Irene had murdered those three people by poisoning them. For the time being, that had been her thing: poisoning her victims. She killed her grandparents when she was fifteen. The maid, a year ago. Her grandparents' deaths were ruled a suicide. Irene even forged their handwriting to leave a note in their own styles. We have decided to leave this world peacefully to go where the loving embrace of the Good Lord, our Almighty God, awaits us, she wrote in her grandmother's hand. And in her grandfather's handwriting, she wrote: This is not a Goodbye but merely a See you later, for sooner or later, we will all meet in the vastness of the divine fields, enjoying eternal happiness.
"Wait, what? We will all meet in the vastness of the divine fields?" I said. "And what about Hell?"
"What about Hell?" Irene asked.
"God is in Heaven, right?"
"Yeah, of course."
"Well, that's a weird and suspicious suicide note."
"Why?"
"Because come on, in your grandfather's part, he's guaranteeing that we'll all meet him in the vastness and all that blah blah blah."
"And?"
"Well, your grandmother talks about going to the Good Lord and all that crap, so I say, hold on a minute. If both of them, your grandparents, are going there, to Heaven, and your grandfather is dead sure we're all going to meet him in that place of divine fields, then that means we're all going to Heaven, right?"
"Yeah, that would be the logical assumption."
"However, that's absurd. If that were the case, then what's the point of scaring idiots with Hell and the supreme pain of burning tongues of fire? According to that suicide note, Hell doesn't exist, and neither does fucking Lucifer."
"I didn't think about that. I didn't realize someone could reach such a tedious conclusion."
"And on top of that, to make it even more suspicious, that damn suicide note reads like song lyrics."
"Well, duh. I was inspired by two songs."
"This only confirms what I've always thought."
"What's that?"
"Cops are a bunch of incompetent asses. Your grandparents' deaths reeked of murder from a mile away."
"Are you trying to say I'm a second-rate killer?"
"I'm trying to say that killing and getting away with it is easier than breathing. I killed fourteen scumbags and no one said a word. It didn't even make the news. I guess they just picked up the bodies, dumped them in a mass grave, and then moved on, next case, nothing to see here."
"Well, of course. You killed a bunch of homeless people. Nobody gives a shit about them. The police aren't going to open an investigation for that. When I killed my parents' maid, I didn't even bother leaving a suicide note because I knew no one would care. As far as justice is concerned, the girl killed herself, end of story. And come on, she was just a maid, an unimportant person, but still, she had a job and wasn't living on the streets. She was a decent worker. If they won't do anything for a maid, then they sure as hell won't do anything for a homeless person."
"But it was fourteen. I offed thirteen men and one woman. That's a serial killing. The alarms should've been blaring all over the city."
"What the hell is wrong with you, handsome? Do you want to end up in jail? You're practically begging for it."
I let out a laugh. Irene did too. From that night on, we were together. Irene broke up with her boyfriend. I left my apartment in La Concepción. Left behind the balcony with a view of San Cristóbal Park. Did I feel any sadness leaving that place? Of course not. Now I live in the Los Altos neighborhood, in the opulent southeast of the city, just a few streets away from the financial district. I don't have a park view because my new apartment isn't facing any park, but obviously, there's a park nearby. Come on, this is Miraverde. This city was built in a forest, and parks are everywhere. And the one near the apartment I share with Irene is the best of them all, the biggest, the most beautiful, surrounded by the most dazzling buildings, where only the filthiest rich people in the city can afford to live. Of course, I'm talking about La Langosta Park.
February 14, 2008. Irene and I have been together for seven months. Right now, she's at home. She didn't come running with me because she had an aerobics class and is completely wiped out. It's nighttime. I've got my earbuds in. My iPod is blasting Sabotage by Beastie Boys. I keep a good pace along the paths of La Langosta Park. I listen to the music, but I'm also thinking about the novel I'm still writing. (I'm from the north side of the city, the loud, rowdy part, so I'm used to thinking even with deafening noise.) The novel has over a million and a half words by now. I've added a new character named Agnes. For the past few days, I've been dreaming of a woman named Agnes, and I've decided that the woman from my dreams will be part of my literary adventure. I couldn't help it. She's stunning. She's incredibly pale. I've never liked really pale people, but this girl drives me crazy. She's ghostly white and has this wicked air about her. In my dreams, she whispers things in my ear in a language I don't understand. And of course, it's not a real language, because it's just a dream, and everything is an invention of my mind. Dreams are nothing more than the subconscious playing tricks.
I stop for a few seconds to take a drink of water. I pause the music, cutting off Personal Jesus by Depeche Mode halfway through. I walk up to one of the many drinking fountains in the park, lean forward, press the button, and a stream of water shoots from the spout. Once my thirst is quenched, I straighten up, and the moment I see her face, I stumble back three clumsy steps, trip, and land flat on my ass. It's Agnes. The damn pale girl from my dreams. I watch as she disappears and, in less than a second, reappears right in front of me, only this time, she's much closer. Now, she's just inches from my face. I'm frozen in place. She says:
"Hello, my love."