Pain Management

by Andrew Vachss

  She gave Joel a glance. He nodded. “Let’s go out in the backyard,” he said to me. “Be nice to be outside when it’s not raining, for once.”

  “You can smoke out here,” he said, taking a seat on a redwood bench that circled a good-sized table made out of the same stuff.

  “I don’t smoke,” I told him, setting the stage.

  “When did you quit?”

  “A long time ago. Smoking . . . looking like I’m smoking . . . is just another way of making sure people don’t know me as good as they think they do.”

  “And that’s important to you?”

  “I couldn’t do my work without it,” I said. “But sometimes I need people to trust me. Like now. If they don’t know me, there’s only one way to get that to happen.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’re worried that I might be lying. Might be working for Kevin so hard I’d say . . . do anything to get my hands on his daughter. I could sit here, tell you my whole life story. And if you believed it, maybe you’d believe me. Maybe not. Your whole life, it’s about making guesses, right? Educated guesses, sure. But . . . you said you were a forensic psychologist. I know what that means. At some point, you have to stand up—in court, before a parole board, maybe before Congress, for all I know—and say something that’s a guess. Only, coming from you, from a professional, it’s got to be a good guess. That’s what people pay you for, am I right?”

  “If you mean I get paid for professional opinions, yes.”

  “But they’re still guesses, doc. Good guesses, I’m sure. But . . .”

  “But they’re all judgment calls, to some extent, yes.”

  “And you’ve made some judgment calls about me. Otherwise, I’d never get within a hundred yards of your daughter, much less invited into your home.”

  “Some judgments,” he acknowledged, making it clear he wasn’t finished adding up the score.

  “If you had time to know me—or if I had the kind of references you could check—maybe there’d be another way. But there’s not. There’s no time. So I’m going to give you something else.”

  “What?”

  “A hammer. One you can drop on me anytime you think I lied to your daughter about what I’m up to with Rosebud.”

  “You’re being oblique. And it’s late. . . .”

  “Check the ER admissions for the past couple of weeks, doc. I know you can do that. You’ll find some guy was brought in, all pounded to hell. Big deal. But this guy, somebody chopped off the tips of his fingers. His two index fingers.”

  “And you know this because . . . ?”

  “Because I did it,” I told him, keeping my voice matter-of-fact.

  “All right,” he said, not reacting. “And why—?”

  “Listen to me, doc. Why I did it doesn’t matter. This guy, he refused to talk to the cops. His boss, the one who was running him, he wouldn’t have wanted that. But now this boss, he’s not around. And this guy, he might be scared enough to say some things.”

  “Things about you?”

  “No. People remember their nightmares, but not the monsters in them. Not unless they know them from real life. He’d never seen me before. The only people who actually know who did that miserable little freak are me . . . and you,” I lied, smoothly.

  “But,” he said, leaning back slightly, “if you’re not giving me the facts, what good would it do me to go to the police? They wouldn’t have enough to hold you.”

  I leaned into the space between us. “They would when my prints fell, doc,” I said. “And you already have those.”

  He seemed comfortable with the silence surrounding us. But it was no test of my patience. Dark and quiet. Safe. I could have stayed there for weeks.

  “You think you know, don’t you?” he finally asked me.

  “Know what?”

  “Whatever drove Rose out of her house. Whatever’s going on with her and her father.”

  “Yeah.”

  He took a deep breath. Let it out. Held my eyes. “It’s not always that,” he said.

  “I have what you want,” Gem greeted me as I walked in the door. “What you wanted, anyway.”

  “Speak English,” I answered her. I don’t like it when people get ugly sideways; it always hurts less when they strip away the disguises and come straight ahead.

  “The information from that computer you . . . investigated,” she said, ocean eyes innocent. “Remember, I told you it would take some time?”

  “Yeah,” I said, sitting down at the kitchen table. “I remember.”

  “There was a lot to decipher,” she said. Catching my look, she went on quickly: “I don’t mean it was in code, or anything like that. There was just a huge volume of information. Apparently, your . . . target is a man who never erases anything from his hard drive. My . . . The person I used said that it hadn’t even been defragged in probably years.”

  “Did he use it for e-mail, too?”

  “Yes. And browsing. Very unsophisticated. He used a dial-up, and went to the Web direct through his ISP.”

  “Any Daddy-Daughter stuff?”

  “Daddy-Daughter?”

  “Incest. He visit any incest sites? Or kiddie stuff?”

  “No,” she said, her voice measured.

  “Corporal punishment, spanking—”

  “Sex spanking?”

  “Yeah. Most of those sites make it clear they don’t play with kids, but some of them . . .”

  “No. Nothing like that. He did seem to have an interest in bondage, but only in pretty mild stuff.”

  “No asphyx-sex?”

  “Nothing even close. But he did have a number of images downloaded. Always of men . . . restrained in some form or fashion.”

  “You think he’s gay?”

  “No. A trace-back showed that he got the images from dominatrix sites. As I said, very light. If he wanted heavier, it’s out there. And if he got as far as he did, he could have gone the rest of the way.”

  “Is that the only thing he browsed for?”

  “Oh no. It wasn’t even the majority, not by a long shot. He was very interested in politics and crime, especially where they intersected.”

  “Yeah, he’s a major-league lefty, I know,” I said, thinking of the Geronimo Pratt book he’d marked up so much.

  “It would seem so.”

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

  “Not about . . . that. As I said, Mr. Carpin was something of a slob with his computer. So, if there was anything . . . bizarre about his tastes, I believe the trail would still be there.”

  “Maybe he had more than one computer. Or he’s smarter than you’re giving him credit for.”

  “I don’t think either one,” she said, holding up a thick stack of paper. “Because his banking records are all here.”

  “Damn! You sure?”

  “I cannot be certain he does not have other banking records,” she said tartly. “But his personal checking account, his savings account, his 401(k)—it is all here.”

  “Did he—?”

  “He paid all his bills by personal check, as near as I can determine,” she interrupted, reading my mind. “I have spent several days going over them. Here, take a look.”

  I got up, moved to where she was sitting, her body covered in paper from the waist down.

  “You said there was a phone in his office . . . ?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Real fancy one, too. Top-of-the-line. And a lot of recording equipment connected to it, too.”

  “But there is no bill for it,” she said, a faint smile playing on her lips.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because he logs all his bills. He uses one of the accounting programs that come pre-loaded on many computers. There are four telephone lines—that is, lines with individual numbers—coming into his house. Each with numerous extensions. But the line in his office has no extensions. What you saw was the only connection. And Qwest bills him only for three of the numbers.”

&
nbsp; “Maybe he’s got a different carrier for—”

  “Not unless he is paying that bill in cash,” she said. “And, given the way he conducts his affairs, that seems highly unlikely.”

  “But . . . wait a minute, Gem. His little accounting program wouldn’t show bills he’s not paying, right?”

  “This is true.”

  “So how do you know how many lines go into—?”

  “My friend has access to more than just this man’s computer.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. But that is not what I found to be most interesting. Look at these figures,” she said, pointing with a French-tipped nail.

  “What does that mean?” I asked, looking at a piece of paper with .106 written at the top.

  “It’s just shorthand for more than a million,” she said, impatiently. “But it is not the totals that are important. Look: see where he shows deposits. . . .”

  What I saw was a long string of numbers, none less than five grand, a lot of them in the mid-five-figures.

  “So?”

  “So, first of all, these deposits are separate from his paycheck at the architectural firm. I don’t mean they are deposited separately—he seems to habitually commingle all his deposits without the slightest concern—I mean they represent an entirely different source of income.”

  “Maybe he was consulting out. Or even working a few jobs off the books.”

  “This would be some consulting job, Burke. The income stream goes back at least twenty years.”

  “Christ. Who was writing the checks?”

  “The checks?”

  “The ones he deposited.”

  “I don’t think I’ve been clear enough yet.” She chuckled. “A number of the checks are drawn on fictitious corporations—”

  “Your computer pal again?”

  “Yes,” she acknowledged, then went on as if I hadn’t spoken, “but the majority of the deposits were in cash.”

  “Even the ones . . . ?”

  “Over ten thousand dollars, yes.”

  “Son of a bitch,” I said.

  “It’s not possible he’s that fucking stupid,” I told Gem later. “Even a low-grade moron knows IRS would be on him like Jesse Jackson on a photo op with those kind of money drops. The banks have to report every single one. Unless he’s—”

  “Everything’s with a local bank. Same branch for years. If he’s got an offshore account, it’s not on the computer you . . . looked at.”

  “Why didn’t he just break them up?” I said, half aloud. “Anything under ten large, the banks don’t have to notify the federales.”

  “Seemingly he did not care,” Gem said. “Most of the money came right out again.”

  “For what?”

  “For . . . everything. He has over a dozen mutual-fund accounts. He owns about half a million dollars’ worth of Oregon municipal bonds. His personal car apparently requires specialized upkeep, quite frequently. His wife’s vehicle is brand-new, purchased outright. And she has had very extensive plastic surgery, on several occasions. There is no mortgage on his home. On vacations, they travel first-class. In summary, his entire family lives well beyond the means of his salary.”

  “So that’s another way they’d know.”

  “Who do you mean?”

  “IRS. Even without the cash deposits, he has to declare the income from the mutual funds. Hell, they declare it for him. Nobody’s that nuts.”

  “Burke. Burke!”

  “What?” I asked, shaking my head to clear it.

  “You’ve been . . . that place you go . . . for a long time. Almost three hours. I cannot watch you any longer.”

  “Was I—?”

  “You weren’t doing anything,” she said, anger clear in her voice. “But I was afraid you’d . . . fall or something. And hurt yourself. I have been sitting here, watching you. But I am so tired, I am afraid I would fall asleep myself and you would . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “I’m okay, Gem. Go to sleep.”

  “Are you very tired yourself?”

  “I . . . don’t think so. Not now.”

  “Then would you carry me?” she said, soft-voiced.

  In my life, I’ve slept next to a lot of women who’d been through hardcore trauma when they were kids. Some of them when I was just a kid myself—when you’re on the run, you look for the closest thing to a litter you can find. And I had sex with some of those women, but that isn’t what I’m talking about. One thing you get used to, sleeping with a woman who’s been through a lot, is how they startle so easy. The ones who don’t dope themselves up so they can sleep at all.

  But Gem always amazed me. When she was a child, every time she closed her eyes there was the chance of waking up to death—if the class-cleansers Pol Pot had unleashed were merciful enough to make it quick. But she always slept as deep and as trusting as if she’d been raised by wolves.

  She’d tried to explain it to me, once. Something about casting her lot and . . . whatever happens. Not quite fatalism. Something about choices. Even if you’re on the roof of a burning building, it’s still up to you to decide which direction to jump off.

  Gem had never been anything but good to me. I couldn’t figure out why I didn’t feel guilty about Ann.

  Once, that was what I wanted. No conscience. How I envied the sociopaths around me. Without moral and ethical baggage weighing them down, without the boundaries that restrain the rest of the world, they’re the most efficient human beings on earth. You can kill them, but you can’t hurt them.

  I was a kid then. What I wanted more than anything was not to be afraid all the time. So I tried to go in the other direction—not to be afraid ever.

  I never got there. Wesley did. And what he got was dead. By his own hand, when there was nothing left to play for.

  I still remember what he told me about fear. “I’m not afraid of anything,” he said back then. “And it’s not worth it.”

  What happened to me was I . . . split. There’s a part of me that would pass every test for “sociopath.” I meet all the criteria . . . when it comes to strangers. I can watch people die and not give a damn. I can make them dead, if it comes to that. Nothing goes off inside me—I don’t feel a thing.

  Stealing, lying, cheating . . . it’s not just something I can do, it’s what I do. I’m a man for hire. And, with a few exceptions, there isn’t much you can’t pay me to do.

  But there’s another piece of me. The part that’s with my family. The family I chose; the family that chose me. I feel everything that hurts them, or makes them sad. I wouldn’t just kill for them; I’d die for them. They’re all I have. They’re everything I have. And what they give me is . . . that piece of myself that’s clean.

  Not the part that worships revenge; I came stock from the factory with that.

  I mean the part that told Joel the truth when I said I’d never give Rosebud up.

  I looked at Gem sleeping next to me. Wondering if she’d already let me go.

  “What shall you do now?” Gem asked me the next morning.

  “I have to go to the library.”

  “Because . . . ?”

  “Because, when I was . . . thinking last night, I got an answer. Maybe not the right one, but . . . something I have to check out, anyway.”

  “In the library?”

  “A newspaper morgue would be better. Or even the AP wire. I’m looking for a—”

  “—pattern?” Gem asked, maybe remembering my search for the humans who had tried to kill me. A search that took me all the way back to my childhood stretch in an institution for the insane. To a crazy, god-faced genius who makes a living finding patterns in chaos. And spends his life in a futile quest for the answer all Children of the Secret seek: Why did they do that to me?

  Lune had unraveled the failed murder plot’s tapestry for me. And I’d made a noose out of the threads.

  “Yeah,” I told Gem. “If I’m right, it won’t be that hard to pick up. Just take a long time.”
r />   “I could help.”

  “You’ve already helped. A ton. And I know you want to . . .”

  “What?” she asked, sharply.

  “I don’t know,” I finished lamely. “Go back home.”

  “Burke, it is you who wants to go back home.”

  “This place, it isn’t for me.”

  “I know.”

  “But I don’t know how things are back home anymore. I don’t know how I’d . . . make a living. I was working off a . . . reputation, I guess. But the street thinks I’m dead. Been gone for a while. I wouldn’t want people thinking I’m a goddamned ghost. I’ve been through that one already—when that maniac I told you about decided to bring Wesley back.”

  “Home is not a place.”

  “That sounds better than it plays, little girl. My family, they’re rooted there, understand? That’s where they’re . . . safe. Where they know how things work. There’s things you just can’t . . . relocate, I guess.”

  “So—what, then? You go back and . . .”

  “. . . and maybe put them all in a jackpot. Don’t you get it, Gem? Word gets out that I’m . . . back, I guess, and who knows what that kicks off? My family, they’d be right in the middle of it.”

  “That would be their choice.”

  “No. You don’t get it. They wouldn’t see it that way. If I was in it, they’d be in it. I’m the one who has to decide. Nibble around the edges, maybe. Test the waters. . . .”

  “So why have you not, then?”

  “I want to finish this thing here.”

  “The missing girl?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And that is all?” she asked, her dark, fathoms-deep eyes empty of accusation.

  “That’s right.”

  She got up, left the room. In a few minutes, I heard the shower going.

  “If you are going to search newspapers,” she said later, “there is a database.”

  “Like NEXIS?”

  “Yes. Or one could check Reuters and the AP and even various international services easily enough.”

  “You mean with the computer?”

  “With the Internet, yes.”

  “It’s probably not that simple.”

  “I am not simple, either,” she said, a trace of annoyance showing in her voice.

  The cell phone in my pocket made its noise. Gem stalked off. Maybe to give me some privacy, maybe to underscore how little I was pleasing her.