Safe House b-10

by Andrew Vachss

  “They got bathtub versions of that too,” I told her.

  “Bathtub versions . . . ?

  “Home brew,” I said. “GHB. Gamma hydroxybutyrate. There’s no legal version of it, like what you’re talking about. Any freak can mix it up. It’s got a lot of street names: Liquid X, Gook, Gamma 10 . . . It all works the same.”

  “Oh,” she said, sad-quiet.

  I tightened my hold on her waist, not asking her how she could describe the drug so accurately. Maybe not wanting to know. Feeling an old friend wrap its comforting cloak around my shoulders. It’s been with me almost as long as Fear, that friend.

  Hate.

  “There’s no defense against it,” she said quietly.

  “Seems like there could be,” I told her, keeping my voice level. “It’s a chemical, right? So what you need is a reagent. Some other drug that would react with it, turn it a distinctive color. Like the DEA uses to field-test cocaine.”

  “Oh God, that makes so much sense,” she gasped, squirming in my lap. “Is that what you . . . really do?”

  “You mean, am I a chemist?”

  “No. I know you’re not. I mean . . . solve problems. Figure things out.”

  “Some things,” I said, letting an undertone of warning into my voice.

  “That’s what . . . Anyway, this young woman, the man who did it to her wasn’t a stranger, it was her boyfriend. Her ex-boyfriend. After they broke up. He talked her into having a last drink together. In a public bar. All she remembers is getting sick, him helping her out of there. When she came to, she was in his apartment. Naked. And it was hours later. She called the police too. But when they came, he told them they made love. Love,” she said, her voice trembling with something I thought I recognized. Somebody had told her that same lie, once.

  “So why is she hiding out?” I asked.

  “Because he took her mind. She believes he can do it again. Maybe not with a drink . . . with food, or air particles. Or whatever. She’s quite . . . insane now. But she feels safe here. That’s why the doors are always closed downstairs. If she knew there was a man here, any man, she’d be sure you were with . . . him.”

  “And the last woman?”

  “You are a good listener,” she said, nuzzling against my neck. “The third woman isn’t really here. I mean, she’s been here, but she’s not here now. We have her someplace . . . else. And she doesn’t have one stalker, she has two.”

  “Are they together?”

  “One of them thinks so,” she said cryptically. “Do you know what a falconer is?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, then you’ll understand. Two stalkers. One’s a falcon, one’s a falconer, see?”

  “No.”

  “That’s all right,” she said, slipping her left hand inside my sweatshirt, short fingernails scraping my chest. Carefully, like she was drawing a map. “Do you think I’m a mystery?” she whispered.

  “You’re a woman,” I said.

  “What a careful man you are.” She chuckled. “And not very aggressive.”

  “I’m a pussycat,” I assured her.

  “A tomcat, more likely.”

  “When I was young.”

  “You’re not so old.”

  “I want to get old,” I said, slipping the warning tone in again.

  “So . . . you want to know why you’re here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want to know why you? Why I chose you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you want to get paid too.”

  “Sure.”

  She leaned close to my ear, speaking so softly I could barely make it out. “Do you like secrets?”

  “No,” I told her, more harshly than I’d intended. Thinking of my childhood. Or what should have been my childhood.

  “Not those kind of secrets,” she said, catching my thoughts from my tone, her voice still soft as gossamer. “Sweet secrets. Shared.”

  “I don’t know about those kind,” I said.

  “I’m going to tell you a secret,” Crystal Beth said. “Then I’ll show you one. And, if they come together, I’ll do both. All right?”

  “First tell me,” I said.

  “The last woman I told you about. The one with two stalkers? Well, one of them’s stalking me too.”

  I didn’t react, just let her nestle against me. Thinking how it’s always personal with some people. And how, every time I had let it be that way with me, somebody died. I felt the warmth of her cheek against mine, the woman-weight of her body . . . and reached for the comfort of the ice inside me. “An old boyfriend?” I asked her, wondering if I was being groomed as the replacement. And whose life it would cost to buy that ticket . . .

  I haven’t played that game since I was a teenager, but I still remember how it felt. To be lying on the ground, bleeding, watching the fire-starter walk off with the guy I had fought, swinging her hips like she was slapping my face. The hardest lesson I ever had to learn was not to make the next girl pay for what the last one took.

  I’d ended up doing time with a lot of men who hadn’t learned that one.

  “Not even a friend,” she said quickly, slowing my train of thought before it ran off the tracks. “An enemy, in fact. He doesn’t want me, he wants me to do something. And I won’t.”

  “Wants you to . . . ?” I asked, leading her into it, fire-bursts flaring under my skin. Arson in readiness, distrust standing by for the accelerant.

  “Betray a trust. Sell someone out. Give them up.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  “Then it all comes down. Not just me. The network. My whole . . . purpose.”

  “I still don’t know what that means.”

  “And you still don’t know why you, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  She got to her feet. Bent forward at the waist and kissed me on the side of my mouth. “Another walk,” she said. “A much shorter one this time, okay?” And held out her hand.

  I took it and got to my feet.

  “What about my jacket?” I asked her.

  “We’ll be back,” she said.

  Still holding on to my hand, Crystal Beth blew out the candle, leaving the room almost black. She made her way over to the door as if she’d memorized the place in the dark. Once it was open, there was enough light to see by. She trailed one hand behind her, keeping me connected as she descended the stairs.

  The second door from the staircase was painted black. Against the dull white walls, it looked like a cave opening. Crystal Beth rapped sharply. I couldn’t hear anyone approach from the other side, but the sound of a bolt snapping open was clear in the silence. The door opened to a wash of pinkish light. Crystal Beth stepped aside, nudging me forward with a hip. A woman was seated on a padded stool aimed right at us, back-lit. I couldn’t make out her face—all I could see was a pair of nylon-sheathed legs crossed at the knee, one foot dangling as though to better display a brilliant turquoise spike-heeled shoe.

  “Long time no see,” Vyra said.

  I felt Crystal Beth behind me, so close her breasts pushed against my back. Vyra’s heavy perfume filled the little room. It stunk like a trap.

  “What is this?” I asked her, keeping my voice relaxed, my hands on my belt buckle in case my nose was sharper than my eyes.

  “Don’t be mad,” Vyra said. “This was my idea, not Crystal’s.”

  “What idea is that?” I asked her.

  “Bringing you in.”

  “You’re . . . being stalked?”

  “Not me,” Vyra said. “The others. I . . . support this place. Crystal and I, we’re . . . close.”

  “Why didn’t you just—?”

  “Because you wouldn’t take me seriously,” she interrupted. “You never have. Never had a reason to, I mean. I thought, if Crystal told you about the . . . situation, you’d help.”

  “You’re in over your head,” I told her flatly.

  “But you wouldn’t be. We agreed, Crystal and me. She’d tell you the
first part. Then I’d explain how she came to you. Then we’d both tell you what—”

  “Maybe I need to tell you what,” I said.

  “Burke, please don’t be mad at me. I couldn’t stand that. Can’t you just listen for a few minutes?”

  “I’ve been listening. And for more than a few minutes.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Maybe this was the wrong way, okay? If I screwed it up, I’ll take whatever’s coming to me. But it isn’t Crystal’s fault. Don’t punish her for what I did. Please . . .”

  I stepped away from Crystal Beth, my eyes acclimating to the pinkish light. The room was bare except for the vanity mirror and the stool. Not even a closet. “Go ahead,” I said quietly. “Say what you want.”

  “Can’t we go upstairs?” Crystal Beth asked. “It’s more . . . peaceful up there.”

  “Go ahead,” I told Vyra again.

  She took that for agreement, got off the stool and squeezed past me. I felt silk against my hand. She went out the door. I didn’t move. Crystal Beth tugged at my hand. I pulled it away from her. “You need both your hands,” I told her.

  “For what?” she whispered behind Vyra’s back.

  “To put all your cards on the table,” I told her.

  Vyra went first, snake-hipping her way up the stairs, silk rustling, spike heels flashing, perfume trailing. Crystal Beth was next, walking strong and carefully, like a warrior to battle.

  At the top of the last flight, Vyra marched into Crystal Beth’s room as though she’d been there before . . . and owned the joint. She had the candle lit by the time I stepped inside, leaving the door open. I took the easy chair. Vyra grabbed the metal chair, crossed her legs again and went back to admiring her shoes. Crystal Beth dropped to her knees without making a sound, positioning herself between us to my right, leaving me a clear sight line to the door.

  “Anytime you’re ready,” I said, to neither of them in particular.

  “I met Crystal a couple of years ago,” Vyra said, talking over the other woman’s kneeling form like there was no doubt who I was going to listen to. “I was volunteering at a shelter. On the phone, mostly. Crystal was a . . . visitor. Not a client. When I found out what she was up to, I said I’d help out. And it just . . . grew on me, I guess. When she finally was ready to start this place, I put up some of the financing. It’s a 501(c)(3) corporation, so my . . .”

  She didn’t say “husband,” just let her voice trail away. I didn’t fill the silence.

  “It’s tax-deductible,” she finished lamely. “When Crystal started to have this . . . problem, she tried to figure out who could help. I told her I knew someone, but she was stubborn. Sure she could do it herself. Once she realized she couldn’t, then she said she’d listen to me,” Vyra finished smugly. “That’s when I told her about you.”

  “You don’t know me,” I said. Flat, no room for argument, denying her credentials.

  “I know enough,” she responded, a pout in her voice. “I know you could do something if you wanted to. And I know you work for money. What could it hurt to listen?”

  “I don’t like that kind of game—closing my eyes and guessing if it’s gonna hurt.”

  “Why do you have to be so hostile?” Vyra asked. “Crystal’s my friend. Friends exchange . . . information, don’t they? If she asked me did I know a good mechanic, or a compassionate gynecologist, or whatever, why wouldn’t I tell her?”

  “I don’t know why you’d do anything,” I said, staying inside myself. The danger-jolts crackling around my nerve endings weren’t from physical fear. By then, my crew was in place. Somewhere outside, not far away. The store-bought locks these women had on their doors wouldn’t keep the Prof out. And nothing they had behind those doors would stop Max, if it came to that. But they had plans, Crystal Beth and Vyra. And I don’t like being in people’s plans.

  “Burke, please. Come on,” Vyra said. “It’s a . . . job, right? You do jobs.”

  “You’re guessing,” I told her.

  “You must do something, right? I’m not asking you what that is, okay? But anyone can listen, can’t they? You can never get hurt just listening.”

  I ignored that. If she’d been raised like I was, she wouldn’t talk so stupid.

  “If he doesn’t want to . . .” Crystal Beth said, like I wasn’t in the room.

  I turned to her. “Don’t lie,” I said.

  She refused to take offense at what I said. Played it for a green light instead, said: “It started when—”

  “Tell him about the—” Vyra interrupted.

  “That’s enough,” I cut her off. “This isn’t a movie. You’re not the director. And I can’t listen in stereo anyway.”

  Vyra snorted through her tiny custom-built nose, tried to fold her arms over her huge chest, gave it up in frustration. Sat quiet for a long few seconds. Then Crystal Beth started again:

  “Marla—that’s her name—she’s one of those girls everybody says doesn’t know any better, do you understand? She got married when she was barely seventeen. It was better than where she was, she thought. That happens a lot—we see it all the time. He’s a lot older than she is. She said it wasn’t all that bad at first. Oh, he hit her and everything, but she was used to that. Her father had . . . been that way, so it wasn’t a . . . surprise, I guess.”

  She watched my face for a few seconds, waiting for a reaction—didn’t get one, so she went back to her story.

  “No matter what Marla did, it didn’t make any difference. He never stopped. It took her a while, but she finally figured it out. He liked to do it. As simple as that.”

  I said nothing, waiting.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, accusingly. “Why didn’t she just leave, right?”

  “Or stab him in his sleep,” I offered. “Or poison his food, or—”

  “You could never understand,” she cut in. “How could you—?”

  “—or hire a hit man,” I went on like she hadn’t spoken.

  That stopped her. The room went silent. “She was afraid,” Vyra finally said in a pious tone. “Do you know what it means to be afraid? Really afraid?”

  “Better than you ever will, you stupid, spoiled bitch,” I told her, a trigger-pull away from being done with them all. “Save it for the proposal-writing, okay? You want to tell me a story, tell it. You want to give lectures, find someone who wants to get in your pants bad enough to pretend like they’re interested.”

  Vyra jumped to her feet, stepped toward me, hand raised like she was going to slap with it. The move was so natural I knew she’d done it before.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I told her. “I’m not your husband.”

  “You . . .” She couldn’t find the rest of the words. Crystal Beth put her arm around her waist, push-pulled her back to the chair, saying something so softly I couldn’t hear it.

  “Let’s be calm,” Crystal Beth said like she was proposing an activity we might all enjoy. “Maybe we’re just all . . . combustible. A bad combination. Would you like it better if we talked alone, just the two of us?” she asked me.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “If you two trusted each other, you wouldn’t both be here anyway.”

  Neither of them said anything to that, but Vyra’s face flamed under her makeup.

  “If this is a story, you’re a long way from the end,” I told them. “It’s getting late, and I got work to do.”

  “What work is that?” Vyra sneered.

  “Work I get paid for,” I said. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Bastard,” she said. No more emotion there, just stating a fact.

  Crystal Beth dropped to her knees between us, stretched out her hands. Vyra took one. I didn’t. She put that empty hand on my knee like an acupuncture anchor, maintaining the current. She stayed there like that for a long moment, eyes closed. At least she wasn’t chanting.

  “She was afraid,” Crystal Beth said quietly. “Or she was used to it. Or she didn’t know any wa
y out. It doesn’t matter. Because once she got pregnant, everything changed.”

  “He stopped belting her around?” I asked sarcastically.

  “Yes, he did,” Crystal Beth said, surprising me. “He stopped punching her and kicking her, anyway. He just found . . . other things to do to her.”

  “You trying to tell me he wanted the baby?”

  “Oh yes,” Crystal Beth said. “He wanted the baby very badly. That’s when she found out the . . . rest about him.”

  “Which was?”

  “He wanted the baby for the race,” she said. “The white race. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Sure. Pure stock, right? What was he? One of those halfass Nazi geeks?”

  “He’s an Aryan,” Crystal Beth said. “In his mind, a true Aryan.”

  “And you’re one of the mud people, right?” I asked her. “And she’s a Jew,” I said, nodding at Vyra, maybe getting the connect between them for the first time.

  “Yes. But he doesn’t know us. We’re not in it that way.”

  “Isn’t there some shortcut on this road?” I asked her. I didn’t have much more patience. If these women thought all White Night followers were the same, they were too dumb to keep walking where they’d stepped.

  “We’re being calm,” Crystal Beth reminded me. “If you listen too fast, you miss some of the words. He kept . . . hurting her. Burning her with cigarettes, making her . . . do things. Degrading her in front of other people. Before she got pregnant, he told her if she ever tried to leave him he’d kill her. Not shoot her, torture her to death. He liked to talk about that. He even had films of it. Torture tapes. Videos. I guess they were acting, I never saw one. But Marla said they looked so real, she couldn’t tell. He made her watch them. She said it didn’t change until he told her he was going to have his son watch them too. So he’d be ready.”

  “What changed?” I asked her.