Shower of Gold 03

Some people were under the misconception that psychopathic killers were often full of energy. They could take their job seriously during the day, in addition to working out, being in a relationship and appreciating art, going for more than 800 rounds with their lovers in bed, and sleeping less than Einstein.

– Whether there exists such a kind of psychopathic killer or not, Herstal Armalight was clearly not one of them.

The next morning Herstal woke up with a splitting headache, the result of cervical spondylosis, which often occurs after a night of sleeping in the wrong posture and after working overtime for too long. After a night of uncomfortable sleep, Herstal's irritability in the morning would usually reach peak value.

Today was different from any other day, in that there was a living, breathing person in his apartment.

Herstal swore to God that he had really, really wanted to kick Albarino Bacchus out of his house last night, or stab him to death, the latter probably being more to his liking.

But what else could he do? They didn't do anything any further; Albarino was both wet and fully clothed from head to toe – when you had killed someone, there wasn't any further need to dwell on problems like "someone gave me a blowjob should I give him a handjob in return".

On the other hand, Herstal didn't think they trusted each other enough[1] no matter what, in whichever aspect.

[1]坦诚相见, meaning to trust/be sincere someone fully, also contains the meaning of being comfortable naked with each other.

But in any case, the other's lips were still red and moist, miserably looking at him, pointing out with clear evidence that it was already 11 pm at night, and it was raining heavily outside. As far as Herstal knew, Albarino had been taken from his home in a police car on the day he was arrested, which meant he didn't even have a means of transport.

So, he chose to concede – as well as drive Albarino to his guest room and sleep with the dagger next to his pillow, just in case Albarino's metaphor of the coyote who broke into his territory really did come true.

But of course he shouldn't have conceded; the forensic pathologist was a notorious bastard who likes to give an inch, take a mile, just like the thing on having lunch with him before. If you didn't stop him the first time, Albarino would frequently show up in your office like he was already friends with you[2], and even bring you lunch. .

[2]自来熟, meaning being approachable even when meeting for the first time. (used in a negative context here)

So when Herstal turned off his phone alarm and walked into the living room amidst a headache and the dizzying nausea of low blood pressure, he did find signs of activity in his kitchen.

He had a beautiful kitchen island and a full set of high-end cookware, but none of them had been used much either. Herstal's mornings were spent battling low blood pressure after getting out of bed, and drowning himself in coffee, solving lunch by eating from the vending machine below his firm. His dinners, due to exhaustion, were often resolved by Chinese takeout and semi-manufactured foods that were easy to cook. As such, the clanking and clattering sounds of culinary tools from the kitchen sounded like a dream.

The object he used the most in his whole kitchen was actually a French press. At that very moment, Herstal did smell coffee, but after a few seconds of deliberating between walking into the kitchen to see what the hell Albarino was up to and not drinking it, he thought better of it.

He couldn't help but to sit on the sofa for a few seconds, waiting for the dizziness and the nausea to pass on its own, while contemplating whether he should start making a habit of taking aspirin in the morning. At that moment, his phone rang.

It was his burner phone. There was only one person who could have called: the bounty hunter named Alan Todd; given the time it took for Officer Hardy and the others to rush to the crime scene yesterday and for the case to make the local news, now would be the time for him to call.

He took a deep breath to make his dizzying nausea less obvious, then pressed the answer button.

"Hello?"

The other's voice was stuttering, clearly strung up, a stupid statement blurting out of his mouth without thought, "I... I didn't expect you to answer."

"I expected you to have some questions for me." Herstal replied calmly, distracted by looking in the direction of the kitchen. The sound of the French press seemed to have stopped.

"Did you not think that I might possibly call the police?" Todd couldn't help but ask.

"Would you?" Herstal asked in reply, reaching out a hand to massage the space between his eyebrows/ "You are a hunter. You should have that instinct to know not to overestimate your capabilities to take on the unknown."

There wasn't any purpose in asking this question, since Herstal didn't pick this bounty hunter at random. He picked a guy who was well known in the industry for being cautious – this was a better way of phrasing it. The less pleasant way of phrasing it would be, some of his fellow bounty hunters would think that he lacked courage; after all, in all these years as a bounty hunter he had never got involved in mob business, although a lot of suspects who jumped bail had background in the mob.

For a bounty hunter, that was a huge amount of income to give up voluntarily.

By the same logic, Todd was very likely not to challenge a psycho killer rashly; this was practically a deep-rooted instinct. Herstal thought that it was easy to come to this conclusion just from the other's way of speaking after dialing back.

"But eventually, you're going to get caught." The other said lowly, his voice so light like he was uncertain even for himself.

Already, Herstal did not want to waste any more time on the subject. He pushed his snort of disdain to the back of his mind and replied, "Perhaps. But nonetheless, with the commission fee I paid you, I don't think we'll meet each other ever again after this to say the least."

It was very likely that he wouldn't need to use Alan Todd, for what he'll need to face in the future.

And it was at this moment that Albarino poked his head out of the kitchen – he was wearing the same shirt he had worn last night, which had been washed and dried, clearly using Herstal's household appliances without any trouble. Around that shirt, he had tied a gray and white striped apron around it; Herstal himself couldn't even recall when he bought that thing.

The most striking thing was the distinct red scar above the collar of Albarino's shirt, which was never properly buttoned: the thin cut left by the blade was red and swollen; around it, the marks left due to sucking seemed particularly eye-catching. Those colors made Herstal's blood stir and his fingertips tingle, he really yearned for the moment where he could actually use his hands to choke Albarino's neck.

He knew he would get that chance sooner or later. Maybe he should just wait.

"Good morning, killer." Albarino smiled at him, unsurprisingly receiving Herstal's humorless glare. "Breakfast and coffee are ready. Shall I pour you a cup?"

Herstal thought over it for a moment – mostly gauging between his ego and the degree of his headache – then dryly answered yes.

Seemingly unsurprised, Albarino retracted his head back into the kitchen.

"Goodbye, Mr. Todd," He said offhandedly to the other on the phone, ignoring the other's nervous, quivering breaths. "Looks like it's time for my breakfast."

– Then, he hung up sharply and began to dismantle the phone, snapping the telephone card. Although, he personally suspected that the next move of Alan Todd would be to ingest an excessive amount of alcohol, desperately trying to forget what happened this morning.

No matter what Albarino felt towards the wreckage of the phone after he got out of the kitchen once more, he didn't say anything.

He simply laid out what he was holding in front of Herstal: coffee, a rather spectacular pile of fried eggs, bacon and toast on a plate. These all looked like things which had been taken out of Herstal's fridge, though the packet of bacon Herstal remembered was buried at the bottom layer of the fridge. He had no idea how Albarino dug it out.

"We'll have to make do," Albarino gestured at the plate, surprisingly having the nerve to show an obvious hint of displeasure in his tone. "I was going to make scrambled eggs or Eggs Benedict, but in the end I unexpectedly couldn't find both cheese or hollandaise sauce in your fridge."

"I don't usually eat breakfast at home." Herstal pointed out dryly.

This was actually a false statement, as when he was so dizzy that he couldn't eat anything, he basically didn't eat breakfast.

"Taking into account the distance of your apartment from your office, the traffic conditions and the time you set your alarm, do you go out and buy breakfast from fast-food restaurants?" Albarino snorted, "Also, look at all the crap you eat for lunch: you won't live over fifty-five years old like this."

"I guess all of the police officers from Westland would be happy to see that." Herstal retorted pointedly.

Albarino shrugged and went back into the kitchen. By the time he returned the apron on him was gone, and he was holding his own portion of breakfast. He sat down comfortably beside Herstal, the two of them enveloped in a warm glow coming through the living room window. The weather had finally cleared up again; today was probably a crisp day in fall.

There was an eerie homely atmosphere between the both of them now. Herstal digressed for a moment, maliciously wondering whether Hardy would faint onto the floor of the police station if the poor police detective knew that the Westland Pianist and the Sunday Gardener were now eating breakfast before the same table.

Albarino stabbed his fork at a piece of fried egg on his plate, then suddenly asked, "Mind if I ask who that call was from?"

Herstal thought about it for a moment, and said flatly, "A bounty hunter."

"You used a bounty hunter to find Bob Landon?" Albarino let out an incredulous chuckle. "Yeah, he's still a parolee. It shouldn't be too hard for you to forge the certificate of guarantee by the court – that's clever. Bart wouldn't think of that."

"You seem a little too glad to see this happen." Herstal pointed out as he used his fork to put bacon into his mouth. This proved his opinion: Albariono was pretty good at cooking.

He knew, even without looking out of the corner of his eye, that the other was sizing him up, perhaps slightly surprised at how easily he accepted what Albarino offered him – but why bother; he knew that the Sunday Gardener wouldn't kill him in such a way that was both tasteless and had no standards. The other man might use a knife, he might use his hands, but certainly never poison.

"Why not? I think it's very interesting." He heard Albarino say cheerfully, "Besides, I thought you wouldn't eat food under the same roof as your foes."

"So what?" Herstal let out a cold laugh, "Have we already dramatized ourselves to the level of the Count of Monte Cristo?"

"I had thought that dramatization was the Pianist's job; after all, he likes to inject a kind of subtle... irony into his crime scenes." Albarino replied.

"Some would even put white bones, dressed in a wedding gown, into a boat full of roses flowing down the current. Do we have to debate over the question of dramatization?" Herstal retorted.

Albarino did not respond to his sarcasm, but continued to take measure of him – you could imagine, that was an expression of an artist taking measure of an unsculpted white marble, easily making Herstal remember about the conversations on empty rib bones and larkspur.

A moment later, Albarino added, "I noticed that you spoke with a slight southern accent when you first woke up in the morning. It was completely inaudible when you were on the phone with that bounty hunter, but now..."

He shrugged, not bothering to hide the kind of teasing that came through in his voice, "It's kind of cute, to be honest."

– Herstal reconsidered whether he should actually stab him.

"People would not believe that." Herstal said coldly, not really liking where this conversation was heading.

"Virginia?" Albarino guessed.

"Kentucky." Herstal replied simply, giving the other a sharp look before pointing out, "This doesn't count as returning the favor, Dr. Bacchus."

"What do you want to hear?" Albarino laughed and sat up a little straighter, "I grew up in Westland since I was young. I didn't wet the bed, set things on fire or abuse animals as a child. My parents didn't divorce when I was young, and no one in my family abused children."

"That sounds really disturbing." Herstal said mockingly, without any hint of being disturbed while listening to the other.

"Because even an ordinary person can become a demon in the eyes of the public without any warning signs?" Albarino asked, slowly finishing the last bit of his egg. Both his movements and speech were very mild. "Or, because of something else? I'm guessing it's because you and I are different in this regard, right?"

It wasn't a question worth asking at all, and Herstal himself was well aware of that – those scars on his hands revealed too many conjectures on what his childhood could have been. From some kind of perspective, he detested this fact.

On the other hand, Albarino lacked the kind of tragic early experiences most serial killers commonly have. In fact, if he was telling the truth, he had a pretty normal childhood – and that was the main point. There was a reason behind Olga Molozer's argument that the Sunday Gardener was, strictly speaking, a psychopath rather than a sociopath. The symptoms of a sociopath were caused solely by social pressures and early experiences, while the creation of a psychopath could only be attributed to psychological, biological and genetic factors.

To put it simply: no matter what family Albarino Bacchus was born in, what education he received, he was almost certainly going to be a psycho killer, but not for Herstal.

Herstal clearly knew that he himself must be aware that he was facing a monster completely different from himself.

"In my opinion, we aren't familiar enough with each other yet to discuss such topics." Herstal said simply, trying to skirt around the subject.

"You're right," Rather surprisingly, Albarino didn't pester him at all. "However, you should also know, inevitably we will be – if we both fail in our attempts to kill the other."

Herstal stopped the movement of his fork in his hand, looking sharply at the other. "You really do see all of this as a game, correct?"

"Even if that's so, so what? You must have heard a lot of professional advice from criminal psychologists from Olga." Albarino smiled. Indeed it was true: Olga was extremely interested in the Sunday Gardener's game of life; evidently, she was very sure that the Gardener could stir up trouble which exceeded any of their expectations at any time.

Herstal slowly placed his fork on the plate, listening to the soft, clinking sound. Then he said lowly, "Then, I can only assume that you will really continue to try and kill me."

"I will," Albarino replied with a sweet smile, "I will want to murder you, dismember you, completely devouring you. In the same vein, I also want to understand you, enjoy your body –"

He paused briefly, his eyes appearing shockingly bright.

"Like I said, I am exploring the most suitable place where you should be." He concluded. "So be careful, Mr. Armalight. Don't show weakness in my presence. As you know: a murderous guilt shows not itself more soon / than love that would seem hid."

Author's Notes:

1. In The Count of Monte Cristo, Dantès does not eat any food at Fernand's banquet, because "it is customary with the Orientals to secure full liberty for revenge by not eating or drinking in the houses of their enemies". The "Orientals" in this are probably referring to the Arabs.

2. The characteristics of the Southern American accent are, basically, prolonged vowels, no pauses between words, and heavy nasal sounds. Because in the past, the economy in the South fell behind the average citizen and low education level, so for a long time they were looked down upon by Americans from other regions. Stereotypically, people always thought that the Southern accent was crude, very easy to be laughed at.

3. "Bedwetting, fire-setting and cruelty to animals" are the so-called "homicidal triad". (T/N: also known as "the Macdonald Triad").

4. "A murderous guilt shows not itself more soon / Than love that would seem hid." – Shakespeare, Twelfth Night