“Mi casa es su casa,” said Sonia.
“Thanks.” There was a couch that looked like it came in off the street, a TV set and in the bedroom, a mattress on the floor. No pictures on the wall.
“As you can see, my money doesn’t go into interior decorating. I invest in HIV cocktails.”
“What are you taking?”
“I started this new drug called Atripla. It takes the place of three other drugs. You only take one pill a night instead of twenty pills a day. Twelve-hundred a month. It’s been okay, except for the depression. Fifth floor may not be the best place when you’re taking that. Well, make yourself at home. Bathroom’s over there.”
After brushing her teeth, Rachel was trying to decide on where to lie down. The couch didn’t do it for her. The mattress was a twin.
“I need to get a cover for that couch,” said Sonia. “You can share the bed, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Hey, thanks for sticking up for me back there.”
“Forget it. We have to stick together. We’ll be fine.” She took her pill and threw back a glass of water.
Rachel laid down on the mattress with her jeans on, not knowing whether to take them off.
Sonia stripped down to her panties, flipped off the light, and slid under the covers. Rachel took off her jeans and left her tube top on. She was oddly bashful now in the dark with this girl. She’d never been in bed with anyone.
“You mind if I hug you?” asked Sonia.
“Sure.” The girl’s arms wrapped around Rachel and their breasts were touching. Rachel didn’t mind. She couldn’t see Sonia’s face in the dark, but it was right next to hers. Sonia’s breath brushed her neck. She knew she couldn’t get to sleep in this position, but didn’t want to do anything to change it. They held each other like that for three minutes, then Sonia’s lips brushed against hers. Rachel kissed her back, then put her head next to Sonia’s neck and they went to sleep.
The next morning Rachel had to excuse herself and rushed back to the dorm. She hated having to leave Sonia so abruptly, but she didn’t have any time to lose. After digging her digital camera out of one of the boxes, she sat down at the desk and inserted the first memory stick into it.
There were pictures of what looked like Amsterdam with canals and tour boats and bicycles chained to the railing. There were some shots of Greyson in a hotel room dressed elegantly. Then the venue changed and it looked like a third world country, somewhere in Asia. The shots were taken from an open taxi of some kind. Shots taken inside a strip club. Naked dancers, bright, gaudy lights, and bored-looking Westerners. Greyson seemed interested enough to take over thirty photos of various angles of the girls’ bodies. The scene switched to the inside of a hotel room. A nude young girl. Another one coming out of the bathroom. Then there were close-ups of the girls performing oral sex on him, she guessed, since his face wasn’t in the frame.
Next stick. Back in New York. There was a picture of an Egyptian obelisk in Central Park. Rachel had seen that once. Next, his apartment studio. A naked model on the same bed Rachel had posed on. Rachel could still hear the orders being shouted out like a military drill. The photos had an artistic look to them, Rachel grudgingly admitted. He had control of the light, the angle, contrast, brightness. He had control of everything except himself.
The next photos were of Rachel herself. She could hardly look at them. The humiliation. The fight against tears. She could barely believe that was her. It seemed like someone else. At least he would never get the satisfaction of looking at them and doing God knows what while he looked at them.
Next stick. This was a boy, about thirteen, also naked on the bed, also posing for Greyson. He was smiling, almost enjoying what he was doing.
The next image was of Olivia.
achel held her sister in her hands and dreaded advancing the frame for fear that she would be gone forever. Olivia was posing naked on the same bed and was smiling. What could possess her, thought Rachel? Why had she chosen this? Rachel had never seen her more beautiful, her long Asian hair that Rachel had always envied falling across her breasts. Did Greyson enhance that beauty with his manipulation of light and shadow to magnify the horror of its destruction? Rachel pressed the advance button.
Olivia was giving someone―presumably Greyson––oral sex. She looked straight into the lens. He abandoned any pretense of artistry when he attempted to shoot himself having sex. There were off-kilter snaps of Olivia kneeling over him; he over her with the shadow of the camera on Olivia’s chest. There were other, pensive shots when they had finished. In one frame, Olivia was wearing the Bali theatrical mask Rachel had seen in his house.
The final memory stick presented the same images with a different model. A young blonde girl with a dazzling smile. Greyson posed with her on the couch fully clothed, over the remains of a meal. There was something familiar about this girl. It was Kirsten Schrodinger.
There was a shot of her naked, holding a spear and wearing a tiara. Posing for one of his paintings, no doubt. There were several of these poses―with her foot up on the bed, wearing armbands and thrusting a Claymore sword. She looked like a warrior.
If she handed these over to McKenna, how would she explain how she got them? What she couldn’t do is tell him she was going to the homes of pedophiles. She downloaded all the pictures to her laptop, then deleted the pictures of herself from the memory sticks. Now what? Someone could have given her the pictures, but the police would insist on knowing who. If Rachel made any mention of Sonia and sent the police back to her, the relationship would be over and all this would end. She decided to email the pictures anonymously with a note containing the art dealer’s name and address. Joules had shown her once how to chain two remailers together and send an untraceable email. Every instinct told her she was getting closer to a killer.
What’s your favorite movie? typed the Webmaster.
Oh, it’s an old one. My mom rented it last year. Ninja Turtles, replied cindy2di4.
I liked that one too.
I like the second one.
Yeah. You watch it with your parents? asked the man.
My dad passed away last year, she wrote.
I’m so sorry to hear that. It must be lonely.
It really is.
Did you get the file I sent you? he asked.
Yeah.
What did you think of it?
Kinda weird. What they were doing.
They really loved each other. That’s how it’s expressed. Nothing wrong with it, he wrote.
I don’t know.
I just wanted to share that with you. I hope you don’t think any different about me now, wrote the Webmaster.
No. No.
Does it change anything between us?
No. I just never saw anything like that before. Forget it.
Do you want to forget it, or are you curious to see more? said the man.
I guess I’m kinda curious.
Well, I have another.
OK.
Should I send it now? asked the Webmaster.
Sure.
Done.
Wow. This one’s a movie, right? wrote the girl.
Yeah. Shows more.
She’s beautiful.
Sure she is. What he’s doing to her is beautiful too. See how she likes it? said the Webmaster, getting aroused.
Yeah
So how’s your Mom? Still working late?
Yeah. I just sit here and surf till she comes home.
That’s lonely.
Yeah. I like talking to you.
Me too. You promised me another picture of you, he wrote.
I know. I need to scan it at school.
What kind of a picture is it?
Me at Disney World 2 years ago. On the water slide. And I think I’ll be able to borrow my friend’s cam tomorrow.
That would be great. I really want to see you, Cindy. You already know what I look like.
OK. Well, it’s late. We’ve been chatting for like 2 ho
urs. I gotta get to bed.
When can we chat again?
Tomorrow night. Same time.
The Webmaster had downloaded the last piece of information that he needed from Cindy’s PC. Now he was ready.
assey introduced himself as Ian Bride and entered the house in Richmond Hill, Queens.
“Irina,” said the realtor.
“Shall I take off my shoes? I know that’s a growing custom,” said the priest, now disguised in blond hair, mustache, and glasses.
“Oh don’t worry about it. Well, this is it, three bedroom, one and a half bath. It’s a nice neighborhood.”
“And you said the garage can be entered from inside the house?”
“Yes,” she opened a door off of the living room and turned on the light. The steps descended directly to the garage.
“That’s great on cold winter days,” he said.
“It definitely is. What part of Ireland are you from?”
“County Cork,” said Massey in the accent he recalled from his father.
She nodded vacantly and said, “Is this what you had in mind?”
“I believe so. It’s close to Manhattan.” It had what he was looking for. A quiet street, a foyer, and direct-entry garage where he could enter and leave without being seen.
“And you mentioned you could pay six month’s rent in advance.”
“Yes, that’s not a problem,” said Massey, looking up and down the street through the window.
“Well, the owner is amenable to that in lieu of a credit report. There is this water damage over the bay window, but they’ll repair it before you move in.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Massey, already defending his privacy. “I’m a bit of a handyman back home. So it’s eighteen-hundred a month and one month’s security? Good. I’d like to close the deal then if there are no issues.”
“I have all the paperwork here.”
“Oh, is there garbage pickup, or is that extra?” he said, once again peering out the window.
“The city takes care of that. That’s where our taxes go. You can make out the check to Joanna Federman. And you say you’re moving in when?”
“I have cash, and I had planned on moving in immediately, if that’s alright.”
“Yes, of course. Let me give you a receipt.”
I’m so glad you were able to make it tonight, typed the Webmaster.
Me too. I miss you. So you liked my picture? typed cindy2di4.
I loved it. You are gorgeous, baby. I’m really excited about meeting you tomorrow.
Me too. I hope you like me.
Of course I will.
You might think I look different than in the picture.
I would love you even if you were ugly. I can see you are a beautiful person, he wrote.
I have a cam today. You want to see me? she said.
Sure. She sent the invite. He accepted and her face materialized. It was more than he had hoped for. She was a little older than her picture, still, fourteen with dark pigtails and a beautiful Italian face.
Is that really you? he typed.
Who else is it going to be?
Stick your tongue out.
Huh?
Just let me see you stick your tongue out. She did so. It wasn’t just a video of a young girl. This was a live girl and she was gorgeous.
What do you want me to wear? The outfit in the picture? she asked.
No, in fact don’t dress any differently than usual. If you’re telling your mother you’ll be at the library there’s no reason to get all dressed up.
Yeah. But I have to be back by 9:20. The library closes at nine on weekdays.
Not a problem. I’ll leave you off a couple of blocks from your house. Is that OK?
That would be great. I’ve never been in a guy’s car. I’m kinda embarrassed to say.
You’ll like my car. But I hope you like me more.
Your Camaro? wow :)
It’s fast, so I’ll get you home on time.
Gerard, can I ask you something?
Ask away.
Are you chatting like this with any other girls?
Are you kidding? This takes time, and I’m a busy guy. What do I need more girls for when I have the best one? Just relax. This feels so right.
It feels right to me too. But my Mom can’t find out or I’m dead.
Part of being an adult is being able to keep a secret. Can you keep a secret, Cindy?
Sure I can.
Then we have nothing to worry about.
God, I can’t wait to see you this Tuesday. So we’ll meet at 322 Clancy Street in Richmond Hill? said the girl.
I’ll see you then.
he police had been tailing Armand Greyson for the last two days―ever since they received the anonymous photos. McKenna sat in the long-term parking garage at Kennedy Airport with Detective Aldo Marchese, waiting for Greyson to return from Boston. He had flown there yesterday for some kind of art dealer’s thing and was scheduled to return on the six-thirty shuttle. Their unmarked car was three-hundred feet diagonal to Greyson’s, so they couldn’t miss him when he arrived. If he had scheduled an international flight, they would have moved in.
“I say bring him in for questioning,” said Marchese, lowering the sun visor, cutting off the top of his thick head to the outside world.
“All we have now is photos of nude underage girls which we didn’t find on him.”
“They were taken in his apartment.”
“By who? Maybe the person who sent them to us. We still can’t connect Greyson with the photos,” said McKenna. “All we have of him is the base of his cock in the kid’s mouth. We would need a couple of more inches for a conviction. Found out today that Greyson’s not his real name. Legally changed it from Ira Shickelgruber twenty years ago. Wasn’t that Hitler’s real name too?”
“Ira?”
“Schickelgruber.”
Marchese adjusted the seat. “I hate waiting. Never good at waiting.”
McKenna was used to it. Used to waiting in the brush for hours, sometimes days for his target. That’s what snipers do. You play games in your mind to stave off boredom. And you have to remain alert at all times. It was the toughest part of the job. Shooting was the easiest. He wished the shooting part had been harder.
In Afghanistan, he had waited once for two days. They were on a mountain ridge waiting for a Taliban commander and his men who were making incursions behind coalition lines, scoring high casualties using IEDs and snipers. He recalled how bad the mosquitoes were, but they couldn’t use repellant. Snipers weren’t allowed to smoke, use aftershave, or even soap to prevent the enemy from smelling them. You just stand still and take it. If you had to take a shit, you shit in your pants. You endure.
He and his spotter thought they were well-hidden in the shadows. Then, in the early afternoon, two figures passed a hundred meters below them and spotted them. A month earlier, a four-man SEAL team had encountered the same situation. They were discovered by a father and son as they waited to snatch a Taliban commander. They let them go and the civilians alerted the Taliban who returned with a hundred warriors. The four men fought valiantly down the sheer mountain. Three were killed, then a U.S. rescue helicopter was shot down, killing all sixteen aboard. McKenna wasn’t going to repeat that mistake. With a single glance at his spotter, the agreement was sealed. They dropped both targets. Four hours later, the Taliban arrived.
They waited until the group was out in the open, then the commander was dropped first. John McKenna pulled the trigger twelve more times and twelve more bodies littered the landscape. After dark, they descended the ridge. Something in him compelled him to check the two civilians he had shot, a decision he would live to regret. He turned over the first one and pulled off his head scarf. It was a boy of fourteen. The second was probably his brother. Maybe thirteen.
He came home to his wife and seven-year-old Brittany and thought that would help. Two years later, he got divorced. McKenna had given Brittan
y his email address last year, but never got a message. He checked every night when he got home.
“Yeah, waiting is the toughest part,” said Marchese.
Greyson removed his five-hundred dollar shoes at airport security. He used to enjoy travel, but now with all these security checks, it had become tedious. He had taken a quick jaunt to Boston for the opening of a friend’s gallery. It was a good opportunity to network and there were several Brazilian dealers attending. He had wanted to get an idea of what it was like to operate out of Brazil. Grabbing his carry-on, he headed for a newsstand to pick up the Post.
There was nothing on the front page about any of the disappearances. Good. He flipped through the paper quickly and found a small story on page six about the missing Asian girl.
Police still have no solid leads in the disappearance of Olivia Wallen, the honor student who vanished last week in Manhattan. Teams of volunteers scoured the woods near her house in East Northport while NYPD conducted interviews with everyone known to have interacted with her. Olivia was a volunteer at Transcendence House in Manhattan, a shelter for runaway and abused teens. Police and family are becoming more concerned as the days pass with no clue as to the girl’s whereabouts. She did not leave any notes behind and had never run away before. A sense of desperation has set in, according to one source, after the discovery of Kirsten Schrodinger’s mutilated body this week. Police are as yet unwilling to conclude that the two disappearances are related. In the meantime, a prayer vigil will be held…
It looked like a dead end. He tossed the paper and headed straight for the long-term parking.
He powered up his Blackberry and scrolled through his messages as he walked. His divorce attorney had advised him to get rid of the uptown apartment and rent a modest place to look like he was just making ends meet. So he rented a dump in Brooklyn that reminded him of the way he used to live and was putting his Fifth Avenue place up for sale next week. It was time to start liquidating assets. It had taken a lifetime to gather all the artwork in that place. He couldn’t take it all with him. Ninety percent would have to be auctioned off. He thought of putting it in storage, but it would be too easy for the government to seize. He couldn’t leave any assets behind, just as he had left no trace of Ira Schickelgruber twenty years ago.
The Schwarzschild Radius Page 14