The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [359]
As for me, I’ve done better than might’ve been expected, I suppose, given where I started out. Most of my old pals and associates ended up either in jail or dead on the streets, and while it’s hard to feel sorry that the likes of Ding Dong and Goo Goo Knox went that way, it seems sad that someone as good-hearted as Hickie the Hun should’ve spent most of his adult life walking the yard at Sing Sing. My own life’s pretty much been this shop; and while tobacco’s done all right by me in terms of money, it’s also left me—in an example of what the Doctor calls “horribly tragic irony”—with this wretched hack, a condition what will, very probably, keep eating away at my lungs until there’s nothing left to cough up. I get the feeling, sometimes, that the Doctor feels guilty about never getting me to give up the smokes; but I was a nicotine fiend long before I ever met the man, and, caring and patient as he always was, there were just some things about my early life what even his kindness and wisdom couldn’t undo. I don’t hold him responsible, of course, or love him any the less for it, and it makes me sad to think that my physical predicament only gives him one more reason to vex himself; but again, I guess it’s that very vexing, and the ability to keep working through it toward a better sort of life for our mostly miserable species, what makes him such a very unusual man.
There’ve been women in my life every now and again, but none who’ve filled me with the kind of dreams what I once shared with Kat in the Doctor’s kitchen. All of that died with her, I guess; and if it seems strange that such should’ve happened so early in my life, I can only say that it sometimes occurs to me that those of us what grew up on the streets did everything too early—too early, and too fast. Once a week I take the subway out to Calvary Cemetery and put flowers on Kat’s grave, and there’s times—more and more often, these days—when I find myself sitting and chatting with her, much the way we did on that morning when she downed the better part of a bottle of paregoric. Wherever she is, I suppose she knows that I’ll likely be joining her sometime fairly soon; and while I don’t like to think about leaving my friends, and especially the Doctor, behind, there’s a kind of a peculiar thrill in thinking that in the end I’ll find her again, all grown up and free of her cravings for burny and the high life. We might even, at long last, be able to make some kind of a peaceful, pleasant life together—the kind of life what she never knew during her short time on this world. A lot of people, I guess, might consider that a silly sort of dream; but if you came from the world what Kat and I did, it wouldn’t seem that way at all.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While researching the prequel to this book, The Alienist, it became apparent to me that, contrary to popular belief, women are just as prone to violent crime as are men. But their victims are most often children—frequently their own children—and this disturbing fact seems to discourage the kind of sensationalist reporting that usually characterizes cases involving violent men, especially male serial killers. I discussed this matter with Dr. David Abrahamsen, who had given me much assistance during the preparation of The Alienist, and he confirmed that women generally abuse or murder people with whom they have strong personal connections (unlike men, who often select strangers as the victims of their violent tendencies, since they are easier to objectify). Once again, I thank Dr. Abrahamsen for his assistance and encouragement, without which this project would have gone astray