by S. E. Green
Adam smiles a little, and I’m confident he doesn’t suspect my motives for being here. “So how long you been standing back there?” I ask.
“Enough to know that man is guilty.” Adam glances at the double doors Mr. Oily Nose went through. “I’d love to hand that guy over to the BDAP.”
“BDAP?”
“Biker Dudes against Pedophiles.”
“That actually exists?”
Adam’s dark brows go up. “Oh yeah. It’s a badass group of men who lobby against child sex crimes. They travel all over the Nation on their bikes, talking to schools, educating kids, fundraising for victims, organizing rallies, and anything else you can imagine.”
How have I not heard of this?
Adam steps in closer, lowering his voice. “But it’s the rumored behind-the-scenes stuff that they’re most known for. Justice for those wronged. Good kind of justice if you know what I mean. An eye for an eye type of stuff.”
In other words, my kind of stuff.
“Yeah,” Adam says, “if I had my way I’d hand that pedophile over to them and let them do their worst, or rather best.”
I’m all about letting someone have their way. Seems Adam and I understand each other better than either one of us knows. The judge’s hands may be tied, but mine sure aren’t. I can do us all a favor because with my brand of justice, I don’t compromise.
23
I’VE BEEN WORKING at Patch and Paw for several years now. I’ve cleaned cages. Tended wounds. Assisted in surgery. Been there during an animal’s last breaths. But I have never in all those years seen a live birth.
Until now.
“There you go, Momma,” Dr. O’Neal coos, stroking the Cocker Spaniel’s head. She turns to me, beaming. “Incredible, isn’t it?”
There’s Dr. O’Neal, gushing with emotion over an animal that doesn’t even belong to her. I try to imagine Dr. Issa here and how he would react, and he’d do the same thing. I know he would.
Anyone would.
Anyone but me.
I don’t feel that runaway emotion. I only feel the Receptionist beside me, clenching my upper arm. At some point during the birth, she grabbed hold of me, and she has yet to let go. She’s a tiny woman and stronger than she looks. I want to peel her fingers off my upper arm, but I refrain. Apparently, she needs personal contact, and so I let it be.
I go beyond this scene and back in time to my mom birthing me and Daisy and Justin. Was she overflowing with true emotion, or was she role-playing? I see Victor there, beaming just like Dr. O’Neal currently is, and I see Mom with her pretty smile, hiding her thoughts of inevitability.
She knew she had a role to play, and she played it to a tee.
I keep thinking about those words roleplay—daughter, sister, animal lover, and now girlfriend. I need to get into my role, and I need to maintain it, however exhausting that may be. It’s the only way I’m going to fully blend.
So I paste a smile on my face, and I squat down to rub the Cocker Spaniel’s head. Life just happened in front of me, and if you really think about the science behind it, it’s a truly overwhelming event. The odd thing is, I really do wish I wasn’t so indifferent to this amazing scene in front of me. I really do wish I felt something more than the science behind it.
24
“WHEN LANE MOVES out, what are we doing with her room?” This is what Justin asks over dinner that night.
I pause in my bite of stuffed cheesy shells and glance first at Victor before my eyes shift over to Justin. “I didn’t realize you were in such a hurry for me to go.”
“I’m not!”
I go ahead and swallow my bite, then chase it with a quick drink of lemonade. Though I haven’t talked to Victor about this, I have been thinking of the whole moving off to college thing. My plan was always to go to UVA, but that would put me hours from here. Hours away from Daisy.
When I first discovered her real parentage, I knew my future would probably change. Now with the brief talks she and I have had, and the glimpses she’s given me into her own thoughts, I both want to and know I need to stay closer. I want to be here for her. I want to be close enough to keep an eye on her.
I give my mouth a quick wipe. “What would you all think about me staying local for college?”
Victor glances up from his dinner. “Really? Why?”
“With everything that has happened,” I honestly say, “I want to be here for you all.”
Daisy perks up, and I’m so glad to see that reaction in her. “Serious?” She grins. “I think that sounds great!”
Justin makes a face. “Dang, I was hoping to snag your room.”
Playfully, I push his head. “You little twerp. You can have my room if it’s okay with Dad. I’m still planning on getting my own place.”
I look across the table at Victor and my smile falls away when I note his none-too-happy expression.
“It’s not what your mother would have wanted,” he says. “She really wanted you to go to UVA.”
I want to reply with, Who the hell cares what Mom wanted? But instead, I tactfully say, “Well, it’s ultimately my decision, right? I mean, I’m paying for it, and I’ve already been accepted to several colleges here local. I have until the end of the month to make a switch before my acceptance letters expire.”
Victor takes a sip of his red wine, and I recognize the gesture. He’s giving himself time to think. I get it. I should have talked to him privately about this instead of springing it on the whole table.
Carefully, he puts his wine back down. “I didn’t realize you had applied to other colleges.”
“Yes, after Mom died I wanted to have options.”
Victor looks around the table, his gaze meeting each of ours. I imagine he feels like a General surrounded on the battlefield. Daisy and Justin are clearly on my side of this, and Victor has no option but to acquiesce.
His eyes come back to mine. “You get something in your head, and there’s no stopping you. You’re just like your mother that way.”
I hate that he just said that.
“Well, every young person needs their independence and privacy. If you want my help looking for an apartment, let me know, because you and I both know you’re not a dorm girl.”
Wow, I really hurt his feelings. “Dad, I’m sorry. This was not the way I should have talked to you about this. And, yes, I would like help looking for an apartment.” I don’t really need the help, but I know I need to let him do this to smooth things over.
Plus, he’s right. I’m not a dorm girl. I definitely need my privacy.
“Wait,” Daisy says, “aren’t you required to live in a dorm your freshman year?”
Shit, she might be right.
25
I MAY NOT have the ability to hack my way through whatever network needs to be hacked, but I have my own ways of finding out things. Like for example I still have Mr. Oily Nose’s phone.
It’s amazing how many people don’t password protect themselves, and it’s amazing what people keep on their phones. Numbers, of course. Addresses. Credit card information. Porn apps. Calendar of events. Personal notes. IM messages with other deviants. Pictures of children…
Yes, Oily Nose may be doing a stellar job of skirting the law, but there is nothing innocent about his intentions. And I fully plan on exposing him.
To the right people.
Biker Dudes against Pedophiles does indeed exist with headquarters in Texas and several affiliated clubs across the U.S. One here local in D.C.
Mr. Oily Nose lives in Annandale and according to his schedule, he works Monday through Friday from eight until five as a bank teller. What a nice job.
This is my late morning at Patch and Paw, so I park my Jeep a block down from Oily Nose’s apartment and watch as he leaves in his black pants, white shirt, and blue paisley tie. So respectable. He climbs into an equally respectable Nissan Sentra and pulls away from the curb.
I let a good solid five minutes go by just to make sure he didn’t
forget anything and decides to come back. Then I jump from my Jeep and stroll the sidewalk straight to his brick apartment building.
I wave hello to one person. Give a kind smile to another. Nothing going on here folks.
There are four units total in the small building. Two on the bottom and two on the top. His sits on the bottom and to the right. I don’t even use my lockpicks. The idiot has a hide-a-key behind the lamp attached to the wall in the upper left corner—a detail he notated on his phone. Not a bright guy, this one.
I slip on my gloves, take the key, and walk right inside.
It looks a lot like Scott Butler’s place. One bedroom. Neat and tidy. Flat screen. Entertainment center. Carpet. Leather couches. Maybe sexual deviants all have the same tastes.
Oily Nose’s blinds lay in an open slit pattern, letting in sunlight. It’s enough to see by and I begin my perusal. Bedroom first where I find the standard stuff—clothes, family picture beside the bed, light blue sheets, dark blue comforter, dry cleaning hanging in the closet, shoes lined perfectly, and under his bed a collection of magazine clippings all with children in bathing suits.
His nightly spank bank entertainment, I’m sure.
I take a Ziploc bag from my back pocket and slide all the clippings inside. Bathroom comes next, and after a thorough inspection, it comes up empty of questionable matter.
On to the living room. I flip on the T.V. and begin browsing his recent watch lists and movie purchases. The Human Centipede. The Serbian Film. Irreversible. The Brown Bunny. Lolita…
I can’t say I’m surprised.
Unlike in Scott’s place, Oily Nose’s entertainment center holds no hidden DVD’s and other than his questionable tastes in movies, I get nothing.
His laptop, though? A gold mine of pictures he’s taken around town, catching children in all sorts of scenarios: playing, crying, running, fighting… There are bookmarked child porn sites, too. Pedophile discussion boards. Saved videos taken right off YouTube. And the motherlode—recordings of him actually speaking to children. How has this guy skirted by the law? One well-placed search warrant and the cops would have everything they need. No wonder Judge Penn is so frustrated.
I click on one of the audio files.
“Well, you’re awful pretty,” Oily Nose says.
A little girl giggles. “Thank you.”
“Is your Mommy here?”
“Yep, just over there.”
“Sasha!” A woman’s voice yells. “Get over here!”
“Bye!” the little girl says.
“Bye,” Oily Nose whispers.
That whisper makes my lip snarl. This bastard is so going down.
I take his laptop and the magazine clippings and truck it back to my Jeep. Those along with his phone are all I need.
26
THAT NIGHT I lay crouched in the back of Mr. Oily Nose’s Nissan Sentra, waiting. According to his Outlook Calendar, he was getting home late from work with just enough time to change and head to dinner with friends. A dinner he won’t be making it to.
In his rush to get back out the door, I’m counting on him not noticing the missing laptop and magazine clippings.
In my pocket, my cell buzzes and quickly I check the display. Daisy. She’ll have to wait. Right now, I need this more than Daisy and her request to pick her up, or drop her off, or grab something on my way home.
It buzzes again, this time Adam. What does he want now? A couple of hours ago he caught me on my way out of Patch and Paw, and I thought that was it.
“Where you headed?” he asked.
“Out with a friend,” I lied.
“Oh…” He hesitated. “I was thinking we could grab dinner. Maybe we all could?”
“Ah, well, actually, it’s my boyfriend,” I continued the lie, realizing the whole boyfriend thing might pay off in more ways than I realized.
“Oh, okay, no worries.” Adam hesitated again. “Need a recommendation? I know a lot of great places.”
“Um, sure.”
He proceeded to give me recommendations, and I proceeded to listen. “Maybe we can catch up tomorrow.”
“Yeah, sure.”
This is the problem with friends. They want to do things, and I want to be right here in the back of this Nissan Sentra, waiting on Mr. Oily Nose.
I wonder how many times my mom crouched in the shadows waiting on her victim. I wonder how many times her cell buzzed with Victor or one of us kids and she ignored it. But even though I’m here and ignoring my family and friends, I’m nothing like her. I have my priorities. But so did she—her priority being her victims. And now here I am doing the same thing. I can have both, though, just like she did. I don’t have to choose.
What am I doing? Why am I making comparisons? I am nothing like her, or my real father, or my aunt. Nothing.
My thoughts are interrupted when the locks release. In my pocket, my cell buzzes again, and without looking at it, I power it down. My needy family will have to wait.
The car shifts as Mr. Oily Nose slides in behind the wheel and shuts the door. All kinds of excited nerves snap across my skin and beneath my mask I smile. Oh, we’re going to have fun, Oily Nose.
He cranks the engine and chooses a station with classical music.
I sit up in the backseat and slip the noose end of the animal control pole around his neck. This is the first time I’ve ever used an animal control pole, and I’m excited to see how it will go. The inspiration hit me as I was taking inventory earlier at Patch and Paw, and I felt like I had just discovered a new invention.
One quick yank and the noose settles tight. Oily Nose makes a tiny ratchet of panic, and then that’s it.
“All mine,” I tell him, and he freezes all neat and perfect, already being a good boy. “You’re going to do what I say, right?”
He nods, rasping as his neck pinches with the movement. I glance from the side of his face into the rearview mirror, seeing my own masked face and green eyes. I look into his wide, scared ones, and he says nothing, just stares back, waiting. I pull on the noose again, because I can, and his hand flutters up, not sure if he should fight or acquiesce.
“Be good,” I warn.
The fluttering hand falls back down, and I loosen the noose.
He takes in a breath, the air ripping at his throat, and coughs it right back out. The sound of his panic, his submissiveness, only fuels me. “Drive,” I instruct.
Mr. Oily Nose stutters into motion and begins to follow directions. He knows I mean business, and I love that. We drive 236 to 395, going straight into D.C. He doesn’t object or fight or try to speak, and I find myself wishing he would. This is too easy. He’s too nervous. I want him to have hope.
But he keeps both hands on the wheel, his knuckles white, and the rest of his fingers red with blood.
We drive north, the only sounds the soft classical music and the wind whisking by. My gaze drifts briefly to the heavy and full moon, and its solemn glow seems to pulse through my veins. Somewhere deep inside of me, a dark rush of excitement dances.
“Exit here,” I say, and his eyes fly to mine, panicked. He opens his mouth, wanting to speak, and I cut him off—“Here.”
He turns, slumping down like he knows he has no choice. His car rolls over the pavement, and like a horse, I pull right on the pole and he follows my lead.
The Sentra exits and then takes a gravel road, barely visible now in the darkness of night. I’ve never been here before but my search said half a mile, a few twists, and then nothing but the “seedy underbelly” of D.C.
Seedy underbelly. I like that.
But I’m not ready to hand him over to the biker dudes. Not yet at least. His headlights pick up the remnants of a crumbling shack. Perfect. “Stop the car,” I say.
Oily Nose lurches to obey in a rigid movement driven by fear. He cuts the engine and everything falls quiet save for the distant buzz of traffic on 395. Across the street sits a rundown grocery store, closed for the night and bars on the window. Next to t
hat lays a park with no grass, two broken swings, a merry go round tilted off its axis, and one lump on a bench that I assume is a person. Weeds and unkempt bushes surround the crumbled shack. A tree lays collapsed through the ceiling. Other than that, darkness engulfs us. Perfect.
“Get out,” I command.
He doesn’t move.
I yank hard on the pole, too hard, and Oily Nose arches off the seat with a gag.
I put my window down, reach around and open his door, and then shove him out. He flops to the dirt, and I fling open my door and have the control pole back in my grip before he has time to realize I released him.
Darkly, I laugh, tightening my hold again, and I slam my booted foot down onto his chest.
“I thought I told you to be good.” Bending over I stare into his bulging eyes. “You going to listen to me?”
He can’t breathe, but he nods his head, and I loosen the noose just a bit. Gasping for air, tears leak from his eyes, but his gaze holds mine with understanding.
“Now get up,” I say.
Slowly, his eyes still on mine, he gets up. His whole body trembles as he waits for me to give him the next instruction.
“Inside,” I softly say.
Mr. Oily Nose drops his eyes and doesn’t look at me again as he starts for the house with me behind him, holding him at length with the animal control pole. He goes obediently, just like a dog, head down, knowing he’s defeated.
At the broken door, he stops, and his trembling body transitions into full-on shaking. I give him a prod, then a shove, and he stumbles through the broken door. A quick glance around shows the place filthy, but empty, the roof open to the night sky, the stars above, and that full and fat moon.
A beautiful night for vigilante justice.
I yank on the noose and with a strangled scream he falls to his knees. His fingers grapple at his neck and then with a whimper he covers his face with his hands.
“Do you know why you’re here?” I ask.
