Safe House

by Andrew Vachss

“I was walking home,” the woman said, her voice crackling like cellophane crumpled in a clenched fist. She had lovely skin, apricot flaring under cream. And long, lustrous light-brown hair, almost beige in the floor-bounced shine from the inverted gooseneck lamp. I couldn’t see her body—she was so wrapped in layers of clothing that it disappeared. But her eyes were pinwheeling with pain as she talked. “I don’t mean home exactly. To the bus. The bus stop. It wasn’t that late. Maybe nine o’clock. It was summer. Last summer. And it wasn’t even dark yet. Not really. I was tired from work—we had this big project to close and everyone had to stay late. The lawyers get to go home in limos—the clients pay for that. So they can discuss the case in the back seat or something, I don’t know. But the secretaries, we have to just . . .”

  The thought to get her back on the subject hadn’t reached my lips before Crystal Beth warned me off with her eyes. I went back to waiting. It wasn’t long.

  “There were two of them,” the woman said. “One was in a car. A dark car. The other came up right behind me. At the bus stop. The car stopped, the door opened, then the one behind me pointed a gun at me and made me get in.

  “I thought they wanted my money. I mean, they took my money. And my watch. And a ring, not my wedding ring, just a costume ring. It wasn’t worth anything. When they found the ATM card in my purse, they drove me to one. Then they went with me and made me empty it out. It was only a few hundred dollars. Then they had some kind of argument. Between them, I mean. I couldn’t really understand it. I was in the back seat with one of them. While we were driving, he made me . . . He held the gun right by my face and he made me . . .”

  I didn’t move a muscle this time, feeling Crystal Beth next to me even though we were a couple of feet apart, watching the woman on the couch until she started again.

  “When he was . . . finished, he said something to the one in front. Or that one said something to him. I don’t remember. It was all so . . .

  “They found a place to park. By the water, that’s all I could tell. Then the one in front got in back. And he raped me.”

  I sat quietly, knowing the end to the story before she was into the second paragraph. Predators’ footprints were all over the narrative, as stylized as a religious ritual. No way that was the first time those maggots had done that number. But why was she with Crystal Beth? The rapists weren’t anyone she knew.

  I waited for the rest.

  “It took me hours to get home,” the woman said. “I was a . . . mess. And petrified they would come back. I walked and I walked. I didn’t have money for a cab. I should have called the police. But all I wanted to do was to get home.

  “When I got upstairs, my husband was there, waiting up. It was after midnight, but he wasn’t mad. I work late a lot. And the overtime’s good. But as soon as he saw me, he knew. I wanted to take a shower. A long, hot shower. And a bath. I wanted to boil them right off me, make the dirt go away.

  “But he wouldn’t let me. He wanted to know what happened. I told him. I . . . think I told him. But he was so angry, I don’t remember exactly. His face was so red, like the blood was going to break right through. He asked me, were they niggers? I didn’t understand what he meant. They were . . . rapists. I didn’t look at their faces. I didn’t want to. And they told me not to, or they’d hurt me more.

  “I told him everything. I didn’t want to, but he kept slapping me and shaking me and screaming. I was so . . . humiliated. I was sure the neighbors could hear him. He made me tell him. Every single thing they did. And what I did. That’s what he said, ‘Tell me what you did.’ ”

  “You didn’t—” I started to say, but Crystal Beth cut me short with a chopping motion of her hand.

  “He ripped my clothes off. My dirty clothes. From those dirty men. Then he shoved me on the bed. Face down. ‘At least they didn’t get this,’ he said. Then he . . . Oh God, it hurt. Not just the . . . He killed me when he didn’t care. When he blamed me.”

  The woman tried to take a deep breath. Failed miserably, soft sobs shuddering.

  “After that, it was never the same,” she finally said. “That was the only way he would ever . . . do it. And when I told him I wanted a divorce, he said I couldn’t leave. Because I owed him. For what I did. And I couldn’t go until I paid it off.”

  “I’m not ashamed of it,” the auburn-haired woman said, her eyes hidden behind amber-tinted glasses even though the only light in the living room came from a deep-shaded lamp in the far corner. She was sitting on a straight-backed armless wood chair, knees together, hands in her lap. The room was furnished in heavy dark pieces bordered in ornate woodwork. The walls were eggshell, a framed print of a fox hunt over the fireplace, where a trio of small logs burned steadily. One corner of the big room was empty of furniture, waiting. She turned her head in that direction, turned it back to me, a question in her gesture.

  I answered it with an affirmative nod.

  Crystal Beth wasn’t in the room. She was somewhere on the upper floors of the East Side townhouse, packing the woman’s clothes. Some of them, anyway.

  “It’s the way I like to play,” the woman said. “Hanky-spanky. Games, that’s all. Foreplay, if you like.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “It wasn’t like you’d expect,” she continued, judging me as I wasn’t judging her. “No progression. No Nine and a Half Weeks scenarios. He did it the way I wanted. My rules. I like to be spanked, all right? Paddled, sometimes. Even the crop, if I feel especially . . . It doesn’t matter. But when it’s done, so am I, understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was done. Not with . . . what I like. With him. That’s all. People break up. They get tired of each other. Bored. Whatever.”

  I didn’t say anything, watching the amber lenses watching my eyes, knowing mine were even flatter.

  “But he got it confused. He thought, if I went over his knee, if I called him ‘sir’ and stood in the corner when he was finished . . . he thought that I belonged to him. I don’t. I belong to me.”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “He took it calmly when I first told him. It isn’t like we were in love or anything. I met him through . . . an ad. In a magazine. After we broke up, there wasn’t any trouble. I never knew where he lived. He always came here for . . . our meetings. But after I told him it was over, I . . .”

  She went silent then, bowing her head. It lasted so long I realized I wasn’t being tested. She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  So I did. “You put another ad in the same magazine. And he recognized it.”

  Her head came up. I could feel her eyes behind the amber lenses. “Yes! That’s when it started. That’s when he said if I ever . . .”

  “It’s all right,” I told her. “You’re leaving here today. He won’t know where—”

  “He said he owns me. I’m not allowed to . . . or he’ll . . .” She took a deep breath. “I’m not going to . . . He can’t make me give up my . . .”

  “I know,” I said. “It’s what we’ll use.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re going to move, okay? He won’t know where. But he will know where to look, right?”

  “You mean—?”

  “Sure. Another ad. Change it around enough so it’ll look like you’re trying to disguise yourself. He’ll answer it, do the same thing. When it comes to the meeting, it won’t be you he finds.”

  “That’ll make him so—”

  “No it won’t,” I assured her. “It’ll make him forget about bothering you anymore. The only thing you’ll be giving up is those personal ads. There’s other ways to find people to play with, right?”

  “The scene is pretty . . . closed,” she said dubiously. “The same people. The same places. It’s hard to—”

  “Get to know them first,” I told her. “Sharing a fetish isn’t a credential. First get close, then tell your secrets.”

  “That could take a long time.”

  “Safety costs.”
>
  She took off the amber glasses. Her face was heavily made up, dark eyes glinting with intelligence. “Do you know why I need . . . that, sometimes?”

  “Guesses,” I told her. “Varies, right? It may turn you on, but it also soothes you. Makes things right. Adds some balance. Pays the debts.”

  “What debts?”

  “Guilt. Bad guilt. The kind other people give you. The kind you never deserved.”

  “How do you know so much?” she asked.

  “I was looking for somebody else,” the plump girl with the granny glasses and frizzy hair said softly, her back to me. Her eyes were locked onto a computer screen. A large one, vibrating with the brilliant colors of the advertisements they made you wade through before the Web browser she was using started to work.

  “On one of the Survivor boards?” Lorraine asked.

  “No,” the plump girl said, still not turning around, Crystal Beth, Lorraine and me all standing in a fan behind her. “I was trying to reach a . . . warrior.”

  “You wanted something done?” I asked her, playing her for a battered wife, looking for a hit man on one of those wannabe mercenary boards.

  “No! I wanted to . . . talk. About what . . . happened to me. I thought he’d . . . understand. I thought he’d talk to me.”

  “And he turned out to be . . . ?” I prompted her gently.

  “It wasn’t him,” she said. “It was . . . I don’t know who it was. But it wasn’t him.”

  I spread my hands in a “What-the-hell-is-she-talking about?” gesture to the women standing on either side of me.

  “He pretended to be someone else?” Crystal Beth asked.

  “Not the one I was looking . . . I mean, I don’t . . . He read my posting. And he e-mailed me that he was a fighter. Against . . . them.”

  “People like your . . . ?”

  “Father. Yes! Okay? My father. He had his own Web site. All kinds of stories about him from different magazines and stuff. How he rescued . . . girls. Little girls. He was a hero.”

  I got it then. The real danger of the Internet isn’t just kiddie porn, or Lonely Hearts killers or race-hate filth or wacko conspiracy theories. Ever since the Polaroid camera and the videocam, once criminals saw the commercial possibilities, kiddie porn has flourished. People were lured into fatal meetings with correspondence lovers a hundred years ago. The race-haters would always have their shortwave networks and fax chains. And loonies never needed electronic assistance.

  No, the seduction is of a whole generation of young people who affect that oh-so-blasé cynicism about anything that’s in the newspapers or on TV, but lose all skepticism once it comes up on the Sacred Net. They never heard of fact-checking; they don’t even understand the concept of sourcing. Any freak can create a “magazine,” become a “journalist” and write an article about himself. Then he can post the article on some topic-related Web page, provide a link to his site and, bingo—he’s whatever he wants to be. Instant credibility with the latest class of volunteer victim . . . cyber-chumps.

  “Leave us alone,” Lorraine said to me, pushing hard against my chest. I stepped back, toward the door to the plump girl’s bedroom. When I had almost reached the threshold, Lorraine made a “Stay there!” gesture. Then she moved close to the plump girl, dropping one hand onto her shoulder. “Did you ever meet him?” Lorraine asked.

  “No. First I had to . . .”

  “Tell him . . . ?” Lorraine left it open.

  “Yes. Tell him. Everything. So he could help me.”

  “And then?”

  “Exercises.”

  “Like a kata?” Crystal Beth asked.

  “Huh?” the plump girl replied, clearly confused. Lorraine made a traffic cop’s motion with her hand, telling Crystal Beth to shut up. “A re-enactment?” she asked, voice so low I could barely hear her.

  “Yes. He said it was to . . . give him information. So he could understand. He said he was going to . . .”

  Nobody said anything. The plump girl stared at the screen, her hand playing with the mouse, moving it around on the desktop, clicking it on and off randomly as the screen jumped in response. We stayed silent, watching her search. I didn’t know what she was looking for, but I knew she’d never find it.

  “I did it,” she finally said. “But nothing happened. To my . . . father. I did everything he said. Everything. I did it all again. Even the . . . pictures. But nothing happened.”

  I kept waiting for her to crack. To break down, cry, smash her fist against the desk. Anything.

  All she did was click the mouse and stare at the screen.

  “Anyone can make up stuff on the Net,” Lorraine said. “You have to—”

  “I checked him out!” the plump girl said sharply. “I e-mailed other girls . . . that he helped. And I saw this story they did on him and everything.”

  “Anyone can have a few different e-mail addresses,” Lorraine told her gently. “Anyone can—”

  “I know,” the plump girl interrupted. “Don’t you think I know that? But I know there’s heroes out there. Just waiting for me.”

  “You open that modem, you’re spreading your legs,” Lorraine said harshly. “It’s too easy to go in disguise. Cyberspace is full of identity thieves. Web sites can be cloned. They can pretend to be anyone they want—you’ll never know the truth. And ‘e-mail’ ”—Lorraine’s voice now venom-coated—“what the fuck is that? You think it’s so ‘intimate,’ don’t you? But it’s not private. Every keystroke is recorded, don’t you understand? It goes from you to a central bank to the other person. There’s people with keys to that central bank. And people who can intercept even while you’re on-line.”

  “I—” the plump girl started to protest.

  “There’s people who can help you,” Lorraine said. “We can help you. Just stay off the Net, okay?”

  “I can’t,” the plump girl said.

  “Battered woman’s syndrome,” the black woman jeered, red square-cut fingernails grasping the front of the bar she was standing behind as though it were a lectern. It was a half-hour after closing time, and the joint was as empty as a senator’s heart. “What a joke.”

  “What do you mean?” Crystal Beth asked her. “I thought it was a real . . . I don’t know . . . advance. Something women could use in court to—”

  “Why you say that? Because every year some governor cuts the sentence of a couple of women who’re doing life for murder instead of walking around free behind self-defense? Bullshit!”

  “But if society starts to under—”

  “Society ain’t close to that, girl,” the black woman said. “And society ain’t shit either. Society’s all about control. Male control.”

  “It was the women’s movement who got those laws passed,” Crystal Beth said, using her “Let’s-all-be-calm” voice.

  “The women’s movement? You mean my sisters?” the black woman replied, sarcasm clogging her throat. “Pack of stupid bitches, chumped off again. Let me tell you something, baby. This whole ‘battered woman’s syndrome,’ that’s just another way of saying we crazy, that’s all. Man kills someone trying to kill him, only question is . . . was it gonna go down like that? Understand what I’m saying? Only thing the jury got to believe is that the other guy was gonna do it, just got beat to the draw, right? What we need some fucking syndrome for?”

  “So a jury can understand how—”

  “Oh just stop it, okay? Your man beats on you enough times, hurts you enough times, you know when he’s gonna do it again. Could be the way he starts talking, could be as soon as he’s had a few beers, could be a phone call from his goddamned mother . . . could be the way he starts breathing, all right? Point is, you know. Only thing is, that ain’t enough. Not for the cops, not for no DA and damn sure not for no jury. Man says: ‘Motherfucker went for his pocket. I know he always packs a piece, so I drilled him before he could get me.’ Now, that sounds righteous. That one will fly. Woman says: ‘Every time he start talking about how dirty the hous
e is, I know, next thing coming, he’s gonna start beating the shit out of me.’ Now, that one’s worth nothing, see? Nothing at all. Your man tries to kill you that first time, you kill him right then, you might be okay. But if you let him do it a few times, then you stuck. You let him beat on you and beaton you and . . . one day, you know you can’t take another one. You know, soon as he wakes up from that drunken sleep, you’re gonna get hurt so bad, you just . . .”

  “I underst—”

  “You understand shit, girl. You ever sit in on one of those lame-ass groups? You know, like for battered women? I did that, once. Fucking fool stands up and says, like, he used to beat on his woman, but that was ’cause he used to get drunk. So now he ain’t no alcoholic, and he don’t whale on his wife no more. Everybody applauds, okay? Big fucking insight, right? Let me tell you something, Little Miss Liberal, my old man, he used to beat me half to death and then he’d have himself a few drinks to celebrate, see?”

  “I still think people would understand,” Crystal Beth said quietly. “We have good lawyers. We could—”

  “Only thing you can do for me is what you promised,” the black woman said, her words just for Crystal Beth, talking past me like I was a piece of furniture, same way she had since we’d walked into the empty bar. “A new set of ID and enough cash to get in the wind,” she said, eyes hard and committed. “I done time before. Short stretches. But some of those girls in there were doing the Book. For what I done last night. Sooner or later, they gonna find him. Right where I left his dead ass. You take your fucking syndrome, honey. Me, I’m taking the Greyhound.”

  There were more of them. Some staying in Crystal Beth’s safehouse, some stashed in apartments around the city. Others all around the country, she told me. All races, all ages, all social classes.

  “Why did you want me to hear all that?” I asked her later, upstairs in her room.

  “So you would know. It’s not just battered women. Stalkers are . . . all kinds. It’s not just a matter of hiding out. Or even fighting back. We have to . . . change.”

  “Change how?”

  “That’s as individual as the victims. But I know it works. It’s worked for me.”