The Sopaths Read Free Page B

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