He folded his hands in front of him on the desk. The nails were bitten to the quick, ragged skin around the sides. He saw where I was looking, folded his hands across his chest.
"Can you still buy handguns up there?" I asked.
"I guess so. I mean, they have them right on the tables. But they're against the law in New York. I wouldn't mess with them. Besides, gun collectors are just a different breed from the people I deal with."
He was emphasizing the wrong words, arching an eyebrow when he did— a squid throwing out ink.
"You're not gay." My voice was flat— it wasn't a question.
His mouth smiled like it was a separate part of his face. Not answering like that was the answer.
"Homosexuals don't rape little girls," I said, my voice flat.
"No, they don't," he agreed.
"They don't rape little boys either."
"Huh?"
"Didn't they tell you what you were when you had all that therapy?"
His right hand squeezed his left wrist, hard. Muscles twitched along his forearm. "What I was."
"Say it."
His eyes were a soft, brooding brown, muddy around the rim where they bled into the white, hard in the tiny circles around the pupils. "A pedophile, that's what they said."
"But you're all better now?"
"I still have feelings…but I have something else now. Control. Feelings don't hurt anyone."
"No. They don't, Roger. When you got busted for this, the cops search your house?"
"Yes! They tore the place apart."
"Come up empty?"
"Yes, they did. I don't even know what they were looking for."
I lit another smoke, patient. When you work freaks, you don't feel yourself getting warm. The closer you get to the center, the more you feel the chill. "They search your store too?"
"Yes."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"How about if I take a look myself?"
His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "What for?"
"Oh, I think I could find something. Maybe something that would crack this case."
"Like what?"
"You deal with collectors, right?"
He nodded, watching.
"And you got a computer somewhere around…keep track of the merchandise?"
"Yes."
"Got it crash-coded?"
"How come you…?"
"I got a friend. Real genius with those things. She knows how to get inside, past the crash-codes…"
"No!"
"Sure, Roger. You're not making any money selling that flea-market crap, are you? Not real money. Like you said, you have to know what your customers want."
He turned to the young lawyer. "Can he do this?"
The young lawyer shrugged. "We're just trying to help."
"This is all privileged, right?"
"All privileged," the kid assured him.
"If I did…uh, share with other collectors, that wouldn't prove anything."
"Nothing at all," I told him. "In fact, it would explain a lot of things. Like how you really make a living. And how come you can make it through the night. We both know you guys never stop. Like you said, feelings don't hurt. Looking at pictures, that don't hurt either."
"That's right. The pictures, they're an… outlet, you understand? A release valve. Those therapists, they don't understand the need. The drive. I'm my own therapist now. I can look at the pictures, fantasize in my mind." Watching my face. "And get off when I have to, when the drive pressures me. In the institution, they tried to take that away from us. Control our thoughts. Fascists. We had to look at the pictures and then they'd shock us. Blast us with electricity. It hurt.
After a while, I couldn't even get a hard-on when I saw beautiful little pictures."
He was crying, face in his hands. They taught him how to do that inside the walls too. I waited for it to stop.
"It doesn't matter, Roger," I told him, voice low, soft-cored. "The rape went down at four forty-five in the afternoon. You were spotted just before two at the flea market. It's almost two hundred and fifty miles from there to Brooklyn. No way it could have been you."
He looked up, tears streaking his face. I went on like I'd never stopped. "There's a two-twenty flight out of Keene, New Hampshire. Air New England. Flies to the Marine Air Terminal just past La Guardia. Five minutes from the BQE. Maybe another twenty, thirty minutes to Brooklyn."
He went quiet. I felt the young lawyer stiffen behind me.
"I drove my car up there," he said.
"But you didn't drive it back, did you? One of your freak friends, another collector, he did that, right? Then maybe he flew to Boston, where he had another car waiting of his own. You guys trade these little favors, don't you? Like you trade the pictures?"
"You're crazy! You think I raped some little girl in the back of a taxicab?"
"I think you have two cars, Roger. There's the van you use for your business. The one you drove up to New Hampshire. And one you keep for prowling. You drive the car to the Marine Air Terminal, park it in the lot there, take a cab home. Then you drive the van to the flea market. Get yourself seen. Take the plane back here, hop in your car, and go to work."
I lit another smoke. "The cops'll find the other car, Roger. They'll check the passenger manifest list for the airline. And they'll find your friend too. It won't be hard."
"You can't tell them any of this. Attorney-client privilege. You said so."
"There's something special about kids, isn't there, Roger? That soft, smooth skin. How they got no hair anywhere on their little bodies."
"Shut up!"
"They'll find that car, Roger. And they'll find the kid's blood in the back seat. You're going inside. Again. For a long fucking time."
"I'm sick…you can't…"
"You're a maggot. A maggot down for Rape One. Of a child. With force and violence. And you're a two-time loser. So it's the Bitch for you. Habitual Offender. That's a life top in this state. But look at the good side: they don't do therapy on lifers. You'll be all alone in your cell, and you can paint your freak pictures in your mind all you want. You're done."
"You can't tell! I know all about it. You can't tell— you'll lose your license."
"Hey, Roger. I'll never tell. But if some smart cop decides to look for that other car of yours, that's just the breaks, huh?"
He came across the table then, reaching for my throat. I jammed the stiffened fingers of my right hand into his diaphragm, shifted my hands to the back of his neck as the breath shot out his mouth, snapped his face hard into the top of the table. By the time I felt the young lawyer's hands reaching around my chest to pull me off I was done.
I was faster then. Smarter now.
30
I COULDN'T WATCH his eyes, so I listened to his breathing. Feeling the rhythm, waiting for ragged to go smooth. For that twilight sleep to settle into REM. That's why they do surgery past midnight and before dawn— it's when the body shuts down, goes limp inside. The knife goes in easier.
The luminous dial of my fancy watch said 3:45. The kid was under, quiet now. I fished a quarter from my pocket, tapped it softly against the leg of my cot. An answering tap from Virgil. Awake, and ready. I flexed my upper body, pulling into a sitting position without using my hands. The kid didn't stir. Virgil sat up too— I could see his shape in the darkness. He followed me around the corner to the furnace. A whispered conversation, and we were ready to work.
31
"GET UP, Lloyd." Virgil gripped the kid's shoulders, shook him gently.
The kid moaned, whimpering something, still half asleep. I wouldn't want his dreams. We let him use the bathroom, throw some cold water on his face. Not saying anything, letting him feel the pressure. When he came back to the main room, we had a straight chair set up. It wouldn't be light for a couple of hours. I sat directly across from the kid, within whispering distance. Virgil was a few feet away, sitting on an angle to us, something dark on his
lap.
"Here's the way it works, Lloyd," I told him, neutral-voiced. Working it flexible: soft to hard, hard to soft. First the shell, then the center. "You and I have a talk. About all this stuff that's been going on. And you tell me the truth. You always tell me the truth. About everything. Every single time. You know why?"
"I told the truth, I…"
"You know why, Lloyd?" Shifting my voice a notch closer to hard. His eyes flicked up to mine, sulky. Dropped. "Because that's the way I'll know, see?" I said. "I find out you lied about one thing… any thing…then you're a liar, understand? And you didn't shoot those kids, did you?"
"No!"
"And that's the truth, isn't it?"
"Yes. I swear."
"Cross your heart and hope to die?"
"Yes!"
"Lloyd," I said, my voice laced with a tinge of sorrow, like it was out of my hands. "That's what you're doing, boy. Don't lie. Don't let me catch you in a lie. No matter what the truth is, tell it to me." I leaned forward. "Nothing's as bad as dying, Lloyd. Anything else, me and Virgil, we could fix it. But don't lie."
"I…won't."
I leaned back, lit a smoke, nodding my head to seal the deal. He didn't ask for one. Virgil didn't move.
"You got friends at school?"
"Yes. I mean, maybe…not really. Friends. I mean, guys I talk to but…"
"But you work alone?"
"At the store?"
"No, Lloyd. When you go out at night. You walk by yourself?"
"Sometimes…"
"You look in windows?"
"I'm sorry…I'm sorry…"
"It's all right, Lloyd. I know about the windows. Nobody ever sees you, huh?"
"No."
"You do that at home too? Before you moved up here?"
"Just a couple of times."
"It's okay. Take it easy. You're telling the truth. Nothing to worry about. You ever take your rifle with you? When you go out walking?"
"No. I never did. I swear."
"You ever let them see you?"
"Who?"
"The women. The women in the windows."
"No. I wouldn't want…"
"You ever take it out, play with it…while you watch?"
"Nooo. No. I just wanted to… see them…see what they look like…just…"
"Okay. You were scared…when you went out walking?"
"Not…scared. Like, uh…nervous, you know?"
"I know." Shifting gears— same highway. "Those magazines. The ones the cops found in your room. Where'd you get them?"
"I sent away for them."
"What kind of magazines were they?"
"About…women. I…"
"There's more of 'em over in the corner— found 'em down in the basement." Virgil's voice. Like saying the milk was in the refrigerator. "You want to see them?"
"Yeah."
He got up, came back with a foot-high stack, bound with twine. Dropped it on the floor next to my chair, pulled at the cord. A knot unraveled.
"Lloyd know these were here?" I asked him.
"Yeah. Never touched them either," he said, answering my next question.
I shone my pocket flash on the first one. "Beauty in Chains." Women bound, gagged, blindfolded. In street clothes, some half dressed, some nude. Bent over chairs, standing on tiptoe, hands suspended over their heads, hog-tied. Helpless. Ropes, straps, handcuffs. They were all like that. All the same. Some had the covers pulled off. A few had pages ripped out. Not neatly cut. Jagged edges. Torn.
"How much did these cost?" I asked Lloyd.
"Twenty-five dollars was the most. Some were fifteen, one was only five."
In the underbelly of the human heart, dirt isn't cheap.
"You look at these?" I asked Virgil. Buying time. Something about the magazines. Something past the obvious. The way inside.
"I looked at them." His voice was flat, giving nothing away.
I lit another smoke, turning the pages, getting the feel. Lloyd watching me. Waiting for the judgment.
It came to me. "The pages you ripped out…where are they?"
"I threw them away."
"No you didn't."
"I did! I mean…I didn't throw them away exactly…I…burned them."
"Where?"
"In the woods. Just past the dunes. I made a campfire. Every time."
"Every time?"
"Every time a new one came…with those pictures."
I dragged on my smoke, looking down the white barrel of the cigarette, visually placing the red tip in the center of Lloyd's out-of-focus face. Like the laser-dot from a sniper rifle. Zeroing in. "What was in the pictures, Lloyd? The pictures you burned up."
He made a strangling sound deep in his throat.
I felt Virgil settle into himself. Knowing it was important, not knowing why. Knowing he had to wait. He had a hunter's patience. I had a convict's.
Lloyd felt the weight. "Could I have a smoke?"
"When it's over. What was in the pictures?"
He took short, shallow breaths. The blankets were coming off and he knew it was going to be cold.
"The pictures…they were getting hurt."
"The women?"
"Yes. I couldn't look at them."
"Who was hurting them?"
"Men, mostly. Sometimes other women."
"Tell me."
"They beat them. Whipped them. Even…c-c-cut them once. Ugly. So ugly…"
He was crying. Not a sociopath's tears. Crying for someone else. It felt right. I had to be sure. I probed the wound, watching for the runoff. Clean or dirty. Blood or pus. "You don't like other people in your pictures, Lloyd?"
"Other people…?"
"You can't own the women if there's somebody else there. They wouldn't be all yours."
"All mine? They're not mine. I just wanted to see…not be so…"
"Afraid?"
"Yes." Sobbing now.
"When they're helpless…tied up…you can look all you want? Like when they're in the windows?"
"Yes."
I couldn't close the wound until it was clean. The scalpel probed again. "Lloyd, you ever see a dead woman?"
"No."
"Ever want to see one?"
"No! God. No. Dead?"
I zoned in on his face, going into his skull, reaching out, searching to see if that maggoty little worm of evil was there. My voice was soft, smoothing the road, stroking the beast to full boil. "A dead woman, Lloyd. A dead naked woman. Just lying there. You could do whatever you wanted. She'd be all yours. She'd never say anything. Whatever you wanted to do…"
He stumbled from the chair, staggering past me, making wounded-animal sounds. I held up my hand to stop Virgil from going after him.
We heard him hit the floor in the bathroom. Heard the low grunting scream— ripped from his guts like he'd ripped the pictures from his tortured mind. Projectile vomiting, his lungs hitting the top of his throat.
When he got his breath, he used it for crying.
32
AFTER A WHILE, the crying was over. My work wasn't. I nodded to Virgil. We walked around the concrete corner, found the kid sitting in his own stink, face in his hands. Drained.
"Get on your feet," I told him. "Clean yourself up."
He made noises. Didn't move.
"Now," I told him, voice hard.
"I can't."
I turned on the shower full blast. Virgil grabbed the kid under his armpits, hauled him to his feet. I turned the hose on him. He sagged in Virgil's hands. The water hit him clean, ran off foul.
We let him finish the job himself. Waited while he toweled himself off. He came back inside wearing an old red flannel bathrobe. I pointed at the chair. He sat down again.
Virgil tossed him a pack of cigarettes. It landed in the kid's lap. He didn't move, didn't raise his head.
"It's okay, Lloyd," I said, propping him up for what had to come.
"I told the truth." His voice was thin, sad.
"I know. But
we're not done. Can you light that cigarette?"
"I don't know." Fumbling in his lap.
"Try."
A wooden match flared in Virgil's hand. He was kneeling next to the kid, one hand on his shoulder. Lloyd got it going, took a deep drag. Coughed. Took another. The early dawn light seeped in. The boy's skin was transparent, the skull showing through.
"You re scared of women, Lloyd?"
"I…think so."
"But you like them?"
"Yes. I do…like…them. I think I do. But when they talk to me…"
"I know. Someone told you they wouldn't like you, didn't they? Someone told you they'd know something about you…"
His shoulders shook like he was freezing. Crying again, the cigarette dropping from his hand. Virgil plucked it off the kid's lap, one hand still on his shoulder, trying to send his strength into his wife's cousin. Not knowing why yet, trusting what he felt.
I lit a cigarette of my own. Centering myself, watching the red dots that always danced before my eyes when the freaks played with kids. Remembering. Getting past it. Like I had a long time ago. When I made my choices.
"Who was it, Lloyd?" I asked him. Voice soft, not waiting for the answer. "Your mother's boyfriend? A teacher? The coach? Your uncle?"
I let Virgil's rock-hard core work its way into the boy's guts. Waiting for the anchor to set.
"How did…how d'you know?"
"I know who did it. Not his name. But I know him. They're all alike. Listen to me, Lloyd. They're all liars. You told us the truth here. And you're going to beat this. He lied to you. As soon as you tell us everything, I'll start to prove it to you."
"Ain't nobody gonna hurt you, son." Virgil's voice. The kid caught the last word, grabbed at it like a lifeline. He wouldn't have to face the monster alone.
Anymore.
"It was the preacher," he said. "The preacher."
"Yeah. When did it start?"
"When I was nine. Just before I was ten. Just before my birthday. He had model race cars. Radio-controlled. He used to take me to the races. He said, when I was ten, he'd let me steer one in a time trial."
"And your mother, she thought it was great, you spending time with him?"
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