by Sandra Block
“Yeah. Guy’s saying it was a forgery. I can’t even figure out whose signature it is.” A work email pops up on the bottom corner of the screen, then fades off. Not from Snyder.
“Huh.” Sylvia backs away, swinging her purse on her shoulder. “Beau might know. He’s really into the Red Sox.”
“Oh yeah? I’ll email you the photo. You could show him.” If this sounds desperate, it is. But so far I’ve gotten nowhere with it. I even cross-referenced all Red Sox merchandise on eBay, and none of the signatures matched. Though it’s hard to say. The writing is shadowed and the bottom cut off, but there appears to be a loopy J and R as the first initials. Maybe.
“No problem,” she says. “We still have to do that double date, anyway.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, well aware that will never happen.
“See you tomorrow,” her voice echoes down the hall.
“See ya…” Checking my phone, I see no text from James or Snyder and decide to get going. I need to stop for cat food anyway. But as soon as I drop the phone in my purse, it rings. I grab it back out.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
“Snyder,” I answer.
“My buddy just called. They searched his place and you’re right. He is dealing.”
“Huh,” I say. What good intuition I must have.
“Yeah so, they’re about to arrest him at his…place of work, shall we say? I thought I might give you the heads-up. Just in case you wanted to witness it.”
“I love you, Snyder.”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s what they all say.”
He hangs up, and I text James.
Call me. It’s on.
• • •
It takes us twenty minutes to get to the Dunbolt parking lot. James swears through every red light, which is very…un-James. But in the usual hurry-up-and-wait scenario, we are sitting here, waiting in the car. The clouds threaten rain, or if it’s cold enough, snow.
“You think it already happened?” James asks, as disappointed as a kid missing the circus.
“I don’t think so. I’ve been checking Twitter. There’s nothing on it.”
“Yeah,” he says. “But there might not be.”
“Let’s just wait. Snyder would have called if it already happened.” We stare out the windshield as a line of lightning flashes up through the clouds ahead. “Do you have the video ready?”
He drums his fingers on the dashboard. “For his girlfriend?”
“Yeah.”
“Yup,” he answers. “Ready to go when we are.” James is sending a GIF of Cary G’s vainglorious minute on the rape video to Tina Delgado’s work email. He’s doing it in some encrypted way that I don’t understand, but he says it is supposedly “rather simple.” As long as it gets there, I don’t care. I just want her to see it, her beloved raping an unconscious girl. I suspect she won’t find him so beloved anymore.
James checks his watch, then shifts in his seat, making the leather creak. Thunder rumbles as another lightning bolt streaks up the sky. “There’s something else I wanted to bring up.”
He turns to me. “Okay?”
“I talked to this other guy, Sean Gowers. You remember the one Daisy mentioned?”
James squints his eyes. “From the Phoenix or something?”
“Yes, good memory,” I say. But I’m not at all surprised. James remembers everything. “He said they’ve been doing this for a while.”
He leans his elbow on the console. I can see the fine trace of his sideburns. “Doing what for a while?”
“Raping women.”
James pulls his head back with a look of shock.
“Yes, exactly. They do it every year after the new members come on. Call it a rape party.”
“A rape party?” His voice is pure disgust.
“Yeah. And they keep tapes. In a cigar box, supposedly.”
James shivers. “That’s…awful.” A couple of raindrops thud against the windshield.
“So,” I say, “I’m trying to figure out if we should—”
But I don’t finish my sentence, because the blare of police cars interrupts me. Four police cars come streaking into the parking lot.
“Well, hello there,” I say. “Let’s get the popcorn going.”
“Here,” James says, handing me the binoculars. A few cops stay along the front perimeter of the building. About five others rush inside. They’re all wearing bulletproof vests.
“Seems like overkill,” I say, my eyes pressing tight against the rubber views. The window fogs up, and James turns on the defroster. Rain is falling in sheets now. Another crack of lightning lights up the sky.
“You think he’s even there today?” I ask, into the window.
“Oh, he’s there all right,” James says.
We wait about five minutes. It feels like forever. I lower the binoculars.
“There, there!” he calls out. “Straight ahead.”
It takes just a second to train my binoculars on him. He’s hard to miss. His hands are cuffed behind his back, and two burly police are at his sides. Faces peer through the window in the lobby to watch. Cary Graham looks like himself, but in a daze, his expensive haircut plastered straight down by the rain. His eyes are bloodshot and red. As he is walked to the waiting car, his face looks pale and scared. Like mine did.
The police cars exit the parking lot, and all the lookie-loos disappear from the windows. We sit there a moment in the aftermath, the rain beating against the windows in the grayed-out car. James puts his hands on the steering wheel. “How do you feel?” he asks.
I stare ahead at the Dunbolt building, a blurred mass in the rain. “I don’t know. It’s not a letdown exactly. It’s just sort of…”
James taps his fingers on the wheel. “Sad,” he says.
“Yes,” I agree. “Sad. For everyone.” We keep sitting there, the windows fogging as the rain lightens, changing the syncopation of the drops. “But it doesn’t matter. This was decided five years ago, when he raped me. You reap what you sow. And that’s that.”
“Justice,” James says, staring at the sun visor. “Maybe that’s what my tattoo should have said.”
“No,” I answer, without hesitation. “Your tattoo is perfect.” He gives me an aww shucks kind of smile, then starts up the car. “All right,” I say. “Let’s send the video to Tina Delgado.”
“Already done.”
“Good.” I stash the binoculars in the console. “Because we’ve got three more rapists to take care of. And then we’re going after that cigar box.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Five Years Ago
Over time, Eli tells me his story.
The medications have started helping me and maybe him too. I don’t feel like a million bucks, but life has become more tolerable, manageable. The edges have softened just enough, so that walking through life doesn’t tear me into pieces.
My roommate, Jeri, got discharged, so I end up spending more and more time with Eli. I get that familiar feeling of giggling when he’s around, looking forward to seeing him at group and realizing with some chagrin that a little crush may be budding here.
One day in the break room, however, he does me the favor of squashing that. I am sitting on the couch with him, leaning back against a pillow and aware of how my hair might look. Eli takes a deep breath, turns fuchsia red, and says, “So the thing is, I’m gay.”
“Oh.” My face falls. I hope not too obviously. “Really?”
“Yeah. Really.” He bites into a mini green apple left over from my lunch.
I nod with an embarrassed smile, feeling foolish at how I’ve been acting and feeling. Though it’s just as well. I don’t know if I could even kiss a man right now without feeling queasy.
“That’s why I’m here. I finally told my parents.” He twirls the apple by the stem. “D
idn’t go so well. They disowned me.” As Eli takes another bite of apple, his eyes fill with tears.
“I’m so sorry.”
He nods, taking a long time to swallow.
“It’s okay.” I rub his shoulder. “They’ll come around.”
“Whatever. It’s not a big deal.”
But obviously it is a big deal, since he’s in here with Frankenstein wrists. “Give it some time,” I say. “They’ll understand eventually.”
“Maybe.” He sounds sad and unconvinced and puts the already-browning apple back on the table. “This is really a terrible apple,” he says with a cry-laugh.
“I know,” I say, laughing too. “That’s why I gave it to you.”
Then we sit there for a time, not talking. We have about fifteen minutes until group. Patients walk by us, blank-faced, some in hospital garb, some in street clothes, tossing paper cups into the trash. He doesn’t ask for my story, but I know that by etiquette, it’s time for me to share. I’ve shown you mine, now you show me yours. I haven’t told anyone in here yet, except Jeri and my psychiatrist. It certainly isn’t fodder for group sessions. I look around, to verify that no one is within earshot. One of the newer patients, Manju, has earbuds in with his eyes closed.
“I was attacked,” I say, in a soft voice. “That’s why I’m here.”
He has to lean in to hear me. “Attacked?”
“Yeah, well, it happened at a party. I suppose I should just say it. I was gang-raped.”
He winces at the word. “Oh.” He fumbles with a wrinkle on his shirt. “Wow. That’s really…wow.” Eli looks down at the floor, as if he can’t bear to face me. His face is flushed a deep red.
I can’t deny the jolt of disappointment at his response. He’s just like everyone else. He sees me differently now, like I’m tainted.
“So, this happened at Harvard?” he asks, clearly flustered.
“Yeah.”
He keeps staring at the tile, hard, as if he’s concentrating on something. “Did…did he have a gun or something? Were you—”
“What are you talking about?” My voice rises and a few people look over. “Are you the police now?” I whisper at him, fiercely. “Do you want to know how much I was drinking? Or what I was wearing?”
“No.” His fingers are trembling. “That’s not what I meant…”
I turn away from him, my heart pounding into my temples.
“Dahlia.” He takes my hand, and I pull it away. “I’m sorry. I just…I don’t know the right thing to say.” When he grabs for it again, I let him. I’m just too damn tired to fight. “Don’t be mad at me, Dahlia. Please. I…I just couldn’t bear it.” He pulls my hand to his chest, so I can’t help but face him. He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry that happened to you. That’s what I should have said from the beginning. So let me say it right this time. Listen to me.” I am entranced by his eyes, swimming in them. “It was wrong that they hurt you. That never should have happened. It was an awful, terrible, disgusting thing. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so fucking sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say, breaking away from his stare. I rest my head against his shoulder. “You don’t have to be sorry, Eli. It isn’t your fault.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Dahlia
After nailing Cary G, I go over to James’s place for a bit of a victory dinner.
His layout is similar to mine, meaning a small box. But his box is immaculate, with everything in gray or black. Clean, austere, but not exactly cold. He picks out a slab of tofu from our Pad Thai. The delicious peanut smell fills up his little apartment.
“The tofu’s good,” he says, sounding surprised.
I dish out another helping. “You’ve never had tofu before?”
“No, I’ve had it,” he says, drinking his water. “But usually it’s too mushy. I don’t like mushy things. This one has an excellent consistency.”
“Mmph,” I say, nodding, then swallow. “Anyway,” I say. “Let’s move on to Blake Roberts. Since we still don’t know who the redhead is.”
“You couldn’t find him when you Googled the list?” he asks.
“No. His face didn’t come up with any of those names.” I play with the rice a little, then put down the fork. “The thing is, I can’t stop thinking about that cigar box.”
He spears a cube of tofu. “Okay.”
“We have to do something about it,” I say. “I can’t just ignore it.”
James stares at his plate. “That would change the plan though.”
“Yes, it would. But I can’t help that.” Aimlessly, I mix around the rice. “I can’t just go on with my personal revenge and throw all the other girls out there under the bus.” I pause. “That means not helping them too, not really a bus or anything.”
“No, I know that one,” he says.
“Okay. So, I can’t do it. I can’t live with myself if I don’t at least try to stop them from ever doing it again. Otherwise, I’ve managed to punish four people. So what? What about all the girls who came before me and will come after me?”
He pushes his plate to the side. “Okay, so what do we do then? We find this cigar box?”
“That’s the most obvious answer,” I say.
“Which means actually going into the club.”
“Probably,” I say.
“And how are we going to do that?”
“I don’t know,” I say. And we sit a moment with that unhelpful statement, when I suddenly feel sick of discussing revenge. “You know what?” I ask, standing up.
“What?”
“Let’s not talk about the cigar box right now.” I walk over to the couch, and he watches me. “We got Cary G. That’s an accomplishment.”
“That’s true.” He stands up too.
“We’re supposed to be celebrating here,” I say. “Right?”
“Right,” he says and sits down next to me. He pauses, then moves closer so his thigh is touching mine. “So, how should we celebrate?”
It’s a corny line, but I don’t care one bit, and we both lean in to kiss. Not tentative or light, like before Natasha came in the other night. Deep. His lips are warm, and my tongue touches the smooth line of his teeth. His hands are rubbing my back, too lightly. I unbutton his shirt, and he lifts it off, giving me a good look at his torso, which is perfect, art museum perfect, with sculpted arm muscles and the perfectly placed black tattoo on his smooth chest. It strikes me that I have never actually seen a body like this in real life, except maybe on an exercise magazine. I touch his chest and feel his heart beating, and we start kissing again. His hands are struggling with my bra strap, so I help him and then yank off my sweater, lying back. He leans over me, his hands smoothing over my breasts, my stomach.
“Beautiful,” he whispers.
“You,” I whisper back. “You are beautiful.”
He lays on me, my skin against his. I reach down to undo the button on his jeans, then unzip him and reach my hand into his boxers.
He moans, then gasps and jumps away. As if he’s been singed.
“Sorry,” he says in a strangled whisper, almost a cry. He is breathing heavily. “What?” My breath is short too, my chest tingling still. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, I just…” He swallows, then shifts a half foot away from me on the couch. He puts his elbows on his knees, hunching himself over as if he’s going to be sick.
“What is it?”
“Dahlia.” He bites his lip fiercely. “I don’t know how to say it…”
Then I realize what’s going on and throw my sweater back on in a flash. “You know what? Fuck you, James. Totally and completely fuck you.”
He looks up at me, stunned. “Why?”
“You think I’m dirty or something? Is that it?” I grab my bra and try to shove it in my pocket, though it doesn’t fit ver
y well, then slip on my shoes. “Can’t stop thinking about that goddamn video? Can’t get it out of your head?”
He stands up quickly, towering over me. “No. It’s not that at all. You’ve got it wrong.”
“Fine. Whatever.” I start looking around for my coat. “Forget it, James. I don’t need you for the project anyway. I can do it myself just fine.”
“Please.” His voice is desperate. “It’s not about the video. Honestly.”
“What is it then?” I lean against the wall. “Are you gay? Is that it?”
He doesn’t answer.
“It’s fine if you are, but you should just tell me.”
“I’m not gay.” He sits back on the couch, his shoulders slumped, staring at the floor.
When he looks up at me, his eyes are rimmed with pink. “It’s hard for me. I can’t do things like that so easily.” His fingers are interlaced, squeezing together tight. “I’ve got this thing…”
I sit down next to him. “Okay,” I say calmly, to calm him down. “This thing…”
“Yes, this thing.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s called Asperger’s.”
“Oh.” I pause a second to take this in, then a lightbulb goes off. Asperger’s. Of course. “Okay,” I say, almost talking to myself. “That’s all right. That’s not a deal breaker.”
“And I’ve never…” He stops speaking and looks up at me expectantly.
“Never?” I ask, trying to hide my disbelief. I don’t want to shame him. Never is okay. Never is just fine.
“Never,” he says with an embarrassed finality.
I reach over to the arm of the couch and hand him his shirt. “Then we’ll take it slow, James. We’ll take it as slow as you need to.”
Chapter Forty
James
I hit myself on the forehead three times, hard.
I’m about to do it again, when I remember how I had bruises last time that everyone asked about, so I sit down in my beanbag to calm myself. I take deep breaths, like Jamal taught me, until my head is feeling light, and I stop. When I close my eyes, I see Dahlia.