wide mirror in a golden frame, interior items that would fit in the style of a museum, and not a modern city apartment … In the reflection, out of the corner of his eye, he saw himself: a dissonant spot of a green khaki jacket, disheveled chestnut hair — an image that seemed completely out of place, as if from another universe, which ended up in an aristocratic nest not according to plan.

“Can I offer you tea, coffee?”

Wilhelmina Gustavsson, twenty-five years old, lives with her stepfather in a luxurious three-story apartment in the elite Mount Royal Terrace neighborhood of Reservoir Hill. She is a professional singer, has never been convicted of any offenses and has not participated in bon ton scandals, almost nothing is known about her and her past, despite the publicity of her person. Miss Gustavsson has been Gasztold’s patient for four years, has never missed a session and has not even been late … Allex assumed the latter from the portrait formed literally in a few seconds of observing the golden-haired artiste, he did not have to make an effort to notice such trifles.

Miss Gustavsson’s hairdo is a perfect hair, the golden strands down to her shoulders combed and carefully arranged in waves; her low-heeled shoes — she is over six feet tall — shine like new, her blouse and suit pants are custom-made, each fold of the light fabric a detail, a stroke on a work of art; her figure is straight, and her waist is narrow, her movements are fluid, like a cat’s — the one with large ears, a lean body, long bony legs, and no hair …

Miss Gustavsson was much more beautiful than the strange cat, and for some reason Allex stared at her and did not immediately answer the question.

“Tea, please.”

“Black, green, white, red …”

Why so complicated? He should have asked for coffee — or not asked for anything at all … Allex already regretted that he had not gotten down to business right away. He was probably so tired that he had lost his vigilance — and had fallen for that unfortunate tea.

“Black one. Without lemon, without bergamot, without sugar, without anything, but with hot water … Thank you.”

Miss Gustavsson smiled a little wider, condescendingly and understandingly. Allex sighed.

They were still standing in the middle of the spacious living room, with its armchairs with intricately curved legs, its marble fireplace surround, and the cozy attributes that made up a cleaning service’s nightmare on a regular basis.

“Please sit down,” the young woman pointed towards the couch, the pouf, and the coffee table, “I’ll bring some tea.”

Idiot, Allex scolded himself mentally, looking around, sitting on the silk seat for imperial persons, when Miss Gustavsson disappeared into the wide opening of the arch, obviously in the direction of the kitchen, it would be better refuse everything and start working! Now she will only brew tea for half an hour, with ceremony and pauses!

However, the golden-haired artiste, contrary to Allex’s expectations, appeared soon, with a snow-white porcelain set on a silver tray.

“Do you mind if I start?”

“No, of course not, do ask,” the interlocutor responded calmly.

Slender-fingered hands were setting out cups and saucers, the guest was watching. Miss Gustavsson was sitting on the pouf straight and even, as if at attention, perfectly fitting into the setting, like another outlandish thing; Allex could not find a comfortable position, crossed his feet, then bent his leg, the second one at the knee began to twitch spontaneously, betraying his restless nature.

They were like order and chaos, in one room, united by one task — for Allex’s luck, not for long.

“Some of Dr. Gasztold’s records were stolen from his office,” Agent Serret said, “with personal information about his patients. I can’t give you all the details, but the important thing is that the contents of these records, the reasons for the incident, or the identity of the thief may be connected to the investigation of another, very serious crime.”

“What is it?”

Miss Gustavsson held the lid of the teapot, lifting the spout gracefully over the cup, the stream flowing and ringing, bubbling into a growing puddle at the bottom of the bowl. Her eyelashes fluttered, and her gray-blue eyes stared at Allex without looking away.

The knee stopped twitching, Agent Serret smiled conspiratorially, leaned slightly towards the table, examining the pale, textured face.

“Have you heard of the Heartthrob?”

Everyone has heard of him … Those who read newspapers, watch the news, listen to tattle — but Allex, in order not to go crazy from fatigue and boredom, for the first time all day caught the long-awaited chance to relieve tension and fool around.

Miss Gustavsson feigned innocence, blinking her beautiful eyes — but she asked not out of naivety or even idle curiosity … It was an invitation to dialogue.

“Yes,” she replied, her golden head tilting slightly to one side, and Miss Gustavsson returned the teapot to its place.

“So you understand how serious this is,” Allex said. “Four victims found, how many more could there be …”

Wilhelmina Gustavsson took the cup in her hands, the guest repeated after her. Afterwards, Allex asked her the usual questions — what she had been doing on the day of the theft, what in her confidential conversations, recorded by Dr. Gasztold, could be connected with cannibalism, misogyny, ritual sacrifices, people who had spoken or acted suspiciously or strangely …

Allex didn’t notice how time flew by, how the tea ran out, how the questions ran out. Miss Gustavsson looked at him openly, answered calmly, smiled at his jokes — at both of them — and at the end of the conversation asked how many of the psychiatrist’s notes had fallen into the wrong hands.

Agent Serret did not give an exact number, but explained that a small amount confirms the investigation’s assumption that the notebooks chosen were not random — in Dr. Gasztold’s office there are data from several dozen of his patients, past and present, over many years of work. Of course, like every doctor, he encrypts his notes … But the intruder probably knew about it.

Allex put the cup on the table, his stomach howled with the drawn-out cry of a hungry dog, the howl was clearly audible in the pause that hung between the lines.

“I have to go,” the young man said, his eyes wide and smiling, not hiding the incident. “Thank you for your help, Miss Gustavsson.”

He took the clipboard under his arm and rose from the couch, the young woman followed suit.

When Allex came out onto the stoop, having already said goodbye and given her a business card — in case Wilhelmina Gustavsson remembered anything — she called out to him from the door.

“Agent Serret!”

Allex turned around, raised his leg over the step, and the evening wind ruffled his shock of chestnut hair in a cold gust.

“It may be a strange question, but … why do people kill, deliberately commit murder — in situations when there is another choice?”

Agent Serret’s foot returned to the stoop, his young face with a scattering of freckles took on at first a surprised, then a thoughtful and even a little sad expression.

Allex answered honestly.

“For some, murder is the only way to feel control — over a situation, over a person, over anything. The reason is always despair. And broken logic — when in the picture of the world, it is considered completely normal to rip out a person’s heart and eat it.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Allex nodded, watching as the door slowly closed and the golden-haired head disappeared into the dollhouse.

He ran down the stairs easily, the wind was getting under his open jacket, his stomach was still growling and demanding dinner, but for some reason his soul was calm and even joyful.

Among the empty-headed rich, there are some who are not hopeless … Miss Gustavsson turned out to be a reward for a hard day of stupid interviews, sidelong glances, and pointless running around to the addresses of Dr. Gasztold’s clients.

It was a pity that they would hardly see each other again. With her, it was … Allex tried to find the right word in his internal monologue. Nice …

He understood perfectly well, he had only watched a beautiful picture — like on TV — with perfectly smooth faces, ironed blouses and shirts to match their eyes, delicious tea, and casual conversation. It was time to get back to prosaic reality — where there was poverty, pain, ugliness, death, and murder.

Allex was glad that not everyone needed to know how crazy the world could be in destroying itself. He loved his job — and accepted its various aspects, from tedious communication with witnesses to operational detention, with shootouts and batch.

2. Swallows Without Chewing

[United States, Quantico, FBI Academy]

“He does it with his bare hands,” Allex said, his mouth full, pointing to the pictures on the board. “He opens the chest with a hunting knife, removing the sternum, without using any special tools — not like a surgeon, but like a pathologist.”

“Like a self-taught man,” Will nodded. “He separates cartilage and muscle to get to the insides, casually, without caring about aesthetics.”

There was indeed little aesthetics in the works of the Heartthrob. The murder and desecration of the body were rather a chaotic act, impatient and crude, haphazardly.

“He is neither a doctor nor a butcher …”

Crumbs fell to the floor, Allex greedily bit into the sandwich, rustling the paper, squinted, looking at the photo, leaned a little closer.

“He got hold of a manual on autopsies and just took what he needed without going into detail,” Will continued. “He has a hard time learning, even reading.”

“Delay in development?”

Special Agent Will Gatti thought for a moment, pursed his lips.

“More like attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.”

Allex hemmed and started chewing again. He didn’t say that his restlessness, his inability to sit still, typical ADHD, were perceived as mental retardation or educational neglect …

“Serret, every time I see you, you’re always guttling!” came from behind them.

“I’m always hungry,” Serret shrugged without turning around. “Can’t help it.”

Beverly Cruz, a forensic scientist in the Criminal Investigative Division, had meanwhile approached, her heels clicking lightly on the shiny lab floor. She stood between Will and Allex, crossed her arms, and glanced at the images on the board.

“Get checked for helminths,” she smirked, turning to the young man.

Allex shoved the rest of the sandwich into his mouth, crumpling the paper with deliberate noise.

“I can at least give you a sample for analysis right now,” he mumbled with his mouth full.

“No, thank you, I have a lot of work to do, without your feces.”

Will was silent, not even noticing their mutual jibes, he was immersed in his thoughts, in the picture of the crime; in the first person he saw the mangled female corpses on the dining tables, he stood over them, resting his knees on either side of the hips of the dead bodies, with his hands stained up to the elbows in blood, his mouth full of slimy flesh, still warm and sweet.

If there was something in his stomach, it would want to come out. How could Serret impassively eat his lunch when he had those disgusting pictures in front of him? Will couldn’t eat at work, even when he was outside the lab or office, he couldn’t get a bite down.

He literally felt the slippery, elastic heart muscle sliding down the esophagus, not completely chewed, in a hurry, in greedy ecstasy, in affect.

“He swallows without chewing,” Will muttered, as if under his breath.

“He probably has problems with his stool. Like Serret,” Cruz agreed.

“My stool is fine,” Allex grimaced. “Even if I eat nails …”

“He has an oral fixation. He doesn’t eat to eat, he eats to swallow,” Special Agent Gatti said, ignoring them. “He’s thrilled by the sensation in his mouth.”

“How lovely.”

“He might have an eating disorder,” Allex suggested, throwing a sandwich wrapper into the basket. “Bulimia, compulsive overeating … In advanced stages, it’s easy to spot by appearance.”

“I’ll check with Dr. Gasztold,” Will nodded. “Whoever got into his office could have been his patient, an acquaintance …”

All four of the Heartthrob’s victims were clients or family members of clients of Lukas Gasztold, a psychiatrist who had assisted the FBI in several other cases. This fact only came to light when Gasztold told Will about the theft of the casebooks, two days after the last body was found. They all lived in the same area of Baltimore, an upper-class neighborhood, and were all young, attractive women with husbands and children.

All of them, first being strangled, had their chests brutally cut open, their hearts torn out, and their lifeless bodies laid on a table in the dining room. The killer did not rape them or perform any sexual acts on the bodies before or after death — at least no traces of semen or other evidence of manipulation were found.

The Heartthrob left no evidence. He would catch up with women at home when they returned alone, play with them a little, letting them break free and run around the apartment in panic, knocking over antique furniture, breaking vases and other curious decorative items. He was physically strong, bigger than them, he knew his superiority and advantage.

He tinkered in the bodies with his bare hands, but killed with gloves. He didn’t want to touch them while they were alive …

Allex stayed in the lab for a long time, sitting on a chair, staring off into space with an unseeing gaze. Just recently, the young man imagined that, having returned to the criminal-investigative group under the leadership of the head of the Behavioral Science Unit, Jack Howard, he would pursue the case of the Maryland Ripper, an elusive serial killer, who, according to the FBI, extracted organs from his victims for cooking … The new butcher was no better, but, fortunately for the investigators, an amateur — the Heartthrob was still learning, he was gradually gaining strength. They would have a chance to catch him — the main thing was to pay attention to detail.

Agent Serret graduated from the FBI Academy in Quantico a year and a half ago, but distinguished himself not by his high score, but by his unique ability to stick his nose into things that weren’t his business, get into trouble, and contradict his teachers. Even during his internship, he managed to stir up an anthill, raise a long-closed case from the archives, prove inconsistencies in the investigation results, and force Howard, who was responsible for this, to take action.

At first, Howard couldn’t believe how an intern, a short guy with a permanently shaggy head, freckles on his pointed nose, actively gesticulating, a real pain in the ass, dared to dispute the expertise of professionals … But he soon became convinced: Serret was right.

He was not publicly thanked or praised, but simply told that his information had been noted and confirmed.

When Allex received his badge and FBI credentials, Howard called him to join the Criminal Investigative Division. Serret was a good profiler, he used his boundless energy for good, he was ready to work without rest, enthusiastically and passionately. He was attentive, as attentive as someone who processes information at the speed of light can be, but at the same time he risks losing the context. Serret was stubborn as a mule, sometimes naive as a child, he could not be intimidated by punishment or words … He was like a tank, he did not know what diplomacy was, but his toothy smile and natural charm gave him a privilege, he could please anyone if he wanted, even with his stupid jokes and pantomimes.

After yet another conflict in a couple of months, Agent Allex Serret was transferred to the Critical Incident Response Group, where his hyperactivity and bullheadedness have found application. He went on raids and detentions, helped negotiate with criminals, got into the thick of things — conflicts and adrenaline were his comfortable environment.

After recent events, Howard reconsidered his attitude towards Serret — he needed a fresh look and help, he didn’t mind Allex being dubbed the FBI clown, the Clown Knight … The head of the Behavioral Science Unit did not miscalculate — with the appearance of Serret, William Gatti found a fellow traveler.

The sullen autistic Gatti, formerly a teacher at the FBI Academy, currently holding the position of a special agent, not going for social interaction, but giving stunning results of profiling, amazingly formed a tandem with the young, noisy and constantly grimacing Serret … They were so different that they complemented each other. They thought differently — and in different ways simultaneously came to the same conclusion.

They were both stubborn and unyielding, they dug their teeth into the work that Jack Howard assigned them. They were both initially met with hostility by the team …

A week ago, when the entire team, including the chief, three forensic experts and Gatti, quickly left for the crime scene, Howard took Serret with him. He expected his men to be confused, but not so much …

“Jack!” Cruz called out, raising her head from the table with the bloody mess spread out on it. “What are the red-haired clowns doing here? We have enough of our own.”

Standing a little way off, holding a pair of deer antlers on a holder to the top of his head, was Serret, engrossed in his examination of something on a high shelf. Jimmy Ross and Brian Bailey, who were carefully studying the floor and the surrounding area, stared at the young man in bewilderment. Will Gatti was oblivious to his surroundings, not even turning in the direction Beverly Cruz was pointing.

The woman held her gloved hand outstretched until Howard reacted. He forgot about the newbie …

“Serret!” he barked. “Put it back!”

Serret shuddered, his young face mugged, his dark eyes flashed. He reluctantly put the antlers on the rack, walked around the obstacle, openly meeting the dissatisfied faces of his colleagues.

“From today on, Agent Allex Serret is a member of our team, no objections will be accepted, you should leave your reservations once and for all, we are working for the common good. Is that clear to everyone?”

Cruz pursed her lips but gave a short, reserved nod, and Bailey and Ross followed suit.

“You know Cruz, Ross, and Bailey, I won’t introduce them. Special Agent William Gatti—”

Jack Howard sighed, he had a premonition of a headache, for a moment he doubted whether he could cope with an autistic person and a court fool …

“Special Agent William Gatti!” the chief called out loudly and sternly.

Ross blinked in surprise, the notebook and pen creaking in his clenched fingers.

Will woke up, looked around the room, and stopped his gaze on Howard.

“Agent Allex Serret is working with us, fill him in on the details as soon as possible.” And then, turning to the young man, making sure Gatti could hear him, he added, “Stay close to Will and follow his logic.”

“Yes, sir,” Allex responded, half-jokingly, half-seriously, rising and falling on his toes, putting his hands behind his back.

“And don’t touch anything!” Cruz hissed at him.

Allex raised his hands to chest level in a gesture of innocence, grimaced, and widened his eyes.

He didn’t want to argue. He was already watching William Gatti, catching every look of his mobile facial expressions, every step. Professor Gatti, a lecturer on ‘evil minds’ and the psychology of serial killers, had the same ambiguous reputation as Allex …

Allex remembered him from his classes; he was truly extraordinary, incredibly smart, but extremely closed, and the students dubbed Gatti — in addition to his feline surname, which translated from Italian meant ‘cats’ — the Sullen Dog: for his sullen appearance, conveying the ideology of a loner in every detail.

Professor Gatti was a high-functioning autistic, and his unique, phenomenal ability to see through the eyes of a criminal — called the method of active imagination — amazed everyone: both those who treated his talent with distrust, and those who intended to use the skill for their own purposes, in the interests of the investigation — like Jack Howard.

Allex was a beastie, too, unique but useful. Allex believed in the expertise and professionalism of everyone in the dining room that had become the scene of the Heartthrob’s crime. Bailey’s camera flash whistled and recharged, Ross’s pen rustled across the page of his notebook, Cruz gave directions, frowned, stepped over bloody splatters on the floor.

Will Gatti didn’t notice Allex until Allex stood behind him, close enough to see the picture from the right angle, and voiced his thoughts out loud.

“He serves them on the table … To whom?”

“To himself,” Will replied after a pause. “He looks at them himself.”

“Is he an aesthete? You can eat on the floor if you are very hungry.”

Professor Gatti glanced sideways at the young man, turned slightly.

“You can,” he agreed. “But he wants it on the table. The way it was done in his family.”

“But he’s not expecting his family for dinner, is he?”

Will squinted, trying to figure out if Allex was kidding or being serious.

“He is …” he concluded with a sigh. “But not a family.”

3. Best Employee

[United States, Baltimore, Reservoir Hill]

“What are you fiddling about with? There are still ten boxes in the back!”

The rustling and crackling of cardboard from the blade of a stationery knife, the hubbub of customers’ voices, the cry of howling children, the beeping of the barcode scanner at the checkout … Everything is as usual. Most commonly, he is simply not noticed, no longer rushed, because he does everything as it should be, has mastered the speed, time, rhythm, place, the routine has become a canvas into which anything can be written — or left a silent void.

Dylan didn’t even turn his head when the senior store assistant — the dark-skinned, corpulent Miriam — called out to him. Sometimes he pretended to be deaf, sometimes mute, and sometimes deaf-mute … Sometimes he put headphones in his ears — but without music, for show — so that no one would distract him for no reason. He pulled his baseball cap almost to the bridge of his nose, his gray eyes-icicles only occasionally scratched the visitors of the sales area: he did not turn around, stood facing the shelving, with his back to the outside world.

The Italian pasta packages were gone, the packs lay in neat rows — but not for long … Soon some degenerate customers would start mindlessly sorting through them, put the goods he had taken in the wrong place, and Dylan would get a reprimand.

The only job worse was that of the cleaning lady, who never stopped washing the shiny tile floors — from dust, water or snow, from scattered cornflakes or a broken bottle of ketchup. Some of the ketchup looked like bloodstains, but only some …

Dylan Vermillion was on the board of the store’s best employees, but he was the only one without a photo — just his name and job title. He didn’t like to have his photo taken, and management didn’t insist … It would be strange to think that this board was of any use to anyone other than the employees. Customers paid no attention to the board, or the employees, or the price tags, they carelessly made a mess of the sales area, dropped blocks of toilet paper, packs of cookies, and rust remover for plumbing on the floor … Dylan cleaned up after them.

A doll with swollen lips was pushing a cart full of groceries, with brightly colored packs of gummy bears and a green leek tail sticking out to the side, typing a text message on her smartphone, not looking at her feet. Dylan was counting down the seconds until she collided with a random obstacle, his broad back in a work jacket motionless, only his arms making mechanical, monotonous movements.

He had been learning this motionlessness for a long time, perhaps even overdone it — and from the outside his muscular figure looked like a statue frozen in a catatonic stupor.

From the opposite end of the shelving, following a dull thud, a scream was heard, then the rustle of falling bags of chips, an avalanche-like sound, interrupted by slaps and crashes from futile attempts to hold back the waterfall of goods.

“Sorry!” two voices exclaimed simultaneously: a male, young, hoarse one, and a female, swishy, stretching out the vowels.

They laughed, rustled, and apparently began to pick up food off the floor. After half a minute of chaotic efforts, the girl, giggling, walked on, occasionally casting interested glances at the guy who remained in place; the guy went in the opposite direction.

As soon as his silhouette appeared in the aisle where Dylan was laying out the juice boxes, a suspicious rustling sound came from the previous scene of the food disaster. The guy in the green jacket turned around, put his palms out as if conjuring the shelving not to collapse, watching with wide eyes as everything fell to the floor again.

“No, no, no … Please, no!” he begged. “Holy shit!”

He covered his mouth with his hands, his pale face turned red, and an absurd squeak escaped from his chest.

He looked around, meeting Dylan’s silent gaze, his eyebrows raised.

“I’m sorry!” he blurted, removing his hands from his face. “I tried!”

Dylan, who wanted to call him a clumsy idiot at first, huffed angrily, left the layout and boxes, turning in the direction of the young man. A menacing six-foot figure headed towards the heap of fallen packs, the culprit stood motionless, without fear, but with a guilty look.

He seems to be the only one in the entire history of Dylan’s work in this store who apologized for the mayhem. He seems to be the only one who even looked Dylan in the eye, addressed him — and not the faceless guy in a work jacket and baseball cap who stands in the aisle and prevents him from passing.

“I’ll clean everything up now, just tell me how to stack them so that they don’t fall over again.”

Disheveled chestnut hair lay in messy curls, the jacket was sticking out, the boots had battered toes, a clipboard was tucked under the arm … Dark eyes looked openly and directly.

“In the back rows — everything of the correct shape, in dense packaging; in the front — airy and light. What goes where and on which shelf — is written on the price tags.”

Dylan himself did not recognize his own voice, firm, strict, calm. The guy nodded, his white-toothed mouth smiled.

“I got it,” he said. “Thank you.”

As he bent down and began picking up cardboard boxes and round tubes from the floor, reading the labels, Dylan joined him.

In fact, he didn’t drop the damn chips, that stupid cow with the cart did … He could have run away, blamed it on her, just pretended he had nothing to do with it. He could have — but he didn’t.

He probably had nothing better to do on a late weekday evening, and it was probably his first time here, and he wouldn’t be back — he didn’t look like the son of a rich daddy living in an upscale apartment. He was a delivery guy or a volunteer, too young and too casually dressed to be here for anything other than work.

Dylan didn’t immediately notice the holster under the jacket rolled up on the narrow waist when the guy crouched down, and he didn’t show any surprise. So his boots were like that because he often used them to kick down doors or the spirit out of a criminal’s head. The guy was a policeman … So that’s where the white knight complex came from!

They finished quickly, successfully managing with four hands. Dylan was silent, the shaggy head turned in his direction only a couple of times, but also did not say a word.

Well, of course he’s looking at his scar! Or maybe he’s not looking … The guy was looking into his eyes, his lips were smiling, there were dimples on his cheeks, covered with barely noticeable reddish stubble.

No, he’s not looking …

“Thank you, Dylan! Sorry again,” the knight-policeman said in a friendly, casual tone, extending his hand for a handshake.

Dylan Vermillion blinked. It took him a moment to realize how he knew his name, that it was written on a badge, it was so simple …

His hand was in a fabric glove, he hesitated, thoughtfully, but still took it off. The guy’s palm was strong and warm, powerful, not corresponding to his frail constitution.

He was half a head shorter, though well-built. Appearances can be deceiving …

“It’s alright. Thank you,” Dylan responded.

The guy took a step to the side, and the tall figure of the store assistant backed away, letting him pass further.

“I’m already afraid to move and touch anything,” he chuckled.

“Beware of women with carts,” Dylan chuckled, his expression blank.

The young man made a funny face, winked, walked down the row of stands, and at the turn raised his hands up in mock horror, making way for an absent-minded customer talking on a headset.

Allex bought himself a sandwich that evening at the grocery store near Wilhelmina Gustavsson’s home, which cost half his salary, and it was not nearly as tasty as the one from the cafeteria at work. He spilled hot coffee on his jeans while hailing a taxi, trying to chew, sip from a paper cup, not drop his clipboard, and wave at the same time.

A truly weird day! As soon as he returned to his dorm room at the Academy, two hours away from Baltimore, he fell onto his bed and did not even undress, only with difficulty pulling off his shoes, throwing them in a random direction.

He instantly fell into a dreamless sleep.

4. Undercover

[United States, Baltimore, Reservoir Hill]

The tables were bursting with exquisite dishes, pyramids of coupe glasses with sparkling wine shimmered in the subdued light, glare danced on the earrings, necklaces, brooches and rings of the ladies, on the cufflinks and in the eyes, glittering with gaiety, of the gentlemen. The voices did not stop, enthusiastic aspirated exclamations and feigned restrained laughter were an inherent soundtrack of the dinner party of Dr. Gasztold, a background leitmotif of a vanity fair, where almost the entire bon ton of Baltimore had gathered.

Lukas Gasztold was not only a successful psychiatrist, a dandy in a three-piece suit, with a texture of fabric perfectly matched to the pattern of his tie and pocket square, but also an incomparable cook: every dish at the party, without exception, was prepared by him himself. Each guest considered it necessary to thank him personally, he smiled at each one with his thin lips, his mask-face remained motionless, his dark eyes looked into the very soul like an X-ray.

“Dr. Gasztold!” Phoebus de Lavender emerged from the crowd, raised his glass of wine, golden as his hair, expressing respect to the host of the evening, “Admit it, you have captured the demon with a magic spell, and he is working for you in the kitchen.”

“You got me.”

Last year, de Lavender had been named the county’s youngest benefactor; Joseph Meyerhoff Symphony Hall and the Lyric Baltimore were fed by his money, the Baltimore Museum of Art and the Walters Art Museum were vying for his sponsorship. He was as handsome, smart, and suave as a flawless Forbes cover. He sipped wine with a perfect hand and a perfect manicure, and smiled with perfect lips on a perfectly shaven face.

“And how do you find it?”

Lukas Gasztold pointed with his gaze at the glass in his interlocutor’s hand, de Lavender smirked.

“Non-alcoholic is terrible, a real punishment for prudes, Dr. Gasztold,” admitted de Lavender. “Tasteless.”

He especially emphasized the last word, he said it almost in a whisper.

“Such is the sacrifice for the sake of beauty,” Dr. Gasztold responded meaningfully, satisfied with the result of the punishment for those who chose the fake wine. “Do you want to live forever?”

“I want to live long.”

“I understand, fatherhood comes with a certain amount of responsibility.”

Gasztold’s gaze slid from the benefactor’s face to the right, de Lavender’s protégé, Wilhelmina Gustavsson, approached them a moment later, and both men turned simultaneously.

“Dr. Gasztold, hello,” she nodded. “A wonderful party, I am very grateful for the invitation.”

Wilhelmina didn’t want to go until the very end, but Phoebus insisted. Every time it was the same: empty masks and talk, news, gossip, dust in the eyes … She was a golden-haired doll in a cardboard box, with a transparent front side, attached with clamps to the back wall, and they cut her wrists and ankles painfully, but she had to endure it and not grumble — for it was a sin for her to complain about her fate.

A couple of weeks ago, she signed a contract with a major label, in a month and a half she will be performing solo with a chamber orchestra at the local philharmonic, announcements have already been ordered from top agencies, and her number of listeners on streaming services is constantly growing — because the new music video has made a splash. She is wearing a dress worth as much as a car, and on her tongue are the most delicious snacks and the best world wines.

She lied to Phoebus that she also drank non-alcoholic wine — out of solidarity … Wilhelmina never got drunk, any cold-blooded psychopath could envy her self-control and distancing from the body, any geisha could envy her ability to please.

“We were just talking about the price of eternal life and youth,” said de Lavender, his green eyes looking at the girl. “I want to see the day when Wilhelmina is on the Broadway stage, when she’s about fifty years old!”

“Miss Gustavsson will be on the Broadway stage much earlier,” Gasztold smiled with just his lips.

“Of course,” de Lavender’s hand fell on his protégé’s back, between her shoulder blades, and lingered for a few seconds. “When she’s fifty, she’ll go there as if it were her own home.”

Phoebus didn’t care what Wilhelmina thought about it — but for her, Broadway seemed too commercialized, too mass, even if it was large-scale and loud. Wilhelmina liked classical productions, opera and theater, more than modern musicals — she would have worked with great pleasure in the Paris Opera or La Scala, though she had completely lost the habit of academic vocals, her performance in a pop style was more in demand.

A little later the host of the evening left them to make another tour of the room, de Lavender was carried away by conversation and disappeared from view, and Wilhelmina Gustavsson was on her own. The dishes were truly superb, Dr. Gasztold knew perfectly well what he was doing … The glass of wine was the second, the gaze of the gray-blue eyes slid absently around the space until it caught on a vaguely familiar image, as if from a forgotten dream — a chestnut head and a thin, lean silhouette.

Wilhelmina blinked, raised her glass to her nose, but did not take a sip. Through the crowd of guests on the opposite side of Dr. Gasztold’s living room, she could see Agent Serret — or rather, the back of his head, his back in a white shirt and suspenders, his narrow waist, his firm ass in tight black pants. In his hands was a tray of glasses, on his face was a toothy smile.

Wilhelmina blinked again.

As Serret turned around to allow a passing couple to take their drinks, Miss Gustavsson had already changed her position, leaving her half-finished drink on the refreshment table, moving smoothly along the wall of dark-framed paintings, the wing of a grand piano lid, violinists, a viola player, and a cellist performing Beethoven’s String Quartet No. 3.

Faces changed one another like in a kaleidoscope, through the hubbub of voices and music it was impossible to discern anything unless one got very close. The waiter’s lot was unenviable — he had to constantly move around the halls … A thin-fingered hand in sparkling bracelets reached for the tray and took the glass, Allex nodded automatically and smiled, his gaze met the gaze of a golden-haired young woman.

Agent Serret’s smile grew broader, his dark eyes widened in surprise. The same artiste, Dr. Gasztold’s patient, recognized him too — and looked at him attentively and directly.

For some reason, Allex got excited, his bow tie constricting his throat.

“Good evening!” he said.

“Good evening,” Miss Gustavsson responded and fluttered her long eyelashes.

Agent Serret’s hair was neatly combed, wavy locks slightly shiny from styling product, falling on a high forehead, his face with a scattering of freckles was clean-shaven, on the left cheek closer to the ear there was a barely noticeable stripe from a fresh cut. Without the shapeless jacket and baggy jeans he looked different, only his bold look and former restlessness gave him away.

“I thought, with your profession, there was no free time for part-time work in catering,” Wilhelmina said.

She understood everything perfectly well — Agent Serret was undercover here. It was unlikely that anyone would recognize him in the guise of a well-groomed waiter … This time the shoes were different, black, shining from wax and brush.

“I can combine both,” the young man smiled. “But I won’t get paid for today’s shift.”

Miss Gustavsson took a sip, stepped aside as guests floated past, but made no move to leave. Allex scanned the crowd, but then returned his gaze to the artiste, who only occasionally glanced at him, standing half-turned.

They were both spies: Serret in the guise of service personnel, and Wilhelmina in her uncharacteristic curiosity and desire to hide it. Phoebus was extremely jealous of any informal communication of hers, even the exchange of remarks at a party; in public he remained polite and courteous, but at home he expressed complaints.

When de Lavender learned that Wilhelmina had been talking to an FBI agent in his absence, he literally lost his temper.

‘Next time, consult me first, my dear Wilhelmina,’ Phoebus pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘You know that every word that comes out of that wonderful mouth of yours can be used against you …’

He meant ‘against us.’ Phoebus always thought only of himself.

How to remain an attractive attribute of a narcissist, a luxury item that he brags about to everyone, and at the same time not to arouse anger and suspicion? Wilhelmina took advantage of Phoebus’s absence during business trips, felt comfortable and free at work without supervision, learned all the ways to fulfill the obligations required of her, and at the same time save time for something personal.

There wasn’t much time … But still there was. The therapy was finally bearing fruit — and Wilhelmina was becoming bolder and more confident.

“Any news on the case of the terrible villain?”

No, she definitely doesn’t want to leave … Allex smiled, dimples appeared on his cheeks, he nodded to the next guest, there were only a few glasses left on the tray.

“Unfortunately,” he shook his head with a theatrical sigh, “I can’t tell you that.”

“I see,” Miss Gustavsson replied.

“But I can tell you something else,” Agent Serret suddenly recollected. “For example,” his lips formed a smile again, and he shook his hair, “about what’s in your glass.”

Wilhelmina knew what was in her glass — she was drinking an Alsatian Riesling — but her natural curiosity got the better of her. She emptied the glass in front of Serret, twirling it around by the stem like a conductor with a baton.

“Yes, please.”

Phoebus was not around, so far as it was possible to continue … Wilhelmina took another glass, but did not drink it. It seemed that she was looking at her interlocutor too much, too openly, she could not help but notice the clear lines of the cheekbones, the outline of the auricle, the soft chestnut curls, bending in elastic half-rings at the neck.

“It’s a Riesling from Alsace, a German style from a French Grand Cru vineyard,” Allex was saying, while Miss Gustavsson was looking at him intently over the top of her glass, her gray-blue eyes unblinking, like an alien cat’s. “It’s funny that the producer doesn’t acknowledge the vineyard classification and doesn’t even put that honorable fact on the label …”

Wilhelmina didn’t smell the wine, but the perfume of the cheap shower gel Agent Serret was using. The deodorant was unscented, as it had been the last time they met, and what she had first taken for styling product was simply the water he had used to wet his hair, causing it to curl into waves.

“Is knowledge about wine also essential for an agent?”

Miss Gustavsson narrowed her eyes slightly and smiled slyly. Allex shrugged his shoulders, the tray tilted, he immediately caught himself and deftly straightened it out, charmingly feigning surprise and fear.

“No, it’s not. I just worked as a bartender while I was studying at the Academy, I had to know.”

So that’s why unscented deodorant — it’s a habit! In bars and restaurants, waiters and other staff are not allowed to use perfume or other strongly scented products.

Wilhelmina nodded. Agent Serret was not so simple! While she was trying to think of something else to ask to fill the silence, de Lavender’s silhouette flashed on the horizon.

“I won’t disturb you any longer, Agent Serret,” Miss Gustavsson said, stepping back, skirting the young man’s periphery. “It was a pleasure talking to you. Goodbye.”

“For me too,” Allex responded, “I was happy to, goodbye, Miss Gustavsson.”

The golden-haired artiste, like a mysterious siren, soon disappeared into the crowd, Agent Serret exhaled, blowing the hair off his forehead, frozen in thought for a few seconds.

When he went to the kitchen for a new batch of glasses, he saw Miss Gustavsson in the company of a golden-haired man, very similar in appearance to her, only with more regular features. A proud posture, a downwards glance, an ironic but cold smile on his lips …

The man’s hand slid across Miss Gustavsson’s shoulder blades in an elusive movement — in the deep neckline of her dress — and if Allex had not been staring at them at that moment, even he would not have noticed what this touch meant. Miss Gustavsson looks up at him, blinks, smiles timidly …

For some reason, Allex thought that Phoebus de Lavender, her stepfather, was much older — this dandy was at most thirty-five.

Or maybe he’s not her stepfather, but her guardian, her patron … Who can figure them out, these bon ton eccentrics, and what’s on their minds? It turns out that her conversation with Allex was just entertainment, out of boredom; fed up with empty chatter with the guests, she decided to chat with an FBI agent dressed as a waiter.

What did he expect? Everyone was looking through him, he was just a doll in a white shirt with a black bow tie, in tight pants. In the suit that Will had brought him the day before, it was incredibly stuffy and unusual, he felt like a guy from a boy band.

The idea of sending Serret into Dr. Gasztold’s party was Howard’s … For clown — masquerades, Allex didn’t mind. He was ready to bet, Dr. Gasztold was also aware of what was happening, Gatti consulted with him about the details of the investigation, and only once did Agent Serret communicate with him personally.

The impression was mixed, Lukas Gasztold gave him goosebumps, and if he were an animal, his fur would stand on end. The psychiatrist was smart, tactful, witty — in his odd jokes that were funny only to him — but as if empty inside.

Allex was too familiar with these associations, too unpleasant … But he did not say anything to Will Gatti or anyone else. His relationship with his father was his personal business, to use it as an argument for his suspicions about Dr. Gasztold’s insincerity would be absurd.

Dr. Gasztold, for instance, looked at Gatti with warmth — this is not typical of narcissists. Will, as always, closed off from any external stimuli, seemed not to notice the gaze of dark eyes, the velvet soft timbre, the slightly bowed head, the receiver tuned only to him … Dr. Gasztold is not a narcissist or a psychopath, not a serial killer — he simply has a mind of his own, like all gifted and talented people … It is just that Allex begins to see monsters and demons everywhere, devouring representatives of the human race, he is simply tired.

Could the Heartthrob be, say, de Lavender? And could Miss Gustavsson be a potential victim?

De Lavender is too slight in appearance, he does not fit the profile of an athletic killer … And Miss Gustavsson, although a socialite, stands out from the entire dinner party crowd. She is too … alive for these walking dead in silk suits, masks of social makeup on their faces, diamonds, and pompous speeches.

Or does Allex just believe so … What is Miss Gustavsson doing here then, if she is not like them?

No, he definitely needs to rest — but most likely, it will not be possible anytime soon.

5. Feed a Friend

[United States, Baltimore, Reservoir Hill]

At nine in the morning, Will Gatti rang the doorbell of Dr. Gasztold’s house, the loud, resonant bell echoing in the hall on the other side of the door. Will shivered from the frosty air, covering his nose with the collar of his jacket, yawned widely, a cloud of steam escaping from his open mouth.

Lukas Gasztold, opening the door, found Special Agent Gatti standing on the threshold with a distorted face, with the mouth of a shaggy dog open wide.

“Hello, Will.”

“Good morning, Dr. Gasztold,” Will responded after a pause for mouth to close and a brief moment of eye contact.

“Please, come in.”

Will Gatti had visited Dr. Gasztold only a few times, most often in the office at work, at crime scenes, in the psychiatrist’s office two blocks away, or Gasztold had visited Will in the suburbs of Vienna. Gasztold’s home was a contradictory place — tempting with sophistication and a certain excess, but oppressive with gloom, lofty motives, despite the spiritual images, stifled with an unbearable weight.

Will preferred subdued colors, minimalism in details, so that nothing would distract or catch the eye, but in the home of Dr. Gasztold, things, one more bizarre than the other, constantly drew his attention, he felt uneasy.

“I just made breakfast,” Dr. Gasztold pointed toward the kitchen, from where the enticing smells of fresh bread, meat, and spices were coming. “It’s already waiting for you.”

Will nodded. He hadn’t had time to eat before leaving, had barely slept, had spent the whole night thinking about the Heartthrob case. The journey had taken more than two hours, he didn’t mind refueling — fortunately, Dr. Gasztold always spoiled him with something tasty …

When Special Agent Gatti saw Serret tucking into a scrambled egg at the dinner table, he was taken aback.

“Hi, Will!” he exclaimed with his mouth full. “You’re just in time!”

Dr. Gasztold was amused by Will’s reaction, he smiled with thin lips, pointed to the laid table and the empty seat for the guest.

“I suggested that Allex stays the night after yesterday’s event, his resilience is something to be envied,” Lukas Gasztold explained.

“That’s very kind of you, Dr. Gasztold,” Serret responded, taking a bite of the baguette. “I don’t even know what I would do without you — and without your care!”

He was not lying, he was truly grateful. After the dinner party, when Allex had already changed into his usual clothes and was heading for the exit, and the service personnel had been sent home, Dr. Gasztold called out to him.

“It is truly a crazy night, Agent Serret,” he said.

“I can’t believe it’s over,” Allex replied.

“Are you hungry? I haven’t seen you take a break while you were working.”

Allex tried to understand Gasztold’s intentions, but so far he found no reason to worry. He likes to feed people … There was nothing reprehensible about it.

“I tried a few appetizers, couldn’t resist,” the young man shrugged. “It’s quite the thing, I’ve never eaten anything like it in my life … But if you’re offering me dinner, I’m out,” he added. “It’s a long way to Quantico, I’ll turn into a zombie tomorrow if I don’t get at least a couple of hours of sleep.”

Dr. Gasztold’s dark eyes stared at him without looking away, and Allex felt naked for a moment … Will Gatti had a reason for ignoring this kind of attention.

“You can stay here for the night, Will will come in the morning, you can discuss everything you need with him without wasting time on the road.”

Allex had no objections.

“That changes things,” he nodded. “Thank you!”

Allex unashamedly ate the treats, sitting at the end of the long dining table in the empty hall, Dr. Gasztold cleared the dishes, bowing briefly to the recurrent enthusiastic exclamations of the young man, walked around the house, not embarrassing the guest with his presence. Then Allex went to sleep on the couch in the living room, with a full stomach, legs buzzing from fatigue, and an aching lower back.

In the morning, Dr. Gasztold fed him again. With his disheveled shock of chestnut hair, Allex resembled an animal that could only be tamed with affection and hot food, he responded to good treatment like the sensitive soundboard of a musical instrument … Agent Serret worked his jaws, the food disappeared from the plate with incredible speed, as if there was a bottomless abyss inside the young man.

Will ate with appetite, but more slowly. Allex did not bother him with conversation, waiting for the end of the meal, despite the unbearable desire to finally share his thoughts about the last evening; Dr. Gasztold was silent and watched them, barely perceptibly smiling at his thoughts.

The moment Agent Gatti placed the utensils on the plate, Allex asked, “Do I understand correctly that Dr. Gasztold is aware of all the details of the investigation, and we can discuss the Heartthrob case openly in front of him?”

“Yes,” Will replied into his mug.

“I spent the whole evening in the thick of things, but I didn’t see anyone among the guests who fit the portrait. There were narcissists, sadists, and even perverts — but there was no bulimic bodybuilder among them.”

He looked at Lukas Gasztold with an invitation to comment, the doctor tilted his head slightly to the side, as if he was considering whether to say what was on his mind.

“I am also inclined to believe that there was no Heartthrob among yesterday’s guests,” he responded. “At least according to the description that the investigation has.”

Will looked away and bit his lip.

“I can’t put one detail in place,” he began. “He kills out of hatred for women, wealthy and attractive; he is filled with a rage that can only be quelled by eating their entrails, he is tormented by an anxiety that only goes away from the feeling of being full; he is physically strong and revels in his power over his victim. He does not put on a show for those who will see the corpse, he sets the table for a meal, but does not wait for his family — who rejected him … He waits for a friend — and at the same time eats it himself.”

Allex narrowed his eyes.

“A friend?”

“Yes. The one who will come to dinner. As if there were two of them — one cooking, the other eating.”

“But the friend doesn’t come, and he starts without him?”

Will thought.

“No. I don’t quite get it. A friend comes and gobbles up the treat, greedily, rudely, impatiently opens the gift, tears the wrapper … And the one who cooked it is careful, calm, leaves no evidence.”

Dr. Gasztold spoke as Will and Allex looked at him.

“Dissociative identity disorder is a fairly rare disease,” he said. “More often, however, it is just a combination of psychological defenses, repression, partial amnesia, a state of exaltation. If two personalities live inside the killer, it will be more difficult to find him — he can hide under any guise, especially if the one who does the dirty work to please the other is aware of his actions and does not make mistakes.”

His hand is in the warm, damp cavity of the chest, blood flows between the fingers, tickles the skin, the heart seems to still be pulsating in the palms, the lips touch the smooth, slippery, salty, enticingly smelling flesh. The tongue feels the relief of small furrows, elastic muscle tissue, the teeth press, bite into it, feeling resistance, for a short moment the mouth is coated with saliva mixed with an unchewed piece of meat splashing with juice. It fills the throat, slips down, catches the breath, the ringing in the ears increases, scarlet streams flow down the chin and neck onto the chest, the stomach pulsates with a vague, phantom pain …

Will exhaled sharply, shook his head, his hands on either side of his plate, his back covered in sweat under his checked shirt and pullover, his legs twitching involuntarily under the table.

Another moment — and he would have become aroused, the blood would have flowed back to his face, the hair on his arms would have stood on end. There were two of them … in one.

“He’s feeding him,” Will said quietly, Allex staring at Agent Gatti in awe. “He wants to be friends with him.”

“Why would he be friends with someone who eats people?”

Serret was pretty much to the point … Indeed, why?

Will didn’t know the answer, that’s why he suffered all night before, couldn’t solve the riddle. The friend he fears, the friend he idolized — and doesn’t want to let go … Or wants to tie him to himself.

“What does he look like, Will?” Dr. Gasztold asked.

He had a little idea of his appearance, his face was as if in a fog — even if he imagined that he was looking in the mirror. He does not know who he is … Or he knows — and runs from himself.

Will huffed, sweat beading on his forehead, his chestnut locks darkening and sticking to his face.

“He has body dysmorphic disorder. He thinks he’s a monster,” Special Agent Gatti replied after a moment. “He’s—”

“A demon!” Allex gasped, still staring at Will. “He thinks he’s a demon! He’s feeding a demon!”

He did not share the enthusiasm and joy of the young man, he was gloomy and upset. A man who committed brutal murders, methodically thinking through every step to please the monster inside him, was unpleasant to him … However, the pain and despair with which the Heartthrob reverently prepared dinner for his ‘friend’ penetrated to the bone — the criminal was sick, his mind had distorted logic, inscribing justified cruelty and the need to make a sacrifice into the world picture, suffocating in loneliness.

“Many cults have traditions of bringing gifts to the demon, including to establish a connection with it, to merge with it — and for this there are tools of conditional dissociation. Put on a mask of a beast — become the beast, draw eyes on a stone — make it alive, kill a foe — take his soul. Eat a heart — gain courage, eat a heart — gain love … Among my patients — and yesterday’s guests of the evening — there are no people who would be ready to take such measures — even if rhetorically the prospect of throwing oneself to a demon tempted them.”

The killer’s personality seemed fantastical and paradoxical. A body dysmorphophobic bodybuilder with an oral fixation, holding a grudge against women from an elite Baltimore neighborhood, wanting to be friends with the demon inside him … The demon is sloppy and unrestrained, the criminal himself is calculating and calm. All the victims were united by their privileged status, all four had a certain phenotype of dyed blond blogger-housewives — too common to understand the specifics of the sample.

The punishment of the heartless attractive woman was a metaphor, the Heartthrob could be a rejected admirer or an envious person. Dr. Gasztold’s notes could only be useful for reference, in the first three crimes the killer handled without them.

“We’ve been looking in the area all along,” Will said. “Among the victims we knew, among Dr. Gasztold’s acquaintances. But what if it could have been anyone — and he was just picking them at random?”

Special Agent Gatti claimed that the Heartthrob observed the family tradition of gathering around the dinner table as a rule of etiquette — until he climbed up on the table with his feet and began slicing up his victim. They unanimously decided that the criminal was one of the bon ton, a neighbor of unsuspecting businessmen, artists, successful dentists, and psychiatrists …

He entered the doors using a copy of the key, disabled the alarm with a code, wore expensive shoes — judging by the bloodstains at the crime scene — but was careless in ecstasy when the victim was already dead — from strangulation — and placed on the table. No one saw him before or after — as if he were invisible, a ghost.

All the victims led the same lifestyle — with yoga in the morning, late breakfast, beauty treatments and entertainment events, walks with children and family dinners — with the obligatory demonstration of their culinary talents on social networks.

The victims knew each other — according to their social media accounts, where they tagged each other’s posts — but this did not mean friendship or even fellowship …

But from them one can build a chronology, understand more about their daily routine than their husbands said about the victims.

“I’ll compare their social networks again, whether they went to the same parties or exhibitions,” Allex said. “If they don’t have anything in common, we’ll start looking among delivery guys and cleaning services, and so on until we see a pattern.”

Will wasn’t so overconfident anymore. This Heartthrob seemed like an imposter …

He still felt sick, he shuddered.

“He’s uncomfortable in his own skin,” said Special Agent Gatti, “and so he wants to become someone else.”

“I’ll help you find what he wants to become,” Dr. Gasztold said, looking at Will Gatti, waiting for him to look back. “Whether it’s a mythical character or one he’s made up, it determines his actions and motives.”

6. Pine Marten

[United States, Baltimore, Reservoir Hill]

The autumn sun at its zenith watched Baltimore, the sky was clear and blue, Allex decided to take a walk along the mansions built in a row on a cozy street, planted with oak trees as part of the city’s greening program. The four victims walked the same paths, carelessly parking cars along the narrow sidewalk, squinting in the bright midday light, collecting the poop of their tiny dogs from the lawns with a bag … Near their home — cozy cafés and restaurants, farm products shops and barber shops, even a psychiatrist lives two minutes away!

No, Dr. Gasztold’s patients have nothing to do with it, Allex thought, adjusting the strap of the backpack with the waiter’s change of clothes on his shoulder. Will said, the Heartthrob is furious, in despair, which has been accumulating for years …

A little later, he would go to the office, for the work computer left there, to collect information about the ordinary day of a local housewife. Allex did not have a smartphone, he had broken the last one about a month ago — when the device had an unfortunate collision with the fist of a criminal being detained. He had dropped the previous ones during active movement, falls, or the screen simply cracked one fine day … The push-button phone was more reliable, it could make calls and send text messages, and if desired, one could hammer nails with it or throw it at someone. The only downside was the lack of a camera — to record evidence on the spot.

A long black car with polished sides pulled up to the curb on the opposite side of the street, the sun’s glare reflected off the tinted windows. A typical weekday situation, the driver of a luxury electric vehicle — with a claim to care about the environment — gets out of the car, walks around the hood, opens the rear door … Allex noticed the golden hair of the passenger who deftly slipped out right away, in the corner of his eye, and only a moment later realized the association that flashed through his mind.

Wilhelmina Gustavsson nodded to the driver, giving him a sign to wait in the car, her back straight in a storm-blue coat over a beige hoodie, heading toward the front steps of the grocery store.

Agent Serret’s legs pulled him after her, and he was already crossing the road when he realized he was starting to artificially invent a reason — for the benefit of the investigation.

A few seconds later he was opening the door, letting out a mother with two children and a cart full of groceries, who were coming out onto the entrance staircase, then he went inside, past the security guard, who looked at him as if he had already stolen something.

The guard was large, with the figure of a bodybuilder, but Allex understood perfectly well that a magazine picture from a male beauty contest might be of little use — they were clumsy and did not even know the basic techniques, their job was to be a scarecrow, an impressive facade.

Golden-haired Miss Gustavsson flashed past the cookie stands and disappeared from view, Allex headed in the same direction. How is she different from a housewife, whose only concern is maintaining the image of a happy family in public, being beautiful and occasionally going out, working — usually in a creative profession — only when she wants to? She will also push a cart with groceries, fill it with everything she likes, will not take off her sunglasses even in the store … A chef cooks for her, a driver takes her even two blocks from home, surprisingly, the cart is not pushed by a bodyguard or an assistant.

Allex walked along the rack, occasionally looking out between the shelves, Miss Gustavsson walked parallel with a poker face. Her visage, as before, had an even tone and no blush on her cheekbones, her hair lay perfectly, but loosely, one light strand had slightly fallen out on her forehead, and the girl immediately fixed it … Gray-blue eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, Allex could not understand when she did look in his direction, but continued to stare. As luck would have it, some old woman in a red beret had already driven into him with a cart, a caster wheel had run over his boot at the turn, when he gaped, watching Miss Gustavsson take water from the shelving and carefully read the ingredients.

A strange rumble was heard a couple of dozen yards away, and Agent Serret and Wilhelmina simultaneously turned their heads towards the noise source.

“This is a robbery! Everybody on the floor! Give me the money, or I’ll blow your brains out!”

The screams and shouts of the frightened spectators were the corresponding accompaniment; Wilhelmina seemed paralyzed, her hand clenched around the plastic bottle, but not a single muscle twitched on her pale face.

How unlucky she is! Now Phoebus won’t even let her into the store alone, only with an escort! Bloody moron, couldn’t he find another store, couldn’t he come and rob it at another time?!

What was part of the daily routine and was the order of the day for ordinary people, Wilhelmina had to fight for: walking alone along the stands, strolling through the park, going to a coffee shop between filming — for the protégé of Phoebus de Lavender, an unaffordable luxury. Beloved, dear, but still a doll … Phoebus controlled all her movements, could check her phone — without even hiding his permissiveness — knew about all her acquaintances and colleagues, chose her wardrobe.

Wilhelmina was incredibly lucky that Phoebus didn’t mind the camel-colored hoodie and blue coat — from the latest Burberry collection with the signature tartan print on the lining — so she could wear something less formal.

Sometimes Wilhelmina felt like an ungrateful bitch, the ultimate traitor, when she stopped appreciating the comfort and pleasures that not everyone could afford. Not everyone, by far … However, the price for slavery was high.

Others are worse off than me … she reassured herself. She was polite to everyone, was friends with everyone regardless of their status — how one can be friends if they has to hide one small detail that defines his entire existence … She felt like an imposter at the party of life, a deadman, unable to understand joy, passion and carelessness, the taste of freedom and simple existence. They stole it from her — and convinced her she sold her soul, for pennies, for a pittance, while she herself was sold without her wanting to be.

Agent Serret perked up, his body tensed, turned into an elastic spring, a cocked trigger. He looked like a wild animal that sensed danger, making a decision in a matter of seconds — to attack or run away. Wilhelmina tried to figure out who he reminded her of … A pine marten! Chestnut-colored fur, dark beady eyes, a sharp nose, and a fluffy tail.

Martens are predators. Before Wilhelmina could even figure out what was coming next, Agent Serret had already quietly placed his backpack on the floor and was moving smoothly towards the robber on the opposite side of the shelving, his feet making no sound.

They were not visible, they both had the level of stupidity and courage not to duck, but to peer curiously from behind the rows of goods.

The cashier creaked the cash drawer, put the bills on the table, the security guard, his face red from the effort, lay with his ears covered, in the middle of the open space of the hall. The robber, wearing a white plastic mask covering his entire face, stood opposite, a pistol shaking in his outstretched hand.

“What are you fiddling about with, stupid cow? Move it!”

The gun swung, the cashier yelped, and a murmur and squeal ran through the frozen crowd of onlookers. If she had pressed the panic button, the criminal would be gone before the police arrived.

Wilhelmina almost opened her mouth in bewilderment, only took off her sunglasses and put them in her inside pocket when Serret came out from behind the shelving, past the bodies lying on the floor trembling in horror, thereby revealing himself. Someone was already crying in panic, hiding behind a cart, someone was filming what was happening on a smartphone camera, from below, stretched out on the shiny tiles, resting their elbow on a branded bag.

The plot was like a production of the theater of the absurd. Serret is just crazy! Where is he going — under the gun?!

Wilhelmina looked around, as if trying to find confirmation — or refutation — of reality, saw only the store assistant, clenching his gloved fists, either from indignation or from anxiety. He seemed to feel the golden-haired girl’s gaze on the back of his head in a baseball cap, turned his head, Wilhelmina’s glance met the gray icicles of his eyes.

Wilhelmina looked at him without blinking, he shook his head.

Meanwhile, the robber had already grabbed two grocery paper bags of money — not a very large sum, considering that most of the civilized world had already stopped paying in cash — and was heading for the exit, still holding his gun at the ready.

He saw a figure detached from the stands, but the get-out door was already nearby.

Apparently out of his mind, Serret called out to him.

“If you put your gun down and surrender, we will say you were polite and kind.”

Suicide! Wilhelmina sometimes imagined throwing herself under a speeding car, jumping off a bridge — but exposing herself to the bullets of a random amateur bandit was something she would hardly think of!

The criminal pulled the door handle, but it was locked — after the emergency alarm was triggered, the doors were blocked.

“Everybody down! Lie down on the floor, bitch! Open the door for me!”

“Alas,” Agent Serret said calmly, still approaching him, slightly spreading his arms to the sides, “the door will not open until the police arrive.”

“I’ll shoot!” the man in the mask yelled. “At her!” He pointed at the cashier and her neighbor, hiding at the counter. “At him!” The guard sitting on the floor, who had already recovered from the blows to the ears, found himself at gunpoint. “Is this what you want?”

The robber was larger than Serret, but not by much, he was holding a combat weapon, and most importantly, he was not very mentally stable, with tones of anguish in his voice.

“No, you won’t shoot, you’ll put the gun on the floor and wait for the police.”

The next few moments were straight out of a movie, with the gun being knocked out of the opponent’s hand, a couple of attacks of the two fighting men, and the angry scream of the criminal as he was thrown to the floor with his hands behind his back. Agent Serret sitting on him ridden piggyback, his wrists cunningly pinned by the knees, preventing him from moving, the white mask lying to the side, next to the gun and the bags of money.

“FBI!” the young man said loudly and clearly, taking documents from his bosom and raising them above his head. “It’s all over, everything’s under control, you can get up from the floor, the police are on their way, the beast is no longer dangerous.”

To prove his point, he slammed the criminal’s raised face back into the floor, slapping him on the back of the head.

The shoppers came to life, a hubbub was heard from all sides, and lamentations and belated hysterics immediately began. As if from afar, from a parallel universe, the approaching wail of police sirens could be heard.

As Wilhelmina, pale and with bulging eyes, approached Agent Serret sitting on the floor on top of a body shaking in violent convulsions, in the pocket of the forest predatory marten’s green jacket the telephone came to life.

“Serret!” he answered, turning to Wilhelmina Gustavsson, at first smiling triumphantly at having caught his prey, but then his face changing abruptly, from the message spoken by the chief’s voice in the receiver. “Jack, I’ll be there soon. A quarter of an hour, roughly. Yes, yes, at Dr. Gasztold’s. No, I’m almost free.”

His gaze involuntarily slid over the figure of the young golden-haired woman, from her fall shoes, the perfectly ironed creases of her pants, up the brim of her unbuttoned coat.

“What a son of a bitch!”

Allex put the phone in his pocket, and jumped up on the robber in frustration.

“You’re yourself the son of a bitch!” the robber responded in a strangled voice.

“No, not you!”

Wilhelmina looked at Agent Serret, he finally realized that he couldn’t just stare.

“Good afternoon, Miss Gustavsson,” he smiled.

He smiled sadly. Wilhelmina was ready to bet, something bad had happened, and he had just been told about it.

“Good afternoon, Agent Serret,” Wilhelmina responded. “Thank you.”

She put into the tone of her voice everything she could not describe in words. There was a lump of horror in her chest, disbelief, anger — from incomprehensible stupidity and senseless bravado — and admiration, at the same time.

“It’s nothing,” he chuckled. “He’s harmless. He can’t even shoot.”

No one paid any attention to the curses of the robber lying face down; in the bustle, the sellers helped the customers come to their senses; two policemen entered through the open doors.

Agent Serret explained what had happened, handed them the body, which was no longer resisting. It turned out, the gun the criminal had was not real — and the pine marten somehow figured it out … The driver, worried about what had happened, was already looming on the entrance, it was time to go back, but Wilhelmina could not move from the spot, she could not leave, it was impossible to just give up curiosity and excitement, and thrill and trepidation that was unusual for her.

The store assistant, the same one with whom Wilhelmina had exchanged glances between the stands, stared at Serret in the same way, but it was difficult to read the thoughts from his stone face — with a scar from a late plastic surgery to correct a cleft lip.

Allex went out into the street with the last customers and Miss Gustavsson, whom the driver immediately led away, almost by the arm, and put into the car. The golden-haired artiste said goodbye reservedly and coldly, but the look of her shining eyes — when Allex was sitting on the floor, on the caught robber, and she was looking down at him — the young man felt on himself distinctly, as if it had burned with a touch.

Allex was a hero for this attention, he didn’t even try to deny it. Taking the heat was a habit that was impossible to eradicate … And he never tried. He had nothing to lose — such was his job …

Broad-shouldered Dylan nodded to him as Allex left the store — he certainly understood, anything could happen at work.

Now a new crime scene awaited him — in the house next door to Dr. Gasztold’s office: the son of a bitch Heartthrob had gobbled someone again!

7. The Blond Beast

[United States, Baltimore, Reservoir Hill]

[United States, Quantico, FBI Academy]

Will carefully stepped over the bloodstains on the parquet, tried to look at the corpse spread out on the table with an impartial gaze, not getting involved in the abyss of vision, not coming into contact with the pictures emerging in his mind. The feeling of the approaching empathic experience felt as if he was beginning to feel drowsy, he resisted in vain, but fell into a bottomless well, hung in free fall, dissolved, lost himself, and then came up, back into the real world. Upon returning, he gasped for air, tried to shake off other people’s feelings, like his dogs shook off stuck dirt and burrs, but the colors entered his skin, clung to his fur, soaked into his clothes, intoxicated him from the inside, like an uninvited, slow-acting poison.

Waking up from the vision was as painful as the dive, as breathtaking and shattering — as if he was being shaken like a piggy bank of coins, his skin peeled off, a new suit put on, his guts spilling out of his pants. He hated that swing … Returning was the worst of all sensations.

Howard and the forensics — Cruz, Bailey, and Ross — were still on their way, nothing must be touched, and he couldn’t control himself when he was working … Will asked Dr. Gasztold to keep an eye on him, to prevent him from making a mess of the crime scene in a trance — in case he was suddenly sucked into the whirlpool of complicity.

Lukas Gasztold stood by the door, watching the movements of Special Agent Gatti: how he thoughtfully moved the fingers of his slightly spread hands, how he walked along the floor with his tousled head down, how the glasses in the frame, having no prescription, gleamed on his nose. Several layers of shapeless clothing, glasses, perpetual unshavenness, a wary look from under his brows — all to build a defense against unwanted stimuli, to keep his vulnerable soul intact, to cover his exposed nerves, to not let anyone get close.

Even during a therapy session, he speaks as if through several bulletproof glasses, sits in a closed position, often retreats into an internal monologue and falls silent — despite the request and insistence of Dr. Gasztold to voice his thoughts out loud, because this is what therapy is intended for.

Lukas Gasztold had recently become his psychiatrist, not long after Special Agent Gatti had joined the Criminal Investigative Division, leaving his teaching position at the FBI Academy. The intense work and stress had caused Will to suffer from anxiety attacks, he became increasingly withdrawn, and he had to be reminded to disidentify himself from the visions, not to judge them, and not to try to understand them with his rational mind.

The criminal’s mind is in agony, his logic is distorted, beyond the comprehension of a healthy person. William Gatti had a unique ability to interpret evidence, reconstructing a picture of what happened, but the danger was hidden in the first-person perspective … He felt too keenly, took on too much.

Only few people understood Will’s talent and the price he paid to catch serial killers for Jack Howard. ‘Think like a criminal’ was not just the motto of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit, the only surefire way to catch a bad guy, but also a very real situation that Will Gatti found himself in, a state he experienced time and time again.

He was afraid that he himself would become a criminal, that a part of him had already been lost, poisoned — so much were the clothes he tried on for the sake of work oppressed him. He began to break, to twist, his moral bonds were shaken, black and white had already become gray in different shades … He was confused, he was restless.

Jack pressed Will with duty, responsibility, the risk to innocent lives, the opportunity to save potential victims, to do justice — despite the obvious problems with Special Agent Gatti’s mental state. Howard told Will he could leave at any time and return to the Academy — if he suddenly felt ill — but then he showered him with images of the dire consequences of another criminal roaming free.

Faithful dogs search for truffles, in rain and snow, in heat and cold, trampling the forest floor with their paws, digging the loose earth with their noses, squealing over the find, and Jack Howard collects the harvest.

Will froze, turned away, took off his glasses and began rubbing his face with his hands.

“I can’t,” he muttered. “I have to wait for the others, otherwise I’ll turn everything upside down here.”

There was a rush of footsteps in the hall, and both men turned their heads impatiently, but Agent Serret appeared at the threshold of the dining room, ushered in by the police on duty — not the forensics team.

“How long have you been here?” Allex asked.

“Not long,” Will muttered sullenly.

“For long,” Gasztold said at the same time.

“I see. And what is here?”

Will was about to respond with a sardonic sneer, but changed his mind. He gave a brief account of the victim — nothing new, the same thirty-something blonde with breast implants, mother and wife — as Agent Serret approached.

When Allex saw the blood-stained face, he gasped.

“But this is—”

The girl with the cart! The same one who ran over him in the store, knocked over the shelves of chips! He couldn’t get them mixed up — despite the fact that they were all made in the same factory by plastic surgeons and beauty industry specialists — he had a good memory for faces.

“I saw her at the local grocery store on Reservoir Street, not far away,” Allex explained, under the gaze of two pairs of eyes, “the day I was conducting interviews with clients from Dr. Gasztold’s notes. Nothing out of the ordinary, she was simply buying groceries …”

She simply lived — and does not any longer.

She was killed more than twelve hours ago, the shocked husband, who found the body in the morning, called the police upon his return. There was no doubt, the crime was the work of the Heartthrob — he continues to kill.

The first time was two months ago; the second and third, after a ten-day pause — with a week’s break; the fourth after a month’s pause; the fifth after two weeks and one day … There was no pattern in the dates, and everything required preparation and a plan, he couldn’t just go and start a spontaneous massacre.

Where did he get the keys, how did he disable the alarm with a code to get into the home before the victim? Was he an enemy of the murdered wives’ husbands, did he have personal motives? The interviews yielded no results.

They spent a few more hours at the crime scene and were at the FBI lab in the evening. Will Gatti, gloomy as a storm cloud, walked around in circles near the board with diagrams and photos, and Dr. Gasztold stayed in Baltimore and promised to look for an answer to why the Heartthrob eats hearts.

Late that night, only Serret, who was already feeling sick from the photos on social media of the victims and their spouses, and Cruz, who was examining the wound where the criminal had picked at it with his bare hands, remained at work.

His stomach growled unpleasantly, the sound in the silence was loud and mournful, matching his mood. Allex propped his chin on his hand, scrolled through the feed of posts, periodically drawing a graph of dependencies, with connections between the victims, several cafés, bars, events, a nail salon, and a gym in their area, which were tagged in the images. Everyone was subscribed to everyone, they knew each other by nicknames, but had no idea how the neighbor across the street really lived … They all had colorful photos, bright clothes, cute children and caring — if a husband can be caring without being interested in his wife’s affairs — spouses.

The first victim was a florist, the second was a clothing designer, the third painted and exhibited in private galleries, the fourth sang jazz, and the fifth—

Allex never got to the fifth one, a photographer of half-naked models in lingerie, because he accidentally saw a familiar golden-haired image in a joint photo of a jazz singer.

Wilhelmina Gustavsson smiled charmingly, she was wearing a white pantsuit, a massive sparkling necklace around her neck, her arm lightly hugging the fourth victim … The release of some album by some musician, a party and a buffet, many guests.

Allex, without thinking twice, went to the page of the golden-haired artiste, glued to the screen, forgetting about hunger and sleepy eyes.

Wilhelmina Gustavsson in the recording studio, Wilhelmina Gustavsson on holiday in the Indian Ocean, Wilhelmina Gustavsson celebrating Father’s Day with her stepfather, guardian, whatever … The last one made Allex laugh nervously, the post looked more like irony than truth — because in the photo de Lavender’s fresh and youthful face did not at all resemble the father.

The exciting life of a successful artiste, an artificial facade … Allex understood perfectly why Miss Gustavsson — like her colleagues — creates a certain image on her pages, posts only what will be considered cool and enviable. Photos of the golden-haired Miss Gustavsson literally screamed that everything is great with her, and she is very happy — even if they were reserved, balanced, with literate phrases of each caption, thoughtful meaning down to the smallest detail.

Or maybe she doesn’t run her pages herself … She didn’t have, for example, photos of pets, children covered in chocolate, vlogs about planting a tree in the park, or buying a new bag.

Miss Gustavsson was beautiful, even if she had an unusual, androgynous, alien appearance, an elongated, textured face that always smiled equally softly. In the music videos, excerpts of which Allex began to watch, covering his mouth, frozen in an uncomfortable position on a chair, Wilhelmina Gustavsson was different …

She was alive, diverse, passionate, furious, tender, in flashes of neon light, in black and white sepia, in the image of the bloodthirsty Great Red Dragon, in the role of the lyrical heroine of a love ballad.

She could try on any role, she lived in the role. Her voice, like the singing of a siren, caressed the soul and the ear, Allex forgot where he was, lost track of time.

“I’ve got good news for you,” a voice on the back pulled him out of his dreams.

Allex turned around and paused the clip.

“Our demonic friend has cuts or scratches on his hands, he leaves traces of inflamed epidermis and dermis inside the victim,” Beverly Cruz said.

She wasn’t looking at Serret, but at the freeze-frame of thin-fingered hands covered in black blood holding a knife.

“I double-checked everything,” the woman continued. “With the previous case, I had a suspicion, but I couldn’t confirm it, the reaction was less: he apparently didn’t have such injuries yet.”

“What could it be?”

“Allergies, scratches, scrapes that do not heal and begin to fester, periodically become inflamed. The reason could be anything — from splinters to bitten nails.”

“The latter is more likely,” the young man agreed.

“And what about the beautiful creature?”

Cruz nodded towards the screen, Allex bit his lip.

“This is Gasztold’s patient, an acquaintance of our victims,” Serret answered after a moment.

“Good for the artistes,” Cruz sighed with a smile. “They only have artificial blood, artificial tears, artificial food—”

Serret’s stomach responded to the only word it knew, Beverly Cruz patted her colleague on the shoulder as he sat in the chair.

“Go home. Your blond beast won’t run away from you.”

“Blond beast?”

She was sometimes amazed at his slow-wittedness …

“This is Gustavsson, the Blond Beast. She was even given some kind of award for her acting manifestation of bloody sexuality — though she looks like a golden-haired angel.”

Allex became even more thoughtful, Cruz regretted she had even started a conversation about the object of Agent Serret’s fantasies, at whom he had been staring lustfully for a quarter of an hour, without looking away.

“I won’t let you spend the night here, just go!”

If he didn’t listen, she would kick the chair out from under him. The young man nodded, a forced smile appearing on his tired face. He didn’t even have the strength to joke or respond to her jibes.

When Allex reached under the table to grab his backpack and put his laptop there, the backpack was gone. The events of the day flashed before his eyes, from end to beginning … The last time he remembered the backpack was in the store, how he put his things at the shelving and went to catch the robber.

It turns out he left it in the store!

This was not the first time Agent Serret had lost things — that was why he preferred not to carry any bags or backpacks, stuffing the necessary items into the pockets of his jacket and jeans — fortunately, he did not have so many clothes to move things from place to place.

He’d have to go to Baltimore tomorrow. He hoped his backpack would be where he’d left it — and he’d be able to talk to the workers.

Allex took five photographs of blonde women from the board, put them in the inside pocket of his jacket, and grabbed the laptop under his arm.

The Blond Beast, then. For some reason, there was a beaming idiot’s smile on his face.

8. Invisible Man

[United States, Baltimore, Reservoir Hill]

Chrome crossbars lined the space at right angles, artificial white light bulbs were reflected in the mirrors, the air, despite the air conditioning and ventilation, was filled with a suspension of salty sweat and deodorant. The clanking of the barbell on the stand, the occasional shouts of men lifting weights, the measured steps of women in tight suits on the treadmill, rhythmic music filling the gym with sound … Special Agent William Gatti looked inside from the hallway, but did not go in — since he knew perfectly well that his inappropriate appearance would immediately attract unwanted attention.

He had already spoken to the manager at the counter, waiting for him to download and print out the list of clients who had been to the gym in the mornings — like the victims’ husbands — and it turned out, they were the vast majority. The epiphany had come to Will a few hours ago, after he had discussed the news with Serret on the drive to Baltimore.

How can one get the keys to the apartment and then return them without anyone noticing the loss? A locker room in a gym, with unreliable drawers, with the ability to get into other people’s things without question.

The catch was, the morning is the most popular time for training. As the manager said, the gym is empty only at night — and even then, some night-dweller decides to pump iron alone …

Will didn’t want to just walk around and stare at the visitors, he needed cover. He didn’t look like a bodybuilder, even though he was well-built — thanks to genetics and exercise, to help him cope with the flow of uninvited thoughts — for in nondescript clothes, glasses, and disheveled hair, he would give himself away immediately.

Tomorrow they’ll send Serret … He seems to be irreplaceable where imagination and charisma are needed; if he’s combed and dressed in the appropriate clothes, he could easily pass for a young blogger who wants to keep fit.

Allex was underestimated because of his slight frame, but Will saw him as a real killing machine — who just needed to be fed regularly. At first, Allex Serret seemed too active, noisy, irrepressible, he emitted unutilized energy, being near him was like standing next to a boiling cauldron ready to explode.

Then Will adapted, got used to it surprisingly quickly, saw the positive sides in Allex’s proactivity … Allex got many things at a glance that Will had not dared to say out loud until recently, his foolishness was truly funny.

Dr. Lukas Gasztold — with his insight and calm — and Allex Serret — with the eternal pantomime on his freckled face — were the first people he let close.

Will kept his distance from Gasztold, deliberately addressed him as ‘Dr. Gasztold,’ and observed the therapist-patient subordination. Will rarely acknowledged the wisdom of the other person, rarely accepted someone else’s opinion, he was used to the fact that despite their experience and intelligence, people were simply unable to understand him — and give the right advice or comment. With Dr. Gasztold, everything was different: he was always one step ahead, had answers to any questions, never expressed a single value judgment, was cautious, like a predator on soft paws, in which the blades of his claws were hidden.

Dr. Gasztold was a true professional — and Will valued their relationship at work above all else, in the format it was so far. Will knew very well how projections and transferences worked, especially with psychiatrists, especially with people like him, who were deep down hungry for companionship and friendship.

It was easy to be friends with Serret, he was open, looked into the eyes without embarrassment, with a smile, sometimes said out loud what should have been kept behind one’s teeth. He was not afraid to seem ridiculous or funny, he was straightforward in his likes and dislikes, often getting punched in the face for it — literally and figuratively.

And at the same time, Allex was as naive as a child, often taking everything literally. He seriously explained Cruz’s nagging as her hostility, while Will could clearly see how she looked at him, licking her lips, how they both enjoyed a strange game of mutual biting, rolling on the floor, grappling like yard cats.

Allex was a clown — and he accepted the role as a mask, embodied it to the fullest extent. Will sometimes envied him — because he himself did not know who he was, doubted any of his qualities, considering them only an attached characteristic of someone whose thoughts and feelings he ‘caught’ — from the abundance of external stimuli that excited the imagination, his working tool.

Dr. Gasztold claimed that man is incapable of experiencing what is not in him … However, it also followed that the terrifying visions, blood, dismembered corpses, the stench of dead bodies, and the erection from the visions were part of him. Dr. Gasztold claimed that there is no God, no devil, no black, no white, no absolute, no truth — there is only subjective perception, individual history, a set of values that ones use to orient themselves in space.

Will agreed … But he resisted. He had held the line for too long, the fortress had been under siege for too long, his strength was running out. He was afraid of losing what was left of himself and dissolving into the abyss, into madness, into a maze of disparate images ground up in a meat grinder.

It was easy to take over joy, happiness, euphoria, and peace, to accept them and appropriate them for oneself; and it was so difficult to admit that the abomination of this world is in every living being, including in himself.

While Special Agent Gatti was engaged in philosophical reflection at the reception desk of an elite gym on Whitelock Street, Allex Serret was chatting with a senior grocery store assistant.

Overweight, smiling, but tough Miriam Hill shrugged her shoulders, looking at photos of blondes with full lips. They also looked the same to her …

“I remember every single one, but I never look closely, I don’t even try to look for differences,” she said, simultaneously watching the interns’ work from afar, like an omnipresent mother cat. “Every day, a couple of hundred people, I’d go crazy if I paid attention to them!”

So far, the general information has been of little use. The customer traffic is small but constant, mostly local rich kids, less often random ones like Allex, delivery men, nannies, service workers who will be confused by the prices and the menacing look of the security guard.

There have only been two robberies in the several years that Ms. Hill has been working, and the last one was yesterday, with an epic heroic act by the young FBI agent.

“Blame the seasonal exacerbation,” the woman chuckled, “for psychos it’s like a chain reaction. Now even we’re panicking, everyone’s afraid of the serial ladykiller — as if he needs us!”

“Who does he need then?”

“Like you don’t know yourself!” Miriam Hill’s black eyes widened. “Wealthy heartless bitches in Gucci and Givenchy! He eats their hearts because they don’t have a heart, they don’t need one!”

Is it really that simple? Envy, anger — for their comfortable existence and beauty?

“If you think about it that way, the killer is a woman,” Allex hemmed.

“Why not? Women are cruel creatures, Agent Serret.”

Allex shrugged. A woman who hates women, is as strong as a weightlifter, bites her nails and is unhappy with her appearance … But this woman has a man’s size feet, a heavy hand, cold-blooded calculation, and strict logic.

“The Heartthrob is too big and strong to be a woman.”

“Well, that means women offended him! Or his cock doesn’t get hard!”

This is closer to the truth … The killer has no time for sex — at least not for the conventional one — he is too immersed in eating the treat, becoming a demon.

Will said he had to do some kind of ritual, he had an anchor — to trigger the entrance to the state of dissociation. A spell, a gesture, a mask …

For example, like Wilhelmina Gustavsson’s, from the Great Red Dragon music video.

Cruz is right, feature films often present a beautiful, aesthetic, attractive wrapper, romanticize violence and murder, idealize antagonists. Miss Gustavsson, with blobs of paint running down her chin, neck and half-naked breasts, singing about rebirth through death, is dangerous in her ability to impose the greatness and power of the dark side of the human soul.

But if Allex weren’t a rational-thinking FBI agent, he would be squealing like a teenage girl and running to the front rows of the dance floor to look at the beautiful artiste.

The store employees did not find the backpack. Allex was not upset at all, even though he understood perfectly well he would have to make ridiculous excuses and throw up his hands over the lost uniform.

“Can you recommend someone else to talk to, someone observant?” Agent Serret asked.

Ms. Hill walked along the shelves, her subordinates, noticing her approach, immediately stopped idling and got down to work, Allex walked beside.

“Dario Pesce and Sarah Roth,” the senior store assistant replied after a pause to think. “And Sabrina Maxwell, but she’s off today.”

Everyone worked on a four-two schedule, twelve hours a day, plus time to prepare the sales area and clean up after the shift. Everyone was friendly, replaced each other when necessary, and did not refuse additional work, including the one to deliver heavy bags of groceries to customers’ homes.

Dario, who was busy laying out the products on the stands, began his story by saying that he had always dreamed of becoming a detective, so he would be happy to help the investigation in any way he could. He hadn’t noticed any strange customers, they didn’t even steal, they just inattentively forgot something in the basket, or their children dragged the sweets in bright wrappers they liked into their pockets. There were some weird ones, though they were all local rich folks with a dash of madness, he had already gotten used to them, but he hadn’t noticed any dangerous or creepy ones … The cashier Sarah was one of those people who find a common language with everyone, would always offer to buy something, and form a large average bill. Sarah’s breasts and hips were also large, and her waist was thin, this had a positive effect on her productivity indicators.

On the best employee of the month board, they were in the same row as Dylan Vermillion, the only one without a photo.

Allex asked Sarah about Dylan when they went out into the backyard during her break.

“He’s hardly any use to you,” she chuckled, exhaling cigarette smoke. “He doesn’t speak.”

“Well, how—” Allex was confused. “He was talking to me.”

Sarah studied Agent Serret more closely than she would have studied an FBI agent. There was a mischievous glint in his green eyes, like the glowing end of a cigarette between her fingers.

“Not with us. He’s unsociable, he doesn’t care about his colleagues, he doesn’t stay for a beer or a cake on someone’s birthday, he’s never come to a corporate party — while we often have something for the staff.”

“Is it bad that he chooses what is more comfortable for him?”

“No, it’s not … Probably,” Sarah drawled. “I generally forget that he exists. If you hadn’t asked, I wouldn’t have remembered about him.”

So that’s it … A familiar situation — both with the unsociability in the style of Special Agent Gatti, and with the role of an invisible man.

Allex hated his father’s indifference so much as a child that he tried to draw attention in any way … In the end, it became part of his personality, to be in the spotlight, to always be loud, to always be the main hateful concern, a pain in the ass, a reason to blush.

Dylan didn’t seem to him as downtrodden or shy, unable to assert himself. Dylan was comfortable in the shadows, not needing attention.

Having finished with the interview at the store, Agent Serret headed to the office of Dr. Gasztold — where he and Will had agreed to meet. A familiar black car was driving away from the house with high windows and stone columns of the porch, Allex couldn’t help but watch it until it disappeared around the corner of an elite neighborhood narrow street.

9. Control

[United States, Baltimore, Reservoir Hill]

“You never tried to imagine something pleasant at the moment when you needed to dissociate.”

“It won’t help me, Dr. Gasztold, I don’t want to run away,” Wilhelmina Gustavsson emphasized the last word, a wry smile appearing on her lips. “I don’t understand the strategy of escapism and avoidance, I have to remember what’s really going on.”

“You are resisting the natural mechanism of psychological defense.”

“I know. And that makes it even harder.”

“Do you want to feel control in this at least? Control over your hatred, disgust, over your feelings?”

Wilhelmina thought, her gray-blue eyes clouded slightly, her long eyelashes fluttered.

“Yes,” she answered shortly.

“What else will allow you to regain the control you have lost? For some people, it is enough to control the food on their plate, their daily routine, their expenses—”

“I’m not ‘some people,’” Miss Gustavsson sighed resignedly. “Not because I put myself above — or below … I just—”

She picked up words like puzzle pieces, like shards in a stained-glass mosaic, carefully stepping on crumbs of broken porcelain that dug into her bare heels, leaving bloody blots on the floor. She had long since stopped filtering the thoughts she expressed at her psychotherapist’s appointment; she was not afraid of Dr. Gasztold — judgement, reactions of rejection, condolence … Dr. Gasztold was cold and impartial, a real surgeon.

Surgeons have to take a detached view of the situation, to hurt people — so that they can recover later.

“Have you ever thought about having an affair?”

The gray-blue eyes blinked, and the gaze moved from the statuette — a noble deer by a 19th-century French sculptor — to the man in the chair opposite.

“Why?”

Wilhelmina, out of habit, had already managed to capture the first thought that came into her head, caught it like a cat catches a mouse by the tail with its claw, had already managed to analyze its meaning.

At first, she didn’t think about the rationality and point … Before her eyes, bright as a camera flash, there appeared, as if from nowhere, an image with a shock of chestnut hair and freckles on a young face.

“You need to distract yourself. The way you hide the affair will allow you to feel the power and sweetness of the secret you did not allow yourself.”

“It’s physically impossible,” Wilhelmina answered, perfectly understanding that Dr. Gasztold had already drawn conclusions: that instead of denying, she had switched to logic, hid behind rationalization, and had not refused. “Phoebus knows everything, I don’t have a minute when he’s not present in my life, either explicitly or implicitly.”

“Everything is possible — if you want it. Think about it, just think, don’t drive this thought away.”

Wilhelmina didn’t drive … She was thinking.

“Tell me about a person you might like.”

“Dr. Gasztold, I wouldn’t like to discuss this now, it’s more important to me—”

Who is she trying to deceive! She came to the session with a specific request that had nothing to do with her real problem! She slips away, hides, condemning her own escapism …

Phoebus had begun to irritate her much more recently, Wilhelmina simply could not stand the scent of his perfume, his body odor, and the gag reflex, seemingly lost forever, was again raising its head and trying to rise from its knees … She wanted Dr. Gasztold to give her practical advice, some kind of auto-training technique for accepting the situation, but in the end she came to what she was trying to escape from.

Phoebus became disgusting to her because suddenly someone else became nice. Before, no matter how much de Lavender shoved his cock into Wilhelmina’s mouth, no matter how much he kneaded her breasts and ass with his hands, no matter how much he grabbed her hair, carefully, afraid of ruining her hairdo, Wilhelmina didn’t care.

She sincerely thought she had died long ago, all that was left of her was a shell, a walking dead, not even a dead bride, in the guise of a doll on joints … It turned out that her heart could beat unevenly, out of rhythm, not according to a memorized script.

She instantly forgot the lines of the role, she became confused and began to fall into the abyss, she was afraid that the prompter had disappeared — and would no longer tell her what to do.

She had been enslaved for too long, she should have forgotten about any possibility of escape! She felt herself stupid and weak, she was afraid to even think about habitual way of life changing.

Dr. Gasztold suggested imagining something pleasant during moments of intimacy with de Lavender; Wilhelmina put on a mask of indifference, simply not knowing what she would find pleasant.

The warm azure ocean, hot white sand, snowflakes tingling on her face, the fresh wind of a ski resort, the taste — and sensation — in her mouth of slightly stale, yesterday’s bread made from coarse flour … And sometimes she imagined that Phoebus was dead, that suddenly there was no longer a tormentor, a warden, a caring owner holding a leash with a gold chain, a calfskin collar no longer digging into her neck.

“You yourself understand that this is only internal resistance. Okay, Wilhelmina, we’ll talk about this when you’re ready.”

“He has warm hands and a kind smile,” Wilhelmina said suddenly. “He has tousled hair, ordinary, very ordinary, slightly worn clothes, he smells like cheap shower gel.”

“Go on.”

“He looks like …” she exhaled, almost giggling, “a pine marten. He has sharp teeth and claws, a strong, agile body, a fluffy tail.”

Wilhelmina fell silent, her thin-fingered hands released the armrests of the chair and lay on her knees in wide suit pants with perfectly defined creases.

“What do you feel when you are with him?”

‘Feel’ — not ‘will feel.’ Probably some technique of Dr. Gasztold to immerse oneself in a certain state.

“I can be myself, I feel myself, I am calm.”

She looked at the doctor, he nodded.

“That’s great, Wilhelmina. You know who to look for. And you know what to do, too.”

It was out of the realm of fantasy to even imagine that there would be someone in her life, other than Phoebus. Someone who would touch her, who would look into her eyes, who would whisper nonsense in her ear, whose laughter would ring like a bell … Someone whom Wilhelmina would want to touch herself. Unthinkable!

Dr. Gasztold knew what he was talking about, Wilhelmina believed him — but in her situation, such a way of ‘distracting herself’ looked like suicide.

Sometimes Wilhelmina thought that therapy was not helping her, sometimes she looked back and saw positive changes, her growth and progress … Even when she only attended support sessions with a regular story about the last days, monotonous to the point of toothache, the psychiatrist’s office was the only place where she could speak openly, call things by their proper names.

Phoebus de Lavender bought her, raised her from childhood, like a pig for slaughter, forced her into sex when Wilhelmina was eighteen, fucked her like a doll all the following years, albeit rarely — because of his low libido — carried her around with him everywhere like an expensive, luxurious thing. Phoebus de Lavender was stern, but explained his sternness by care and love, he never raised his hand to Wilhelmina and did not even raise his voice. He spoke calmly, but imperiously, not forgetting to remind her from time to time where he took Wilhelmina from, what shit he washed her from, and how he sometimes wanted to take her back to a brothel in Latin America, where rich men looking for exotic pleasures can easily buy a blonde Swedish girl of eleven.

It is also possible to buy permanently. Phoebus de Lavender gave five hundred thousand dollars for Wilhelmina, adopted her as a distant relative, and as a share of the inheritance — in fairness — bequeathed to her an equivalent amount.

Wilhelmina noticed how, during one of the sessions — with another portion of Miss Gustavsson’s revelations — at the word ‘fairness,’ Dr. Gasztold slightly curved his lips into a condemning and sad smile. He often asked what Wilhelmina’s life would be like without de Lavender … He made her think about an infeasible reality, beyond the possible, for some reason to see artificial pictures in her dreams, causing pain in the eyes — or causing nothing.

Wilhelmina did not understand the meaning of the psychiatrist’s questions — until recently.

What would she do first if she had a free day? Without a tracking app using navigation — as parents do with their children — without the constant trigger of vibration messages and timers on the watch to respond to Phoebus, to ask Phoebus how he is doing, to be active, to serve …

She served. She was a useful and valuable plaything, eager to please, catching every crooked smile, every sarcastic sigh, every shrug, every word — to assent, to speak in time, to play the part like a perfect actress.

“You have abandoned the theater,” said Dr. Gasztold, as if reading her thoughts. “Does it no longer bring you comfort?”

It’s not the first time he asks … It’s not the first time Wilhelmina says that she will soon return to the theater studio, will finally write a script for a new video … But she didn’t have the strength. The playing requires dedication, she is afraid to get involved in the flow, she is afraid to lose herself, to remain in the role.

She hasn’t even sung lately — she’s just been exercising, doing vocalises, warming up her vocal cords to keep her voice in shape.

What if she suddenly snaps, becomes bolder, stronger, rips out de Lavender’s heart — like the Great Red Dragon? Or what if she can’t stop — like the serial killer Heartthrob?

Wilhelmina had often heard the statement that musicians had an exceptional sense of time. She disagreed — because in music it is not time that rules, but rhythm and meter, dynamics determine the irrational, subjective slowing down or speeding up, passion and languor, drawn-out anticipation or fleeting moments.

There were three minutes left until the end of the session.

“It doesn’t,” Wilhelmina admitted. “Wearing different masks became too much work.”

“But you were pouring out your feelings, you didn’t need therapy, you were calmer and more harmonious.”

Maybe … She was walking the demons, she could allow herself to become someone else for a short period of time, to taste freedom, to taste tears, to taste the love she sang about but never experienced.

“Maybe, Dr. Gasztold,” Miss Gustavsson replied, lost in thoughts that had nothing to do with work. “I don’t know.”

“‘I don’t know’ is also an answer,” Gasztold nodded. “Is there anything else you want to ask?”

Dr. Gasztold is involved in the investigation, he is cooperating with the FBI, agents were working undercover at his home at a dinner party … He probably knows the latest news, he’s aware of all the events.

Moreover, he showed no concern at all about his client records being stolen.

“No, nothing. Thank you, as always, a lot of new information to digest, Dr. Gasztold.”

Wilhelmina Gustavsson left the psychiatrist’s office with the idea that he had arranged the disappearance of the notebooks in order to participate in the capture of the criminal. An excellent excuse to be not only a consultant, but also a full-fledged member of the team — and even if they wanted to, no one would be able to prove otherwise.

Wilhelmina had an idea. She paused on the steps of the porch, a smile of inspiration appeared on her pale face, which she immediately hid under the make-up of indifference.

She can also come up with an excuse, even if it is a little artificial.

10. Object of Study

[United States, Baltimore, Reservoir Hill]

[United States, Vienna, Wolf Trap]

Agent Serret enthusiastically chewed a duck leg, dipped bread crumbs into the aromatic fat, Will told about his plan to visit the gym. Dr. Gasztold approved the idea of dressing Allex in sportswear, giving him a premium membership — so that no one would suspect a trick.

“If I were a blonde, I could be used as bait,” Allex reasoned, half-jokingly, half-seriously. “But that’s how it turned out, alas. The main thing is to see as much as possible during each visit, because the demon doesn’t even think of stopping.”

Every socialite was at risk — and according to their information, there were quite a few of them. If the Heartthrob has not yet chosen a new victim and is trying to get the key, he is to be found near objects of his interest, and those who are in the entourage.

The press added fuel to the fire, the news was full of loud headlines about horrible murders, with a bunch of exaggerations and distortions, reporters presented the criminal as a cultist, impotent, a pathetic imitator of the Maryland Ripper, a favorite of popular culture. The texts could raise a new wave of murders not only of the Heartthrob himself, but also of others like him, could anger the criminal and force him to refute the slander. Fortunately, the journalists did not write about the details of the investigation that could have spooked the Heartthrob and make it clear the investigation was on his tail.

They still had no leads — just a useless DNA sample, a sketch of the criminal, and guesses based on the findings of Special Agent Gatti’s unique detective method.

Will looked like crap, with shadows under his chameleon-gray-blue-green eyes, his hair even more tousled than usual, and a sickly flush on his cheeks under his stubble. He had no appetite, so Serret tucked away enough food for both of them.

Will and Dr. Gasztold agreed that the Heartthrob truly did view his victims as heartless bitches, as meat, and had no remorse. He did not create a certain image intentionally, but followed his own system of symbols, in which he devoured the heart of an enemy, a just act, in the name of retribution and the simultaneous desire to please his alter ego. The fact that he was disgusted with himself — regardless of the murders — was only a consequence of his psychological trauma.

But he pretends well. His image in everyday life is a facade built over the years, an emotionless mask.

Allex had seen many monsters, many empty eyes, soulless bodies of narcissists and psychopaths, dead shells, but this one, according to Will, was alive — and seemed to be dying in agony, hoping for an unrealistic dream of deliverance from suffering. Allex thought, if he saw the Heartthrob, he would immediately understand … There was a horror about such people, even if they pretended to be ordinary ones.

Three short vibration signals sounded from the pocket of Agent Serret’s jacket. When the young man took out his phone and read the message, his face involuntarily got long in surprise.

He looks like a pine marten, Dr. Gasztold recalled the words of his recent patient. He has sharp teeth and claws, a strong, agile body, a fluffy tail …

Allex Serret was indeed like a little animal, naive and kind, but capable of swallowing a victim twice his size. Besides, he was also caring towards those he considered friends … He kept glancing at gloomy Will, but by the end of the meeting he was convinced Dr. Gasztold had noticed Special Agent Gatti’s depressed state no worse than he had — and said he would wait in the car.

As he left the psychiatrist’s office, he was typing a text message, his lips smiling.

“Will,” said Dr. Gasztold, “I’d like you to come to dinner tonight.”

“Do you think I need an additional session, Dr. Gasztold?”

When Will was frustrated or upset, he would become more tough, with quills sticking out of his armored shell like a porcupine.

“I think you need to distract yourself,” Lukas Gasztold replied patiently. “This won’t be therapy or a work conversation. You think about the Heartthrob case day and night, it’s wearing you out.”

Will bit his lip, his chameleon eyes looking away.

“I can’t help but think about him. And I can’t think about him anymore either — because I’m confused about what I think about him at all …”

“I understand.”

Will looked at his interlocutor with hope — to see if he was being disingenuous. It was odd … If at times Dr. Gasztold’s gaze was cold, piercing, now he looked softly, kindly.

Will has been thinking a lot lately — and not just about serial killers. Dr. Gasztold hears a lot of stories every day, is aware of every nasty thought of the perverted rich, sees the garbage in other people’s heads — and yet remains calm. Neither dirt nor fear nor doubt sticks to him … Will soaks them up like a sponge, as soon as he passes another monster. Dr. Gasztold said it was a habit, a skill that is developed with experience.

Will’s only way to defend his personal boundaries is still to be wary and sullen. And sometimes to use sarcasm … Now he had no time for sarcasm, he didn’t even find the strength to laugh at Serret’s jokes.

“Thank you, Dr. Gasztold, I’ll think about it.”

“If it’s not convenient for you to come to Baltimore today, I can visit you myself.”

Will has three dogs, his house is located in the middle of nowhere, in northern Virginia, near a nature reserve, in his free time he fishes and repairs boat engines … It would be strange to force him to come back tonight — to have dinner with the psychotherapist.

It’s not so easy to win him over, he’s not Serret, who only needs to be fed and told a few kind words … It was difficult with him — and Dr. Gasztold was attracted by Will’s inaccessibility, his multi-layeredness, his versatility, his reinforced concrete walls of defense.

“Okay,” Will finally agreed. “But I’m not likely to be a good conversationalist, I’m too absent-minded.”

“We don’t have to talk,” Gasztold said. “And you know perfectly well that I’m comfortable with you, in any form of yours.”

For some reason, Will remembered Allex’s words about potatoes — that he loves them in any form: fried, stewed, baked, in chips … He doesn’t like them raw — but that’s because he hasn’t tried the kind that is well cooked.

Will was that potato for Lukas Gasztold — at least, deep down he already knew it. He had begun to pick up on non-verbal signals a long time ago, but he hadn’t attached any importance to them, hiding from them as from unnecessary, distracting information … Now Dr. Gasztold spoke directly, with an poker mask-face, with a soft look in his dark eyes.

Will has always explained the human race representatives’ desire for closeness as a need for security, the formation of alliances as an evolutionary mechanism of optimization, and has never seen himself in friendship, partnership, or relationship with anyone. He is too special, too unsociable, too incompatible, he does not need it, and it is not even worth trying.

But he seems to be thinking about someone else for the first time, he felt a friendly shoulder for the first time, Serret’s support, Dr. Gasztold’s attentive gaze; he suddenly understood what he had been missing all this time … But at the same time he is rolling down, into the abyss, into the depths of these painful thoughts, and the longer he is near the Heartthrob’s creations — corpses, clues, any evidence of his presence — the more Will empathizes — and does not judge.

He did not share these thoughts, he seemed to get cold feet — because sympathizing with or justifying the murderer was madness. They were looking for a rich man dissatisfied with his life, with a shattered psyche, a victim of auto-aggression …

Will froze in silence, Lukas Gasztold said nothing, looked at him, and in the hall the Roman Striking clock ticked steadily and patiently.

“He hates his family for what they did to him …” Will muttered under his breath. “He doesn’t invite his family because they rejected him, he’s a victim of domestic violence! Strict puritanical views, criticism, judgment, disgust …”

How amazingly his brain works! Dr. Gasztold mentally licked his lips, looked without concealment, greedily caught every detail: how the eyebrows frowned, how the long dark eyelashes trembled, how the fingers moved, how the air came out of the nostrils, how the chest swayed under the layers of jacket, pullover and shirt, how the soles of the boots creaked quietly.

“He came from a wealthy family, but they didn’t respect him. And his mother — or one of his female relatives — abused him.”

Lukas Gasztold smiled, he wanted to praise Will Gatti for his insight, but he had very good control over his emotions.

“That’s true, Will,” said Dr. Gasztold, as Will, as if emerging from a whirlpool, returned to reality a few moments later. “A little freak, a pathetic boy, a disgrace to the family.”

“That is so—”

He wanted to say ‘sad,’ but he stopped.

“It’s sad, Will, you can say it like it is.”

Will covered his face with his hands.

“They raised a monster,” he mumbled through clenched teeth and fingers closed together.

It hurt — and he couldn’t control it. No one deserves to be treated like that, no child …

Once Allex mentioned his old man, confessing he didn’t value him at all and was constantly picky, Will then remembered his own — eternally dissatisfied with his offspring’s seclusion, forcing team games on him instead of a construction set and books. Will’s father died long ago, having previously drowned all his property in the swamp of gambling addiction; Allex’s father, according to him, to his annoyance, is alive, healthy, and thriving.

“I gotta go, Dr. Gasztold,” Will sighed wearily. “Allex is waiting.” And then he added, “See you tonight.”

“I’ll be there at eight.”

“Okay.”

Will drove silently, looking ahead, Allex sat next to him, twirling a lock of hair, leaning against the door, his knee shaking, he periodically changed his position, fidgeting in the passenger seat.

The bag with the waiter’s uniform was found, the message from the unknown contact was exactly about this, tomorrow he needs to pick up the things … Allex believed in happy coincidences, but never ruled out a pattern.

However, it was all quite logical.

“We need an ugly duckling in the swan family,” Will broke the silence.

His voice was as if from the other world, creaky and dull.

Allex hemmed.

“Sounds familiar,” he drawled. “Narcissistic parent, maimed child?”

“Yes. They called him a monster until he became one.”

“They called me a monster too …” Allex said for some reason, and then looked at Will.

Will kept his eyes on the road, and a series of frames of light and shadow from the lampposts of the intercity highway gleamed in the lenses of his glasses.

“Why?”

“Don’t I look like him?” Allex grimaced with a sad smile. “I don’t know. I broke and spoiled everything, I made everyone angry. I burst into my father’s dinner parties and crawled under the table, I played pranks on his business partners when they visited the mansion …”

“It doesn’t make you a monster.”

“My father thinks otherwise.”

“Who is your father? If you don’t want to, you don’t have to answer …”