It is very important to me that my captives do not suffer. Infliction of pain would be an affront to my art. Physical pain, that is. I am not without comprehension that my art causes emotional pain, but I am deeply concerned that its practice never replicate sadism—a repulsive “disorder” which, upon observation, I refuse to characterize as such. That is, I consider sadism, especially sexual sadism, to be a conscious decision on the part of its wielder. Clearly, there is a market for such hideousness—witness the enormous pornography industry which has attempted to fill the vacuum created by demand. And my personal investigations have proven that the market is by no means limited to *staged* depictions of the most graphic, even terminal, torture. Even assuming, as I do, that many if not most of the proffers are from government agents—parenthetically, I do not consider such activity to be “entrapment,” as the essence of same is to induce conduct to which the “victim” is not otherwise disposed—there exists a significant demand for such product. A mental disorder, then? I think not. I suspect, if one were to seek venture capital for a magazine catering to schizophrenics, one would find the prospects bleak indeed.
Ah, so many “masters” out there, convinced of their superiority, never realizing that their obsession makes them as susceptible to manipulation as the “slaves” they “collar.” But such games are, in fact, just that. Games. To be played as children play: Immaturely, focusing on immediate, tactile gratification.
But when the jolt fades, when they require reality, when their sadism can only be satisfied not with the *appearance* of unwillingness but its actuality, then pain becomes the goal. Such humans are beneath contempt. They fancy themselves “superior,” but they are pitifully dependent creatures, fools who believe they *are* the power, but who come alive only when the power is supplied by others—proving them to be as self-determining as an electrical appliance.
I know power. I was born to it, I believe. And I use it to create. My art.
The next days passed without incident. Indeed, my recollection of them is. . . flawed, perhaps. I do recall promising the child some additional art supplies. Or was it condiments? I realized that to ask her again would be to damage the fragile connection between us, so I merely resolved to obtain a sufficient quantity of anything she might potentially have requested when I left the hideout.
Friday’s telephone message to the target was simplicity itself:
If the proof you requested is sufficiently satisfactory to you and you wish to proceed with negotiations, please so indicate by replacing *red* as previously instructed with *yellow*. It is not, repeat *not* necessary that the material be similar, only the location.
That evening, Zoë became agitated, claiming that I had not been listening to her. No explanation would satisfy the child. In truth, I was at a loss for such explanation myself, vainly attempting to fill in the apparent gaps in our conversation in confabulatory fashion. I remembered a phrase from one of the TV shows Zoë and I had watched together, some trendy serial about “relationships” she said she had not been allowed to watch at home but had heard about from her friends at school. I told her, “My mind must have been somewhere else.”
The child came over to the chair where I had been slumped—itself somewhat remarkable, as I pride myself on my correct posture—and said, “I know.” Then she shyly kissed my cheek. It may surprise you to learn that this was not such an unusual event during the term of my career. Children, once their survival instincts have been activated, often attempt to curry favor with captors. However, there was none of that quality about this child’s conduct. While puzzling, it posed no danger to the operation, so I resolved to consider it post-completion, a time always more conducive to contemplation.
Saturday morning brought with it the next phase. Again, assumption-upon-assumption: (1) the target had, in fact, placed the red material on the flagpole; (2) the target had, in fact, received the video of the child; (3) the target had, in fact, decided to open negotiations and had so signified by replacing the requisite marker as directed.
The latter assumption is not, as the amateur might assume, auto-warranted. On several occasions, I have encountered parents who simply refused to negotiate—whether in blind obedience to police instructions or because the child’s return was not desired, I have no way of ascertaining to any degree of scientific certainty. While it would be possible to theorize that some negotiation offers would be rejected on the ground that the child him/herself was a participant rather than a victim—a not-uncommon occurrence among teenagers of the ultra-wealthy class—I avoid this by capturing only children too immature to concoct such a scheme. And, on one occasion, my research failed. It was impossible to convince the child’s father—a notorious drug-lord of foreign ethnicity—that I was not the representative of a rival gang but an independent entrepreneur. As a result, no money changed hands. I consider such an attempt imperfect, but a learning experience. Nevertheless, I had assumed no risk of discovery, as the target insisted on his view of reality, attacking the rival gang with great ferocity. While Zoë’s father was himself a member of organized crime—indeed, if my information was accurate, the head of a continuing criminal enterprise—I was unconcerned about him misperceiving the facts. Kidnapping children of enemy gang leaders seems a cultural phenomenon—common among some groups, unheard of in others. As always with such groups, morality is not an issue (despite the wishful thinking of some screenwriters). Only tactics are of importance. There is a Darwinistic quality to establishment and maintenance of ongoing criminal-group activity, and media exposure is, eventually, antithetical to survival. So those “sources” so highly prized by newspaper reporters are rarely in possession of *working* knowledge. That is, they may know names, dates, places, and events. But they do not understand the interstitial tissue which binds the enterprise. Thus, their information may destroy a gang, but cannot be used to replicate one.
I have developed a pre-recorded menu which allows me to “converse” with targets without actually speaking. The target is presented with a series of questions and directions. The response determines which menu item I then select. The R&D component was rather lengthy, but I now have the system perfected, reducing not only risk of identification but the length of all conversations.
Therefore, with both assumptions and equipment in place, I dialed the target’s home.
“Hello?” A man’s voice, crisp with tension, but without that crackling underpinning of anxiety characteristic of most in his position.
I tapped a button on my console and the pre-recorded voice said: “You have the proof. Do you now understand that we have your child? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ *only*, please.”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand that your child is unharmed, and will remain unharmed if we conclude our business successfully?”
“Yes.”
“Are you prepared to pay for your child’s safe return?”
“Yes.”
“Have you notified the authorities?”
“No.”
“The price is seven hundred thousand dollars, U.S. currency. Confirm you understand: Seven hundred thousand dollars.”
“I under—I mean. . . yes.”
“By what date will you be prepared to pay?”
“Uh. . . give me, three, four days, okay?”
“The date you have selected is suitable. Now listen carefully. Do you have a method of electronic banking?”
“Yes.”
(It was well he answered as he did, as I knew the truth.)
“Can you place the money in an account subject to your *immediate* transfer authorization?”
“Yes.”
“During what hours can such transfers be effectuated?”
“Uh, what. . . twenty-four hours. I mean, anytime at all.”
(So the target was experienced in such matters. My guess was that he probably utilized one of those easily penetrated Cayman Islands bank accounts.)
“Friday. Nine-fifty-seven a.m. Have you marked that tim
e?”
“Yes.”
“*Prior* to that time, you will dial up the account in which the money is placed. At nine-fifty-seven precisely, I will call. You are to recite the account number I read to you then and *immediately* authorize the transfer. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“We will know within approximately thirty-five seconds if you have complied. If you have done so, the child will be released within the hour, and returned to you by close of business the same day. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
I terminated the conversation.
It was always hard to tell when his transmissions ended. Every single time, I scrolled down until I hit a blank wall. I did it that time too. When the screen started to change colors, I was ready. I thought about trying to answer him myself—I had been watching Xyla each time and I thought I could do it—but there wasn’t any point if she’d already seen his stuff. And I couldn’t shake the thought that she had. His next toll didn’t ask for a fact from the past. I had to look at it a couple of times to make sure what he was asking:
>>Wesley. Me. Difference? One word<<
Time to see if I could find a button to push. “Send him this,” I told Xyla, and watched.
professional
come up on her screen.
If I had it figured right, my response would be a stake in his heart. But even if it was, I knew it wouldn’t kill him. Vampires I understood. What else is a child molester but a blood-bandit who breeds others of his tribe from his own venom? But this guy was way past that.
And I wondered if he’d keep playing by his own rules.
Back at my place, I sat down with Pansy to watch some TV. She used to love pro wrestling years ago, but now she hates it. I don’t understand why, but she’s real clear about it. Her favorite is this Japanese soap opera, Abarenbo Shogun. Maybe soap opera isn’t right, but I don’t know what else to call the damn thing. It takes place in eighteenth-century Edo, where the Shogun has a secret identity as the resident bodyguard for the boss of the firefighter brigade, and it’s all about him bringing truth and justice to his subjects. He does it with his sword, and the body count is even higher than the old Untouchables used to be. Every time, it ends with the Shogun revealing his true identity to the perps and ordering them to commit seppuku. They, quite reasonably, refuse and decide to fight it out. Fat fucking chance. The Shogun also has a pair of ninjas working for him, a young guy and a dazzlingly beautiful girl who looks like a geisha most of the time and only lets her hair down when she’s slashing and stabbing. The bad guys always retreat behind their hirelings, and the Shogun has to hack his way through to them. He faces off by cocking his sword to display the royal crest—the same flashy way movies show a guy jacking a round into the chamber—and starts his walk, complete with special theme music. The outcome is not in doubt. At the end, he orders his ninjas to finish off the main culprits. Pansy knows her TV.
Anyway, when I finally got cable here, I learned that there’s an all-news TV show too, just like the radio. I clicked it on. Another dead baby. Beaten to death. ACS wasn’t giving out any explanations, although it admitted the family was “known” to them. ACS: that’s “Administration for Children’s Services.” When I was a kid, they called it BCW. They’ve changed the name half a dozen times since then, usually after a bunch of babies die.
Even when they die, it doesn’t amount to much. I remember the last big media-play murder. Kid doesn’t show up for school for a whole year. Nobody even checks. Finally, they come around looking. Little girl’s not there. Turns out the mother’s boyfriend strangled her to death while the mother held the kid’s hands so she couldn’t struggle. Then they wrapped the body in plastic and duct tape and trucked it through the snow in a laundry cart to a Dumpster near a vacant lot. The DA offers the mother probation for her testimony, and she gets on the stand and tells it like it happened. The jury’s so full of hate for the DA letting her walk away, they convict the guy only of manslaughter, not murder, trying to divide the blame by sending a message. Same way the jury did with Lisa Steinberg’s killer—his girlfriend got a free pass from the DA too. Wolfe had that kind of case once. Only she took them both down, not going for the sure-thing conviction of the man by free-passing the woman.
I remembered the “social worker” I had when I was a kid. One of them, anyway. A young girl. . . although I guess she looked pretty old to me then. All I remember about her was her mouth. Her lying mouth. I never looked at her eyes.
Fuck it. I got up, worked Pansy through a few of her routines, just to keep her sharp. She loves that. I don’t get the way people train dogs. There’s really nothing to it. You wait long enough, the dog will do anything you want. When you see it, you reward it. Sometimes you have to create the situation so it happens, but that’s not so hard. There’s no reason to hit a dog. Every time I think about people doing that, I. . . think about how people starve racing greyhounds, run them until they’re used up, then round them up and shoot them. And how scumbags feed their pit bulls gunpowder. The fucking morons think it makes the dogs tough. All it does is eat the linings of their stomachs, so they get ulcers and they’re always in pain. Makes them vicious, not tough.
I met a lot of guys who fit that exact description over the years. And vicious hurts the same as tough when you’re on the receiving end. I took a lot of beatings until Wesley pulled my coat. We were just kids, but he knew the truth. “They’re easier when they’re sleeping,” he whispered to me one night in the dorm.
When I walked into Nadine’s apartment, she told me to have a seat—she had to get something. I took the middle chair. There was a tape playing on the screen. Pony girl, just like she’d bragged about. A chubby blonde on her hands and knees, wearing some kind of mask with little leather ears sticking up, a bridle bit in her teeth, a harness fitted around her upper body. Nadine was riding her, using a crop on the blonde girl’s rump, directing her around a room I didn’t recognize—not the one I was sitting in.
It ended like you’d expect. Nadine waited for the tape to go blank before she came back in.
“She loves it,” Nadine said.
I didn’t say anything.
“She calls me up and begs for it,” Nadine kept on. “She usually comes before she even starts eating me.”
“That the cop?” I asked her.
“Yep.”
“Okay. I already got that message. So what’s your point?”
“A true submissive will do whatever you tell her. She’d come right over and suck your cock if I snapped my fingers. And she doesn’t like men. . . not at all.”
“I still don’t get your point.”
“I just want you to keep your promise.”
“What promise? The only thing I ever told you was—”
“—that I’d get to meet him. Be there with you when you did.”
“If that happens.”
“It’ll happen,” she said confidently. “It was meant to happen.”
“Better stick to your toys and games,” I told her. “I don’t see a crystal ball around here.”
“Never mind,” she said. “I know it. So it doesn’t matter what you believe. That won’t change anything.”
“Yeah, fine. So. . . why the videotape?”
“You know why,” she said. “And you’ll be back.”
Where I went back to was where I’d find Xyla. And there he was, waiting:
“It is all a matter of timing,” I told Zoë later that day. “Any transfer, electronic or paper, can be traced. However, I have set it up so that, within minutes after the money reaches the receptor account, it will be transferred from there to twenty-one *other* accounts in various parts of the world. As soon as the transfer is effectuated, the receptor account will automatically close. A trace will dead-end at the bank. By the time the authorities discover how the money was distributed, it will have been emptied from each of the new accounts into a funnel account, and *that* account too will be closed. . . with the money w
ithdrawn.”
“That sounds hard.”
“Not really,” I said, annoyed at myself for the ascertainable trace of pride in my voice. “The Swiss are quite cooperative in such ventures. They have a long history of separating money from morality.”
“What does that mean?”
“It simply means that they will not question—indeed, they will deliberately avert their eyes from—the *source* of cash so long as they are paid a goodly sum for their ‘handling’ of it.”
“Oh.”
“Are you certain you understand, child?”
“Sure. Maybe they’re not bad themselves, but they don’t care if *you’re* bad, right?”
“Yes, that is a worthy approximation.”
“Doesn’t that make *them* bad, too?”
“One could certainly argue that, Zoë.”
“Do they?”
“Do they what?”
“*Argue* about it?”
“Oh. Yes, certainly. In fact, such arguments seem to provide an endless source of entertainment for some individuals. But nothing changes as a result.”
“People always do it, right?”
“Do what, Zoë?”
“Bad things. I mean, it’s not new. People always did bad things, didn’t they?”
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