That Old Devil Sin

by W E DeVore

  Q was sickened by her own self-loathing. Thinking of how she had, in effect, chosen to do the same. How many lies had she told over the years to hide her secret? How many times had she pushed away happiness for the convenience and control of solitude? And now, she had possibly and irreparably damaged a relationship with a man she loved, and who loved her, crazy bits and all. For a brief moment, believing that Ben was a liar and a murderer had been easier and more familiar than believing the simple truth: He was a good and decent man who loved her.

  She stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change. She considered running uptown and skipping Pete’s apartment for the time being. But shame got the better of her. She wasn’t ready to face Ben, having no idea how to explain her distrust to him. The light changed, and she decided to go to Ben as soon as she cleaned out Pete’s apartment. Go to him and explain. Beg if she had to. Sleep on his porch until he forgave her. Hoping that during the next few hours, she could find the words to make it right.

  She walked along Rampart until she came to Elysian Fields, turning to walk towards Pete’s bright pink and yellow double shotgun on Dauphine. She knocked on the right-side door and was greeted with a pack of wild Chihuahuas. Arlene smiled at her through the screen door.

  Q was certain that at some point, Arlene had been a semi-attractive man. Unfortunately, her beauty didn’t translate to being female. Her mouse brown hair hung straight and thick on either side of her face and her broad nose was decidedly too large for her face. But the warm maternity that radiated from her made her beautiful to anyone who knew her. Arlene was dressed in her usual Bywater bohemian chic mosaic of scarves and skirts that made her look like she stepped out of a fortuneteller’s tearoom.

  “Q, darling. I just made myself a cappuccino, would you like one?” Her warm, husky voice called loudly over the incessant barking.

  Q nodded and followed her into the house. Arlene guided her through the book-lined living room, back through her neat bedroom, and into the kitchen. Pete’s apartment was a mirror image of Arlene’s, only less tidy, and it never smelled like lemon and thyme. Q sat at the yellow and gold-flecked Formica table as Arlene loaded the espresso maker on the counter.

  “Have you heard from Pete?” she called over the noise of the frothing milk.

  “Yeah, he called the other day. His car broke down as soon as he got to Tennessee, I guess. We didn’t make it much beyond that before the call broke up.” Q said, too exhausted to continue lying about anything anymore.

  Arlene turned and handed her a small red cup nearly overflowing with stiff foam. “You want something to eat? I made some brioche yesterday that is simply heaven, if I do say so.”

  Q nodded gratefully. Arlene may have been born a man, but she had also been born a natural mother. She had been genetically pre-programmed to have a houseful of children and grandchildren, filling their stomachs with her delicious baked goods and soothing life’s wounds. With no children, she focused her energies on stray dogs and stray people, pouring her love into her home and her friends. Q barely remembered her own mother, and rarely missed her, until she’d met Arlene.

  A fluffy cloud of brioche, butter, and homemade fig jam appeared in front of her on the table, and Arlene sat down across from her. Q took a bite and savored the airy texture and the doughy sweetness.

  Arlene quietly sipped her coffee and finally said, “Q, honey, are you alright? You don’t look like you’ve slept in days.”

  Q quickly took a drink of coffee to push down the tears that instantly tried to force their way up.

  “It’s just this thing with Pete,” she said quietly.

  Arlene studied her face. “No, I don’t think that it is, cher. You tell me when you’re ready.”

  Q ate her brioche in silence, before finally saying, “I fucked up, Arlene.”

  The words poured out of her as she told Arlene everything about Ben, his fiancé’s murder, Urian, Marianne Multer, finally ending with, “He won’t return my calls. I accused him of killing his fiancé, of killing Ronnie. How could I think that for even a second? What is wrong with me?”

  Arlene gave her a maternal smile. “My sweet girl, some things can’t be fixed on the telephone. Go to him. Apologize. If he loves you, he’ll forgive you. If he doesn’t forgive you, he’s an asshole.”

  She laughed. “What about the rest?”

  “That’s another ball of wax entirely. I didn’t know Ronnie very long and what I did know, I didn’t like. That woman pulled Pete down into a bad way faster than I’ve ever seen. There was something horribly broken inside her…you know me, I love a fixer-upper, and I don’t usually think anyone is beyond help. But I think maybe help was a few years late for that child.”

  “Urian said the same thing.” Q sipped her coffee. “God, who would threaten to out someone, even someone as awful as Marianne Multer?”

  “You don’t know that for sure, but I think you should go to the police with the information you have, all of it. You have no business looking into this mess on your own.” Arlene reached for Q's hand and she appreciatively accepted the gesture.

  Q took a deep breath. “Right. First thing’s first. Clean up Pete’s apartment, then some groveling to Ben, then some groveling to Uncle Ernst.”

  “Baby, don’t worry about the apartment. I’ll do it. Go on uptown and take care of your business. The apartment can wait.” Arlene said gently.

  “No. It’s ok. Pete didn’t want you to have a mess on your hands and neither do I. Besides, it’ll give me time to figure out what I’m going to say to Ben and Uncle Ernst.”

  “I’ve always been a big fan of honesty.” Arlene smiled and winked.

  Q rolled her eyes. “Well, I guess there’s always that to fall back on.”

  She stood up and walked out the back door and down the steps into Arlene’s courtyard. Potted herbs lined the entire length of the tiny patch of paradise Arlene had carved out of the rundown neighborhood. Q immediately turned to her left and walked back up an identical set of steps to an identical back door, reaching into her satchel for Pete’s keys.

  As expected, Pete’s kitchen smelled more like gym socks and stale beer than lemon and thyme. Q’s nose twitched at the drastic change of environment. She opened the refrigerator and was relieved to find it empty, as were all the cupboards except for a random assortment of go cups, a few old Tupperware lids, and one half empty bottle of tequila, which Q set on the counter.

  She walked into the bedroom and was greeted with a tidal wave of garish clothing pouring out of the closet.

  Definitely tackling that last.

  She negotiated her way through the few patches of bare floor until she reached the bathroom door. She cringed at the thick brown ring around the inside of the toilet and the bathtub.

  "Motherfucker. You couldn’t even clean the damn toilet?” she muttered out loud in disgust and headed into the living room.

  Q scratched her head and helplessly looked around the room, not knowing where to begin. She noticed a black garbage bag on the sagging corduroy couch and walked over to retrieve it. Glancing inside, she found a few pieces of junk mail and a small stack of magazines. Figuring Pete would have started with the easiest job, she decided to follow his lead and dragged the bag to the front door where a small mound of mail had collected since Pete’s untimely departure.

  She sat cross-legged before it and began sorting the stack, shoving junk mail into the garbage bag and creating an ever-growing pile of past-due notices on the folding table beside her. As she reached the bottom of the mound, she spotted a padded manila envelope, and picked it up with curiosity. Turning it over, she found that it was addressed to Ronnie. Her stomach flipped and she eagerly ripped it open. She poured out a bright orange memory stick into the palm of her hand and stared at it in wonder. She felt around inside the envelope, disappointed to discover that the memory stick was its only contents. She flipped over the envelope and looked for a return address; it was identical to the shipping address.

 
“Why would Ronnie mail herself a jump drive?” she asked herself. Urian’s words from the day before echoed in her mind. Her stomach churned with nervous excitement.

  Blackmail.

  Q jumped up and turned on Pete’s ancient PC that rested on the fold-out table. She anxiously rapped her fingertips on top of it, willing it to whir to life. When nothing happened, she got down on all fours to crawl under the table, only to discover that the power cord was dangling uselessly from the tabletop. She plugged it into the nearby outlet and stood up, banging her head on the way.

  “God damn it,” she muttered, rubbing at her head.

  When she pressed the power button on the PC this time, its internal fan droned like a jet engine. She rocked from side to side, bouncing lightly on her heels, trying to calm her expectations so as not to be disappointed.

  This isn’t ‘Murder She Wrote’, it’s probably nothing.

  The launch screen finally appeared on the monitor and Q inserted the memory stick into a free USB port, impatiently tapping the tabletop for another eternal minute while the small hard drive mounted. A single movie file resided in the directory. Q’s stomach did a back flip when she read the file name: REVENGE.

  She took a calming breath as she double-clicked it and waited for it to launch.

  Gus Multer's black-on-black hunter eyes filled the screen and he turned and walked away from the camera. Q cringed in shock at the sight of the completely naked, fully aroused Senator from the great state of Louisiana. The camera refocused on the bed in front of it and Q realized she was looking at a much younger Ronnie bound and gagged on her knees. Ronnie was crying silently around the scarf wrapped around her mouth. The Senator pulled her legs off the bed and bent her face forward into the mattress. He spat in his hand and then forced himself between her legs. Panic surged into Q’s throat as she watched him thrust deeper into Ronnie’s body and Ronnie scream against the scarf.

  An uncontrollable wave of nausea hit Q like a hurricane, and she ran blindly to the bathroom and vomited into the sink. She tried to clear her vision, but all she could see was a child being raped by Multer. Wave after wave of illness struck her and she choked on her own sobs, retching until her body was empty. She sank helplessly to the floor and laid her head on the cool tiles, staring at the stains on the floor and smelling her own sick.

  She was a baby, oh god, he did that to a child.

  Her body vibrated and trembled and she was covered in icy sweat. A howling animal cry welled up from within her and tears rained down her face, choking her. She heard the back door open.

  “Q, baby, you ok?” Arlene’s husky voice called out from the doorway.

  Q slowly forced herself up on trembling knees and staggered through the clutter of Pete’s bedroom, making her way to the kitchen. Arlene appeared in the doorway and Q fell into her arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

  “Shhh, ma bébé, shhhh.” Arlene cooed gently until Q felt herself regaining control.

  Once she began to breathe normally again, Arlene set her into a folding chair at the table and filled an R-Bar go cup with water. She handed it to Q. Q drank several swallows, clutching the cup with both hands, trying to steady herself.

  “What happened, Q? Tell me what is it?” Arlene knelt in front of her, concern covering her face.

  Q told her about the video and Arlene marched stoically to the front of the apartment and Pete’s computer while Q sat in the kitchen and sipped her water, trying to remember to breathe through the panic attack that raged in her mind. Thoughts and voices and memories converged into a cyclone that spun behind her left eye and filled her ears with a dull roar. She focused on her breath.

  One. In and out. Two. In and out. Three. In and out. Four. In and out.

  Her heart rate slowed, and the voices and screams in her head went silent one by one, until she was alone and her brain was quiet.

  Arlene re-entered the kitchen several minutes later and several shades of green darker than she had been earlier. She walked right to the bottle of cheap tequila sitting on the counter and up-ended it into her mouth taking several large drinks. Q looked at her searching for some good news.

  Arlene shook her head and said, “Those bastards.”

  “There was more?” Q asked meekly.

  “When he was done, his wife joined in with a strap-on.” Arlene took another sip of tequila. “At least she untied her and settled her down first. Next time was pretty much like the first.”

  Q steadied her hand against the cool glass of water and forcibly blocked the inner screams that started to well within her, barely keeping the panic attack at bay.

  “Next time?”

  “I didn’t watch through it all, but there were probably five or six more instances after that one. Different girl in the third one, Ronnie in all the others.” Arlene sat down, shaken.

  “How did she get that video?” Q wondered out loud.

  “Seemed like they left her alone after the last time. She was still bound. Bleeding. Multer roughed her up bad the last time. Fucking animal. She got herself untied, put on her clothes as best she could, then grabbed the camera. I imagine she stole it and got the hell out of there. I wouldn’t be surprised if she thought that monster was going to kill her. Maybe she didn’t realize what she had, just wanted something to pawn.”

  “How old do you think she was?” Q asked meekly.

  Arlene took another long pull from the bottle. “Twelve, thirteen at the most.”

  “What do I do?” With the panic finally drained from her system, the absence of adrenalin made her feel exhausted and weak.

  “First we make a copy. Who knows how many cops the Multers have in their back pocket."

  "Then what?"

  "Then you go to the police.”

  “I don’t think I can.” Q felt clammy and her hands shook compulsively. Arlene handed her the bottle and Q drank, flinching at the burning hot liquid.

  “You can and you will,” Arlene said, sitting across from her at the kitchen table.

  She shook her head, panic still clutching her spine. “No. What if they come after me? What if they try to do that to…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Q, love, I know what happened to you. But you can’t be afraid for the rest of your life. That’s no way to live. Right now, you need to be strong. Be strong for Ronnie and for Pete and make this right.” Q looked at Arlene in surprise. “I know you don’t remember, but I do.”

  She searched Arlene’s face trying to find a memory. Arlene smoothed her hair back into a ponytail and Q suddenly recognized the paramedic that soothed her inside an ambulance a decade earlier. “You were there.”

  Arlene smiled. “I was still in transition. I never forgot you though. You sat so still on the ride to the hospital holding my hand, just sitting there.” She placed both her hands on either side of Q’s face. “Before the emergency room doctors took you, you told me I was beautiful, do you remember?”

  Q shook her head. “I don’t remember much that night after the attack. I’m sorry.”

  “Doesn’t matter. But when Pete and you showed up to look at the apartment, I figured it was some sort of sign from the universe that I was supposed to help you. I’ve looked out for Pete all these years, figuring he could use a good turn, but I’m afraid I’ve let you down.” Arlene cupped Q’s face with both hands. “Besides, I've always fancied myself a younger version of Anna Madrigal, what do you think?”

  Q grinned, “You don’t smoke enough weed.”

  Arlene kissed her maternally on her nose. “Let’s go over to my place and make a copy of that vile thing, then you need to get that video to your daddy.”

  “Daddy retired,” Q said weakly.

  “Then your uncle.”

  “He’s not my uncle. He’s just my godfather.” Q corrected. “Besides, I doubt he wants to see me, right now.”

  “A parrain is as good as an uncle, especially if he doesn’t have children of his own. A man like Ernst, would walk through hell and back, just to help you. Y
ou know that.” Arlene stood up and gestured for Q to do the same. “Come on, it’s getting late, let’s get those pieces of shit out into the light and make them squirm.”

  They returned to Arlene’s side of the shotgun and Q sat on a comfortable chair in Arlene’s living room. Several Chihuahuas vied for her attention, while Arlene went to her kitchen to copy the file onto her computer. Q’s phone rang and she eagerly pulled it out of her pocket. She sighed in disappointment when she saw Niko’s name.

  “Hi, Niko.”

  “So did you elope with Marianne Multer or what?” he goaded.

  “Oh god, Niko. You have no idea how fucked up that woman is.” Q told him about the video.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked, once she had finished.

  “What do you think? Take it to the police. Obviously, Ronnie was blackmailing them and they killed her or had her killed.”

  “Maybe you should just let it go, Q. Seems like something pretty dangerous to me. I mean, do you really want to make enemies like the Multers?” Niko asked.

  Righteous anger surged through her veins. “Fuck, Niko. What is wrong with you? They raped children! Who knows how many girls they’ve attacked since Ronnie?”

  “I’m just looking out for you, kiddo. You really want to get involved in this?” he asked calmly.

  “I don’t have a choice, do I? It’s the only thing I can do. Someone has to stop them. They can’t just get away with something like this.”

  Niko sighed, conceding defeat. “Of course, you’re right. Look, I’ll go with you to the station. You shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

  “No. I’m going to catch a cab and go back home. I’ll call Ernst from there and have him meet me somewhere. He’s the only person I can trust with this. I don’t want to drop it off at the station. What if one of the detectives is in the Multers’ pocket?” The knowledge that any number of dirty cops could and would bury this for the Multers made Q’s stomach roil.