Pain Management b-13

by Andrew Vachss

  Her act was a little too cool and removed. And I didn’t have anything resembling a lead. So I was back that night.

  Like so many other safehouses, they were hyper about their doors and windows, but didn’t pay much attention to anything past their immediate perimeter. Patience eventually dealt me the parking spot I needed. From the Ford’s front seat, I could triangle on both the front and side doors. They had incoming all night long. None of the girls looked anything like Rosebud. Nobody left after ten. Maybe a house rule?

  I got out, walked around the block to where I could do a visual on the house, looking for openings. I did the risk-gain math. There wasn’t a scrap of evidence that Rosebud was there. And the place had to have some security.

  Maybe some other time.

  One of Portland’s real fine Mediterranean restaurants, Touché, has a poolroom upstairs. The tables are just props—nobody would play a serious game there, much less for serious money. But I’d heard the place drew a lot of college girls, so I thought it was worth a once-over.

  The sound system was good, if a bit strong. The mix was eclectic—probably Napstered and burned onto CDs—but whoever put it together knew what they were doing. When the tracks switched to doo-wop, I almost felt at home.

  “Please Say You Want Me” came on, the kid singing lead working a deeper vein than Frankie Lymon had ever mined. I overheard one of the women hanging out ask, “Who’s that?” I didn’t say anything. But then one of the upscale lounge lizards told her, “That’s the Students. Mid-fifties stuff.”

  I turned slightly, saying, “No, that was the Schoolboys. The Students were the guys who did ‘I’m So Young.’ “

  The lounge lizard muttered something about me being old enough, I’d probably heard them in person.

  Maybe not, I thought to myself, but I sure as hell am getting old, opening my fool mouth in public like that.

  My hole card wasn’t exactly the ace of trumps, but holding it back any longer wasn’t going to raise its value. So, the next morning, I shaved carefully, used the flesh-color stuff Michelle had given me on the bullet scar under my right cheekbone, and put on a pair of nonprescription glasses with a faint gray tint. It didn’t turn me into Mr. Rogers, but with the light canvas sports coat over a white T-shirt and a pair of stonewashed jeans, I could pass as a local at first glance.

  Flacco and Gordo had lent me an egg-yolk-yellow Camaro. In Portland, it would be a lot less conspicuous than the Ford. I hadn’t driven one of the new ones before, and I was surprised at how damn big it was—the front end seemed to stretch on forever. Even at around-town speeds, it rode stiff.

  I found a perfect spot on a rise overlooking the campgrounds. Too far away to pick out individuals, but close enough to see the group activities.

  I fitted the rubber-covered little 83 monocular to my eye, focused it down, and breathed shallow until I got it steady enough to scan.

  They were playing softball. The left-fielder looked a lot like Daisy, but I couldn’t be sure from the angle I had. When the inning was over, I followed her all the way to the bench. Yes.

  Daisy didn’t seem especially interested in the game. She just sat there pensively, while her teammates shouted and waved their arms and jumped up and down at the slightest sign of activity from each batter.

  I played the scope over the area, looking for a likely spot. It had to be a dead-drop system they were using. There’d been no phone in Daisy’s room, and it didn’t seem like the kid was ever home alone anyway. This was the one place she went to every day. One place where her parents were never around. And the supervision didn’t seem all that intense.

  A low, crumbling stone wall decoratively separated the playing fields from a rambling one-story structure. I took that to be the place where they had the indoor activities. Beyond the outfield was a thick stand of mature trees. The grounds were unfenced—easy enough to come by at night and leave a note to be picked up the next day.

  They were playing slow-pitch, but the tall girl on the mound made a high parabolic arc out of each serve, and most of the batters whiffed. Not Daisy. She waited patiently for the ball to drop, stepped into it, and drove it hard through the right side of the infield. When the outfielder was a bit slow in coming to the ball, Daisy took a wide turn at first and steamed into second standing up. Her teammates on the sidelines seemed a lot more excited about her hit than she was.

  The next batter popped up to shallow left. Daisy never hesitated, charging so hard she was around third and heading home by the time the fielder dropped the ball. The run triggered a wild celebration. I could see the coach—a teenage girl in shorts and a bright-green sweatshirt with some kind of logo on it—saying something to Daisy. It didn’t look like congratulations. Probably telling Daisy she shouldn’t have taken off—what if the fielder hadn’t dropped the ball? Daisy wasn’t arguing, but she didn’t look real interested.

  They changed sides again, and Daisy went back to her position in the outfield. I watched her for signs of anxiety, but she didn’t glance around, didn’t fidget—just concentrated on each batter as they came up. I couldn’t tell how far along in the game they were, and I didn’t like sitting out there in the open. I backed the Camaro out and made a slow circle of the grounds until I found a good spot maybe a quarter-mile away.

  I parked, locked up, and started walking. The woods were deeper than they’d looked from the other side, but it was no problem finding my way back with the noise of the game to guide me. I marked my way with quick spurts of red paint from the little spray can I carried. Being a strict environmentalist, I didn’t deface any of the trees, just the NO TRESPASSING signs.

  When I found a direct sight line to Daisy, I sat down with my back against a tree and did what I do best.

  “Daisy!” I heard someone shout.

  She ignored the noise, trotting toward the woods, in no special hurry. Wherever she was headed was past where I was waiting, because she practically stomped on me as she went by.

  “Hey!” she yelped.

  “Easy, Daisy. You know who I am.”

  She pulled up short, hands behind her back, watching me warily but not making a sound. Maybe she didn’t want to alert the camp counselors to where she was. I kept my hands loose in my lap, projecting waves of calm out to her.

  “What are you . . . ? I mean, how come . . . ?”

  “I was waiting for you, Daisy. I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Why didn’t you just come to the house?”

  “The same reason Rosebud doesn’t write to you there.”

  Her eyes flashed at the word “write,” fear and fire each taking a turn. If she’d been a little older, a little more used to deception, she would have kept those eyes on me. But a quick glance to her left told me my hunch about a dead drop had been right.

  “I’m not after the letters, Daisy.”

  “I have to go back.”

  “Sure.”

  But she didn’t move, rooted by the letter she hadn’t read yet. It was her link to her sister, and she wasn’t going to let that chain snap without a fight.

  “Daisy, listen to me. If I wanted to, I could have hidden myself and waited for you to pick up whatever Rosebud left for you, right? You never would have seen me until it was too late.”

  “You better leave her alone,” the child said, drawing herself up to her full height, small fists clenched.

  “I am,” I said softly. “I am leaving her alone. I’m not going to try and bring her back. If I wanted to do that, I would have spent the night here in the woods, and just grabbed her when she came to drop off your note. I didn’t do that, either, right? All I want to do is talk to her, make sure she’s okay.”

  “She’s fine.”

  “I’m sure she is. I just want her to tell me herself. Once.”

  “No.”

  “Not in person. Not like we are here, you and me. Just on the phone. Give her this card,” I said, slowly taking it out of the breast pocket of my jacket. “It’s got my phone number on it.
She can call me anytime. Anytime at all.”

  “And you won’t try to—?”

  “I won’t try anything, Daisy. I promise.”

  “Daisy!” The shout was a lot closer now.

  “I have to—”

  “I know,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’m going to walk over that way,” pointing to where I’d stashed the car. “I’m leaving the card here, okay?”

  I turned my back on her and moved off. She didn’t say anything, but I heard her crashing through the woods, in a hurry now.

  On the drive back, I wondered why I hadn’t done what I’d told Daisy I could have—just waited in those dark woods last night and grabbed Rosebud when she showed.

  Nothing came to me.

  “Anything going on?” I asked.

  “All quiet,” Mama said.

  “Word’s still that I’m—”

  “Yes. All same. You working? In that place?”

  “Yeah. Sort of.”

  She made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a snort.

  “It’s not a big job,” I assured her. “Won’t take much longer.”

  “You need Max, maybe?”

  “No. It’s not that kind of—”

  “Yes. Okay. Fine.”

  “What’s wrong, Mama?”

  “Wrong? Nothing wrong here. Very quiet, like I say, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Woman still with you?”

  “I . . .”

  “Woman say marry you, yes? But me, I say: must have permission. You remember, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Woman still with you?” she asked again.

  “I think so.”

  “Ah!” Mama said. “Better you come home.”

  “I have to—”

  “When job finish, come home.”

  “We’ll see, Mama. I—”

  The disconnect click cut me off. That’s how I felt: cut off. My family was still watching out for me. They’d even risked going back to my place for my few treasures. Like the pair of postage stamps that had been canceled inside Biafra during the tiny slice of time when it had functioned as a country. They’d been given to me one ugly night inside the war zone. By an old chief I’d shared the last of my freeze-dried food with. He had nothing else of value to give me, he said. And that, if I managed to survive, the stamps would always remind me of a country that had not.

  They’d taken all of Pansy’s stuff, too. Not because I wanted it—I couldn’t even look at it—but because they’d never let the cops have anything that had been part of my heart.

  That’s my family. That’s the kind of people they are.

  And that’s why I couldn’t go back. Not yet.

  “I think you’re right . . . about her still being around, close by,” I told Kevin the next day. “But all of that info’s secondhand at best. I can’t vouch for any of it. And I can’t tell you I’m any closer to her.”

  “It’s been—”

  “I know. I’ve been out there every day and every night. There’s . . . traces of her in a lot of places, but that’s all they are—traces, not trail-markers.”

  “Do you think if you had more time . . . ?”

  “This kind of work, you can go for months drawing blanks, then stumble over what you’re looking for. Or it could turn up in a few hours. I seeded the ground heavy and—”

  “What does that mean, ‘seeded the ground’?”

  “I’ve gone to a lot of places where Rosebud might have been, or where she might show up eventually. I talked to some people who might have seen her, might even know her . . . or that she might run into sooner or later if she’s out there. It’s a thick, deep forest she’s in, but it’s not a big one. The trails crisscross; the same people travel them. I left word. I planted some money, and I promised a lot more. The word’s out. Some have even come to me offering to sell, and—”

  “You followed up, didn’t you? These people, they probably have no loyalty. For enough money, they’d—”

  “The only following up I did was to offer hard cash for hard information. I don’t care what’s missing—a kilo, a kitten, or a kid—hustlers are going to crawl out from under rocks. I could spend a lot of your money on scams if I wasn’t careful. If any of them have the goods, they’ll have to deal straight up.”

  “Why should they trust you?”

  “Let’s say you had . . . uh, let’s say you had a photograph of your great-great-grandmother, okay? It’s the only one in existence; the only connection you have to your ancestors. You keep this photo in a nice frame in your living room. A junkie burglarizes your house, steals a bunch of the usual crap. And he snatches the photo, too.

  “So you hire me to get the photo back. Say I find a middleman, someone who can deal with the junkie, all right? I’m willing to spend real coin for the photo, but only for that photo. What’s he going to do? It’s precious to you, but it isn’t worth squat to anyone else. He’s got no bargaining power.

  “You understand what I’m telling you? Your daughter’s not worth anything to anybody but you. Nobody’s holding her prisoner. This doesn’t read like a snatch. Not even her cooperating with some boyfriend to hold you up for money . . . even though the odds favor it.”

  “Why would you say something like that?”

  “In kidnappings when the subject is more than twelve years old, about three-quarters of the perpetrators are known to the victim.”

  “I never heard—”

  “That’s the latest FBI breakdown,” I told him. “That’s why they collect criminal-justice data in America . . . so someone can get a grant to analyze it. Then they publish it. And write another proposal for more funding.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. But, look, if it was like that, you would have gotten a ransom demand, way before now. So what’s that leave? She’s out there. Somewhere. People have seen her; they must have. Maybe someone even knows where she’s staying. That’s information. Information is worth money. But only to the person who wants it, like I explained.

  “You with me? When it comes to info about Rosebud, I’m like you’d be with your great-great-grandmother’s photo—the only buyer in town. Whoever knows, they may not want to trust me, but what choice do they have?”

  “I understand. But if you don’t stay on the case . . . ?”

  “See this card?” I said, handing him one of the hundreds I’d spread all over town. “That number, it rings right here.” I tapped the cell phone’s holster. “I’m not disconnecting it. If it rings tonight, or tomorrow, or two weeks from now, I’ll answer it. You don’t need to keep me on the books just for that.”

  “Do you have any other leads you could follow?”

  “Leads? Sure. How good they are, I don’t have a clue. They may all be dead ends. Or out-and-out bullshit.”

  “The authorities—”

  “I talked to them, too,” I said. It was true enough; Gem’s boyfriend qualified. “They’ve got other things on their minds.”

  “I don’t understand.” His complexion shifted. Just a touch, but I’d hit one of his trip wires.

  I kept my face flat, said: “A major case they’re working. It’s got nothing to do with your daughter. But they’ve got a manpower shortage.”

  “That’s what the cops always say,” he said bitterly. “It’s just a ploy to get more money. They’ve always got all the manpower they need when the media’s on their case.”

  “Sure. Anyway, you can take this to the bank: they’re not working this one real hard.”

  “I know.”

  “If we had any reason to believe she was across a state line—”

  “She’s not,” he said, too quickly.

  “How do you know?”

  “You have any children, Mr. Hazard?”

  “No,” I said, wondering if his lawyer had told him different.

  “Then I couldn’t explain it in any way you’d understand. I love my daughter. We’re . . . connected. And I know she’s close by.”

&n
bsp; “Well, it wouldn’t have to be strictly the truth, would it? The Mann Act is something the feds take pretty seriously. . . .”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s the old ‘white slavery’ law. Transporting someone across a state line for purposes of engaging in prostitution. They wouldn’t use it on a pimp driving his stable from Portland to Seattle; but if the girl was underage, or if she was taken against her will . . .”

  “No.”

  “Huh?”

  “Buddy’s a very intelligent, very resourceful young woman. I don’t believe for a moment she was . . . taken like you’re talking about. In any event, you can’t just lie to the authorities. Sooner or later, they find out.”

  “But if it puts more horsepower on the street, who cares?”

  “No,” he said, again. “It’s not what I want to do. I don’t think it would be in Buddy’s best interests.”

  “You’re the boss,” I lied.

  “Can you stay with it?”

  “I can. But . . .”

  “I understand. I have a . . . I don’t know, a feeling. Call it a father’s instinct. I feel you’re going to find her. And bring her home. You must have some . . . things you haven’t tried yet.”

  “Yeah. But if I go there, I’m going to need more from you.”

  “More . . . what? Money?”

  “In a way, yes. Not money you’d pay to me, but money you’d have on hand.”

  “For a ransom? How much would I—?”

  “Not for ransom. For bail.”

  “You think Buddy may be in—?”

  “No. Not her, me. If I . . . do some of the things I haven’t tried yet, I could get popped. I can’t stay in jail, understand. I’d need to be bailed out, and quick.”

  “My lawyer . . .”

  “Sure. He can get me in front of a judge fast, if he’s got the right connections. But I’d still need a bondsman. And he’d need to know the surety’s in place.”

  “How much would I have to—?”

  “I guess it’s ten percent here, same way it is everywhere else. So ten K for a bond is the same as a hundred K in cash.”

  “If I put up a bond, you’d show up for court?”

  “If they took me down for anything you could bond me out on, I would, sure.”