by David Hosp
‘Will you meet me?’
I’m not sure what to say. I know that Killkenny will be pissed if I meet her, and I recognize that my objectivity is probably compromised by my obsession with the girl. I understand that it would be smart for me to avoid talking to her, and it’s clearly a bad idea for me to see her in person. ‘Yes,’ I respond. ‘Where do you want to meet?’
‘There’s a bar just off Warren Street. The Anchor. It’s close to your house. Is that okay?’
‘How do you know where I live?’
She ignores the question again. ‘When can you meet me?’
I look at my watch and see that it’s closing in on five o’clock. ‘How about six?’
‘That’s perfect. I’ll see you then.’ The line goes dead. I take the phone away from my ear and stare at it briefly, wondering whether the phone call actually happened. It doesn’t seem to make sense.
Yvette is watching me. ‘Who was that?’
‘One of Ma’s doctors,’ I lie.
‘Everything okay?’
‘I guess I’ll find out. I’m meeting with him. Actually, Ma seemed better than I’ve seen her in ages today. Cormack stopped by, and she got all dolled up. It was a little freaky, actually.’
Yvette raises an eyebrow. ‘You think there’s something going on?’
‘Maybe. I’m trying not to think about it.’
‘Good for her.’
‘She’s sick.’
‘Sick isn’t dead,’ Yvette says. ‘If she can squeeze a little more pleasure out of life, why shouldn’t she?’
‘She’s my mother.’ I look at my watch. ‘I have to go.’
She nods. ‘Me too. It’s gonna take a while for my program to run, so I’m going home to take a shower, maybe even lie down for a little while. I must look like crap.’
She’s been up for two days, so she should look terrible, but she doesn’t. Her eyes are clear, and whatever makeup she might have put on when she came to work forty-eight hours ago is long gone, but she’s always looked better without makeup, I realize. I smile at her. ‘You look okay.’
‘Thanks.’ She gets up and heads to the door to my office. ‘Tell me what you find out about your mom, okay?’
‘Sure. I will.’
She walks out, and I’m left sitting there by myself, wondering how I started lying to my best friend.
I stop by home on my way to the bar. Ma is sitting in the kitchen. She looks good, though she has the oxygen tube in her nose and she’s breathing deep, as though storing up enough good air to last the evening.
‘Cormack’s taking me to dinner,’ she says without my asking.
‘You sure you’re up to that?’
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Beats the shit out of sitting around here, waiting to die.’
There doesn’t seem to be much to say to that. ‘I have to go out, too. I shouldn’t be out late.’
‘You meeting Yvette?’ She is looking at me in that evaluative way she has – on the verge of judgment.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Someone else?’
‘I gotta go. I was just checking in.’
She breathes deeply through her nose, and it’s like pure oxygen is a drug to her now. ‘It’s not my business, Nick, so I’ll stay out of it. The only thing I’ll say is that life is a hell of a lot shorter than you think it is, when you’re your age. Wasting time just doesn’t make any sense. You understand what I’m saying to you?’
‘I gotta go, Ma. You have a good night, okay?’
I’m out the door before she can say anything else.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I get to the bar at around ten of six. It’s a place that’s only a mile or so from my house, but not one that I frequent. The bartender is a guy who was a year behind me in school, and I nod to him as I walk in. He nods back. In this neighborhood that’s practically a hug. I take a seat at a table toward the back, facing out, so I can see the entire place. It’s a Thursday evening, and the place is relatively busy. It’s not the crush of a Friday or a Saturday night, but there are plenty of people who refuse to wait for the weekend to begin drinking away the work-week. I recognize a few of them from various different stages of my life, but I stopped really belonging here years ago. I’m viewed as a bit of an oddity by those with whom I grew up. Few of them had aspirations beyond sustaining their position within the community. For most, that meant going into a trade – becoming an electrician or a carpenter. For the girls, that often meant passing the time as a waitress or a secretary while waiting for their boyfriends to propose. It’s a good, hard-working lot, but no one ever told them that there was something better and, truth be told, they wouldn’t have believed it anyway. Most like it too much in the neighborhood to think of leaving.
The door opens, and she walks in. For a moment I need to remind myself to breathe. She’s wearing a red cotton sundress that looks like it was made to fit her body, and flat sandals. Her hair is swept back, and the satin choker she was wearing this morning is gone. Even dressed as simply as she is, though, she radiates a sensual aura. I watch as she looks over those in the bar and they look back. The effect she has on the place is unmistakable. Heads turn, some subtly, others not so much, as both the men and the women drinking their troubles away admire her. She catches my eye and heads to my table, takes the seat across from me.
‘Thank you for meeting me,’ she says. She seems sincere.
‘How did you get my number?’ I am not ready to trust her, and I’m even less ready to trust myself.
‘I told you, I called Information.’ She pretends to look for a waitress as she answers.
‘I told you, my cell number is unlisted. How did you find it?’
‘I’m resourceful.’
‘No doubt. What are your resources?’
She stops pretending to look for someone to get her a drink and faces me. I can see her debating whether to tell me the truth. Finally she says, ‘I called Tom Jackson.’
A waitress appears, looking us both over like we’re an exhibit. ‘What can I do for you?’ It sounds as though she’s propositioning us.
‘I’ll have a Scotch,’ Kendra says. ‘Neat.’
I nod to the beer that’s three-quarters finished in front of me. ‘I’ll have another, please,’ I say. The waitress heads back to the bar. ‘You called Tom,’ I say.
‘I did.’ She looks down at the table, and her hair falls forward. She brushes it back and looks up at me, her eyes wide. ‘Should I not have?’
‘I’m just surprised.’
‘I needed to talk to you. Without the police listening.’ She watches me, waiting for a reaction. I give her none. ‘I’m scared.’
‘Because of the murders?’
She nods. ‘I think I know who is killing these women. And I think I know why.’
The waitress comes over and puts the drinks on the table. ‘Can I get you anything else?’
Kendra gives me a suggestive look. ‘Are you hungry?’ Her tone makes me feel as though she can read my mind and she’s aware of every erotic thought I’ve had about her.
‘I think I’m fine.’
She shakes her head at the waitress, and the girl nods and leaves. I sit in silence, waiting for Kendra to continue. She looks like she’s trying to decide where to start. ‘Josh Pinkerton is a dangerous man,’ she says. I don’t say anything; I just continue looking at her, waiting for more. I get the feeling she’s used to men simply accepting half of the story from her, and I’m not surprised. My silence seems to unsettle her. She gives me a sad smile. ‘I think, when it started out, we both thought it was just business as usual,’ she says.
‘What kind of business?’ I ask pointedly.
The smile grows sadder. ‘This was never where I was supposed to end up,’ she says, as though it’s an answer to my question. ‘I had plans, you know? I was smart. I got into Boston College – good school – and I went for a year. I was studying finance, and I was getting really good grades.’
‘What happen
ed?’
‘I didn’t realize how expensive a school like that is. I had enough for the first year, but after that, I couldn’t pay the tuition. So I told myself I was going to take a year off and do whatever I had to do to get the money. One year – that was it. I said I was going to put my morals in a box for just long enough to get back to where I was. That’s how it starts. You tell yourself it’s just temporary, and then suddenly it’s seven years later and somehow you’ve lost your way.’ Her voice drifts off, and she closes her eyes. It takes a moment, and then she shakes her head and a tougher look returns. ‘That’s my own fault; I accept it. I’m not blaming anyone but myself, and I’m not looking for any sympathy. But this thing with Josh . . . ’
‘You met him at the photo shoot?’
She nods. ‘That photo shoot was easy money for me at that point. A no-brainer compared to some of the things I was doing at the time. And when I was there, I could see him looking at me. I’d been working long enough to know that look, and to know how to take it from there.’
‘It lasted for four years? Isn’t that kind of odd for what it is that you gave him?’
‘I’m good at what I do,’ she says. ‘Too good, as it turns out. I gave Josh a taste for things he’d never experienced before.’
‘Pain,’ I say.
‘Pain,’ she agrees. ‘But it was never just about the pain. It’s about the power. Power over another person, and the power to submit to someone else. It was easy with Josh; power is his driver. It’s what he’s always wanted, but he can never get it from money. I combined that need for power with eroticism.’
‘A potent mix,’ I say.
‘More potent than any drug. And that’s what it was for him – a drug. When I told him it was over, he refused to accept it.’
‘Why did you end it? I assume the money was good.’
‘The money was great. So great that I realized I had enough to get out, if I wanted to. One day I looked at my bank account and I remembered that promise I made to myself so long ago. And at the same time, I knew Josh was over the edge. He started pushing the boundaries, and I started to get scared. I told him I was done, and he reacted badly. He wouldn’t let me out. He got his giant – NetMaster – involved. I was threatened; the friends I have who live with me were threatened. It got very ugly.’
‘The friends who live with you are in the business, too?’
‘Most of them. I rent the house, and they pay me to stay there.’
‘You’re a madam.’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t make them work, and I don’t take a cut of anything they make, if they do work. I just provide a safe place to stay, and take a cut of the rent they pay. That’s it.’
‘It’s a subtle distinction.’
‘Subtle distinctions are what allow us to live with ourselves, aren’t they?’
‘How did you get away from Josh?’
‘I found out some things about the company. I used that information to scare him off.’
‘What sorts of things?’
She shakes her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. It was enough to get him to back off. I went to Tom, and he got Josh to leave me alone. At least for a while.’
‘But you think you’re in danger now?’
‘I do. If Josh is behind these murders, it’s only a matter of time before he comes after me. I know he’s still obsessed with me. If he’s crazy enough to take his lust for power to the next level, then he’s crazy enough that eventually he’ll kill me.’
‘If he’s the one who’s actually behind the killings.’
‘Who else could it be?’
I look at her, trying to read her face. I wonder if I’m being played somehow; whether she came here looking for information. That’s not my impression, but you never know. ‘Whoever created the LifeScenes that mimic the murders is a technological genius,’ I say. ‘The detail and the texture are . . . ’ I’m looking at her, and I’m seeing her bound to the bed, I’m seeing her underneath me. I hope it’s dim enough in the bar that she won’t see my face flush. ‘Well, let’s just say they’re impressive. Josh Pinkerton is a business genius, but he’s never been the brains behind the technology. I’m not convinced he has the skill to create the Scenes I’ve seen.’
‘Who, then?’
‘That’s the question.’ I decide it’s worth gauging her reaction. ‘Did you ever get to know Dr Gunta?’
‘Santar Gunta? I met him a couple of times. I told you he was at the photo shoot.’
‘What was your impression of him?’
She considers the question. ‘I think he’s repressed,’ she says. ‘He could barely look at the girls when we were being photographed. And when he did, it was as though he wanted to be someplace else.’
‘Do you think he could kill?’
She toys with the idea for a moment before answering. ‘I don’t know. It’s not on the surface, but anyone who holds things in that tightly could be capable of anything, I guess. Why? Do you think it could be him?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know. We talked to him today, and he seemed to be hiding something. And he’s one of the few people I can see with the technical ability to create the LifeScenes that this killer has made. It’s probably nothing, but he’s a possibility.’
‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘But I still think it’s most likely Josh.’
‘Could be. We’ll keep an eye on him, one way or another.’
‘Will you?’ She seems grateful. ‘Please. Like I said, I’m very scared. I’m afraid to go home.’
‘There seems to be enough activity going on there that you’re probably safe,’ I point out. ‘I’d be more worried if you lived alone.’
She shakes her head. ‘It’s the kind of place where people mind their own business,’ she says. ‘And it’s not entirely unusual for people at the house to make a lot of noise. Scream, even.’
‘I guess that kinda goes with the territory, huh?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Well, if it’s Josh, at least he knows that the police are looking into this. He’s not likely to make a move at the moment.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I can’t. It just seems unlikely.’
The waitress comes over. ‘You two ready for another?’
‘I think just the check will be fine, thanks.’
Kendra seems disappointed. No, not disappointed, panicked. ‘Will you have another with me?’
‘It’s been a really long day,’ I say. ‘I think I need to get home.’
‘One more? Please?’
The sound of her voice – the sound of her reaching out to me in need – has a power that’s difficult to describe. ‘One more. That’s it.’ It takes only a moment for the waitress to bring back the drinks, and we wait in silence. Even after the drinks arrive there is an awkward silence.
She looks around the bar. ‘You come here often?’
‘That’s a really old line.’
She plays back the sentence in her head and smiles. I wonder whether she has a smile that doesn’t have the sadness in it. It seems unlikely. ‘It wasn’t meant as a line. It was just a question.’
‘No. It’s not one of my hangouts.’
‘What are your hangouts?’
I realize I can’t answer the question. ‘I don’t have any,’ I say truthfully.
‘A loner, huh? I got that impression. No one special in your life, either?’
‘I’ve gotta go.’
‘You still have half a beer. And I still have most of my drink.’
‘I’m sure you won’t be lonely for long.’ Looking around the bar, I know it’s true. There are a dozen men who continually glance over at her. If I leave, she’ll be overrun. ‘I’m just holding you back.’
She takes a large sip of her drink. ‘Will you come home with me?’
I stare at her for a long time before answering. ‘I don’t think I could afford you.’
‘Not like that. That’s not what I want. I just . . . ’ she looks dow
n at the table. ‘Like I said, I’m scared. And today, when we were together, I got the sense from you . . . ’ She stops speaking. ‘Never mind.’
I swallow hard. I know in my head that I can’t go with her, but every other part of my body and soul is screaming out to take her home. It feels like my heart may explode. ‘I can’t,’ I say quietly. They are the hardest words I can remember uttering.
‘I know,’ she says. She can’t look at me. ‘It’s because of who I am. What I do.’
I shake my head. ‘It’s because of who I am, and what I have to do. I have to find whoever it is that’s doing this.’
‘I want you to.’
‘I know. But if I take you home, I’ll lose my perspective. I’ll lose . . . ’ As I’m speaking I see a tear run down her cheek, and I feel a physical pain through my entire nervous system. ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t.’ I take out two twenties and put them on the table. I stand up. ‘I’ll let you know if we find out anything,’ I say. I start to walk away.
‘Nick,’ she says.
‘Yes?’
‘Can I call you? If something goes wrong; if I need someone?’
I don’t know how to respond. ‘Why me?’
‘Because I don’t have anyone else.’
I walk out of the bar staring at the ground, feeling smaller than I’ve ever felt before. Why me? The question echoes in my head on so many levels.
I head up the block, toward my car, oblivious to everything and everyone around me. I don’t even notice the figure in front of me until I am on top of him. My head comes up just in time to recognize NetMaster’s huge bald head and see the fist swinging toward me. It’s too late for me to dodge, and it catches me in the center of my torso, straight in the solar plexus, and all of the wind goes out of my body instantly. I am doubled over, gagging, wanting to throw up, completely incapacitated. He grabs me by the shirt and hauls me into a nearby vacant lot. He throws me against a round brick wall. I am just starting to get a drift of air back into my lungs when he hits me again in the same place. I think this time it may actually have killed me. If not instantly, I assume I’ll suffocate shortly.
‘You are a foolish man,’ NetMaster says in his heavily accented voice. ‘You will not listen. What do you have to say now?’