Born Bad

by Andrew Vachss

  Time passed. The black man checked his watch, but Cross's eyes never looked up from his work. "Twenty minutes," the black man said.

  "Damn!"

  "Z'up, home? Twenty is plenty, what we got to do."

  "Look at this, Ace," Cross said, handing over a leather–bound book, diary–sized.

  The man called Ace opened the book, his own hands encased in black leather gloves. Each page was meticulously covered in thin block letters.

  VITAL STATISTICS – SCHOOL SCHEDULE – BABYSITTER – DUAL MEETS – DOCTOR'S APPOINTMENTS…every page devoted to exhaustive data–gathering on Angel Andrews. The back of the book held photos, some posed, some candid. A photocopy of the girl's birth certificate (the space for "Father" was blank). Copies of report cards, even a vaccination record. Every movement was documented: Wieskoft knew when she was scheduled for dental checkups, the date her report card was to be issued, what time she was dropped off at the babysitter's…

  "This motherfucker's on the job 24–7," Ace said. "I know pimps don't know half this much 'bout they ho's."

  "It's more than that," Cross said. "The man has a plan." He was holding a set of leather handcuffs in one hand, pouring through a whole drawer full of restraints: a leather bondage mask, various–length chains, dog collars, ball gags.

  Cross stood up, opened the single closet. Inside he found a wooden yoke designed to hold a person in an impossibly uncomfortable position, leather wraps at each end for the victim's hands. Casually stored in a corner of the closet, he found an electronic stun gun, several cans of Mace, and a cattle prod.

  He carefully replaced all the items in the exact position he found them, then walked over to a computer standing on a small wooden desk. He removed the dust cover, turned it on.

  "Not even passworded," he muttered to himself, calling up a list of documents. He used the cursor to scroll down the list…past TAXES past REAL ESTATE. When he came to MY SLAVE, he hit the keys, opened the document onto the screen.

  You will learn to obey me. You will find true happiness through obedience. We were meant to be together, you to serve me. Forever. The pain will be a learning experience. The path to liberation. Your freedom. The program will take approximately one year. Then I can allow you some freedom. When you can be trusted. I…

  Cross exited the document, went back to REAL ESTATE, studied the screen for several minutes, nodding to himself. "You hear anything on the phone yet?" he asked Ace, speaking over his shoulder.

  "No, man. And I be surprised behind it, to tell you the truth. Once that monster–mutant starts playing Junior G–man, there's no turning off his mouth."

  "That's it!"

  "What, home?"

  "You just put it together for me, Ace. Locked and loaded. Let's get the hell out of here."

  12

  He's going to kidnap the child," Cross told his crew. They were in the basement of the Red 71 poolroom, as removed from prying eyes as if they had been on another planet.

  "Ransom?" Rhino asked.

  "No," Cross said. "Torture. He's got it all laid out. First he snatches the kid, probably use that stun gun he's got to take her down. He's got this cabin, way out in the sticks. Owns it outright, no mortgage. The plan is to bring her up there. And keep her, see? He's got this whole conditioning program worked out. Like he was a coach. Only it's a POW thing. Pain conditioning. He's got a library of bondage–torture books. You know how it plays…all those freaks think the same way…he's gonna train her, right? Own her the same way he owns the cabin. He's just waiting for the right time. And he's getting near critical mass."

  "We got a plan too, right?" Rhino said.

  Cross looked around the room. "Any ideas?" he asked.

  "Get the motherfucker and turn off his lights?" Ace offered;

  "I got it," Princess said, barely able to contain his excitement. "How about this? I knock on his door, tell him I'm selling high–tech surveillance equipment…like night scopes and all, see? That'll get his motor running. So he lets me into his apartment and I wait for the right moment–then I snap his neck like a fucking twig and throw him out the window. Okay' Then I write a suicide note and split. Is that slick or what?"

  "What," Ace said sourly.

  "Princess," Cross said patiently, "he takes one look at you and he starts screaming. Come on…."

  "Hey, that's the beauty of my plan–I'll wear a disguise."

  Rhino gazed at the ceiling as if it had some answers.

  Buddha said, "Jesus H. Christ." Very quietly.

  Cross shot the pudgy man a look.

  "How about a car accident?" Buddha asked, trying to divert Princess. "You know…drunk driver, leaving the scene of the smash. I could take him out soon as it gets dark."

  "How do we get paid, then?" Cross asked.

  "I dunno," Rhino replied. "Isn't the woman–?"

  "Yeah, she's in for a piece. But we need to score at both ends, cover our nut with this one," Cross told him. "I got an idea. Okay, you guys all have a clear sight picture, right? Just take a look at the video Princess made if you need a refresher. Keep on him like a blanket…I don't know when he's gonna blow, but it has to be soon."

  13

  The white telephone buzzed. Wieskoft looked up from his computer, surprised–the number was unlisted–he only used it to make outgoing calls–take–out food and 900 numbers. His favorite was 1-900–LOLITAS.

  He reached for the receiver cautiously.

  "Hello…?"

  "Good evening, sir," a clear, distinct voice came over the line. "My name is Morgan…I'm in the private delivery business. I thought you and I could meet, maybe discuss my services."

  "I don't want any deliveries. Who gave you my…?"

  "Sure you want a delivery, pal. A live one, if you get my meaning. My prices are very reasonable, and I guarantee I'll deliver the package right to your door…or any place you say. Remember, it's a guarantee. And no risk to you. None whatever."

  "Leave me alone!" Wieskoft screamed, slamming down the phone.

  14

  Cross strolled away from the pay phone and climbed into the passenger seat of the Shark Car. Buddha threw the car into gear and made the vehicle disappear into a clot of city traffic.

  "That should do it for the pressure cooker. We mailed him a copy of the video Princess took, too. Maybe he'll move before he was ready to–he'd be easy then."

  "What if he just lays there? What's the backup?"

  "You still in touch with that researcher? Cheryl?"

  "Sure," Buddha replied. "What you need?"

  "Tell her everything she can get on the President's kid. The daughter, what's her name, Chelsea or something?"

  "Yeah, that's right. What you want to deal with that draft–dodging weasel for?"

  "What difference would that make, brother?"

  "Hey, come on, Cross. We was both in the Nam–how you feel about guys that slicked their way out of it?"

  "I wish I had," Cross said, looking out the window.

  15

  Two days later, the cellular phone rang in the basement of Red 71. Cross looked up from a stack of clippings on a door laid across a pair of sawhorses he was using as a desk.

  "What?"

  "He's in a rental car, parked right across the street." Rhino's voice, even squeakier than usual, lowered to a whisper.

  "You got him tight?"

  "In a box. He tries it today, he's going down."

  "Stay on him," Cross said, breaking the connection.

  "What's with all this stuff" Princess asked, indicating the pile of clippings.

  "We're making a bomb," Cross told him. "Want to tell Ace to come downstairs?"

  16

  The delicate–featured black man's hands matched his face. His fingers were long, tapered, the nails immaculately manicured and covered with clear polish. He sat at the makeshift desk under a powerful lamp, working with a straight razor, his hands covered with membrane–thin surgeon's gloves.

  "Got it," he finally said, carefull
y applying a last drop of paste to the back of a piece of newsprint.

  Cross laid the artwork out in long row, nodding his head. "You got the touch, brother," he said admiringly. "This'll do it."

  17

  McNamara stood in one corner of the boxing ring, wearing a loose pair of pants and no shirt, modified boxing gloves on his hands, with footguards that left the soles of his feet bare…kick–boxing gear. His handler dipped a black rubber mouthpiece in the bucket, started to place it in McNamara's mouth, but the cop shook it off, took one step forward, shaking a fist.

  "I'm warning you, Princess. You try and head–butt me this time, I'm gonna stop your goddamned heart!"

  Princess stood in the other corner, devoid of makeup and earring, his grotesque torso rippling under a sheen of oil. He shrugged his shoulders in a "Who, me?" gesture, grinning, as Cross kneaded the back of his shoulders, waiting for the bell.

  "Fucking fag," one of the watching spectators mumbled.

  Buddha nudged the spectator with his shoulder. "Say what?"

  "What's it to you?" the spectator challenged.

  "That's my brother," Buddha said, an ugly grin on his pudgy

  face.

  "Fags can't fight," the spectator snarled, holding his ground.

  "Never stopped me," Rhino squeaked, shoving his massive bulk against the spectator from the other side.

  The spectator looked up at Rhino, then rapidly decided he had better things to do.

  The bell rang. McNamara glided forward into a cat–stance, one leg pawing the air a foot or so off the ground. Princess stepped to him, firing a jet–stream left hook at the smaller man's midsection. McNamara spun inside the hook so his back was against Princess's chest, whipping an elbow at the bodybuilder's face. Princess locked McNamara's arm, holding him close. He leaned down, whispered urgently into the cop's ear, "Cross says he needs your RI. Tonight, at ten."

  McNamara broke the hold, spun away gracefully. They sparred three full rounds, Princess never seeming to fully connect with any of his punches…McNamara landing blow after blow without apparent effect.

  Cross wrapped a robe around his tired fighter as McNamara bowed to close the match.

  18

  McNamara was at his desk at ten when the call came in on his private line.

  "Detective Bureau, McNamara."

  "You know who this is," a muffled voice said. "Listen good–I'm not gonna say this again, okay?"

  "Go," McNamara said, flicking on a cheap tape recorder he had connected to the phone.

  "There's a guy who's gonna do a snatch. He's been stalking, waiting. This ain't no job for you, McNamara, I give you the dope, you better call the federales, okay? Now listen up…"

  The voice went on for a couple of minutes, uninterrupted. Then the line went dead.

  McNamara sat for a few minutes, staring at the cigarette–discolored acoustic tile ceiling of his cubicle. Then he stepped away from his desk and shouted down the hall. "Hey, Trikowski, you still got the number of the Secret Service?"

  19

  The next morning, McNamara was in the chambers of Judge Byron Blake, arguing his own case.

  "Your Honor, I know this is an extraordinary application, but…"

  Judge Blake was a large black man with an even larger head of graying curls. His intelligent eyes were a deep, rich chocolate, unwavering. "I know, I know….You have this Reliable Informant, right?"

  "He's never been wrong before, Your Honor. And this gentleman–"

  "Agent Cooper, Your Honor," the slim man with the blond crewcut introduced himself. "United States Secret Service. We realize this is a federal matter, and we're prepared to execute the warrant ourselves. But we asked Detective McNamara to make the application personally rather than rely on pieces of paper…as a matter of respect."

  "I'll bet," the judge sighed. "Well, on the facts you've sworn to in this affidavit, detective, I don't see where I have much choice," he said, signing the papers on his desk with a flourish.

  20

  Wieskoft stepped out the door of his building, video camera in one hand. He walked past a brightly colored florist's van when he heard a voice yell "Hey you!" He turned to see what was going on and walked smack into a homeless man stumbling along, half drunk. He raised one hand to protect his camera when he felt a circle of steel close around the back of his neck. Wieskoft cried out in pain as the bum pushed the button on an aerosol can, discharging a mini–cloud of greenish gas into the dangling man's face.

  Wieskoft woke up in the back of the van, bound, gagged and blindfolded. Terror drove him back into unconsciousness.

  21

  I

  t was a long ride. If Wieskoft could have looked out the windows, he would have recognized the route.

  They carried the terror–stiffened man inside. When the blindfold came off, he saw two things: three men, each wearing a red ski mask with a white pentagram symbol on the forehead, gloves on their hands…and that he was inside his remote rural cabin.

  One of them pulled off the gag, a piece of duct tape. Wieskoft shrieked in pain. He knew nobody would hear–that had been part of his own plan.

  "Your Lincoln is outside," one of the men told him. "Keys in the ignition. When we're done, you just drive yourself back home."

  "Why did you–?"

  "Shut up, weasel," another of the men said. "We're just soldiers, doing a job. What we promised, see, is that you wouldn't bother that girl anymore."

  "What…girl?"

  "You know what girl. Angel. Now there's two ways to do this, okay' One is we kill you and leave you here. That ain't no big thing…probably nobody'd even find the body for months. The other thing is, you disappear. Got it? Get in the wind. Get yourself gone. That way, we still get paid. What do you say?"

  "I'll go! I'll go tonight!"

  "Yeah, we kind of figured that. But, see, we got this problem. You know what our problem is, buddy? Our problem is…what's in it for us? See, we got paid, and we always keep our word. That's our stock–in–trade. Now we didn't promise to snuff you, but it is easier…you understand?"

  "I have money!"

  "Do you now? Okay, two questions. How much' And where is it?"

  "It's mostly in mutual funds. I could–"

  "There's the phone," the man told him. "And here's your list," another man said, handing Wieskoft a computer printout of all his financial holdings.

  22

  It was late afternoon by the time Wieskoft's Lincoln steamed up to the curb in front of his building. He slammed on the brakes, jumped out of the car and charged for the stairs. "Maybe there's still time…stop payment on the currency transfer orders, pack some bags, take Angel, get out of…"

  "Freeze!" several voices yelled simultaneously. Wieskoft looked around, seeing only a river of handguns pointing at various parts of his body.

  23

  Let me get this straight," McNamara was saying. "We find a stalker's journal in your apartment, okay? Detailed plans for kidnapping and torturing a little girl. All kinds of equipment to do the job. Piles and piles of newspaper clippings about the President's daughter. Magazine articles, photographs…even her school records, the name of her cat…everything. We know you own this cabin out in the sticks. Nice of you to set the trip odometer before you made the last run…the round–trip mileage is just perfect. And pasted over every picture of this little girl, you got the word 'Angel' too. I'll bet when we search the cabin, we find her name all over that place too.

  "And your story is you were kidnapped by a gang of devil–worshipers who made you clean out your bank accounts, is that it?"

  "I…"

  "You're a sick bastard, aren't you? Well, you're going down for this one. Down deep. Maybe if you get lucky, you'll end up playing cards with John Hinckley."

  "You don't…understand," Wieskoft muttered. "I don't even know that girl. I never…"

  "So who's this 'Angel,' then?" McNamara asked.

  "I…I…"

  "He's all yours," McNamara
told the waiting feds.

  Epilogue

  "I can't believe it," Reba told Cross, sitting at her kitchen table." All this time, he was after the President's daughter…God!"

  "His lawyer is pleading him NGI?"

  "NGI?"

  "Not Guilty by reason of Insanity. He's going with a public defender…looks like he's broke, too."

  "Will he go to prison?"

  "A mental hospital, most likely. But, those places, the thing is, they don't let you go until you admit what you did…so they can 'cure' you, right? This Wieskoft character, he keeps telling this crazy story…they're never gonna buy that one."

  "I can't buy it myself."

  "That's not what you bought," Cross said, holding out his hand.

  Value Received

  I waited for him in the warehouse, standing back in the shadows.

  The midnight–blue Mercedes sedan purred through the open door. He climbed out, adjusted his shirt cuffs so they showed just past the sleeves of his suit coat, patted his hair. Tapped his fingers on the sleek fender.

  I stepped out of the shadows.

  "I see you're on time."

  "Like I said."

  "I don't have much time for this. I have a lot to do."

  I didn't say anything. The phone in his car chirped. He nodded in its direction, making no move to answer.