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I called the airlines to find out about rescheduling my flight so I could leave the next day, but discovered that the soonest a seat would be available would be the day after. If I didn’t return to the prison, I’d be stuck in town with nothing to do.

It was while talking to my parents later that I realized what a corner I’d backed myself into. I heard myself lying to them, telling them everything was just fine. I wanted so badly just to tell them I’d lost it, that this killer had terrorized me. I wanted to cry. I wanted my mom to hold me and tell me everything would be okay.

After I hung up the phone, I brooded about the reality of going back the next day. It would be tough, but what if I could do things differently? Maybe I could reduce the risk. Straitjacket Gacy somehow. Newfound courage alternated with terror. There was no way I was going to get much sleep that night.

Each time I closed my eyes, I saw Gacy moving around my room, rearranging things to his liking, just as he’d done in the prison.

38

Day Two

I awoke the next morning looking puffy and red-eyed, but also with a new dose of determination. Perhaps it was stupidity masquerading as courage, but I still wanted to “tame the monster.” I’d never in my life accepted a low grade in anything, and I couldn’t stomach the thought of flying home with my tail between my legs.

The deciding factor was Ken’s reassurance that he’d keep an eye on things during the day, since he’d be joining us sometime during the morning to go over some legal stuff. An added incentive was the arrangement that had been made for me to meet another convicted serial killer while Ken and Gacy were going over Gacy’s appeal process.

• • •

This time Gacy greeted me with a warm smile rather than a leer, behaving as if we were old friends. He was obviously trying to put me at ease.

“What did you do for the rest of the day with Ken?” he asked.

“Nothing much,” I said. “We just ate dinner and walked around the town.”

“Did he try to fuck you?” he asked. I guess he was still hoping his assistant would do what he couldn’t—or hadn’t managed to yet.

“No!” I said indignantly, playing the innocent. “He was very nice.”

“That’s good,” Gacy said, not meaning it. “I told him to treat you like you were my son.”

Right. Gacy made it clear to everyone—Ken, the other inmates, even the guards—that I was his property to do with as he liked. As if to emphasize the point, his eyes went to my wrist where I’d made a point to wear his bracelet.

“Are you wearing my other present as well?” he asked seductively, referring to the briefs he’d given me.

Since I was damn sure he’d never confirm one way or the other, I nodded. In actuality, I’d left the underwear in my room. I could just imagine what a funny prop that would be when I told this story to my family and friends. To me, this was all still like a movie I was temporarily living in. Eventually, the credits would roll, and I’d get to go home and deliver my review.

This time, per my new plan, I launched immediately into business to circumvent any funny stuff Gacy might have in mind. We sat next to one another with his binder labeled “Top Secret Case Files” balanced on our laps. Periodically, I could feel him trying to “accidentally” brush up against me, but I repeatedly pushed him away. It was such a strange feeling, reminding me of when I was in junior high school and was on the other end of such advances, ones directed at girls I liked.

For the most part, we were able to stick to my agenda. We leafed through his book, page by page, viewing the dossiers on each of his victims. He showed me the autopsy report on each, as if he was proud of his handiwork.

“They all deserved to die,” he explained. “If you lead the kinds of lives they did, something was bound to happen.”

I just nodded, amazed at his ability to deny responsibility. He seemed to be saying: Even if I did kill them, it was their fault.

“They went out in the streets and hustled their asses,” he pointed out. “That’s why