Predator

34

Basil smiles again.

“I can’t find anything about a murder,”Bentonis saying to him, “but two and a half years ago, a woman and her daughter disappeared from a business called The Christmas Shop.”

“Didn’t I tell you that?” Basil says, smiling.

“You didn’t say anything about people disappearing or a daughter.”

“They won’t give me my mail.”

“I’m checking on it, Basil.”

“You said you’d check on it a week ago. I want my mail. I want it today. They quit giving it to me right after I had the disagreement.”

“When you got angry at Geoff and called him Uncle Remus.”

“And for that I don’t get my mail. I think he spits in my food. I want all of it, all the old mail that’s been sitting around for a month. Then you can move me to a different cell.”

“That I can’t do, Basil. It’s for your own good.”

“I guess you don’t want to know,” Basil says.

“How about I promise you’ll have all your mail by the end of the day.”

“I better get it or that’s the end of our friendly conversation about The Christmas Shop. I’m getting rather bored with your little science project.”

“The only Christmas shop I could find was in Las Olas on the beach,”Bentonsays. “July fourteenth, Florrie Quincy and her seventeen-year-old daughter, Helen, disappeared. Does that mean anything to you, Basil?”

“I’m not good with names.”

“Describe for me what you remember about The Christmas Shop, Basil.”

“Trees with lights, little trains and ornaments everywhere,” he says, no longer smiling. “I already told you all that. I want to know what you found inside my brain. You see their pictures?” He points at his head. “You should see everything you want to know. Now you’re wasting my time. I want my damn mail!”

“I promised, didn’t I?”

“And there was a trunk in back, you know, a big footlocker. It was stupid as shit. I made her open it and she had these collector’s ornaments made inGermanyin painted wooden boxes. Stuff like Hansel and Gretel and Snoopy and Little Red Riding Hood. She kept them locked up because of how expensive they were, and I said, ‘What the fuck for? All someone has to do is steal the trunk. You really think locking them up in there is going to stop someone from stealing them?’ ”

He falls silent, staring off at the cinder-block wall.

“What else did you talk about with her before you killed her?”

“I told her, ‘You’re going down, bitch.’ ”

“At what point did you talk to her about the trunk in the back of the store?”

“I didn’t.”

“I thought you said…”

“I never said I talked to her about it,” Basil says impatiently. “I want to be put on something. Why can’t you give me something. I can’t sleep. I can’t sit still. I feel like fucking everything and then get depressed and can’t get out of bed. I want my mail.”

“How many times a day are you masturbating?”Bentonasks.

“Six or seven. Maybe ten.”

“More than usual.”

“Then you and me had our little talk last night and that’s all I’ve done all day. Didn’t get out of bed except to pee, barely ate, haven’t bothered with a shower. I know where she is,” he then says. “Get me my mail.”

“Mrs. Quincy?”

“See, I’m in here.” Basil leans back in the chair. “What do I have to lose? What incentive do I have to do the right thing? Favors, a little special treatment, maybe cooperation. I want my fucking mail.”

Bentongets up and opens the door. He tells Geoff to go to the mail room, find out about Basil’s mail.Bentoncan tell by the guard’s reaction that he knows all about Basil’s mail and isn’t happy about doing anything that might make his life more pleasant. So it’s probably true. He hasn’t been getting it.

“I need you to do it,”Bentontells Geoff, meeting his eyes. “It’s important.”

Geoff nods, walks off.Bentonshuts the door again and sits back down at the table.

Fifteen minutes later, Benton and Basil are finishing their conversation, a tangled mess of misinformation and convoluted games.Bentonis annoyed. He doesn’t show it and is relieved to see Geoff.

“Your mail will be waiting on your bed,” Geoff says from the doorway, his eyes flat and cold as they stare at Basil.

“You better not have stolen my magazines.”

“Nobody’s interested in your fucking fishing magazines. Excuse me, Dr. Wesley.” And to Basil, “There are four of them on your bed.”

Basil casts an imaginary fly rod. “The one that got away,” he says. “It’s always the biggest one. My father used to take me fishing when I was a little boy. When he wasn’t beating my mother.”

“I’m telling you,” Geoff says. “I’m telling you right in front of Dr. Wesley. You mess with me again, Jenrette, and your mail and fishing magazines won’t be your only problem.”

“See, this is what I mean,” Basil tellsBenton. “This is how I’m treated around here.”