Once the taxi had pulled away, it was just Aprille, under the canopy of stars, carrying the gas cans up the long trail toward the abandoned train station. She walked in and splashed Dez's body with the gas, saturating him and then made a trail of gasoline over to where Psycho Rabbit lay. She covered the bunny costume from long pink ear to fluffy, oversized foot, and then made a circle around both bodies. With the second can, she walked along the perimeter of the station, splashing the rotting wood of the walls and old benches, the cracked plaster beneath the ticket booth and the dried out support beams holding up the ceiling. She left both gas cans near the bodies and walked outside.
When she reached into her pocket for her lighter, she felt another, softer bulge just beneath it. The half-bundle of heroin. The one she'd been saving. She undid the rubber band holding the baggies together and flattened them with her thumbs to study the heart stamp printed on them. It's another sign, she thought.
She flicked her lighter and tossed it at the puddle of gasoline by the entrance and it instantly took flame. Fire crawled up the walls and filled up the station like a cauldron, and soon, the exterior walls were glowing and flames were peeking out between the rotted shingles covering the roof. Aprille looked up at the smoke rising silently from the top of the building toward the stars and decided she did not need to stay and watch it burn. She pressed the baggies of heroin to her chest, the stamped heart on their surface against her own, as she made her way into the woods. She sat down on the incline and leaned back, looking up at the clear night sky.
Jupiter was brighter than anything else in the sky except the moon, and the moon was full and close, revealing itself to her. She opened one of the bags and tapped the heroin in a line along the edge of her hand, lining it up with her nostril as she inhaled sharply, running her nose from the base of her thumb up to the tip of her finger.
It was just a few hours before dawn, and she opened another bag and snorted that one too. Everything slowed down to a crawl and ceased to matter. Her body dissolved into the cool earth, intertwining with the rocks and roots and insects in perfect, chemical harmony.
Chapter Twelve
"There's still one thing left to do, rookie."
Vic's voice was a faint whisper in Frank's ear as his eyes jerked open, scalded by the morning sun. He'd fallen asleep in the parking lot across from Burgorff's waiting for them to open and the customers to arrive. His coffee was still slightly warm and he sipped it gingerly. Every inch of him hurt. The blows struck by Psycho Rabbit, the furious swinging he'd done to defeat them, the running for his life and rolling down the goddamn hill, and sitting in the car for hours had left him nearly crippled.
Freddie Phelps was working. Frank had watched him arrive and park his car next to the entrance. Had watched him unlock the front doors twenty minutes later and flip the sign around from Closed to Open.
Now, customers were going in and out of the store at slow intervals. A SEPTA bus rolled to the nearest corner in front of the store and cars had filled up the lanes of the highway in every direction. It was now or never, Frank thought. Just a few minutes of insanity, a few minutes so shockingly outrageous that he was horrified at himself for even considering the plan in the first place.
One last op, he told himself as he shut the door and pulled on his baseball hat.
The girl at the Customer Service desk didn't even look up from her magazine to say, "Welcome to Burgorff's."
Frank ignored her, keeping his head low under the brim of his hat and kept walking toward the aisles. The store had less than a dozen people in it, all women and young children. A few old ladies roamed the bargain racks, chattering about upcoming doctor visits and who they knew that died recently.
They were not his objective.
He moved further into the store, past the tables of loose socks and underwear, the shelves of cheap sneakers and unisex slippers. He stopped briefly at the men's department to check around the store again, pretending to flip through an assortment of short-sleeved shirts with garish Hawaiian designs splashed across their fronts. There were two women in the children's section. One was pushing a stroller with a child no older than fourteen months. The other was carrying a little girl, right around the age of three.
Perfect, Frank thought.
He waited and watched, studying the woman's movements. She was alone. She was either unmarried or did not wear a wedding ring. She was broke. He knew this because she would carefully read the price tag on each item that drew her eye, but then put it back like it was suddenly hot. Her back was marred by a poorly drawn tattoo that looked like a fourth-graders attempt to draw angel wings on her shoulder blades.
Here's to a lifetime of bad decisions, Frank thought.
Fred Phelps was standing at the rear of the children's department, cutting open boxes of items they'd received and sorting through them. He was close to the woman, but not close enough. That will have to change, Frank thought.
He took a deep breath and headed into the children's department, walking down the aisle Phelps was standing in, but stopping at the opposite end. He stuffed his hands in his pants pockets, watching the woman as she carried her daughter. He tilted his head down so that the brim of his baseball hat was low, making it appear like he was searching the rack in front of him, but his eyes were carefully trained on the two of them.
No, Frank told himself. On the little girl. The way her small denim skirt is hiked up to her hips as her mother holds her, completely oblivious to the fact that the little girl's underwear is showing. Frank kept his eyes glued on the child's buttocks, waiting. Come on, you son of a bitch. Look at me. Look at me because you need me, you need to know there are others out there like you. Someone to tell you that you're not alone and not strange and what you feel is okay. That's me, Freddie. It's your lucky day, because here I come.
He could hear the scrape of Phelps' razor on the cardboard boxes, scraping and scraping while Frank stood there, forcing himself to watch the child, forcing himself to be everything that he detested.
Frank saw Fred Phelps pick up one of the boxes to move it out of his way and catch sight of him. Phelps only glanced in his direction and muttered, "Oh, hi," reflexively, but Frank ignored him. Frank ignored him and kept his eyes locked on the child. Phelps looked back, studying Frank. Putting it all together. Grown man by himself in the children's department. Baseball hat covering his eyes.
Come on, see what I am. I'm just like you, Frank thought. You're looking for me everywhere you go and now I'm right in front of you.
He saw Phelps begin to look around the aisles, searching for what Frank was looking at. He saw the woman with the stroller and the child within, but the stroller was too low and out of sight to be of interest. Phelps kept looking, finally seeing the woman carrying the little girl. He immediately whipped his head around again toward Frank.
Frank reached over and caressed his crotch through his jeans pocket, rubbing his balls as he stared at the child, rubbing his balls as Phelps stared at him. Frank suddenly spun away and went back down the aisle, turning down the same one as the woman. He pulled out his phone and pretended to be texting on it as he walked, making sure that Phelps was watching him, making sure that fuckers eyes were following his every move.
I'll give you something to look at, Frank thought.
He switched his phone's camera on and made sure the sound and flash were off. He aimed it at the back of the little girl and her mother and zoomed in, taking a picture. He quickly put the phone down and looked around, trying to see if anyone noticed. Phelps had already averted his eyes and was concentrating very hard on an empty box of clothes.
Frank got closer to the woman.
The little girl was sucking on a lollipop and her lips were red and sticky. I bet that's too good to pass up, Frank thought as he lifted the phone again and quickly snapped another picture. He moved within arm's reach of the child and decided it was time to go all in. If Phelps wasn't looking for this one, he was fucked. And a pervert. And going to hel
l to live with Uncle Petey and all the sick fucks who had infected his soul with the ability to think like a pedophile and now, even act like one.
Frank stuck his phone under the little girl's bottom and snapped a quick photograph, getting a perfectly close-up picture of her tiny crotch and the Disney Princess underwear that barely covered it. Frank immediately turned and began heading down the aisle as he looked at his phone, heading for the front door. Run the op, he told himself. Stay in character. You got what you came for and now you want to leave.
He raised his hand to the door's metal push bar and just as he was about to open it someone said, "Sir? Can you wait a moment? I need to speak with you."
The voice wasn't what he expected.
It was soft and well-mannered. Gentle, even. Frank turned around and said, "Are you talking to me?"
"Yes, I am," Phelps said. He was younger looking in person than in his driver's license photograph, and taller than Frank expected. His thick glasses and adult acne gave him a classic poindexter look, but his hair was thick and full and somewhat styled. He kept in shape, Frank could see. More of a runner than a weightlifter, but probably more of both than Frank in either department.
"What's the problem?"
Phelps waved for Frank to follow him over toward the customer service desk, not so close that that girl sitting there could hear them, but close enough that they were away from the entrance. "Uh…," Phelps began, searching for the words. "There seems to be some misunderstanding about how we conduct ourselves in this store."
"What do you mean?" Frank said.
"I think you know what I mean." Phelps looked back at the woman, still standing in the aisle, still holding her daughter, still oblivious. "Now, do you want me to call the police?"
"About what?" Frank sniffed. "I didn't do anything wrong."
"Keep your voice down," Phelps said angrily. "Because if you want me to, I will. If you don't want me to, you'd better come with me."
"Where?"
Phelps looked around again and said, "Somewhere a little more discreet. You have one second to decide."
"Fine," Frank said. "Whatever."
Phelps nodded at the Customer Service girl and said, "I'm going to be in my office for a few minutes."
"'Kay," she said with the sharp pop of her gum.
Frank followed Phelps to the manager's office and waited while he dug out his large set of brass keys and quickly undid the lock. "Come in and sit down," Phelps said.
Frank did as he was told, but said, "What's this all about?"
Phelps shut the door behind him and locked it again. He took a deep breath and turned to look at Frank with a curious grin. "You're new to all this, aren't you? Just out in the wild, trying to grab every little thing that catches your eye."
"I have no clue what you're saying."
Phelps rolled his eyes, "Your phone? The gorgeous little creature in the aisle right next to where I was standing. Ring any bells?"
Frank didn't say anything.
Phelps laughed and shook his head, "You're not going to last long if you're that careless. Trust me. I have seen them come and seen them go. If you do not cover your ass every step of the way, you will get caught and they will send you to prison for a very long time."
"Listen," Frank said, letting the nervousness of the situation take hold of him, filling his voice with a slight tremor. "I don't know what you think I was doing but it's a big misunderstanding. I was only taking pictures because I liked what that little girl was wearing and wanted to show my friend, who has a little girl of his own, in case he wanted to dress her like that."
Phelps nodded slowly and then his face cracked with a massive grin, "That's a good one. It really is."
"It's true," Frank said sharply. He suddenly looked up at Phelps and let his face fall, like all his defenses had suddenly collapsed. "Are you really going to call the police? I'm going to be so fucked if you do."
Phelps folded his arms across his chest and said, "Did you get any good pictures?"
"What do you mean?"
"Don't be stupid. You know what I mean."
Frank turned on his phone. His fingers were shaking as he flicked through the pictures of the little girl and finally came to the last one. "This one's pretty good," Frank said. He held it up and showed it to Phelps, who leaned down and inspected the image carefully.
"It's not bad," Phelps finally said. "Is that your best one ever, do you think? Or have you got any better ones?"
"I got a few from the waterpark I went to last year," Frank said.
"Let me guess, waterslide?"
Frank looked up at Phelps quietly for a long moment, then said, "Are you…a, you know?"
"Collector," Phelps said proudly. "The correct term for what you are thinking is collector."
"Okay," Frank said. "I'm not that good at it, I guess."
"It's all right," Phelps said. "There are many different ways to contribute. Some people provide material, while others fund it. Some choose to bring those two groups together."
"Is that what you do," Frank said.
Phelps nodded slyly and said, "I see myself as a sort of guide."
"All right," Frank said. He stuffed his phone back in his pocket and said, "Well, I appreciate the advice." Phelps said nothing as Frank stood up and started to move toward the door. "I'll stay out of your store. I'm sorry if I caused any trouble."
Phelps sat down in his desk chair and continued to ignore him as Frank unlocked the latch and started to turn the knob. I blew it, Frank thought. After all that, this guy doesn't think I'd be a good pedophile.
He pulled the door open and Phelps said, "Don't you want my phone number, before you go?"
Frank stopped in the doorway and looked back, nodding slowly, "Sure. It would be nice to have somebody to talk to who knows more than I do."
"Funny," Phelps said with a small laugh. "You'll learn the terminology soon enough." He scribbled a long series of letters and numbers on an index card and handed it to Frank. "This is the address of a file that will change your world. It's completely secure, and completely anonymous, so you have nothing to worry about, as long as you do not tell anyone. Understand?"
"I understand," Frank said.
"It is a list of instructions and passkeys to other files that you can only access once you've paid. Do you know how to use Digicoin?"
"Yes, constantly," Frank said quickly, having no idea what he was being asked.
"Once you get that file, it will give you my wallet's addresses. If you put coins in the third address, I'll make sure you get something good."
"Good?" Frank said. "How good?"
"Did you see that tiny thing in that stroller at the other end of the aisle?"
"Yeah," Frank said.
Phelps nodded eagerly, "That good. But much, much worse, if you get my meaning."
The ambulance company's garage bay doors were open and the squaddies were wiping down their equipment inside, scrubbing every machine and tank with a solution of bleach and water. Reynaldo carefully stepped over a trickling stream of foul, watery ochre as it headed down the driveway, toward the gutters.
"Watch your step!" the medic hollered out.
"Rough night last night?" Reynaldo said.
"This?" he said, looking over his shoulder. The back doors of the ambulance were open to air out the interior. Every bit of metal and polished plastic was shining and wet, like they'd unleashed a pressure washer on it and blasted every chunk of human waste into nonexistence. "This is the result of a slow shift. You guys might get the thieves and junkies but we get the really fun stuff like projectile vomiters and Mr. I Shit Myself."
Reynaldo smiled grimly as he looked into the back of the ambulance. All ideas of a late-night romp on the cot between bored crewmembers died instantly. He found that he was glad for that. "Is Marissa here?"
"She's in the office. Is there something I can help you with?"
It was a flat inquiry on the surface with a low undercurrent of territoria
l posturing. Reynaldo assessed the man, trying to decide if it was because he was a man asking for one of their women, or just because he was police. It didn't matter. "I have to ask her about something."
The man's "Okay," was given reservedly, the nod of an older brother letting someone into his house to talk to the youngest sister.
Reynaldo relaxed and stopped sticking out his chest so much. "I'll just be a minute. I promise not to bother her." He found his way around the power cords and heavy nylon gear bags toward the narrow doorway. The walls were bare plywood. No one from the Township had ever thought to do more than that. But they were decorated with plaques and framed photographs of the ambulance crew together at cookouts and Phillies games. There were dozens of thank you cards and crude crayon drawings of small children holding hands with smiling EMT's. Marissa was sitting in the office, head seated in her hands as she stared down at an open ledger. Reynaldo looked at her for a moment, really looked at her, free of lechery and what his mother would call sinful intent. She was pretty. Not beautiful. But pretty, and with honest eyes, and that was better. He knocked softly on the doorframe and said, "Are you busy? Do you have a minute?"
There was no happy, "Officer Rey!" Not even a smile. Marissa looked up at him past her fingers and simply said, "What's up?"
He folded his fingers in front of his stomach, subconsciously taking the same posture he'd taken a thousand times before when facing his mother. "I owe you an apology. I was very rude to you the other day, and I'm sorry."
"It's not a problem," she said dismissively.
"It is a problem," he said. "To me, anyway. Sometimes I find myself putting on some kind of role, or saying things I don't really mean. I'd like to blame it on my job, but in reality, it's me."
She stopped covering her face and set her hands on her desk, looking at him with those large, kind eyes. Not speaking, but not stopping him either. He took a deep breath and pressed on, "I shouldn't be doing this while I'm working because I wouldn't want you to think I was trying to intimidate you, so if you think it's a bad idea, I promise you, I will leave and never mention it again."
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