Richard Montanari Read Online Free PDF

The
sight of the matte-black finish on the six components, free of dust and static,
fills me with an almost sexual sensation. The warmth coming off the components
- I always warm everything up at least an hour before a session - coats me in a
thin layer of perspiration. Or maybe that is just anticipation.
         Beckman
is shackled to the table with tape over his mouth. His head is held in place by
a neurosurgical clamp, a precision device used to fix a patient's head to a
table during stereotactic procedures for the placement of electrodes, an
operation requiring rigid immobilization. A year ago I ordered the apparatus
from a German firm, paying by international money order, receiving the product
through a series of remailers.
         I
slip on a surgical gown, stand next to the table, open the straight razor. With
the index finger of my left hand I probe the soft skin on the man's forehead.
Beckman howls into his gag, but the sound is muffled.
         That
is about to change.
         With
a steady hand I make the first cut across the forehead, just beneath the
hairline, taking my time. I watch the skin bisect slowly, revealing the glossy
pink tissue beneath. The surgical clamp does its job well. The man cannot move
his head at all. With a foot pedal I press Record, then remove the gag.
         The
man gulps air, pink foam leaking from the corners of his mouth, lie has severed
the tip of his tongue.
         He
begins to scream.
         I
monitor the sound levels, make a few adjustments. Beckman continues to shriek,
blood running down both sides of his face now, onto the polished stainless
steel of the table, onto the dry enamel of the floor.
         A
few minutes later I blot the blood on Beckman's forehead, clean it with an
alcohol pad. I go to work on the man's right ear. When I am finished I take out
a measuring tape, measure down from the ait on the forehead, mark the spot with
a red felt-tip pen, then take the second killing instrument in hand, hold it to
the light. The carbon tip is a dark, lustrous blue.
         One
final check of the sound levels and I set about my penultimate task. Slowly,
deliberately - largo, one might say - I proceed, knowing that just a few feet
away, on the other side of the outside wall, the city of Philadelphia is
passing by, oblivious to the symphony being composed inside this common looking
building.
         Then
again, has not the greatest art in history come from humble surroundings?
         Zig,
zig, zag.
         I
am Death in cadence.
         When
the power drill reaches its full RPM, and the razor-sharp bit nears the skin
covering the frontal bone, in an area just above the right eye, Kenneth Arnold
Beckman's screams reach a majestic volume, a second octave. The voice is off
key, but that can be fixed later. For now, there is no need to hurry. No need
at all.
         In
fact, we have all day.

 
        

Chapter 4
        
        Sophie
Balzano sat at one end of the long couch, looking even smaller than usual.
        Jessica
stepped into the outer office, talked to the secretary, then entered the main
office, where she chatted with one of Sophie's Sunday- school teachers. Jessica
soon returned, sat next to her daughter. Sophie did not take her stare off her
own shoes.
        'Want
to tell me what happened?' Jessica asked.
        Sophie
shrugged, looked out the window. Her hair was long, pulled back into a
cat's-eye barrette. At seven, she was a little smaller than her friends, but
she was fast and smart. Jessica was five-eight in her stocking feet, and had
grown to that height somewhere during the summer between sixth and seventh
grade. She wondered if the same would happen for her daughter.
        'Honey?
You have to tell Mommy what happened. We'll make it better, but I have to know
what happened. Your teacher said you were in a fight. Is that true?'
        Sophie
nodded.
        'Are
you okay?'
        Sophie
nodded again, although this