Chapter 21: Golden Rain 03
Some people inevitably harbor this misconception: psychopathic serial killers are often brimming with energy—they can work diligently by day, still find time to hunt victims by night, and on top of that, they’re passionate about fitness, romance, and art appreciation, going eight hundred rounds with their lovers in bed, sleeping less than Einstein.
—Regardless of whether such psychopathic serial killers actually exist in this world, Hestal Amalite was clearly not that type.
The next morning, when Hestal woke up, his head was splitting with pain. This was caused by his cervical spine condition, which frequently flared up after nights of sleeping in poor positions and after working too much overtime; after a night of uncomfortable sleep, Hestal’s morning grumpiness tended to reach its peak.
But what made today different from any other day was this: there was still a living, breathing person in his apartment.
Hestal swore to God, last night he had truly, *truly* wanted to throw Albanino Bacchus out of his house, or just stab him to death—the latter option probably suited his mood better.
But what else could he do? They hadn’t gone any further, and Albanino had been soaking wet from head to toe yet fully clothed the entire time—and when you’d already killed people, agonizing over something like “the guy gave me a blowjob, should I jerk him off in return” seemed frankly unnecessary.
On the other hand, Hestal figured they hadn’t reached the stage of baring everything to each other anyway—in every sense of the word.
But no matter what, the other man’s lips still looked red and swollen, and he gazed at him pitifully, reasonably pointing out that it had already been past eleven o’clock and it was still pouring rain outside. And as far as Hestal knew, the day Albanino was arrested, he had been taken from his home in a police car—meaning he didn’t even have a means of transportation.
And so, he chose to yield—as well as to chase Albanino off to his guest room, placing a dagger beside his own pillow and sleeping that way all night, just in case Albanino’s metaphor about a coyote intruding on territory actually came true for them.
But of course he shouldn’t have yielded. This forensic pathologist was a well-known bastard who loved to push his luck—just like that lunch incident before. As long as you didn’t stop him the first time, from then on Albanino would show up in your office with familiar ease, again and again, even bringing you lunch.
So when Hestal turned off his phone alarm and walked into the living room amid a headache and the dizzy nausea of post-waking low blood pressure, he indeed found that there were sounds coming from his kitchen.
He had a beautiful island kitchen and a full set of high-end cookware, though none of it had seen much use. Herstal’s mornings were spent battling postural hypotension and drowning himself in coffee, lunch was handled by the vending machine downstairs from the firm, and dinner often devolved into takeout Chinese and easy-to-prepare semi-finished food products due to sheer exhaustion. The clatter of cookware from the kitchen sounded almost like a hallucination.
The thing he used most in the entire kitchen was actually a French press. At this very moment, Herstal did indeed catch the aroma of coffee, but he spent a few seconds wavering between going into the kitchen to see what Albanino was up to and just skipping the coffee—and decided to forget it.
He had to sit on the couch for a few seconds, waiting for the dizziness to pass on its own, while also considering whether to start taking aspirin first thing in the morning. It was precisely at that moment that his phone rang.
It was his disposable phone ringing. Only one person could possibly be calling this number: the bounty hunter named Allen Todd. Considering the time the police officers led by Officer Hardy had arrived at the crime scene yesterday and the time the case had made the local news, now was about the right time for that call.
He took a deep breath as he answered the phone, trying to make the dizzy, nauseous feeling less obvious, then pressed the answer button.
“Hello?”
The other person’s voice sounded stammering, clearly overly nervous, and a foolish remark blurted out: “I… I didn’t expect you to pick up.”
“I expected you would have some questions for me.” Hestal replied calmly, glancing distractedly toward the kitchen. The sound of the French press seemed to have stopped.
“Didn’t it occur to you that I might call the police?” Todd couldn’t help but ask.
“Would you?” Hestal countered, reaching up to slowly rub his brow. “You’re a hunter. You should have that instinct—knowing better than to pit yourself against the unknown.”
The question was meaningless, because Hestal hadn’t chosen that bounty hunter at random. He had picked a man known in the industry for his extreme caution—that was the flattering way to put it. The unflattering way was that some of his colleagues would say he lacked courage. After all, in all his years as a bounty hunter, he had never once gotten involved in gang affairs, even though many suspects who skipped bail with high bonds had gang backgrounds.
For a bounty hunter, that was voluntarily giving up a substantial income.
Similarly, Todd most likely wouldn’t rashly challenge a deranged serial killer—this was practically an ingrained instinct. Hestal felt that the other party’s tone when calling back was enough to confirm this.
“But you’ll still be caught in the end.” The other party spoke in a low voice, so faint it seemed even he wasn’t sure.
And Hestal no longer wanted to waste time on this topic. He suppressed his sneer deep in his heart and replied, “Perhaps. But even so, once the payment I owe you arrives, I imagine that at least we won’t be meeting again after this.”
In the things he would have to face going forward, he most likely would never need Alan Todd again.
It was at this moment that Albanino poked his head out from the kitchen—he was wearing the same shirt from last night, now washed clean and dried, clearly he had made himself quite at home with Hestal’s appliances. Over the shirt he had tied a gray-and-white striped apron, one that Hestal himself couldn’t even remember ever buying.
And what drew the most attention was the obvious red mark above the collar of Albanino’s shirt, which he had never bothered to button properly: the thin, elongated wound left by the blade had already become red and swollen, and the surrounding marks left by suction stood out starkly against his skin. These colors made Hestal’s blood stir, his fingertips itch—he truly yearned for the moment when he could really put his hands around the other’s throat.
He knew that sooner or later he would have that chance. Perhaps he just needed to wait a little longer.
“Good morning, murderer.” Albanino smiled at him, and unsurprisingly received a thoroughly humorless glare in return. “Breakfast and coffee are ready. Shall I pour you a cup?”
Hestal considered it for a moment—mainly weighing his own pride against the severity of his headache—then dryly replied yes.
Albanino ducked back into the kitchen without looking the least bit surprised.
“Goodbye, Mr. Todd,” he said perfunctorily to the man on the phone, ignoring the other’s nervous, trembling breaths. “It seems it’s time for my breakfast.”
—And then he hung up cleanly and without hesitation, and began taking apart the phone, snapping the SIM card inside. Though he personally suspected that Alan Todd’s next move would most likely be to consume a great, great deal of alcohol, doing his utmost to forget everything that had happened this morning.
No matter what Albanino thought about the pile of phone remains on the table after he came out of the kitchen again, he didn’t say much about it.
He simply placed what he was holding in front of Hestal: coffee, and on a plate, a rather spectacular pile of fried eggs, bacon, and toasted bread. All of it looked like things taken from Hestal’s refrigerator, though that pack of bacon—Hestal remembered it had been pressed down at the very bottom layer of the fridge—he had no idea how it had been dug out.
“Just make do with this,” Albanino said, pointing at the plate, and actually had the nerve to let a trace of obvious dissatisfaction seep into his tone. “I originally wanted to make scrambled eggs or Eggs Benedict, but it turns out your fridge has neither cheese nor hollandaise sauce.”
“I generally don’t eat breakfast at home.” Hestal pointed out dryly.
That was actually a lie, because when his dizziness was so severe that he couldn’t keep anything down, he wouldn’t even eat breakfast at all.
“Considering the distance between your apartment and your office, the traffic conditions, and the alarm time you set—do you really have time to go out to a fast-food place for breakfast? And let’s not even talk about the garbage you eat for lunch. Living like that, you won’t make it past fifty-five.” Albanino let out a derisive snort.
“I imagine every cop in all of Westland would be delighted to hear that.” Hestal retorted sharply.
Albanino shrugged and went back around to the kitchen. By the time he returned, the apron was gone and he was carrying his own portion of breakfast. He settled comfortably beside Hestal, the two of them bathed in the warm glow pouring through the living room window. The weather had finally cleared up again—today was probably a crisp autumn day.
The two of them currently had a bizarre domestic atmosphere about them. Hestal, with malicious distraction, thought to himself: if Hardy knew that the Westland Pianist and the Sunday Gardener were currently eating breakfast at the same table, would the poor detective faint dead away on the police station floor?
Albanino poked at the fried egg on his plate with his fork, then suddenly asked, “Mind if I ask who was on the phone?”
Hestal considered for a moment, then said in a flat tone, “A bounty hunter.”
“Did you use a bounty hunter to find Bob Landon?” Albanino let out an incredulous laugh. “Yeah, he’s still out on bail pending trial. Forging a court guarantee document shouldn’t be too hard for you either—really clever. Bart wouldn’t think of that.”
“You seem a little too pleased about this.” Hestal pointed out, using his fork to bring a piece of bacon to his mouth—which once again proved his point: Albanino really could cook.
Even without glancing sideways, he knew the other man was sizing him up, perhaps slightly surprised at why he had so readily accepted what the other had offered—but why not? He knew the Sunday Gardener wouldn’t kill him in such a tasteless and amateurish way. The other might use a knife, might use his bare hands, but it could never be poison.
“Why not? I think it’s quite amusing.” He heard Albanino say cheerfully. “Besides, I thought you wouldn’t eat food under the same roof as your enemy.”
“What?” Hestal sneered. “Have we become so dramatic that we’re at the level of the Count of Monte Cristo?”
“I thought being dramatic was the Pianist’s specialty. After all, he does enjoy injecting something so subtle… mocking into his crime scenes,” Albanino replied.
“Some people even set a skeleton in a wedding dress adrift in a boat decorated with roses. Are we really going to argue about degrees of dramaticism now?” Hestal retorted.
Albanino didn’t respond to his mockery, but instead continued to study him—one could imagine it was the expression of an artist appraising a piece of uncarved white marble, easily reminding Hestal of those conversations about empty ribs and larkspur.
A moment later, Albanino spoke again. “I noticed that when you first wake up in the morning, you have a slight Southern accent when you talk. I can’t hear it at all when you’re on the phone with that bounty hunter, but now…”
He shrugged, making no effort to hide the teasing tone in his voice. “Honestly, it’s pretty cute.”
—Hestal reconsidered whether he really should stab him.
“Most people wouldn’t think so,” Hestal said coldly. He didn’t like where this conversation was heading.
“Virginia?” Albanino guessed.
“Kentucky,” Hestal answered simply. He shot the other man a sharp glance, then pointed out, “This doesn’t exactly count as a fair exchange, Dr. Bax.”
“What do you want to hear?” Albanino laughed, straightening up a little in his seat. “I grew up in Westland. As a kid, I never wet the bed, never committed arson, and never tortured animals to death. My parents didn’t divorce when I was young, and no one in my family abused children.”
“That’s deeply unsettling to hear,” Hestal remarked sarcastically, though he didn’t sound the least bit unsettled.
“Because an ordinary person can also become a monster in the public’s eyes without any warning?” Albanino asked. He slowly finished the last bit of his egg, his movements and his tone both calm. “Or is it because of something else? I’m guessing it’s because you and I are not the same in this regard, right?”
This was not a question worth asking at all, and Hestal knew this very well himself—the scars on his hands revealed too many possible guesses about his childhood, and in a certain sense, he hated this fact.
Albanino, however, was different. He lacked the kind of tragic early experiences that most serial killers often had. In fact, if he was being honest, his childhood had been remarkably normal—and that was precisely the point. Olga Moroz believed that, strictly speaking, the Sunday Gardener was a psychopath rather than a sociopath, and there was a reason for this conclusion. The symptoms of a sociopath were entirely caused by social pressure and early experiences, while the making of a psychopath could only be attributed to psychological, biological, and genetic factors.
To put it more simply: no matter what kind of family Albanino Baks was born into or what kind of education he received, he was almost inevitably going to become a deranged serial killer, whereas Hestal was not necessarily the same.
Hestal was well aware that he had to recognize he was facing a monster completely different from himself.
“I don’t think we’re close enough to be discussing this kind of topic,” Hestal said simply, deflecting the subject.
“You’re right,” somewhat unexpectedly, Albanino didn’t pester him at all, “but you should also know that one day it will happen—if in the end neither of us manages to kill the other.”
Hestal stopped the movement of his fork and looked sharply at the other man: “You really do treat all of this as a game, don’t you?”
“And what of it? You must have heard plenty of professional opinions from criminal psychologists through Olga.” Albanino smiled, and indeed that was true: Olga had an intense interest in the Sunday Gardener who treated life as a game, and she was clearly certain that the Gardener could at any moment pull off some trick beyond anyone’s expectations.
Hestal slowly set his fork down on the plate, listening to the soft clink of the collision. Then he said in a low voice: “Then I can only conclude that you will, in fact, continue trying to kill me.”
“I will,” Albanino replied with a sweet smile. “I will want to murder you, dismember you, devour you completely; likewise, I also want to know you, to savor your body—”
He paused briefly, his eyes looking terrifyingly bright.
“As I said, I am exploring the position that suits you best.” He concluded, “So be careful, Mr. Armalite, don’t reveal your weaknesses in front of me. As you know: love is a heavier crime than murder, and harder to hide.”
Notes:
[1] In *The Count of Monte Cristo*, Dantès does not eat any food at Fernand’s banquet, because “according to Eastern custom, one does not eat under the same roof as one’s enemy.” The “Easterners” mentioned in the text should refer to Arabs.
[2] The characteristics of the American Southern accent are basically elongated vowels, no pauses between words, and a relatively heavy nasal tone. Because the American South was economically backward in the past and the general public had a low level of education, it was long looked down upon by people from other parts of the United States. In terms of stereotypes, people always think the Southern accent sounds rustic and is easily mocked.
[3] “Bed-wetting, arson, and animal cruelty” are the so-called “three elements of a serial killer.”
[4] The distribution of txt documents of this article is prohibited. Little readers who are reading pirated copies, please delete this document immediately, otherwise you will frequently see twin little girls in blue dresses at the entrance of your own elevator, and red unidentified liquid will also gush out from inside the elevator. In seventy percent of cases, late at night you may suddenly encounter a crazed mental patient holding an axe, violently hacking at your bedroom door with the axe.
[5] “Love is a heavier crime than murder, and harder to conceal.”
— William Shakespeare, *Twelfth Night*.