by Harlan Coben
A perhaps once-well-shaped nose had been squelched like a beetle under a heavy boot. Once-smooth skin had been split and ripped. The corners of her mouth had been torn to the point where it was hard to tell where it ended. Dozens of raised angry purple scars crisscrossed her face, like the work of a three-year-old given free rein with a Crayola. Her left eye wandered off to the side, dead in its socket. The other stared at us unblinking.
Squares said, "You used to be on the street."
She nodded.
"What's your name?"
Moving her mouth seemed to take great effort. "Tanya."
"Who did that to you?"
"Who do you think?"
We did not bother replying.
"He's through that door," she said. "I take care of him. I never hurt him. You understand? I never raise a hand to him."
We both nodded. I didn't know what to make of that. I don't think Squares did either. We moved to the door. Not a sound. Perhaps he was asleep. I didn't really care. He'd wake up. Squares put his hand on the knob and looked back at me. I let him know that I'd be fine. He opened the door.
Lights were on in there. Full blast, in fact. I had to shade my eyes.
I heard a beeping noise and saw some sort of medical machine near the bed. But that wasn't what first drew my eye.
The walls.
That was what you noticed first. The walls were corked I could see a little of the brown but more than that, they were blanketed with photographs. Hundreds of photographs. Some blown up to poster size, some your classic three-by-fives, most somewhere in between all hung on the cork by clear pushpins.
And they were all pictures of Tanya.
At least, that was what I guessed. The pictures were all pre-disfiguration. And I had been right. Tanya had been beautiful once. The photos, mostly glamour shots from what appeared to be a model's portfolio, were inescapable. I looked up. More photographs, a ceiling fresco from hell.
"Help me. Please."
The small voice came from the bed. Squares and I moved toward it.
Tanya came in behind us and cleared her voice. We turned. In the harsh light, her scars seemed almost alive, squirming across her face like dozens of worms. The nose was not just flattened, but misshapen, clay like The old photographs seemed to glow, swarming her in a perverse before-and-after aura.
The man in the bed groaned.
We waited. Tanya turned the good eye first toward me, then toward Squares. The eye seemed to dare us to forget, to etch this image into our brains, to remember what she'd once been and what he'd done to her.
"A straight razor," she said. "A rusted one. It took him over an hour to do this. And he didn't just slice up my face."
Without another word, Tanya moved out of the room. She closed the door behind her.
We stood in silence for a moment. Then Squares said, "Are you Louis Castman?"
"You cops?"
"Are you Castman?"
"Yes. And I did it. Christ, whatever you want me to confess to, I did it. Just get me out of here. For the love of God."
"We're not cops," Squares said.
Castman lay flat on his back. There was some kind of tube connected to his chest. The machine kept beeping and something kept rising and falling accordion like He was a white guy, newly shaven, fresh-scrubbed. His hair was clean. His bed had rails and controls. I saw a bedpan in the corner and a sink. Other than that, the room was empty. No drawers, no dressers, no TV, no radio, no clock, no books, no newspapers, no magazines. The window shades were pulled down.
I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
"What's wrong with you?" I asked.
Castman's eyes and only his eyes turned toward me. "I'm paralyzed," he said. "A fucking quadriplegic. Below the neck" he stopped, closed his eyes "nothing."
I was not sure how to begin. Neither, it seemed, was Squares.
"Please," Castman said. "You gotta get me out of here. Before ..."
"Before what?"
He closed his eyes, opened them again. "I got shot, what, three, four years ago maybe? I don't know anymore. I don't know what day or month or even year it is. The light's always on, so I don't know if it's day or night. I don't know who's president." He swallowed, not without some effort. "She's crazy, man. I try screaming for help, it don't do no good. She got the place lined with cork. I just lay here, all day, looking at these walls."
I found it hard to find my voice. Squares, however, was unfazed.
"We're not here for your life story," he said. "We want to ask you about one of your girls."
"You got the wrong guy," he said. "I haven't worked the streets in a long time."
"That's okay. She hasn't worked in a long time either."
"Who?"
"Sheila Rogers."
"Ah." Castman smiled at the name. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything."
"And if I refuse to tell you?"
Squares touched my shoulder. "We're leaving," he said to me.
Castman's voice was pure panic. "What?"
Squares looked down at him. "You don't want to cooperate, Mr. Castman, that's fine. We won't bother you further."
"Wait!" he shouted. "Okay, look, you know how many visitors I've had since I been here?"
"Don't care," Squares said.
"Six. A grand total of six. And none in, I don't know, has to be a year at least. And all six were my old girls. They came here to laugh at me. Watch me shit myself. And you want to hear something sick? I looked forward to it. Anything to break up the monotony, you know what I mean?"
Squares looked impatient. "Sheila Rogers."
The tube made a wet, sucking noise. Castman opened his mouth. A bubble formed. He closed his mouth and tried again. "I met her God, I'm trying to think ten, fifteen years ago. I was working the Port Authority. She came off a bus from Iowa or Idaho, some shithole like that."
Working the Port Authority. I knew the routine well. Pimps wait at the terminal. They look for kids fresh off the bus the desperate, the runaways, the raw meat, coming to the Big Apple to be models or actresses or start anew or flee from boredom or escape abuse. The pimps watch like the predators that they are. And then they swoop in, take them down, gnaw on the carcass.
"I had a good rap," Castman said. "First off, I'm a white guy. The Midwest meat. It's almost all white breast. They're afraid of the strutting brothers. But me, I was different. I'd wear a nice business suit. I'd carry a briefcase. I'd be a little more patient. So anyway, that day I was waiting by Gate 12. It was a favorite of mine. Got a good view of maybe six different arrivals. Sheila came off the bus and man, she was smoking hot. Maybe sixteen years old and prime-time. A virgin too, though I couldn't tell that right off. I'd learn all about that later."
I felt my muscles tighten. Squares slowly slid his body between the bed and me.
"So I started sweet-talking her. Sling her my best bits, you know?"
We knew.
"So I give her the line about making her a big-time model. But smooth.
Not like the other assholes. I'm like silk. But Sheila, she was smarter than most. Cautious. I could tell she wasn't buying it all the way, but that was okay. See, I don't press. I act legit. End of the day, they want to believe, right? They all hear stories about some super model being discovered at the Dairy Queen or some such shit, and hey, that's why they come in the first place."
The machine stopped beeping. I heard it gurgle. Then it started beeping again.
"So Sheila sort of crosses her arms, right. She tells me straight up that she never parties or any of that. I tell her hey, no problem, I'm not into that either. I'm a businessman, I say. A professional photographer and talent scout. We'll take some pictures. That's all.
Get a portfolio going. Straight up no partying, no drugs, no nudity, nothing she isn't totally comfortable with. And I'm a pretty good photographer, you know. I got an eye for it. See these walls? These shots of Tanya I took them."
I looked at the photographs of
the once-beautiful Tanya, and the chill struck me deep in my heart. When I looked back at the bed, Castman was staring at me.
"You," he said.
"What about me?"
"Sheila." He smiled. "She means something to you, am I right?"
I didn't reply.
"You love her."
He stretched out the word love. Mocking me. I kept still.
"Hey, I don't blame you, man. That was some quality tang. And, man, she could suck the "
I started toward him. Castman laughed. Squares stepped in the way. He looked me straight in the eye and shook his head. I backed off. He was right.
Castman stopped laughing, but his eyes stayed on me. "You want to know how I turned your girl out, lover boy?"
I said nothing.
"Same way as I did Tanya out there. See, I went for the prime cuts, the ones the brothers couldn't get their hooks into. A high-end operation. So I gave Sheila the rap, and eventually I got her into my studio for a shoot. That was it. All I need to do. Put a fork in her, she's done."
"How?" I asked.
"You really want to hear this?"
"How?"
Castman closed his eyes, the smile still there, savoring the memory. "I took a bunch of photos of her. All nice and legit. And when we were done, I put a knife to her throat. Then I cuffed her to a bed in a room that was" he chuckled, let his eyes open and roll "corked. I drugged her up. I filmed her when she was half out of it, made it all look very consensual. That, by the way, was how your Sheila lost her virginity. On video. With yours truly. Magical, am I right?"
The rage flared again, started boiling over, consuming me. I didn't know how much longer I could keep from wringing his neck. But that, I reminded myself, was what he wanted.
"Where was I? Oh, right, I cuffed her and shot her up for maybe a week. Prime stuff too. Expensive. But hey, it's a business expense.
All businesses got their training regimens, right? Eventually Sheila got hooked, and let me tell you, you can't put that genie back in the bottle. By the time I uncuffed her, that girl would lick out my toe jam for a hit, you know what I mean?"
He stopped as though waiting for applause. It felt as if something were shredding my insides.
Squares kept his voice flat. "So after this, you put her on the street?"
"Yup. Taught her some tricks too. How to get a guy off fast. How to take on more than one guy at a time. All that, I was her teacher."
I thought that I might throw up.
"Go on," Squares said.
"No," he said. "Not until "
"Then we'll bid you good-bye."
"Tanya," he said.
"What about her?"
Castman licked his lips. "Can you give me some water?"
"No. What about Tanya?"
"The bitch keeps me here, man. It ain't right. Yeah, I hurt her. But I had my reason. She wanted to leave, marry this John from Garden City. She thought they were in love. I mean, come on, this look like Pretty Woman to you? She was going to take some of my best girls with her. They could live out in Garden City with her and this John, get cleaned up, some such shit. I couldn't stand for that."
"So," Squares said, "you taught her a lesson."
"Yeah, sure. It's how it is."
"You messed up her face with a razor."
"Not just her face guy might be into putting a bag over the head, you know what I mean? But yeah, you get the gist. It was a lesson to the other girls too. But see and here's the funny part her boyfriend, the John, he didn't know what I'd done. So he comes down from his big house in Garden City, all set up to rescue Tanya, right? The dumbass has a twenty-two. I laugh at him. And he shoots me. This dip wad accountant from Garden City. He shoots me under the armpit with a twenty-two and barn, the bullet goes into my spine. I'm left like this. You believe that? And then, oh, this is precious, after he shoots me, Mr. Garden City sees what I did to Tanya and you know what he does, this great love of hers?"
He waited. We figured it was rhetorical and kept still.
"He freaks out and dumps her. Get it? He sees my handiwork on Tanya, and he just runs out on her. Her great love. Wants nothing to do with her. They never see each other again."
Castman started laughing again. I tried to stay still and breathe.
"So I'm in the hospital," he continued, "totally out of it. Tanya's got nothing. So she signs me out. She brings me here. And now she takes care of me. You understand what I'm saying? She's prolonging my life. I refuse to eat, she sticks a tube down my throat. Look, I'll tell you what you want to know. But you got to do something for me."
"What? "Squares said.
"Kill me."
"No can do."
"Tell the police, then. Let them arrest me. I'll confess to everything."
Squares said, "What happened to Sheila Rogers?"
"Promise me."
Squares looked at me. "We got enough here. Let's go."
"Okay, okay, I'll tell you. Just.. . just think about it, okay?"
He shifted his eyes from Squares to me then back to Squares again.
Squares showed him nothing. I have no idea what was on my face. "I don't know where Sheila is now. Hell, I don't really understand what happened."
"How long did she work for you?"
"Two years. Maybe three."
"And how did she get free?"
"Huh?"
"You don't seem like the sort of guy who lets employees branch out,"
Squares said. "So I'm asking what happened to her."
"She worked the streets, right. Started getting some regulars. She was good at what she did. And somewhere along the way, she hooked up with some bigger players. It happens. Not often. But it happens."
"What do you mean, bigger players?"
"Dealers. Big-time dealers, I think. She started muling and delivering, I think. And worse, she started getting clean. I was going to lean on her, like you said, but she had some heavy-duty friends."
"Like who?"
"You know Lenny Misler?"
Squares leaned back. "The attorney?"
"The mob attorney," Castman corrected him. "She got picked up carrying. He repped her."
Squares frowned. "Lenny Misler took on the case of a streetwalker caught carrying?"
"You see my point? She comes out, I start sniffing around, you know.
Find out what's she up to. A couple of major-league goons pay me a visit. They tell me to stay away. I'm not stupid. Plenty more tang where that came from."
"What happened next?"
"Never saw her again. Last I heard she was going to college. You believe that?"
"Do you know what college?"
"No. I'm not even sure it's true. Could have been just a rumor."
"Anything else?"
"Nope."
"No other rumors?"
Castman's eyes started moving, and I could see the desperation. He wanted to keep us there. But he had nothing else to tell us. I looked at Squares. He nodded and turned to leave. I followed.
"Wait!"
We ignored him.
"Please, man, I'm begging you. I told you everything, right? I cooperated. You can't just leave me here."
I saw his endless days and nights in the room, and I didn't care.
"Fucking assholes!" he shouted. "Hey, man, you. Lover boy. You enjoy my leftovers, you hear. And remember this: Everything she does to you, every time she gets you off I taught her that. You hear me?
You hear what I'm saying?"
My cheeks flushed, but I didn't turn around. Squares opened the door.
"Shit." Castman's voice was softer now. "It doesn't leave, you know."
I hesitated.
"She may look all nice and clean. But where she's been, you don't ever come back. You know what I'm saying?"
I tried to shut out his words. But they hammered their way in and bounced around my skull. I walked out and closed the door. Back in the dark. Tanya met us on the way out.
"Are you going to tell?" she asked
, her words slurred.
I never hurt him. That was what she said. She never raised a hand to him. Too true.
Without another word, we hurried back outside, almost diving into the night air. We sucked down deep breaths, divers breaking the surface short on air, got back to the van, and drove away.
Chapter Ten.
Grand Island, Nebraska Sheila wanted to die alone.
Strangely enough, the pain was diminishing now. She wondered why.
There was no light, though, no moment of stark clarity. There was no comfort in death. No angels surrounded her. No long-gone relatives she thought of her grandmother, the woman who'd made her feel special, who'd called her "Treasure" came and held her hand.
Alone. In the dark.
She opened her eyes. Was she dreaming right now? Hard to say. She'd been hallucinating earlier. She'd been slipping in and out of consciousness. She remembered seeing Carly's face and begging her to go away. Had that been real? Probably not. Probably an illusion.
When the pain got bad, really bad, the line between awake and sleep, between reality and dreams, blurred. She did not fight it anymore. It was the only way you could survive the agony. You try to block the pain. That doesn't work. You try to break the pain down into manageable time intervals. That doesn't work either. Finally, you find the only outlet available: your sanity.
You let go of your sanity.
But if you can recognize what's happening, are you really letting go?
Deep philosophical questions. They were for the living. In the end, after all the hopes and dreams, after all the damage and rebuilding, Sheila Rogers would end up dying young and in pain and at the hands of another.
Poetic justice, she supposed.
Because now, as she felt something inside her cleave and tear and pull away, there was indeed a clarity. A horrible, inescapable one. The blinders were being lifted, and for once she could see the truth.
Sheila Rogers wanted to die alone.
But he was in the room with her. She was sure of it. She could feel his hand resting gently on her forehead now. It made her cold. As she felt the life force slipping away, she made one last plea.
"Please," she said. "Go away."
Chapter Eleven.
Squares and I did not discuss what we'd seen. We also did not call the police. I pictured Louis Castman trapped in that room, unable to move, nothing to read, no TV or radio, nothing to look at except those old photographs. If I were a better person, I might have even cared.