Aftershock

by Andrew Vachss

  “It all started when I had this … I don’t know what to call it, but I know to trust it when it comes. Anyway, the more I thought about MaryLou, the more I listened to what the girls went on and on about, the more convinced I was that the key to all this was a kind of controlled violence.”

  MaryLou’s no assassin flicked into my mind. Was Dolly picking up my thoughts now? But I didn’t say a word.

  “MaryLou beat up her little sister, Danielle, remember?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Like I said, the school thought it was the parents, but nothing ever came of that. After a while, everybody knew the real story. The whole story except for one thing: why?

  “So, I thought, well, no way MaryLou lost her temper and took it out on her little sister. She’s not like that. She must have done it for a reason. And when she walked into school with that pistol, she did that for a reason. So maybe it’s not two different reasons. See?”

  “Yes,” I said, thinking of the qualities of a good assassin again. They don’t all have to be mercenaries—some only kill for a cause. My old comrade Patrice, he never said it out loud, but I always saw him as an IRA soldier who had to go on the run. If the Brits wanted him bad enough, there was only one place he’d be safe, no matter who asked. Or came looking.

  And the only reason they’d want him that bad would be if he’d taken a lot of high-value targets. If Patrice had been a sniper, he sure hid it well—he was the last man you’d pick for that kind of job when we were legionnaires. So I was guessing bomb-building was in his near past. Maybe a bomb that killed a whole mess of people. Or one really important one.

  But maybe he was wanted for something he hadn’t been ordered to do, something he believed he had to do: avenge his mate, Mickey.

  “So, like I started to say,” Dolly went on, “I made a slew of phone calls. I finally located an old pal, in Switzerland. She said she didn’t recognize my voice, even after I switched to French. I couldn’t believe she still didn’t recognize me. So I told her enough stuff that only I could know. Stuff about her, I mean. She still never said my name. That’s when I figured she was just playing it safe—maybe trying to tell me she wasn’t the only one listening.

  “But once I told her what I wanted, you could feel her … not relax, exactly, more like she was relieved. She didn’t know the woman we’re going to see, but she found someone who does, and that’s when she agreed to see us.”

  “Us?”

  “Well, just me, actually. But I think I can get around that.”

  “Or I could just play fetch with Rascal while you talk to her.”

  “I’d rather you be there, Dell. If I’m right, you’ll know better questions to ask than I would.”

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  “Dell, listen! This woman has a record of all the sexual-assault hospital examinations done statewide. Done by the people she’s in charge of. Going back a good seven years, my … old friend said. And what that means is that she’ll have the names of all the girls who were examined in our area.”

  “You think … what?”

  “I think that some of those names are going to be connected. To this thing with MaryLou. And to each other, even if they don’t know it.”

  “But if all those girls were examined … I know they can’t put their names in the paper, but when a rapist goes on trial, they could give his name.”

  “There’s two ‘if’s there, Dell. Did the girl know enough to identify the rapist? And did the DA’s Office ever bring him to trial?”

  I remembered that “soft as warm custard” crack about the DA’s Office. Maybe it wasn’t the exaggeration I’d thought it was.

  “And this SANE woman, she’d know?”

  “I’m not sure. But if she has the names of all the girls who were examined, we could find out the rest ourselves.”

  “That’s right. Damn, Dolly! I’m running around in a mineshaft, poking at little seams, and you maybe hit the mother lode.”

  “We’ll see,” she said. All the bounciness was gone now. Her lips were set in a hard, grim line.

  However Dolly had figured seven hours, she’d miscalculated. I made it in five and change, and never went more than a couple of miles over the limit.

  “Cabin Nine” is all Dolly said.

  I could see what had to be the car—a pale-green Prius with State plates. “I’m going to park over on the other side,” I answered. “Rascal needs some time to himself, anyway. So you can either walk over and knock, or, if you want to try me coming along, I will. But that’s no office building, honey—it’s a cheap motel court. She may balk if she’s expecting one person and—”

  “It’ll be okay, Dell. We’re early, remember? So, while you let Rascal take care of his business, I can call her. That way, she won’t be surprised at seeing us both.”

  Dolly rapped lightly on the flimsy door. It was opened by a slender, coppery-skinned woman with long, straight black hair and high cheekbones. She stepped back, and we both walked in.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” Dolly said. “Whoever you talked to wouldn’t be exaggerating if she told you that this could save a girl’s life.”

  “What I was told is that you could be trusted. And Médecins Sans Frontières was all the proof I needed. I only speak a few words of French, just the little I remember from my elders. Mwen pa konnen w’ mennen yon zanmi.”

  “C’est mon mari. C’est lui qui s’est occupé de tout pour sauver cette fille.”

  So far, neither of them had used a name, not even their own. This woman’s name was no secret, so it had to be a way of protecting each other’s contacts.

  The woman gave me a no-emotion, measuring look. “You are her husband. And what else, a detective?”

  “No,” I said, being very careful—what had been a credential for Dolly might be a cross-out for me. “I have certain skills that I’ve been using, that’s all.”

  “So you wouldn’t need to actually see anything?”

  “Excusez-moi. Si vous préférez, je peux m’en aller. Je m’appelle Dell.”

  “Mine is Iris,” she said. Then she took a pack of cigarettes out of her jacket pocket. If Dolly was shocked at that, she was blown away by the woman’s offering one to me.

  I knew that to refuse would have been a grave mistake. The woman had made a judgment—not of my character, of my experience. Somehow, she guessed I would know that when an American Indian—I had guessed Creole from the first words she spoke—offers to share tobacco, it goes way beyond a handshake. It is a gesture among warriors of a shared cause. Telling me that she respected Dolly for saving lives, but also that she knew me for what I was.

  I didn’t make the mistake of offering her a light. We each took a couple of ceremonial puffs before we dropped our cigarettes into a half-filled glass of water. The woman got up with the glass. I could hear the toilet flush. She came back without the glass. Took out a hand-wipe packet and gave one to me. We scrubbed the smoke off ourselves before tossing the wipes into the garbage can.

  The woman opened a folder on the little desk that a cheap motel gives “business travelers.”

  Dolly hunched forward.

  “Thirty-nine girls between the ages of twelve and sixteen were examined at your local hospital in the past four years. All clearly had been raped very recently. Sixteen of them said they knew who had raped them. Of the remaining twenty-three, another ten said they would tell only if nobody ‘got in trouble’ as a result. Every examination result was reported to the local police.”

  Dolly and I sat quietly. There had to be more.

  “Here are some charts I prepared. Unlike the records, you can take this with you. In fact, I want you to—it is work I could not explain if I were asked.

  “As you can see, the curve of those reporting rapes who could or would name their attacker has been steadily dropping, year after year. In fact, none such have been reported at all within the past eighteen months.

  “It is not even a possible hypothesis that so-called acqu
aintance rape of girls between those ages no longer occurs in your area. Assuming you have not experienced an extraordinary population decrease, the only logical explanation is that reporting rapes is now universally considered to be a futile gesture among those within that age group.

  “Girls between those ages continue to be examined, but, as I said, not a single one has acknowledged knowing her attacker. And of those girls who previously had named their attacker, not one single prosecution has resulted.”

  She handed Dolly the folder, as if to say, “I’m done now.”

  “Some paper cannot be copied,” I said, very softly. “But if names on that paper were read aloud, they could be written down in another’s hand.”

  She nodded slowly. Then she said, “But if the paper on which names were written in another’s hand were to be found, there could still have been only one single source.”

  “What you say is not possible,” I told her. Before she could respond, I took out another sheet of that flash paper.

  When the paper disappeared, the woman picked up another folder. She spoke thirty-nine names in a voice just above a whisper. Her cadence was steady, watching for my nod to indicate I had the names written down.

  “You are a true warrior,” I said, bending my head slightly forward to show respect, but keeping my eyes up to show I wasn’t play-acting. Then I got up and opened the door, to let Dolly know that anything more she might say would be wrong. The time for manners was past, and the quicker we moved away from this spot, the better.

  As soon as we hit the highway, Dolly pulled out a laptop from under her seat. She fired it up, impatiently tapping her nails against the machine as she waited.

  “It’s a good thing I don’t need to go out to the Web. Who knows what kind of connection I could get out here. Give me that paper of yours, Dell. I want to write down the names she gave us so I can check them against my own work.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “What?!”

  “I can’t do that, Dolly. I gave my word that the names wouldn’t leave the paper I used. When we get home, I’ll read you the names, and you can put them in your computer. If you don’t go online with them—the names, I mean—there’s no way to connect them with the SANE boss.”

  “Why can’t you just do that now? This has a partitioned hard drive, with a no-access firewall—it can’t reach the Net. Read me the names, burn the paper, and it would be just the same.”

  “No. No, it wouldn’t. When we get home, we’re safe.”

  “Safe? From what?”

  “From some cop getting a look at your laptop, with those names on it.”

  “How could that happen? We’re not speeding, that pistol you’re carrying is legal. Registered and everything.”

  “Cops love to look in people’s computers. Any excuse would do.”

  “Give me an example,” she said. If she hadn’t been sitting, her hands would have been on her hips by now.

  “Some drunk crosses the median and smashes into us. We’re both taken to the hospital, unconscious. The license on this car traces to your friends, not to either of us. So, some cop could claim he looked in your laptop trying to find some medical information.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay what?”

  “Just ‘okay.’ You said ‘ridiculous.’ I’m saying, I heard you. That’s all.”

  “But you’re not giving me that paper?”

  “No.”

  Dolly crossed her arms over her chest. I always get a kick out of that—she’s got a big chest and short arms, so she never quite pulls it off. But I didn’t think making one of my usual comments would be a good idea.

  She didn’t say another word for the next couple of hours. Then she shook off whatever was bothering her the same way a wet dog does as soon as he’s inside.

  “It’s in there, Dell. I know it is.”

  I knew what “there” meant. But I still didn’t see how Dolly could be so damn sure. I didn’t ask her, either.

  It was past midnight when we rolled into the garage.

  Neither of us was sleepy. Rascal wasn’t, either, but that was no surprise—he’d slept most of the way home.

  As if we’d agreed in advance, we went straight to the basement. I could turn lights on down there without anyone’s seeing them from outside.

  Dolly plugged in her laptop, turned it on.

  “Now can I have that paper?”

  I didn’t answer her. I closed my eyes. I pushed my thumb against my right nostril, drew in a deep breath, then switched, closing my left nostril and pushing the breath back through the nostril I’d closed. Then I reversed the whole thing, watching the white screen in my head fill with bold black letters.

  “Abigail Zimmerman,” I said.

  “Dell …”

  “Amber Lang.”

  “What are you—?”

  “Brenda James.”

  “Oh!” Dolly said. Then her fingers started flying, to catch up. When I said the last of the thirty-nine names, I took one final look at the white screen. Then I opened my eyes.

  I was a little dizzy, shaky on my feet. Dolly jumped up, slipped my left arm around her neck, and slowly lowered us both to the floor.

  “I’ll be okay in a minute,” I said.

  “I know.”

  I don’t know how much time passed, but Dolly was still right next to me when I came to the surface.

  “Those names, the ones you said, they’re the same as the ones on that paper, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.” I reached in my breast pocket and handed her the flash paper.

  Dolly wiggled just a little. I knew what was going on inside her, so I said, “I’m fine, honey. Go ahead and check the names you typed against the names on the paper.”

  She came back to where she’d left me. I was sitting in a position I had learned another lifetime ago. I could stay that way for hours if I had to.

  “Dell, the names are the same. But they’re not in the order she said them.”

  “Alphabetic. I used the first names, not the last.”

  “That’s why you didn’t want me to—”

  “Yes.”

  Dolly held out the paper. Said, “Got a match, soldier?” like she was a B-girl in a cheap bar. But the giggle under her voice was a dead giveaway—I was way past “forgiven,” I was back to being her man.

  I fired the flash paper.

  “You need a nap,” Dolly said. Her battlefield nurse’s voice. I never argued with it.

  When I woke up, it was daylight—I couldn’t actually see it, but the big digital clock read 08:29.

  I was about to go upstairs, but I stopped. I had to check and see if the info I’d asked for was waiting.

  It was. The screen popped to life when I opened the program that had cost me a titanium rod in my left forearm. The man who designed it was an ace cracker, who knew he still owed me. I hit the sequence to de-encrypt:

  |> This was chop of elite unit of the Chinese Imperial Army during Boxer Rebellion (1899). Unit was called Hu Shen Ying, the “Tiger God Battalion,” named in opposition to the foreign enemy, who were referred to both as “Lambs” and “Devils.” Latter names devised to say that the invaders were both evil and weak. <|

  I went back to “encrypt” and typed in:

  |> How could it appear on body of a young man today? <|

  The punk I’d taken the jacket from had only the one tattoo: that same symbol, in the same place as Cameron had. But, unlike Cameron, he’d had no tattoo on his chest.

  I’d work that through later, when the next answer came in. For now, I was drained, and I needed fuel.

  Dolly was exactly where I expected her to be—at the butcher-block table. It was half covered with paper, and she had a whole bunch of different-colored markers lined up in a neat row.

  I didn’t even get a chance to open my mouth. Dolly jumped up and went to work. I was eating an English-muffin sandwich—fried egg with all kinds of green
stuff—and sipping at a glass of apple juice before I knew it. And Dolly was back to her work.

  I ate slowly. Chewed every bite. Dolly never looked up, but she knew when I was finished. She jumped over to the refrigerator, took out a bottle of something, and shook it hard. When she poured it into a heavy blue glass tumbler, it was hard to tell what color it was, but I knew I was supposed to drink it down, so I did.

  “All right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. Meaning, I was ready to work.

  I didn’t have to wait long. “Dell, can you think of any reason why these girls … No, wait. Not these girls. Not the ones whose names we have, the ones whose names we don’t. Can you think of why the local SANE nurse hasn’t seen a single case prosecuted? Not one single case? Not for years?”

  “It’s a dropping line.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re—”

  “Less and less, all the way down to nothing.”

  “I see that. But I don’t see why.”

  “If you saw a gunfight going on right across the street, would you call 911?”

  “Of course.”

  “What about if the last ten times you’d called 911, nobody answered?”

  “You mean … You’re saying girls stopped reporting because they knew it wouldn’t do any good?”

  “Why else?”

  “I … don’t know. None of those names were my girls. I don’t even remember hearing their names.”

  “We can’t find the ones who didn’t report. But the ones who did, they’ll have the answer.”

  “Sure. But I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  “Take the last one who actually did report, and backtrack from her.”

  “You?”

  “Who else? They can’t be hard to find. It’s summer; they won’t be in school. Some of them could have left town. Or got married and changed their name. It’s a small town—I can find them.”

  “But what could you ask them? How could you even explain where you got their names? And how would any of that help MaryLou?”

  “We won’t know until I have those conversations, Dolly.”