by Неизвестный
Even if Skip had watched that night, when Cami was doing her thing and she and Robbie were on the couch, he couldn’t have seen anything. No lights, that was Faye’s rule. And Robbie didn’t care, he just wanted to screw her.
Only Cami had seen her marks.
They’d met last year after talking online for months.
They’d gone to different schools. Faye to a private high school; Cami, a year older, had graduated from high school early and was part of an independent study program with Stanford. They were from opposite ends of the same track—both smart, Cami pretty and poised while Faye was ugly and gangly. Rich single parents, only children, and one other thing in common:
Boredom.
They’d talked online about everything, but some of their cybertalk was dangerous. They were crossing a line and Faye’s self-preservation kicked in.
“We should meet,” she suggested to Cami.
“Where?”
“The club.”
That was another thing they had in common. Cami’s mother and Faye’s dad had memberships to the most exclusive golf club in San Diego County.
At the end of their oh-so-formal lunch overlooking the dock, Faye asked, “Have you ever cut yourself?”
She knew Cami had, it was one of the first things they’d talked about online. It was the reason Cami had been sent to therapy.
Cami’s pretty blue eyes glazed over. Excitement? She flushed. “I can’t. My mom checks my arms all the time.”
“Still?” Cami was eighteen and didn’t even live with her mother anymore.
She frowned, nodded. “Not as often, but I never know when. She’ll send me away. She said she’d commit me.”
“Can she do that now?”
“Yes. She wants my trust fund. It’s why I moved out, but I still have to go through the hoops until I’m twenty-one. God, I can’t wait.”
“Come on.” Faye got up and they walked to the bathroom.
The bathroom at the club was opulent. There were no stalls, but complete rooms that housed a toilet, sink, and shower. Two private sitting areas and even a lounge, which Faye suspected some of the refined women used after purging. Doors that closed. Walls that were, almost, soundproof. Sometimes two women came out of a private room. Flushed. Doing the forbidden.
Cami followed Faye, who closed the door tight behind them. Without a word, Faye pushed up the sleeves of her shirt.
Cami gasped, took a finger and ran it over the rows and rows of raised scars. “Wow,” she breathed heavily. Cami turned her left arm over, palm up, and Faye touched the old, faded scars, seven of them, on her forearm. They were shallow. Time would make them disappear to all who didn’t know they were there.
Faye reached into her purse and extracted her favorite knife. Very thin, very sharp. She handed it to Cami.
“I can’t,” she whispered, though she held the knife, staring at the blade as if in a trance. She licked her lips.
Faye turned around, pulled up her shirt, and showed Cami her back. There were no scars there; a clean slate.
“Do me.”
“You want me to cut you?”
“It will seal our friendship.”
Faye almost thought she’d read Cami wrong. But then Cami’s breath caressed her neck and she relaxed with anticipation, closed her eyes.
She inhaled sharply at the first sting of the cut, the familiar warmth, pain and heat blending to create a power she only felt at this moment, when blade sliced flesh and reminded her she could end it all if she chose. There was always the option, always the choice. She had the power. Just a matter of how deep, how long, how quiet she could be…
Cami was gentle, the cut was shallow, perfect, an inch long. Blood oozed over its edge, trailing slowly over her shoulder blade. A finger touched her back, along the slender line of blood. Faye closed her eyes. Lips touched the fresh wound, and she held her breath, squirming against her jeans, a rush of pleasure gliding through her body.
Cami’s lips kept pressure on the cut until it stopped bleeding. Faye had many sexual fantasies, but they were all about boys.
None of her fantasies felt as good as Cami’s lips on her back.
“Thank you,” Cami whispered in her ear. “Can we meet here again sometime?”
Faye could only nod.
“I’ll TM you.”
Then she kissed her on the neck and left.
“So we’re all in agreement?” Cami said. She looked at Faye, who nodded.
“Dammit, Faye, can’t you talk some sense into her?” Skip was angry, but that wasn’t unusual.
“You liked it, didn’t you?” Cami countered.
Skip had. Faye had watched his expression when she killed Judge Victor Montgomery. Wide-eyed. Amazed. Empowered. Blood held a surprising attraction.
And there had been a lot of blood.
“It’s justice,” Cami said, using the one argument that always worked with Skip. “You know what he did to Emily. And do you really think anyone as establishment as a judge would be prosecuted?”
“I just didn’t think Emily would get hurt.”
Cami waved off the concern. “She’ll be fine. She didn’t kill him, they’ll let her go. Now, we had a plan. I want to finish it.”
Robbie entered then, clearly stoned. Cami fumed. “You’re doing drugs again.”
Robbie shrugged, slumped on the floor up against the door. “Whatever.”
“You promised.” Cami despised drugs. Like some people hated gays and some people hated Christians; Cami hated drugs with an unusual fervor. When Robbie joined them ten months ago, right before they took care of the teacher, the rule was no drugs. Robbie had been fairly sober since.
“What happened?” Faye asked him as she knelt next to him.
He looked at her with glassy eyes. It wasn’t just drugs she saw in them. It was pain. “What happened?” she asked again. When Cami tried to interrupt, Faye put up her hand.
She reached over and lifted up his shirt. Fresh bruises covered his chest. “Oh Robbie, you need to go to the hospital.”
“Hell no.” Robbie brushed off her hand. “I got three fucking months left. Three months and I get my money. I’m not doing shit until I get the money and then I’m going to kill him and disappear. Fucking bastard.” He sniffed, rubbed his nose, and winced.
Skip helped him up. “I’ll take care of him.”
Cami was unmoved by Robbie’s pain. “No drugs. That was the rule. You’ll get no second chance.”
“What are you going to do? Suck me dry and cut off my dick, too?”
Cami reddened and pointed at Skip. “Talk to him. Straighten him out. This is bigger than all of us. Don’t you see? This is justice. This is payback for everyone who can’t fight for themselves. Straighten Robbie out or he’s gone. Disappeared.”
Skip glared at Cami, but nodded. He took Robbie into the bathroom.
“His old man really walloped him,” Faye said, walking over to Cami.
Cami frowned. “Drugs are like drinking. Loose lips. You know that saying? It’s like military or something. Loose lips sink ships. We can’t let Robbie destroy everything we’ve been planning for over a year. I won’t have it.”
What she really meant is he wouldn’t have it, but Faye didn’t correct Cami. They never talked about him. Cami didn’t even know that Faye knew about him. The less Cami knew about that the better.
“Robbie won’t screw us,” Faye assured her, though even she had her doubts.
She’d had early doubts about bringing in Skip, but he’d turned out to be immensely valuable. Cami could get him to do anything—anything—and Faye loved watching her in action. But at the beginning, when they first talked about this, it had just been the two of them. Cami and Faye.
“We’re going through with this.” Cami sat down heavily on her bed. “As soon as we know when. No backing out. It’s the final act, the one we’ve been waiting for. And if Robbie and Skip are problems, you know what we have to do.”
She did. “You kno
w I’m there.”
Cami smiled, touched her cheek. “I know. You understand better than anyone. I never have to explain anything to you.” She reached over Faye and into her nightstand. “I have a treat for you.”
Cami handed Faye a vibrator and a video. “Take them home. You’ll know what to do.”
Faye took them, both nervous and excited. She wanted to view the video before she shared it with him.
She started to leave when Cami spoke.
“It’s only because of you that Robbie’s made it this far, Faye. He’s your responsibility. If he screws up again, you’re going to have to take care of him.”
Faye stared into Cami’s dead eyes. She wondered if they mirrored her own.
“I will.”
Julia didn’t want to be in her office. She should have taken the day, the week, off to take care of Emily. But she had a trial starting a week from Monday, a rape, and she needed to prepare. Talk to the victim, ready her for the stand. Talk to the detective. The witnesses. Julia had turned down a plea offer—six months, ridiculous for a forcible rape—and had to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Melanie Ruiz had said no and Juan Fuentes attacked. She had doctors’ reports, a witness, and the victim had bruise marks around her neck.
Fuentes told police that Melanie liked it rough.
The best thing right now was to focus on her job. Try to keep her mind off Emily. Putting Fuentes in prison for five-to-seven would satisfy her need for justice.
Besides, being in the office gave her an excuse to keep her ears open. Pick up any details about Victor’s murder.
She worked on her opening statement, but her mind was far from the case. She prided herself on always knowing what to do and when to do it, but right now she was so lost and she had no one to turn to, no one to talk with.
What few friends Julia had over the years had all left the San Diego area. They barely kept in touch via e-mail. Matt, her brother, had truly been her best friend, and he was dead. Maybe that’s why she’d thrown herself into her job, her career.
But when she needed someone, anyone, to talk to, there was no one.
She’d never felt so alone except the day Matt died and she’d lived. But for the grace of God, Emily would have perished with Matt.
“Where’s Em?” Julia asked when she opened her door to Matt that stormy Saturday night.
“She begged me to drop her at the movie theater with Jayne.” He stepped in and shrugged off his wet jacket. Julia hung it in the closet.
“You left two ten-year-olds alone at the theater?”
“I walked them in, and the movie lets out at nine thirty-five. I’ll be back long before.” He smiled, though it was a sad expression. She was about to ask her brother what was troubling him when he asked, “Do you have a minute?”
“Of course.”
Matt followed Julia into the kitchen.
Julia poured her brother some tea from the pot she had just made for herself. “Have you given any more thought to what we talked about?”
He sighed. “I’ve thought of nothing else. I just don’t know anything anymore, Jules.”
“I just want you to be happy.”
“Do you know how many of Emily’s friends have divorced parents? All but one.”
“So she’ll be in good company.”
He didn’t laugh. “Crystal wasn’t always like this.”
Julia disagreed, but didn’t say anything.
“Or was I just so blind I couldn’t see?” He was trying to convince himself.
“I don’t know, Matt. I guess she had her moments. And I really thought Crystal loved you.” For about five minutes, thought Julia, but she didn’t add that.
“She did. I just don’t know what happened.”
They sat in silence sipping tea. “You and Em could come live with me for a while. Until things settle down.”
“I appreciate that. Em adores you.”
“You know I love her.”
“I have something for you to sign. Guardianship papers. If anything ever happens to me, I want you to be her guardian.”
Julia’s eyes welled. “Don’t talk that way.”
“Seriously. You love my daughter unconditionally. That’s what kids need.”
“Something we never had.”
“We turned out okay.”
She smiled. “Because of you.” She squeezed her brother’s hand. “Hey, let’s put all this depressing stuff behind us and go meet Emily for that movie. When did it start?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Let’s go.”
Not only did they miss the movie, but Matt died before the movie was over and Emily heard about it from the media as she waited in the lobby of the theater for her father to pick her up, wondering why he was late.
And it had been Julia’s fault. After all, she’d been driving.
A knock on the door startled Julia out of her reverie. She glanced at her watch. Six-thirty? Where had the time gone? “Come in.”
Her boss, Andrew Stanton, entered and closed the door. He sat down across from her desk. Most prosecutors in her position didn’t have their own office, but Julia’s conviction on a high-profile rape-murder last year had earned her the door.
“Why did you hire Connor Kincaid?”
She knew it was bound to come up. “I need to protect Emily’s interests,” she said cautiously.
“You did. You retained Iris Jones.”
Since Stanton didn’t ask a question, Julia didn’t answer.
“Julia,” he said, his voice soft, “I know this is hard on you, especially in your position, but you need to know I’m also looking out for Emily. You don’t need to—”
She put up her hand. “Don’t. I appreciate your help, but you can’t possibly be on Emily’s side. If the roles were reversed I would have the interests of this office to protect. Just like you.”
Stanton remained silent for several moments, then said, “You’re on the fast track, Julia. You know it as well as I do. You can have a judgeship inside of five years, or anything else you want. Don’t blow it by playing cop. Don’t blow it by trusting Connor. You know better than anyone what a loose cannon he is.”
“Andrew, if you think that I care about my career more than my niece, then you’ll never understand any decision I make.”
“I only meant—”
“Connor may be a loose cannon, but he’s also committed to the truth. I can keep him reined in.” She didn’t wholly believe it, but she would damn well try.
Stanton raised an eyebrow, his face stern. She felt like she was a hostile witness. “Oh? You think you can control Connor Kincaid? Then why was he interviewing a witness? Spending time at the police station?”
“He’s looking out for Emily.”
“He’s interfering with a police investigation.”
“No, he’s not.” Julia stood her ground. “Emily needs an advocate, and not just a defense attorney telling her to keep her mouth shut. She needs someone working overtime to prove her innocence.”
“The police—”
“Are damn good. Will Hooper and Jim Gage are the best. But the evidence is what it is. I know in my heart that Emily didn’t murder Judge Montgomery. But my heart means nothing when faced with the damning circumstances.”
Stanton stood. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I do.”
“Then you’ll take this the way that it’s intended. You’re hereby on administrative leave.”
“What? I have a trial in eleven days, I have six depositions next week and a discovery hearing in a first degree—”
“You follow your heart, Julia, and you’ll pay the price. Hand everything off to Hannah Peterson—”
“No, let me—”
“Or you can resign.”
For the first time Julia had an inkling of what Connor Kincaid had felt five years ago when she had given him almost the same ultimatum. Except hers had not really been an ultimatum. It was testify or go to prison. What c
hoice was that?
“Let me pass everything to Frisco Lorenz. He’s better with rape victims.”
Stanton agreed. “All right. I’m sorry, Julia.”
She didn’t believe it for a minute.
Revenge, justice, payback all led to one thing: control.
It was the lack of control—Emily’s inability to stay away from her lecherous stepfather, Billy Thompson’s inability to prove he hadn’t stolen the tests—that created the need for justice.
A woman is raped, she has no control. All the power is in her rapist. She gains control when she fights back. But the system doesn’t always work. Sometimes bad guys go free. Sometimes they’re never found.
Sometimes no one knows a crime has even been committed.
Vengeance was such a powerful motive because no one questioned it. Righting wrongs was human nature. What human being feels sympathy for a child molester who is raped in prison? Who hasn’t had the fantasy of killing a serial killer or assassinating an evil despot in a foreign land? Thousands of years ago, human beings lived and died by their instincts and a crude sense of right and wrong. There were no courts, no men to stand in the way and talk about feelings or rights or abuse. Because life had been lived on the ancient principle of an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.
He would never be discovered, but even if he were, he would be the hero in the eyes of everyone who had lost control of their lives. For the abused, the defeated, the downtrodden—he would be their knight in shining armor, a martyr, a vigilante. Thousands would march in the streets demanding his release. Anarchy would ensue, and it would be his lone voice that controlled the masses. The powers would beg him to speak, to bring order to the disorder.
He sank into his chair, eyes closed, sipped his evening Chivas and relished the future.
But he abandoned his fantasy. He wouldn’t be caught, the police would never learn of his role in this game of vengeance. Playing out other people’s vendettas, like in Patricia Highsmith’s classic novel Strangers on a Train, gave him the distance necessary to watch, assess, and move forward.