by Stacy Green
My mother told her to go to her room and think about how selfish she was. Later, as I was trying to hide from my mother’s self-pity, I poked my head in my sister’s room. She lay on her side, facing the wall.
“I believe you, Lil,” I said. “I believe you.”
“You’re not enough,” Lily said. “You’re just a kid.” And then she turned to me, face swollen from crying and her eyes flat. “Don’t ever let him touch you. If he does–if anyone touches you like that, you fight back. You do whatever it takes to protect yourself, Lucy. You’re an innocent kid just like I was. And no one is going to protect you but yourself. Knife him if you have to. Run away. But don’t submit.”
Those were the last words my sister said to me.
My phone beeped signaling a text from Kelly. I glanced at it, planning to let her know I was all right.
“Info on Harrison. Come when u can.”
“Lucy.” Justin’s nervous voice brought me back to the present. “What do you think? Will you help me? Are you listening?”
My eyes snapped to his. “I’m listening. Can you give me until tonight?”
22
“Sorry to make you come over here,” Kelly said. “But I couldn’t email this shit. What did Justin want?”
I was still trying to reconcile Justin’s confession. “Just to talk. I promise I’ll tell you about it later, once I get it all sorted in my head. Tell me how you got this information again?”
One of the best things about Kelly is that she knows when not to push. “I sent Brian a picture he couldn’t resist loaded with a virus that lets me remote into his computer.”
Technical stuff that was above my head, but I trusted her. “What did you find out?”
“A lot. Brian Harrison doesn’t hop around the child porn sites much, which probably explains why his computer security is so lax. He does, however, belong to a forum of pigs who think they should be allowed to have sex with pre-teen girls.”
The familiar disgust rippled through me. “Of course he does. Anything you can do about that?”
Kelly shook her head. “They’re not doing anything illegal, technically. They aren’t posting pics or links or discussing how to meet. They’re mostly just whining like bitches.”
“Of course. God forbid our legal system stop something before it starts.”
Fingers flying, Kelly went through a series of folders on her computer. “This is my temporary section. I trash all of this–permanently, so there’s no trace–but while I’m stuck with the garbage, I’ve got it hidden as deep as possible.”
“Prepare me. Are we going to see filth?”
“No. But it’s creepy.” She finally got to the hidden folder, and a series of images popped up on the screen. Obviously taken from a cellphone, and many from a distance, they were all of unsuspecting little girls just going about their lives. All of them had some sign of puberty: budding chests, shapely little hips, and innocent smiles. Many of them were wearing short shorts and tight shirts, which seemed to be the norm these days, and a few were teasing boys, already fully aware of their prowess. I felt a surge of disgust followed by a wave of sadness. How had society changed so much that it is acceptable for little girls to dress like this? It doesn’t give pigs like Harrison the right to covet them. It just meant they’re growing up too fast, already sexualized and already putting more emphasis on their bodies than on their brains. That’s a recipe for low self-esteem and lots of heartache.
One of the girls caught my eye. Long, dark brown hair, pink shorts to show off strong thighs and newly formed hips, with a white tank-top to display an emerging chest she was probably very proud of. She was pretty, and her face still had the roundness of childhood. The picture caught her mid-laugh, clapping her hands, and she looked like a child stuck in a woman’s body.
Anger boomed in my head with the fury of a base drum. Josie. I’d been right. She didn’t want to go to the vacant lot because Brian Harrison had attacked her there, and she couldn’t escape him at school. That’s why she didn’t want to go there, either. She’d rather be dead than endure.
My molars ground together with the force of my gnashing jaw. A sizzling bolt of energy rolled through me. “That’s Josie Henderson, one of the girls who walks Kailey home. I think he molested her in the lot.”
“Shit,” Kelly said. “She’s Harrison’s star. Most of the pictures are taken in the neighborhood, with her friends. But a couple at the pool. Kailey isn’t in a single one.”
“Are there any taken in the fall? Ones that are more recent?”
Kelly scrolled through the pictures, and the result sent me into a fury. Josie and another girl, likely Bridget, in the vacant lot, lost in a conversation. Both girls wore jackets, and the weeds were yellowed and coarse. “This is the vacant lot, isn’t it?”
Sly Lyle had likely seen Harrison attacking Josie in the vacant lot. Had he honed in on Kailey next? The age difference nagged at me, but it wasn’t impossible for a predator to change preferences. At any rate, I had all the information I needed. “Yes. I’m going to need to talk to Brian Harrison.”
23
Normally, when I chose a target, I tailed them for a few weeks, getting to know routine, habits, hangouts. I chose the best place to seal the deal; it had to be crowded, loud, and if I was going to spill cyanide, alcohol had to be served. One thing I never did was waffle on my decision. I might spend hours wearing a path on my carpet worrying about the logistics, but once I had the evidence, I never second-guessed myself.
But Brian Harrison needed to be dealt with right away. I’d find out if he took Kailey, save my own ass, and end his chances of making another child suffer. If he actually did have Kailey and I continued to sit back on my heels, I might as well have attacked her myself.
Cyanide is the best solution for my Brian Harrison dilemma. It presented like a heart attack and left few traces, with the exception of the almond odor, and that wasn’t always noticeable. Most medical examiners aren’t looking for cyanide, and since Brian Harrison was a known drug user, a heart attack wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. He and his mouth would be out of my way, and Josie’s molester would get his due justice.
One phone call from an untraceable, prepaid cell was all it had taken to get him to an empty parking garage in southwest Philly. This area of the city is dangerous, but since the majority of it resembles a post-apocalyptic wasteland and is in terminal decline, it’s the best place to find privacy.
My message to Brian Harrison was short and sweet.
“I know what you did to that girl in the vacant lot. I’ve got the pictures to prove it. Get your ass to the empty parking garage on Island Avenue in Southwest Philly, or I’ll go to the police.”
I didn’t have a plan B if he didn’t take the bait, and I didn’t need one. I watched Brian Harrison arrive. He looked gaunt and nervous. He’d replaced his janitor’s uniform with dirty jeans and well-worn, steel-toed boots. Weapons, I reminded myself. I already had my latex gloves on beneath my wool ones. The vial of cyanide was in my pocket, my hand clutching it for fast reaction. I needed to give my chemist a call. Once I took care of Slimy Steve, I’d be out.
He’d arrived alone, as I’d told him. I knew he would. He didn’t have friends, his neighbors thought he was a pedophile, and he couldn’t exactly ask for backup tonight without telling someone what he was being accused of. I had the advantage.
He didn’t see me approach. Leaning against a pylon, shivering in his thin jacket, he lit a cigarette and took a long pull. His hand shook. Up close, his pale skin was splotchy red. I took stock of his clothes: a thin jacket with the buttons only partially buttoned and a v-necked undershirt. Easy access. I wouldn’t have to worry about the stuff seeping through his clothes. I would, however, have to approach this one differently. I couldn’t pretend to spill my martini on his lap. This would be direct contact, and I needed to hit his skin.
There’s a first time for everything.
“Hello, Brian.”
He whirle
d around, nearly dropping his cigarette. I’d donned a wool cap to cover most of my hair, but enough of it stuck out that he quickly made the connection, just like I wanted him to. The twisted part of me that longs for vengeance–the part I rarely acknowledged–wanted Brian Harrison to know the same woman who’d brought his brother to justice was about to do the same to him.
“You killed my brother.” His fear turned to anger, eyes thinning into slits and his cheeks breaking out in red splotches. He took a step toward me, flexing his thick hands, his muscles straining against the sleeves of his jacket. I held my ground.
“I knew your brother. He was a pedophile like you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He licked his dry lips and squared his shoulders, pulling back an arm. I clutched the small vial of cyanide tightly.
“Save it. I’ve seen the pictures on your computer. Lots of little girls, but Josie was the star. Seems you especially liked her pink shorts. You took lots of pictures on those days.”
His newfound bravado wilted like a limp flower. He leaned against the pylon, glancing around the vacant garage with nervous, darting looks. “What do you want?”
“Kailey Richardson. Do you know anything about her?”
“The little girl from Kipling Elementary who’s missing?” He stood straighter, obviously relieved. “No, I already talked to the cops when they were going ‘round the neighborhood.”
I took out a picture. “Kailey walked home with Josie and her friend. You see her at school every day. What happened? Did you get tired of Josie and want a younger version?” I tasted bile at the words.
His bulbous head rocked from side to side. “Kailey’s just a little kid.”
“Josie’s a little kid, too.”
“She’s a teenager.”
“She’s twelve.” I warned myself not to grip the bottle too tightly. Harrison deserved the stuff poured down his throat.
“Looks like a teenager.”
“Did you have anything to do with Kailey’s disappearance?”
“No. I’m not into little kids.”
And this was why pedophiles can’t change. There’s something in their chemical makeup, something that keeps them from seeing the world through the same lens the rest of us have. “Just because a little girl is starting to look like a woman doesn’t mean she’s fair game for creeps like you.”
“She didn’t seem to think that.”
Another part of the sickness. The child who doesn’t understand her own sexuality somehow asked to be attacked. “The witness I spoke to said Josie looked terrified.”
He swallowed hard, losing his brief confidence. “Can’t be no witness.”
“You think you’re the only person who goes to that vacant lot?” I smirked, enjoying the white fear that flashed across his face. Even the most vile serial killers have morals about sexually abusing kids.
Harrison took another drag off the rapidly burning cigarette, hand shaking so badly I thought he’d drop it. “I didn’t do anything to the little girl. She’s too young. The other girl was different.”
I wished I could crawl inside his mind and pick it apart, study the slivers of his brain that made him think his actions were okay. “If you tell me where Kailey is, or anything you might know, I’ll forget about those pictures. Let this whole thing drop.”
“I don’t like little girls.” The words came as though he were biting down on each one. His white face had now turned purple and a thick vein on his forehead pulsed.
I believed him. He didn’t have any pictures of Kailey.
I softened my voice. “Do you know anyone in her neighborhood who does?”
“Rumor is the baby killer did it, the one no one knew about living across the street.”
“Why is that a rumor?”
“Cause he was living there without any of the parents having a clue about who he was,” Harrison said. “Then the kid disappears. Ain’t rocket science. And it ain’t right, his not having to tell parents what a scumbag he is.”
He reeked of self-righteous arrogance, rigid in his belief that his sexual urges were natural. Justified. People like him are the gutter of our society. Brian Harrison calling Justin a scumbag just breaths after defending his own actions–another part of his incurable disease. He simply can’t see his actions as wrong, because in his mind, his system is the correct one. Societal rules don’t matter.
And I am the same.
The realization shocked me to momentarily paralysis. Multi-colored dots flashed in front of my eyes, dancing around Brian Harrison’s pale, ugly face like painted dust motes. He sensed the shift in my confidence and stepped closer, a vile grin spreading across his face and showing the yellowed tips of his teeth.
I snapped back into alertness. “Is he a different kind of scumbag than you?” The container in my hand seemed to grow hot. Carefully, with a practiced hand, I unzipped the plastic bag and unscrewed the cap. I knew I took my life in my hands every time I used the cyanide. I took precautions covering my skin, but accidents happen. Still, I didn’t know how to do this any other way.
“I don’t kill kids.”
“No, you just steal their youth.”
He rolled his shoulders back in defiance. The cords in his neck bulged, his blond chest hairs trying to escape through the collar of his shirt. Jaw taut, eyes barely open, he had the balls to be offended at my accusation.
The man who abused my sister was just like Brian Harrison. When he showed up at our house months after her death, he’d come to see me. He knew I was home alone. My mother had broken up with him more out of mortification than anything, and he still lived in the neighborhood, walking around a free man while my sister rotted in her grave.
“She wasn’t a little kid, you know,” he explained to me that horrible day. “When we started, she was just like you. Had this body she didn’t know how to use, and she wanted me to see it. Like they all do.” His eyes slid over my chest; I’d gotten my first bra that summer, and its lines were visible beneath my shirt. He stepped toward me, licked his lips. “How old are you again, Lucy?”
I went for the baseball bat and cracked his skull. My juvenile record was expunged, and my sister’s abuser left us alone. He’s still out there somewhere, probably hurting other little girls. Maybe one day I will find him.
“I want those pictures.” Harrison said.
“They’re in your computer.”
“Then how’d you get them?”
“I have my ways.” My right hand was still in my pocket. I assume Brian thought I had pepper spray ready. With the cap between my thumb and forefinger and the vial clenched in my fingers, I withdrew my hand.
He watched, a bemused expression on his face. I’m sure, in this darkened parking garage, a 200-pound man didn’t believe he had anything to fear from an average-sized woman.
“What you got there?”
Self-control kept me from throwing it on his face. Instead, with a smooth flick of my wrist, I tossed the cyanide directly at his chest, watching the liquid splash onto his shirt and exposed skin. A droplet lingered on one of his chest hairs.
“You dumb bitch.” He looked down at himself in disgust. “What the fuck? What is this shit?”
I said nothing. Some of the poison had made direct contact with his skin. This wasn’t going to take long.
If I were a polite murderer, I would have offered him a hand. Maybe told him to sit down so he didn’t fall and hit his head. At least offer him some comfort in the last moments of his life. After all, it wasn’t his fault he was like this. It was something wired in his brain, maybe mixed with some lousy childhood experience.
“Were you and Cody abused?” I asked. “Did someone sexually assault you both? Is that why you became deviants?” The cold abruptness of the question surprised me. Shouldn’t I feel some sort of empathy for what was about to happen? Normally, by this time, I was nearly back to my car, long away from the scene of the crime. So logic would dictate I have some sort of empathy or remorse
at this moment. But I felt nothing but anger and disgust. I expected self-preservation to kick in, the warning that I needed to run, to keep from seeing the result of my actions. Instead, I stood rooted to the spot and watched the cyanide take effect.
Maybe I’m the sociopath.
I’ll think about that later.
“What?” Brian breathed as though he’d just finished a marathon. He leaned against the pylon.
“You and your brother are both child molesters. Or, in Cody’s case, were. Why? It’s unusual that both of you would be so screwed up, unless you experienced something really bad in childhood. So I’m asking you what it was.”
“None of your business.”
I shrugged. “So something did happen to you. It’s almost always that way. A combination of nature and nurture. That’s why it’s a vicious cycle.”
Harder breaths now, coming on like a speeding freight train. Glistening sweat dotted his forehead, with a few droplets dribbling down his face. He shivered. “What are you talking about?” His knees jerked as if he’d been kicked, and his shaking body slipped down the pylon.
“How can you want to touch them? They’re babies. My sister was just a baby. How can you justify taking that from her?”
His meaty fingers dug into his left arm. “I don’t know your sister. I think I’m having a heart attack.”
He didn’t know Lily–none of them did. But every sicko was of the same breed connected by some sort of corrupt DNA thread that required eradication. “That’s only what it feels like.”
“It? What?” His eyes widened, and his breaths were long and ragged like shards of glass. “What did you throw on me?”
“Cyanide.” My matter-of-fact tone sounded like it belonged to someone else. I should be in my car, feeling remorse, reminding myself that this person needed to be put down like a rabid animal. “It presents like a heart attack. Since I made direct contact with your skin, this won’t take long. I’d apologize for your suffering, but truly, I’m not sorry.”
