CHAPTER 1
Abner paused to survey the site: it was a nice suburban house surrounded by a park-like landscape. The sign said GRANVILLE VILLAGE NURSERY SCHOOL – “IT TAKES A VILLAGE.” The clamor of happy children could be heard from inside.
He knocked on the door. A middle aged woman opened it. “Mr. Slate?” she inquired.
“Yes. I just wanted to inquire–”
“Of course. I am Mrs. Johnson. Please do come in.”
He followed her into a small private office and took the indicated chair. “If you don’t have room for another child–”
“I regret to say it isn’t that, Mr. Slate. I believe in candor, and there is something I think you should know, though my colleagues advise against this.” She paused significantly.
“Something about Olive,” he said. He knew he was not going to like this. “I realize she is a headstrong child. That’s why we felt that the experience of a good, disciplined nursery school would be appropriate.”
“Ordinarily, yes. But Mr. Slate, this–this may be something else. Of course we can’t be certain, nobody can be absolutely certain in a case like this, but there is strong suspicion. We simply can’t afford to take the chance.”
Abner tried to make his stomach muscles relax. “Take what chance?”
“The chance of the disruption her presence could cause. The–the danger.”
“What danger?”
She visibly steeled herself. “Mr. Slate, we suspect she might be a sopath.”
This caught him by surprise. “A what?”
Her mouth formed a grim smile. “You are not familiar with that term, of course.” She paused again.
Abner resisted the urge to point out that his question had already adequately indicated that. “Yes.”
“Now understand, we could be mistaken. It really is almost impossible to be sure. Still, considering the welfare of the other children, we must err on the side of caution.”
“What is a sopath?”
“And naturally it has nothing to do with the merit of the parents. It is essentially random. So I mean absolutely no offense to you.”
This was definitely what he had feared: that there was something fundamentally wrong with his child. “What is a sopath?” he repeated grimly.
“Please be patient with me, Mr. Slate. This is an extremely uncomfortable matter.”
He gazed at her intently.
“I need to provide some background,” she said after a moment. “Mr. Slate, are you a religious man?”
“What has that to do with this?”
“We are nondenominational, of course. But there is one aspect that relates regardless. Religious folk tend to grasp it more rapidly.”
He was annoyed, but bore with it. “We attend the local Protestant church every Sunday, and support it financially. Is that answer sufficient?” He was actually a doubter, stemming from his military experience. He had seen and experienced things that no God worthy of the name would have tolerated. But that was none of her business.
“Do you believe in souls?”
This caught him entirely off-guard. “Souls?”
“More specifically, in reincarnation?”
“Reincarnation! That’s not Christian.”
She would not be swayed. “Do you?”
“Maybe,” he agreed reluctantly. “But I did not come here to discuss theology.”
“This is beyond theology, Mr. Slate. This is a drastically secular matter at this point. But it will help if you do believe in the immortality of souls.”
What could she possibly be getting at? She did not seem to be proselytizing. “Assume that I do.”
“The soul normally enters a baby at birth, and remains with that person throughout life, departing only when that person dies. Then it becomes available for a new baby. Souls are immortal, as human beings are not.”
“If you are trying to push a religious point, Mrs. Johnson, I will make a formal protest.”
“I am not, Mr. Slate.”
“There is a secular point to this?”
“Very much, Mr. Slate. It seems that souls do exist, and that the number of human souls is limited to something above six billion. Perhaps that is the limit beyond which the original generic soul can no longer be divided. Unfortunately our population has recently expanded beyond that limit. Do you understand what that means?”
“How do the extra babies acquire souls, then?”
“That is precisely the question, Mr. Slate. Some babies are born without souls, because the souls have run out. Only a minority, at present, because the deaths of souled people constantly return souls to circulation, as it were. But the number of vacancies is increasing, as the population continues to grow. The–the ratio is changing. Perhaps five years ago only one baby in ten thousand lacked a soul; now we suspect it is more like one in a hundred.”
Abner dreaded her point. “And you think Olive is one of these soulless ones?”
“This is what we fear, Mr. Slate. We call them sopaths. That is a contraction of sociopaths–-children without conscience. Because you see, we now know that the soul is the source of conscience.”
“But isn’t conscience learned?”
“Yes. But the capacity for it must exist. A sopath lacks that capacity. A sopath will never develop a conscience. Will never feel remorse. Never love selflessly. The only thing that moves a sopath is the prospect of immediate personal gain, and the only thing that daunts a sopath child is the threat of immediate pain or death. They are literally ungovernable, short of ugly measures. Now can you appreciate why we don’t want to take your little girl?”
“Damn!” It made too much sense. He had hoped that Olive was merely wild, but she did fit the pattern this woman was describing.
“Of course we’re not certain, Mr. Slate. I hope we are mistaken. But we feel we must not take the risk. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he said tightly. “How did you identify her, after only a brief interview?”
“We have had experience. One sopath is more than enough to alert a person. But I repeat, we are not sure of your child. All children are selfish; it takes time to distinguish natural childishness from incorrigibility. But it’s a calculated risk that we feel we can’t afford.”
The woman was after all being practical. “I fear you are right. Assuming Olive is a–a sopath–what can we do about it? How should we handle the situation?”
“Mr. Slate, it is not my place to advise you on such a thing.”
“What should we do?” he repeated firmly.
“I can give only an opinion, which may be erroneous or inapplicable to your case.”
He was tired of evasions. “What?”
“Mr. Slate, there is only one treatment we know, and only one cure. The treatment is permanent incarceration, in the manner of a rabid animal. You must cage her.”
“We can’t do that. What’s the cure?”
The woman winced as she spoke. “Death.”
“You’re telling us to kill our baby.”
Mrs. Johnson backed off immediately. “I shouldn’t have said that. I apologize.”
He shook his head. “You said what you meant.”
“I didn’t want to say it. Surely I am wrong. How can anyone destroy a little child?”
How, indeed! Yet he had done it while serving overseas. He had been a sergeant, trying to protect his complement from surprise attack. They had pursued a suspected young sniper, who had fled into a house and not emerged. They had a mission to accomplish, and could not afford to be ambushed on their return. They had to take out the sniper, and could not take time to lay siege to the premises. “Burn the house,” he had ordered tersely. They had done so, then discovered it was an orphanage. Several children were burned to death. The suspected sniper was merely an older child spying on the foreign troops. The horror of it had haunted him for months.
Abner stood. “Thank you for your candor, Mrs. Johnson. I think we do have a problem.”
She stood too. “I fear I said too much. It is not my business to diagnose any such condition.”
He saw what was bothering her. “I will consider this interview to be private. I thank you for your information, uncomfortable as it is.”
“And of course I’m not recommending that you––”
She could get in trouble with the law for suggesting that a child be killed. “Of course. I will seek other information.”
She nodded. “That would be appreciated.”
Abner drove home, deep in thought. He hated the notion, but knew that the woman had spoken truth. Olive was incorrigible. He had not wanted to believe it, but too much was falling into place. The nursery school woman had not offered a revelation so much as confirmation. Now he had a name for it: sopath. One who was sociopathic. Not crazy, merely without conscience. There were others like her. And a rationale: she lacked a soul. It was not the fault of her upbringing, but of the accident of timing. She had arrived when no soul was available, missing her window of opportunity. Apparently souls did not offer twice. Maybe it occurred at the moment of birth, and thereafter the avenue into the baby was closed off. A practical rather than a religious thing.
Zelda met him at the door, wearing a bathrobe. She looked the question. He shook his head.
“Damn!” she said, echoing his own reaction. “I know it seems unloving, but I wanted to have her out of the house for a few hours at a time, so I could relax.”
“Where is she now?”
“Asleep. She does get tired after rampaging, fortunately. It’s a small blessing.”
“Jasper?”
“Playing a video. He’ll be entranced for at least an hour.”
“You knew we’d have to talk.”
She nodded. “It has been too pervasive, too rough. I feared what you would learn.”
“With justice. Have you heard the word ‘sopath’ before?”
“Yes,” she said grimly. “That’s what I feared. I overheard two women talking at the store. Incorrigible?”
“If she is one. They’re not sure.”
“She is one. Is there any treatment?”
“They–they said she had to be caged–-or killed. That once a sopath is born, there’s no further chance for a soul, and therefore there can be no conscience. It will just get worse.”
Her eyes were fixed. “Abner, before we–we continue this discussion—can we take a break?”
“A break?”
She let her robe fall open, showing her bare breasts.
Surprised, Abner did a quick assessment. Zelda, unlike most women, grew passionate when stressed. It was her way of diverting the bad feeling. This was bad news, but he could not demur.
In moments they were at it, making desperate love. Zelda was a well-formed woman, always a pleasure to see and touch. But he wished there could have been some other occasion for this delight.
As they concluded, there was a sound. Both of them paused, but it seemed to be nothing, so they relaxed.
“You were saying?” she inquired as she cleaned up. Her mood had definitely improved.
“They have had experience. They won’t take a sopath. The term is a contraction of sociopath, and it means a hopeless case. They say it’s not our fault; she just happened to be born when there wasn’t a soul available.”
“Caged or killed,” she repeated as she dressed. “Abner, I can’t do either of those things. She’s our child.”
“I know.” He spread his hands. “We’ll just have to watch her. Closely.”
“But how can I get a job if I can’t leave her alone?”
“Maybe there’s a facility for them. A place where they know how to handle them.”
“Like a prison?” she asked sharply.
“Like a reform school.”
“She’s only three years old!”
And that was only part of the problem. “We’ll think of something,” he said with obviously false hope.
She opened the door, stepped into the hall, and screamed.
Abner leaped to join her. There was blood spreading from Jasper’s room. “I’ll handle it,” he said, steering her back into the bedroom. She went without protest.
He looked into Jasper’s room. The boy was sprawled across his bed, bathed in blood. A pool of it was jelling on the floor, extending to the doorway. The boy’s throat had been slit.
Abner leaped to the small figure. The blood was still spilling out. He caught a fold of the sheet in his hand and clapped it to Jasper’s throat. He felt a faint pulse. Had he stopped it in time?
“Zelda!” he called. “Call an ambulance! He’s alive but fading.” Then he held on, holding the boy’s remaining blood inside while waiting.
Zelda got on the phone, and soon the ambulance arrived. Abner got out of the way and let Zelda handle it. She was competent, now that there was something positive to do. If the boy had been dead, it would have been another matter.
Numb, Abner walked to Olive’s room. She was just finishing a candy bar. There was a spot of blood on her nightie.
He kept his voice level. “Where did you get that bar, Olive?”
“From Jasper,” she answered matter-of-factly, licking her fingers.
“Did he give it to you?”
“No.”
“How did you get it from him?”
“I snucked behind him and cut his throat and took it.”
“Olive, you shouldn’t do that.”
She continued licking her fingers, ignoring him. And of course it was a stupid thing to say. The word “should” had no meaning for her, only “can.” Jasper had had something she wanted, and wouldn’t give it to her, so she had taken it. By almost killing him.
He closed the door and walked back to the bedroom. Zelda was standing where he had left her, facing away as the medic continued to stabilize the boy. “That sound,” she said.
What could he tell her? “Maybe you better lie down. I’ll call the police.”
“They have already done that. I’ll go to the hospital with Jasper. I just want to know.”
There was no way out. “She tried to kill him.”
She nodded. “Why?”
“She wanted his candy bar.”
She shuddered. “Tell them it was an accident.”
Because even after this she couldn’t stand to do what they had to do. He knew better, but couldn’t have her freaking out right now. “Okay.”
They took Jasper away, and Zelda went with them.
Abner waited. If they had gotten over there when they heard the sound, would they have been in time? He suspected not. The child had “snucked” up behind her older brother with the knife while he was preoccupied with the video game, and sliced his throat. Had she even asked for the candy bar? Probably not, as she knew he wouldn’t share. The sound might have been him collapsing on the bed, or her departing the room with the candy bar.
They should have locked her in her room until they could watch her. They had been caught short by that lapse.
The police surveyed the scene. They found the knife where it lay under a sheet. It would have Olive’s fingerprints on it. “They were playing,” Abner said. “We didn’t realize the knife was real. It was a horrible accident.”
The man nodded. He spoke into his radio. “Sopath. Come clean it up.”
So they knew about sopaths. How was it that the news had never become public? But Abner knew the answer: to avoid panic. They were keeping it quiet, because the problem had no ready solution.
The man turned to Abner. “Keep it locked up.” He departed.
“It,” not “her.” Yet who could say they were wrong? Abner went and locked Olive’s door.
It took hours for the numbness to wear off, gradually replaced by pain. They had almost lost their son, murdered by their daughter. What were they to do?
Zelda returned from the hospital. “He’s in intensive care, scheduled for surgery. I couldn’t watch or do anything. But I had to do something, so I came home. Olive needs care.”
“You know we can’t just ignore what happened. The police said—”
“I know what they said. But I can’t do it. We’ll just have to make it safe.”
Safe for whom? But he let it pass.
They carried on as if nothing had happened. The police cleanup crew had restored the crime scene to pristine quality. There was no further evidence of the disaster. Except for the absence of Jasper.
Zelda fixed a meal for Olive. Neither adult was in a mood to eat, but the child gobbled down her food with gusto. It was clear that she felt no remorse for her dreadful act.
But when it was time for her bath, she said no. Zelda didn’t try to reason or argue with her. “If you don’t get in the tub, I will put you in.”
“I’ll bite.”
“Then I’ll hold your face under the water.”
The child gazed at her mother appraisingly. Zelda’s eyes were focused on distance and her mouth was a thin line. Olive decided to take her bath.
So had it been a bluff? Abner wasn’t sure. Zelda was like a zombie at the moment, but the wrong nudge could send her into an ugly fit. Olive had realized that, and taken the expedient course. To her mind, drowning was a feasible mechanism, if one had the power to enforce it. Zelda was normally a gentle person, but she had been pushed to her limit. Much as Abner had been when going after a fleeing figure who might have gunned down one of his men. It did not require many such ambushes to evoke deadly toughness in the objects of such mischief.
When the child was done, Zelda returned to the hospital. “I have to be sure of Jasper,” she explained tightly, kissing him on the way out. “I have locked her in. Don’t let her out.”
“Understood.”
As soon as the car departed, Olive called. “Daaady!”
“Go to sleep,” he called back.
“I want out!”
“Mother’s orders.”
“I don’t care!”
“Just settle down. She’ll return later tonight.”
“No!”
She was in a temper, but that was standard for her. He tried to tune out her continued calls, and went to watch the TV. But it didn’t work; she was persistent and loud. She banged on the door, screaming.
He couldn’t stop himself from listening. Olive alternated tearful appeals with shouted threats. She was only three years old, but already had a small arsenal of persuasions. And no conscience. What were they going to do with her?
At last she tired and went silent, but Abner’s thoughts did not ease. They couldn’t keep her locked up all the time. There had to be a more permanent solution. The one he didn’t want to face. Mrs. Johnson had said it, before trying to back off: Death.
Was he to kill his own child, as he had those orphans? The orphans had been inadvertent; this would be deliberate.
No. There had to be some viable alternative.
Zelda returned home in two hours. “It doesn’t look good,” she reported grimly. “He’s in a coma. They say he lost too much blood. There may have been--”
“Brain damage?”
She nodded. “There’s nothing we can do but wait. And hope.” She paused, then seemed to force herself to ask what she had to. “Olive?”
“Locked in. She screamed herself into exhaustion.”
“I had better check on her.”
“Maybe you should let her be, since she’s quiet now.”
“That’s the best time to check her.”
He had to agree. She went to Olive’s room and unlocked the door. She was back in a moment. “Sleeping like a little angel.”
“She’s a little demon.”
Then she was crying. He tried to comfort her, but in this respect she was like her daughter: she fussed herself to sleep.
He didn’t want to disturb her, so he continued holding her, lying on the bed in their clothing. Whatever they faced, they had to have their rest.
But as he faded into sleep himself, he wondered: had she locked the door again after checking on Olive? He wanted to check, but would have had to disturb Zelda to do so. That was too much of a sacrifice.
The phone rang in the wee hours. Zelda leaped up to answer it before Abner really had time to orient himself. She listened for a moment, then set it down, her face drawn. “He’s dead.”
It took him a moment to orient. Then he was stunned. “Jasper!”
There was a commotion downstairs: a crash and a scream. Zelda, already on her feet, lurched out the door and into the darkness of the hall.
Abner had a horrible premonition. Some children really were assassins. Sopaths could be. “I’ll go!” he cried. But she continued toward the stairs.
He rolled to his feet and followed. He heard Zelda cry out. Then he heard her tumbling down the stairs. He turned on the hall light, which she had ignored in her haste, but of course that was too late.
Zelda was at the foot of the stairs, lying askew. As if it were a snapshot he saw her there—and saw the cord that had been tied across the top step from the banister support to the rail on the wall. She had tripped over it in the shadow and fallen headlong.
He ripped out the cord and charged down to help her. But already he knew with a sickened certainty that it was useless. Her head was at a wrong angle and she wasn’t breathing.
And there stood Olive, gazing placidly on the scene. She had of course tied the cord for exactly this purpose: to injure or kill an adult.
“Get up into your room,” he snapped at the child.
“No.”
He rose and grabbed her with one motion. For an instant he was tempted to hurl her into a wall, but he simply carried her up the stairs and dropped her on the bed. He locked the door.
He called the police. The same crew came to investigate. “I told you to keep it locked up,” the man reproved him.
“My wife forgot.” It was like being in an unreal realm.
“Don’t you forget.”
When they and Zelda’s body were gone, Abner tried to relax, to fathom the magnitude of the disaster, but it eluded him. He found himself half-believing that none of it had happened, that Zelda and Jasper were out shopping for school clothes and would return shortly. That gave him a temporary license on sanity.
Then Olive pounded on her door. “Let me out, daddy! I’ll be good.”
And how was he to deal with this little monster? She had killed twice, without remorse. Yet she was his daughter.
He went to her bedroom and unlocked the door. She was standing there, unconscionably cute. “Why did you tie that rope?” he asked as she walked out.
“She locked me in.”
“So did I.”
Her little head turned to gaze at him with disquieting consideration. “I don’t like it. I’m hungry.” She made her way down the stairs, navigating them carefully, as they were quite big for her.
So it had indeed been deliberate. Olive knew the stairs were dangerous, so had cleverly used them to get back at her mother. He would have thought that such strategy would be beyond a three-year-old, but evidently it was not. And so a little child had been able to kill another child and an adult, because they had annoyed her.
He followed her down to the kitchen. He went for cereal and milk. He was not great on making meals, but could handle this much.
“No,” she said firmly. “Candy.”
“Candy isn’t good for you.”
“I don’t care.”
So he fetched her a candy bar. Was she to govern this household, having eliminated those who told her no? Would she become a little tyrant whose whim was law?
There was no point in dragging this out. “Now use the bathroom if you need to, and return to your room.”
“No.”
He gave her a direct stare. “Or else.”
“Or else what?”
Was she calling his bluff? “Or else I’ll spank you so hard you won’t ever forget it.”
She considered, then obeyed. She understood ruthless power. Unfortunately that seemed to be all she responded to.
That reminded him again of his military service. He had turned out to be a natural leader, with a special touch for female personnel, and gotten promoted rapidly as others died from sniping and roadside bombs. They had been under siege by urban guerrillas, never knowing when the next enemy strike would come. That had worn down the men and women. They had a higher attrition from post traumatic stress and suicide than from enemy action. Abner had to his own surprise been able to handle it, armor-plating his spirit after the sniping episode. But he hated it, and was heartily glad when his term expired and he returned to civilian life. About the only thing he had missed was the women. He had been careful never to abuse his authority, but they had come to him, some of them beautiful, including even a few who ranked him, and there had been many warm nights. It was a case of eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die, and it seemed to affect the women as much as the men.
Now he was under siege again, by his own vicious child. His old toughness of mind was returning. He still hated it, but knew he could do what he had to.
Once Olive was locked in, he got on the phone. Half an hour satisfied him that there was no institution ready to take a child without conscience. The word about sopaths was already getting around.
But he had a job to go to, and he couldn’t leave her home all day. Neither locked up nor loose. He had to settle this soon. Just as he had had to when on the mission. He had already experienced the consequences of not acting with sufficient force. Twice.
He couldn’t just kill her, or leave her to die. Yet something had to be done. There was no other way.
He phoned work. “Something has come up. I can’t make it in today.”
“We heard,” his boss said. “Horrible accident. Your wife.”
“Yes. There are things to handle.”
“We understand. Come back when you can.”
How nice to have an understanding employer! But that tolerance was limited. He would have to report for work in a few days, or lose his job. That meant he had to deal with the sopath soon.
He pondered, and concluded that he needed to give Olive early reason to kill him. When he caught her in the act, he would be able to do what had to be done. To burn out the sniper.
He rehearsed it in his mind. He did not like it, but saw no feasible alternative. He was at war.
He let her out at lunch. “This time you will have a nutritious meal,” he announced. He had it laid out: milk, bread, salad.
“No.”
“Yes. Eat it.”
“No!” She swept it off the table with her arm.
He picked her up, put her over his knee, and gave her a hard spanking, exactly as he had threatened before. She screamed as much in outrage as pain. Then he carried her up and dumped her on the bed, slamming the door as he left her bedroom.
He went to the kitchen and cleaned up the mess. Then he went to his own bedroom, lay down on the bed, and closed his eyes.
It didn’t take her long to get moving. He tracked her by the sounds. She checked the door, discovered that he had forgotten to lock it, and went out, trying to be quiet. The notion that he might have left it unlocked on purpose was beyond her mental capacity. She was a vicious animal, but also a child.
She went downstairs, where the kitchen knives remained within reach of a stool. He hadn’t thought of the knives, but would have left them there if he had. She came quietly upstairs.
She peeked into his room. He watched her through slitted eyes, faking sleep. She came quietly close, lifting the knife. She was going for the throat; it had worked before, so was a proven technique. She held the knife with both little hands and brought it down in a slicing motion.
He caught her arms. She screamed with surprise and fell back. He caught her by the ankles, picked her up, and swung her in a half circle, cracking her head into the chest of drawers. He dropped her, suddenly feeling acute remorse. How could he be doing this?
But it was too late. Her neck was broken, and she was dead.
He picked up the phone, calling the police again. “This is Abner Slate. I have just murdered my daughter. Come and get me.”
“On our way.” There was no special surprise in the voice.
They came a third time. “Dead, all right,” the man said.
“I am ready to go.”
“You bashed her?”
“Yes.”
The man faced him. “Mr. Slate, what happened here was an accident. You have suffered a terrible triple loss. We’ll clean it up and write up the report. You just take it easy and keep your mouth shut.”
“But you have to arrest me!”
“For doing what you had to do? It was an accident.”
“But I killed her! I bashed her head! I murdered my child!” But the worst of it was that he had planned that killing, knowing there was no real choice.
The man put a firm hand on his shoulder. “Settle down, Mr. Slate. You destroyed a sopath. That’s not murder. It’s a public service. You’ve got grief enough with the loss of your wife and son without our complicating it. Set your affairs in order and get on with your life. There will be no report unless you force our hand. We don’t want a disturbance, so don’t bruit it about. That’s all.”
Stunned anew, Abner sat down. “Just like that? No investigation? No report?”
“We know the signs,” the man said. “That girl was one. If you had killed her first, your family would still be alive. But we knew you wouldn’t believe until you had experience. That’s the way it is. Remember that, next time you see a sopath.”
Abner could appreciate that. “I’ll try to warn the family the sopath is in. But they won’t believe until it’s too late.”
The man nodded, experienced in this. “But you can notify us. That may help. We try to track them.”
The police departed after their crew removed the body. Abner sat for a long time, trying to come to grips with it. He had indeed killed a child again, this time deliberately. This time his own little daughter. The police had evidently forgiven him, but how could he forgive himself?
Yet the policeman had been correct: if he had nerved himself to do it sooner, he would not now be numb with grief for his wife and son. Could he forgive himself for that, either?