Aftershock

by Andrew Vachss

  He didn’t move, even when I used the slicing side of my Tanto to cut off his shirt. He had the same tattoo as Cameron’s, and in the same place. But only the one on his arm, nothing on his chest.

  I couldn’t know when he’d come around, so I pulled out the cotton wads, dipped them in chloroform until they were soaked, then shoved them back in.

  I shielded the little gas-fired blowtorch so nobody looking this way could see the glow. Even with the heavy double-mesh gloves, I could feel the heat from the branding iron as I held it against the arm tattoo.

  He slept through it, but his blood was pumping hard, and he’d be conscious soon enough. I sliced off the duct tape from around his face and neck, then wrapped a fentanyl patch around his forefinger, shoved it deep into his mouth, and taped it closed. He wouldn’t wake up screaming. Not from pain, anyway.

  I pulled the cotton wads out, tossed them into the same bag I’d used for everything else I’d removed, and moved far enough away to smash and abandon the gutted cell phone. Seven minutes, thirteen seconds, start to finish.

  Then I was gone.

  No reason for the police to pull me over on the drive back, but even if they did, I had all the paper I needed. The plates were from the exact same model car, registered to someone who had left it in a motel parking lot long enough for me to take out a short-term loan.

  The reason for branding the man over his arm tattoo was that there was no reason. That’s all terrorism is: bad things happen to noncombatants; there’s nothing special about the victims, they were just in the wrong place when it happened. Not like Idrissa’s night-kills—they surely terrorized the enemy, but the enemy were soldiers: they knew they were in a war.

  I didn’t get the feeling that any of the branded man’s pals were icy enough to cut his throat and bury him right there, so my money was on an ER dump.

  Whatever they told him to say, he’d have to tell the cops that same story. The only thing he really had to lie about was where it had happened.

  Or maybe he wouldn’t wake up until daylight, find himself alone in the woods, and …

  Whatever was going to happen would shake them all, no matter what they decided to do. And whatever that turned out to be, it might help—the best way to find out who’s inside a building is to set it on fire.

  An hour after I got the Lexus into our garage, it had the correct plates back on. And I had the branding iron and the stolen plates welded into a single unrecognizable lump, knowing that the little kiln would remove any trace of DNA. While the metal was still pliable, I added some clay and swirled it around until it had the right form. When I pulled that free, Dolly would have a nice flowerpot.

  Even held inside my jacket to mask the flash, the digital camera had done a perfect job. The symbol on the jacket I took from the target-of-opportunity in the woods was a perfect match for the dead kid’s arm tattoo.

  I used the same photo to make a clear scan, then I sent it down a twisted wire of communication lines. It would only take a day or two for me to find out exactly what that symbol meant—provided it meant anything at all.

  The next morning, Dolly was still admiring her new planter when I asked her, “How much do you know about softball?”

  “A lot, I think. But you’re after something a lot more specific than that, Dell. So why don’t you just tell me what you’re looking for?”

  “I don’t know what I’m looking for, honey. This is like trying to snatch a moray eel out of an oil barrel. I can’t see it, but I know it’s there. And I can’t just reach in. So I’ve got to drain the barrel, see?”

  “Not … really, Dell. Can’t you try and just ask narrow questions? If that doesn’t work, we can try the long way, okay?”

  I thought for a minute or two. Then I asked, “How come you know a lot about girls’ softball? Because of all the kids that’re always swarming this place?”

  “Some of that, sure. But there’s a special thing about girls’ softball. It took me a while to pick up on it, but it’s a sport where you see girls on the field and boys in the stands. Not ogling or anything like that. Supporting. Cheering for their team.

  “They start playing when they’re kids. Boys have Little League baseball; girls have the same thing, only it’s softball. Then there’s the juniors—when they’re too old for Little League, but still high school age.

  “And you know what you see there? A lot? Girls’ brothers and boyfriends in the stands, making some serious noise. They hold up signs, wear crazy costumes.… Some even have stuff painted on themselves, so they can take off their shirts and make a statement.

  “It’s not like they’re some male version of cheerleaders. They’re … I know! One time I saw three boys in the stands. All different ages, but you could tell they were brothers. Each one had a word painted on his chest, and they all had their shirts off. Every time this one girl got up to bat, they’d stand up, and you could read the message:

  “CRUSH! ONE! TINA!

  “I remember thinking that there’s something about girls’ softball that brings out the best in boys.”

  “Hmmmm …”

  “What, Dell?”

  “MaryLou didn’t have brothers. And she didn’t have a boyfriend. I can see Franklin cheering for her, but not holding up a sign or anything like that.”

  “Sometimes people get, well, not jealous exactly, but crazy to have someone. Obsessed with them. And if they feel rejected, they can turn vicious in a second. But that wouldn’t work here. There’s no way MaryLou could have been rejected by that boy she shot.”

  “Because she’s gay?”

  “And she didn’t try and hide it. But, also, why shoot the other boys? It’s almost as if they’d all raped her and she was out for revenge. But I can’t see any of that. Can’t bring it into focus. It’s like she just went insane before she shot those boys. Even now, she’s so calm it’s spooky. She has to know she’s facing spending the rest of her life in prison, but … but that’s okay. Okay with her, I mean.”

  “You always drop into that kind of calm when you know the mission’s over. You did a job that never needs doing again. You can go home.”

  “That’s soldiers, Dell. Not—”

  “It’s not only soldiers, Dolly. You see it every day. A man gets up in the morning, just like usual. Then he kills his wife and kids, drives over to his in-laws’, and kills them both. Maybe he’s got a few more names on his list—especially if he’d just been fired from his job.

  “But when he finally puts the gun to his own head, if you could be there at that moment, you’d see how calm he was about it. The job was done. He was going home.”

  “That is just crazy.”

  “To you, sure. Not to him.”

  She sat down, clasped her hands together in her lap. I knew what that meant.

  “I … I think I know what you’re saying, Dell. Even if what MaryLou did was crazy on the surface, somehow it made sense to her.”

  “She paid what it cost, girl. We just don’t know what that ‘it’ was.”

  “And she’s not going to tell?”

  “I don’t think so. There’s a story to tell here, all right. But I don’t think it’s her story.”

  “Then whose?”

  “I’m damned if I know. But I’ll take another shot at squeezing it out of her tomorrow.”

  “Thanks” is how she greeted me.

  I made a “For what?” gesture.

  “The money on the books. Makes it a lot easier to live here.”

  “Why do you think it was me?”

  “They let you use phones here. Their phones, I mean. You warned me about not talking about … what happened. But I didn’t know that even if you’re calling five blocks away you have to call collect.”

  “And you don’t like that?”

  “I don’t. Who would? But who would I call, anyway?”

  “Dolly?”

  “She’s done enough. More than enough. More than I could ever pay her back for.”

  “She�
�s your friend, yes?”

  “I … I guess she is.”

  “So why fuss about paying her back?”

  “That’s me. That’s what everyone knows about me.”

  Not everyone, shot through my mind, too quick for me to grab it.

  “So we’re back to ‘Why thank me?’ ”

  “Is this a test or something? I know that lawyer wouldn’t put money on the books for me. The only person who could do it would be someone who knew he could do it, and how to get it done. None of my friends would know. Dolly wouldn’t, either. That leaves you.”

  “Your family—”

  “Forget them,” she said. Not like a teenage girl who was annoyed—like a grown woman, giving an order.

  “Franklin knows you’re in here.”

  “Franklin? He’s a sweetheart. But figuring things out isn’t something he’s good at.”

  “You think if he could he’d do it?”

  “Yeah, I do. Franklin’s like me in a lot of ways. When people look at us, they only see a piece of us. Without Franklin, our football team’s a joke. Same as our softball team would have been without me. But that’s not all there is, not about either of us.”

  “I’ll keep your commissary on max while you’re here.”

  “I already thanked you for that. And I will find a way to pay you back. I’ve got a whole life to do that.”

  “Life at Coffee Creek, is that what you mean?”

  “Where else?”

  “Don’t act like you’ve already been convicted.”

  “Are you—? No, that’s me being stupid, not you. But I’ve got no way to beat this one.”

  “And you knew that going in.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

  It was time to take that shot I’d told Dolly I’d be doing. “You only wanted one of them.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, you do. You only wanted one of them. Maybe you wanted to send a message, too. But Cameron Taft, he was the target.”

  “He was just closest, that’s all.”

  “They’ve got cameras in the hallways, MaryLou,” I said, like that settled the argument. It was only a half-bluff—the school did have those cameras, but I hadn’t seen the footage.

  She bounced back so fast that I knew she’d thought this all the way through. “It might look like I passed up a couple of them before I shot him, but that’s only because I had a clearer shot if I cut across on an angle.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I think you do, but I’ll say it anyway. You know what makes a great pitcher? Not speed—although you have to be able to really bring it if you want to get any mileage out of your change-up—and not a filthy breaking ball, either. You have to be able to hit your spots. Some hitters will murder anything on the outside corner, but going in on them ties them in knots. See?”

  “I do. This Cameron boy, he was the spot you had to hit.”

  “Jeez!” she said, throwing up her hands. For the first time, she looked like a teenage girl—one exasperated beyond endurance at her parents’ being so thick.

  At that moment, I knew more than I had when I walked into the Visiting Room. But I was still way short of what I needed.

  I can make my mind a centrifuge. When it stops spinning, I’m pretty wiped out, but I can read whatever was still sticking to its walls.

  The best assassins always have one thing in common—the things they don’t need. Friends, family, even solace.

  Experience can make you better at anything, but only if you learn from it. If you keep doing the same thing the same way, you’ll be no better at it than when you started.

  There’s assassins who might as well sign their names over the bodies they leave. If you read about a man who fell to a barbed-wire garrote in a certain part of Paris, the cops might say something like “Looks like Pierre hasn’t lost his touch.”

  Once the police start saying things like that, you know Pierre might have been working for a long time, but he isn’t going to die a free man.

  The man who wanted his daughter back found me only by going through a half-dozen networks. I wasn’t a member of any of them. Neither was he. But there’s a knowledge pool inside them all, and if you have the credentials—and the cash—you can tap into it.

  So somebody, somewhere, knew I could kill, and do a clean job of it. But all they’d have is a name, and not the right one. Whatever they’d known about me was all used up—they couldn’t find me again, ever.

  I’d worked outlaw for a long time, and I never lied to myself about that. The only difference between a mercenary and whoever hires him isn’t morality; it’s money. A mercenary rents out his own life, and it’s not up to him when the lease is up. An assassin is more like a landlord: one that can refuse any tenant he wants to, no explanation required.

  But I hadn’t worked since Dolly and I came together. And that was a long time. So I’d put a lot of distance between myself and any kind of police.

  Besides, I wasn’t wanted for anything.

  It was the “wasn’t wanted” truth of my life that set me on my original path. It was being wanted that put me on another.

  The hunters in the woods, the little maggot who tortured Alfred Hitchcock to death, none of that had been outlaw work, and not just because I hadn’t done it for money. But I still had all my knowledge. Things I’d never forget.

  Like:

  You don’t take a contract to kill unless you know who’s offering it. The best way to take out a contract man is give him a job, and then warn the target that he’s coming.

  If you take a job, you never agree to deadlines. You take a contract; you take your time.

  MaryLou is smart, and she’s strong, but she’s no assassin. If Cameron Taft was her target, why not just wait until she could catch him alone? She could have done the same job with a lead pipe. Probably better—she hadn’t even known enough to double-tap him.

  The only thing I felt sure of was that, for whatever reason, MaryLou felt she just couldn’t wait. The job had to be done right then.

  As soon as I walked in the door, I saw Dolly couldn’t wait, either. She was almost jumping up and down with excitement.

  “Dell! I made some calls overseas. And you won’t believe—”

  She caught my look, and her eyes went from glistening to dark in a second, but she rolled right over anything I might want to say. “And, yes, I used those International Calling Cards they sell everywhere, and, yes, I paid cash, and, yes, I—”

  I should have known Dolly wouldn’t let enthusiasm get in the way of anything I’d taught her. “I’m sorry” is all I could think of to say. I guess it was enough, because all she said was:

  “We have to go someplace. It’s about a seven-hour drive.”

  “We, you and me?”

  “Yes!”

  “When?”

  “Now!”

  “Can we use the Lexus?”

  “Of course! I was planning to have it detailed before we returned it anyway, so it won’t matter if Rascal comes with us.”

  The dog gave me an “Any more stupid questions?” look. I didn’t say a word about dogs not being able to retract their claws, and the leather that covered every inch of the back of her friends’ car.

  We were on the road in another fifteen minutes. A couple of soft-sided bags were already in the empty space behind the back seat—Dolly had packed while waiting for me to come home.

  The back seat was all Rascal’s, and already covered in horse blankets. I caught his eye in the mirror. He was Dolly’s dog, all right.

  Dolly was thrilled that the Lexus had two sockets for keeping cell phones charged.

  “Now we can both stay on ‘full,’ ” she said, clapping her hands like a happy kid.

  I had no doubt whose phone would have stayed on “full” if there had been only one socket. But at least I managed to stop her from playing with the navigation system.

  “It wouldn’t be fair to your friends,�
� I told her. “I don’t know anything about the electronics in this thing, and I’ve never read the manual—I didn’t think we’d have the car this long. It may already have some kind of navigational system installed, but there’s no reason to make it easier on anyone who feels like checking where this thing’s been the last few days. That’s why you have that paper map with you, instead of using MapQuest or something that would stay on your computer.”

  That last part was a question, but even though she nodded, I could see she wasn’t really listening.

  “I want to hear … well, everything about your visit with MaryLou, Dell. But if I don’t tell you this now, I’m going to burst!”

  “I can see that.”

  She punched me on the arm. Dolly did that whenever she felt like it, but she’d never felt like it when I was behind the wheel before. She was really amped to the gills.

  “Oh, you! Just listen for a minute, okay?”

  I knew Dolly well enough not to make any comment about her estimates of time, so I just said, “Go.”

  “We’re going to see a SANE nurse. And not just any SANE nurse, but the one in charge of the whole state. She’s based in Salem, but she’s almost always on the road. Where we’re going, it’s where she is now.”

  “SANE?”

  “Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner.”

  “But you said ‘sane nurse.’ ”

  “That’s just how people say it, ‘SANE nurse.’ Maybe because it comes out easier that way. Remember, there’s all kinds of nurses. I was an R.N. That’s a high rank. But a Nurse Practitioner, that’s the peak. In this state, they can do all kinds of things that only doctors can do in other places.”

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt you, Dolly. It’s just that we’ve got plenty of time until we get where we’re going, and the more I understand, the better, right?”

  “Yes.” She sighed as dramatically as one of her teenagers.

  I shut up after that. It was a good three seconds before Dolly went back to what she wanted to say so badly.