The Need

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  The Need

  Andrew Neiderman

  FOR MY DIANE,

  MY RAISON D’ÊTRE

  PROLOGUE

  I AWOKE WITH blood on my hands. I smelled it and felt the warmth trickle down my fingers and settle at the center of my palms. Obviously, it was still fresh. The realization turned my spine to stone. I couldn’t sit up; I could barely breathe.

  Never before had Richard left blood on our hands. He had always taken great care to wash away any trace of a kill. He was a meticulous person by nature, the type who never left so much as a dresser drawer slightly open or a towel unfolded.

  I had no doubts as to why he had left the blood. It was part of his revenge. He wanted to drive home his act and have me confront it from the moment I had returned. I sat up slowly, my heart aching with anticipation. All was quiet; all was still.

  I wiped my hands on the blanket and, with fingers trembling, reached over to snap on the lamp on the nightstand. Richard had not only turned off the lights before his kill, but he had also drawn the drapes so that no moonlight would spill through the windows. I knew he had wanted Michael to think it was still me, to think it was my hands crushing him and squeezing the life out of him. I knew the way Richard thought and how exquisite he could be when it came to tormenting his prey. Of course he thought he had much more reason to behave that way this time.

  I could hear his laughter inside me: a long hollow peal of laughter reverberating down into the depths of whatever soul we still possessed.

  “No,” I whispered without turning back to look beside me on the bed. “Please, no.”

  I took a deep breath and turned to witness Michael’s shattered face. I recognized him only by the wave of his blond hair. It still lay softly over the top of his forehead, only now his spilled blood ran through the strands. His beautiful face, a face I had compared to Richard’s in its classic handsomeness, had been battered until the nose bone collapsed and the cheekbones caved in. His mouth was open, the lower lip stretched below his lower teeth so the gums showed.

  I tried to deny this gruesome sight, closing my eyes, but when I opened them, his corpse was still there, the bleeding coming to an end as his life trickled out and away. I dared not look under the covers at his naked torso. I knew how vicious Richard could be and how he enjoyed attacking other men in their sex.

  Despite Richard’s efforts to prevent me from doing so, I cried. On this bed Michael and I had pledged our love endlessly. Endlessly we wove our illusions and dreams into magical moments I had not thought possible for someone like me. No one had made me feel more feminine, more beautiful, more alive than Michael. He made me want to be a woman and from the start I knew how that threatened Richard. My mistake was I did not do enough to hide my feelings.

  I caught my breath and sat up. For a moment when I looked into the mirror above the dresser, I thought I saw Richard’s reflection gazing back instead of my own. I hated him more at this moment than I thought possible. He must have seen that enmity in my eyes, for his image faded quickly.

  I rose from the bed and went to the bathroom. I wouldn’t let him escape, I thought. He cannot retreat into the deepest depths of our being. Not now, not ever again. I snapped on the light and stared into the mirror, bringing my face close and gazing intently into my eyes, looking behind them until I was sure I saw Richard looking out. I willed him to look out, forced him to hold his gaze on mine.

  “You’ve gone too far this time,” I said. “You had no right and I will not forgive you.”

  He looked skeptical, which only angered me more.

  “Look out at the world through my eyes for the last time, for you will never see the light of day again,” I promised.

  He dared smile back.

  “I swear,” I said in a cold whisper. “I take an oath on our mother, on our entire race, never to permit you to hunt again, to live again. I’ll drown you in me.”

  And then, to emphasize my determination, I closed my eyes tightly and willed him to sleep. He fought, clamored, chastised and swore, but in the end, he succumbed and when I opened my eyes again, he was gone. I studied my face to be sure.

  Then I turned and looked back at Michael’s broken body and our broken love.

  Why hadn’t I done this before, before Richard had had a chance to act? It was my fault, my fault!

  “I’m sorry, my love,” I said. “But there is little more that I can do now but deny my very essence. And I will. I died when he killed you, and he killed himself.”

  I glared back in the mirror, and then I dressed and left Michael’s apartment to prepare myself to go to the police and make my confession.

  ONE

  “I HAVE COME to confess,” I said.

  Detective Mayer sat back in his imitation black leather desk chair and smiled skeptically. He had crystalline green eyes. I had thought him a handsome man, and if it weren’t for his being the policeman pursuing Richard, I might very well have pursued him as a lover.

  As it was he had been pursuing me without ever knowing it. Now I was about to tell him, and he looked like he wouldn’t believe a word I said.

  “It’s your brother I expect to hear that from,” he replied, smiling impishly. Steven Mayer had one of those faces that looked washed in the waters of the fountain of youth—reddish blond hair and eyebrows, a sprinkling of freckles over the crests of his cheeks, and smooth, creamy skin. He had come from New York and begun his career as a bodyguard for celebrities. Then he decided he liked Los Angeles so much he would stay. At twenty-eight he became a police detective and had begun quite a successful career for himself, most notably tracking down the Rodeo Drive slasher. He was not married; he liked Italian food, Jane Fonda and Charles Bronson, loved The Phantom of the Opera and read Robert Parker detective novels religiously.

  Richard and I always made it our business to learn about our adversaries. It was part of the nature of who and what we were and still are, even though I was about to put an end to it.

  “I am my brother,” I said.

  He raised his eyebrows and leaned forward. At six feet three, he stood broad and impressive with a graceful, muscular body I could close my eyes, inhale and see. My imagination was as good as a probing X-ray machine. The desk he sat at, some standard requisition police department furniture, looked a size or two too small for him. He crossed his wrists on the top of it, and I couldn’t help envisioning him bound and naked, waiting to see what I would do next to bring him to a pitch of excitement that bordered on exquisite torture.

  “Having a little trouble with your script, huh? You mean to say, you’re your brother’s keeper.”

  “No, I said it correctly. Richard and I are one in the same person.”

  He kept his smile, but I could see the curiosity growing in his eyes. He sat back again.

  “That’s quite a trick.”

  “It isn’t a trick; it’s a natural phenomenon.”

  “A what?” He started to laugh.

  “Think,” I said quickly, punching the word at him. “Think hard. In your vigorous pursuit of my brother and in your investigations of the gruesome murde
rs you have labeled the Love Murders, you have never seen Richard and me together in the same place at the same time. In fact, no one ever has,” I said. His smile, although still imprinted was more like breath on a glass window, fading.

  “So?”

  “We are not two distinct people,” I said.

  “Let me understand this.” He learned forward again, lifting a pencil to use as a pointer. “You are sitting there and telling me you become your brother? What are you, a transvestite?”

  “No. I didn’t say I dressed up as a man and impersonated my brother. We metamorphose, physically change from female to male, male to female.”

  He stared at me a moment, deciding whether or not to laugh.

  “You know,” he said shaking his head, “I understand that you movie stars are a little crazy, that it comes with the territory, but this kind of talk goes a little further, don’t you think?”

  “I didn’t expect you to understand or believe me immediately.”

  “Oh, no? Well, let’s be thankful for the little things.”

  “But when I’m finished, you will understand and you will believe,” I said firmly.

  “Is that right? What are you going to do, change into your brother right before my eyes?” he asked, now smirking.

  “No. I am not going to let Richard reappear again. I am going to keep him buried within me. That’s actually the killing I want to confess to. The others … form a trail leading to credibility. It means I must end my dual existence, no longer permit Richard to hunt; but I am ready to do that. I am ready to deny myself and in doing so, destroy the essence of myself.”

  “What will all your loyal fans do?” he asked, his face deadpan.

  “They will find another face to idolize. It was only a matter of time before they would anyway. It’s the nature of the business. The public is fickle, but I assure you, I am not worried about that anymore.” I sat back.

  “I will not sign another autograph; I will not make another movie. Clea Cave will disappear as quickly as the smirk on your face, once you understand.”

  He shook his head. Then he stood up and went to the window in his office that looked out upon the Hollywood Hills. Richard had intended to do away with Steven Mayer because he was “getting too close,” and here I was about to bring him as close as he could possibly get without becoming a victim.

  “So, you want to confess. Confess to what? Or should I say, which one?” he asked turning sharply. He looked angry about it. I realized how much he had wanted to get Richard and how much he admired me. Another idolizer, I thought, not without a certain mental fatigue. But the pained look in his eyes made the woman in me soften. I even sensed my interest growing. It was so hard to depress the desire.

  “Let’s begin with last night’s,” I replied, my voice nearly cracking.

  “Last night’s?” His face brightened again. “You mean that homicide over in Westwood? The publicist? What’s his name…” He looked down on his desk. “Michael Barrington. Him?”

  “Yes.” I was unable to keep my eyes from filling with tears.

  “Forget it, honey. This guy was strangled and mangled, and from what forensics tells us, the man who did it had fingers made of steel and hands like pliers. Why just the depth of the trauma in his windpipe … hell, it was crushed. Now I bet you have a helluva handshake, but…”

  “I didn’t do it. Richard did it and he’s very strong.”

  “Just what I thought,” he said sitting down quickly. “Now you’re making some sense. When did you first learn your brother had killed this man?” He was poised to write some revelation.

  “When I re-emerged and found Michael dead.”

  “Re-emerged? Re-emerged from where?”

  “From Richard,” I said. He stared at me and then lowered his head.

  “Listen,” I said. “I will begin at the beginning and when I am finished, you will understand. I promise.”

  He looked at his watch.

  “Yes, it will take some time, but it will be worth it,” I told him. He sat back to contemplate me.

  “All right, I’ll listen, but after you’re finished, I want you to tell me exactly where to find your brother.”

  “After I’m finished, you’ll know where to find him,” I replied.

  “So let’s hear it,” he said, as he put his hands behind his head and leaned back, willing at least to humor me.

  “Actually,” I began, taking the small book out of my purse, “I wrote a diary and got Richard to do the same. I thought we should keep some sort of record, a history, so to speak, even though no one else in our race has done so to my knowledge.” I took out one of my cigarettes as well.

  “Race?” He leaned over to light my cigarette. I took a deep puff and blew the smoke straight up. I smoked these perfumed cigarettes imported from Egypt, a present Richard received from one of his victims, claiming he had drawn her life force out of her with a single kiss.

  “I’m an Androgyne.”

  “Come again?”

  “An Androgyne. Let me explain it to you the way it is explained to every one of us. In the beginning God did not create man and then, when man was lonely, create woman. He made us first,” I added, unable to keep an arrogant tone out of my voice. I couldn’t help it. Whenever I have a conversation with one of the inferiors, I automatically become condescending. It was something I blamed on my mother. She brought me up believing we were superior.

  “He made you first,” Detective Mayer repeated. His head bobbed, his eyes were wide and the corners of his mouth tucked in tightly, creating a small dimple in his left cheek. I saw myself pressing the tip of my finger tenderly into that dimple, but then Richard invaded my thoughts with one of his own, and I witnessed his sharp finger cutting through the cheek and then ripping the man’s face apart. I couldn’t help but grimace.

  “You all right?”

  “Yes, yes. Anyway,” I continued, taking refuge in the mythology, “unlike any other creature He had created, He gave us the power to change sex. He truly created us in His image, for God has no sex; he can be either male or female, just as we can.”

  “I have enough trouble being just a male. You know—shaving. I was thinking I would look good in a beard. What do you think?” He turned his head to show me his profile. “A goatee?”

  “I realize your need to be humorous, Detective Mayer. It’s a form of protection. As long as you treat me as if I were crazy, you don’t have to face what will be terrifying.” He stared at me and then straightened up in his seat again.

  “Okay, so you had some introduction to psychology at college. Where did you go to college anyway?”

  “Alcott in Massachusetts. My mother wanted me to stay away from Hollywood.”

  “She had the right idea. She was a model, right? A very successful model—Janice Cave. I saw some of the print advertisements she did in the fifties.”

  “All Androgyne are beautiful. We are the most beautiful creatures on earth, perfection.”

  “Suffer from terrible modesty, I see. Look, so you’re an Androgyne, and you can change from female to male and male to female. Exactly how do you do this? A pill? Magic words?”

  “After our initial conversion, our power comes in thought and concentration, our ability to seek the male viewpoint or as males to seek the female viewpoint. Then it happens.

  “For me, it’s like passing through a dream. I am in the womb again. I am in darkness, surrounded by warm and soft walls. I start to turn, to stretch and experience movement as if for the first time. Suddenly, I am sliding toward a small light. It grows larger, brighter. I draw closer. Then, I experience a repetition of orgasms until I explode into my new self, opening my eyes to discover changed hands, a changed torso. I look into the mirror and see my second self and wonder where I’ve been for a moment, until it all returns to me. My thoughts trail slowly behind the physical metamorphosis like smoke, you see. They arrive late.”

  Detective Mayer stared at me, his mouth slightly open.

&n
bsp; “Where can I get some of that?” he finally asked. “Sounds right up my alley.”

  “I imagine any so-called normal male or female would want to be like us, to experience life the way we experience it. You can’t imagine how much sharper all our senses are and how that reflects during the making of love. Every time we do, it’s like the first time—explosive, truly ecstatic.”

  “You say any so-called normal male or female, yet you don’t look any different from anyone I know, except of course, you’re beautiful. I’m not going to deny that, and seeing the kind of following you have and the kind of box office your films command, it would be ridiculous to deny it anyway.”

  “You’re right. No one looking at us, not even a physician examining us, can tell who or what we are. There is nothing that physically distinguishes us from your kind. Yet there is something about us that only we can discern. One Androgyne can look at another and know.”

  “How come?”

  “None of us have been able to explain it. A friend of mine…”

  “Also an Androgyne?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are all your friends Androgyne?”

  “No. We’re clannish, but we’re not obvious about it.”

  “Of course not,” he replied, still humoring me. “You were saying … a friend?”

  “William. He once told me his mother said it was something in the face, some message telegraphed in the blink of an eye. But others have theories ranging from telepathic thought to high-pitched sounds only we can hear.”

  “His mother? I take it you … what did you call yourselves … Androgyne … have normal parents then?” He sat back. “What am I doing?” he said turning to an invisible witness and raising his arms in protest. “You know, I’m as crazy as you are. I’m listening to this and asking questions…”

  I ignored him. “We have mothers and fathers, but they’re one being. And the concept of monogamy is alien to our very being. And then there is the pursuit of prey.”

  “Prey?” He leaned forward. “What do you mean, prey?”