Текст книги "Born Bad: Collected Stories"

Автор книги: Andrew Vachss

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"Just stand there a minute, Jason."

Bobby's voice. I kept my hands at my sides, waiting.

"Just wanted to see if you really came alone," he said, stepping out of the shadows.

"Like I promised."

"You got the place surrounded?"

"No."

He lit a cigarette, handed me the pack. I lit one too.

"Big hero. I read about you in the papers while I was upstate. Think you could take me now?"

"No, Bobby. Not then, not now."

"I bought you a present, Jason. Look in the box."

I took off the cover. A couple of watches, a signet ring, an ID bracelet, a wedding band, some pieces of paper. I held it close and read it…a driver's license. A Social Security card. Something that looked like a little, gnarled piece of sausage.

"What is this stuff'

"Trophies. One from each of the queers I took out. The little thing you're holding up, that's a finger–the miserable fag didn't have a thing on him when I wasted him."

"Jesus, Bobby."

"They oughta make you chief behind this, right?"

"I don't know."

He drew on his cigarette. The tip glowed. His face was all lines and angles, a skull painted in fleshtones. "Why'd you do it, Jason?"

"Do what?"

"Turn queer. Why'd you turn out like theme'

"Bobby, it wasn't a choice….It's just the way it happened."

He stood still as a rock. I could feel him watching, but I couldn't see his eyes.

"You ever fuck boys, Jason?"

"What!"

"Boys. Little boys. You ever do that?"

Vomit boiled up into my mouth at the thought–it was the ugliest thing I'd ever heard a person say. "Are you crazy, Bobby? Where'd that come from?"

"That's what you do, right? That's what happens."

"Bobby…"

"When I was a boy. A little boy, real small, one of my fucking whore mother's boyfriends, he did it to me. It hurt. Like fire inside me. I was bleeding. I told my mother, when she came home. You know what I got, Jason? A slap in the mouth. From my mother. She knew. When I still believed in God, I prayed for her to die. It didn't happen to me, you know. I never got queer. I'm a man. Ask anybody about my rep. The jailhouse or the alley, it's all the same. Bobby Trainor, that's a man."

"You always were, Bobby."

"Yeah. Well, now I'm done. Almost done, anyway."

He walked around in a little circle, hands at his side. And then I saw the gun. A silver automatic. He held it up, so I could see it in the candlelight.

"I was always jealous of you, Jason," he said.

"Me? Why?"

"I wished I had your mother."

"Bobby…"

"Shut up. We're all done now. Here's the deal. Let's find out. You and me. You got a gun with you, right?"

"Yes."

"Take it out. Slow."

I unholstered my revolver, pointed it at the ground the way he had his.

"I'm gonna count to three, Jason. Just like in the movies. When I get to three, I'm coming up blasting. I kill you, I'm picking up my shoebox and walking out of here. You got a ring, Jason? Something I can take with me. Maybe I'll take your badge. Your pretty cop badge."

"Bobby…"

"I'm not playing, Jason. You know I never play. You get me first, it's all yours. You don't…well, another dead queer ain't gonna change things much."

"There's another–"

"One!"

"Bobby, don't be a–"

"Two!"

I tightened my hand on the gun.

"Three!"

My first shot took him low in the stomach. He went down to one knee, brought the pistol up and I fired again, twice. He hit the floor, the gun rolling out of his hand.

I dropped down next to him, my hand feeling for a pulse in his neck.

"You're a real man, Jace," he said. And then he died.

I waited for the sirens, holding Bobby's cold hand.

21

Much, much later, Dave stood next to me on our balcony, looking out at the city.

"Good thing you were wearing your vest," my lover said to me.

I didn't say anything to him, just held his hand. Thinking about Bobby. About our last fight. About what he said. About how I picked his gun off the floor. That deadly silver automatic…with the safety locked on.

Stone Magic

1

I watched her through the one-way glass. A frail little blonde girl in pink overalls and a white T–shirt, sitting next to a tall Jamaican woman with long, silky hair. The little girl's voice was as fragile as spun glass, but I could hear everything over the speaker set into the wall where I was standing.

"I'm…afraid," the little girl whispered. "He has magic. He said if I told, Mommy would die. He would make her die."

"He has no magic," the Jamaican woman told her, a diamond core to the rich black coal of her voice. "He lies, child. All evil creatures lie. And a lie can harm you only if you believe it."

It came out slowly—like pus gently squeezed from a wound. A new man in Mommy's life. Not like the father she'd never met, a rogue who planted his seed one night and moved on without looking back. This new man was warm. Sensitive. Caring.

Mommy met the man in church. In a holy place.

He came into their lives, moved into their house. He took them wonderful places: the zoo, the park for picnics, into the country for a pony ride. She loved him. She was his little princess.

It started when Mommy was out working. Mommy worked nights. She was a waitress.

It started as a game. First she liked it. Warm and gentle and sweet. But then the secrets came. Ugly, dark secrets.

The pressure got too strong for her little–girl heart. She started wetting the bed, her grades fell way off in school. Then the night terrors came.

She told a friend at school. Her friend told her mother. And the evil came to the surface.

The man was in jail, awaiting trial. Her mother had thrown him out, called the police.

And every night, mother and daughter huddled together, afraid of his magic.

It went on a long time but I never moved. I'm good at it. I learned in all the right places. Reform school. Prison. In Africa, where a quiet man in a rich suit I met in a Houston hotel room sent me.

The Jamaican woman was talking urgently to the little girl now, one hand on the child's shoulders, the red–lacquered nails like talons, guarding.

2

Is it magic you want, my child? I have magic. True magic. Magic I learned from my mother, who learned from her mother. Look in my garden, see?"

The child's face turned. "It's all stones," she said.

And it was. A rock garden, set into a long slab of polished butcher's block. On a miniature scale, the boulders no bigger than my fist, the pebbles as tiny as grains of sand.

"Magic stones, child. Each has great power. But the power comes from choice, you understand? Let your soul guide you. Close your eyes, now. Take a stone from the garden. It will always protect you, I know this."

The little girl hesitated. I felt the waves of encouragement even outside the room. Finally, she closed her eyes and reached out a tiny hand, feeling her way, guided by trust. Her hand closed on a small stone…it looked like rose quartz.

"Look at it," the Jamaican woman told her. "Hold it in your hand. Feel how warm it is? That is the power. All you will need. And you can keep it with you, child. When you testify in court, hold it in your hand. It is magic, true magic."

The little girl's smile was fragile, holding the stone.

3

It took almost another hour before they were done. I watched as a police matron came for the little girl. The guard at the desk nodded his head curtly at me.

"Go on, you waited long enough."

I stepped inside the playroom. The Jamaican woman stood, held out her hand for me to shake. Her grip was strong, dry. Like her eyes.

"Mister…ah, Cross, is it?"

"Yes."

"How can I help you?"

"I'm the child's father."

Her eyes hardened, black fires in her mahogany face. "The child's biological father, you mean."

"Yeah."

"You've never met her?"

"No."

"But you know she's yours?"

"I sent money…."

"Yes, so you did," she said, waving a sheaf of papers in her hand. "For a little more than three years, and then the payments stopped."

"I was inside."

"I know. It's all here. Five years. A payroll robbery, wasn't it?"

"That's what the court said."

"Are you saying you were innocents'

"No. I'm not saying anything. A little rat said it all, and got a walk–away out of it. I did my time, paid what I owed."

"And now you've returned to your…profession?"

"I'm out of work. Just looking around."

She waved the sheaf of papers in my face again, like a talisman to ward off evil spirits. "According to this information, work isn't something you do very often, Mr. Cross."

"Check those papers of yours—I've never been on Welfare."

"No, you've not, have you? Let's see, now…two convictions for armed robbery, one for assault with intent to murder. And you've worked as a mercenary, too." She said the word mercenary like it was coated with maggots.

"I didn't come here for this."

"What do you want?"

"To see if there's anything I can do…to help."

"A bit late for that, isn't it?"

"Not for justice."

"Oh, it's justice you wants Seems to me you're a bit ill–equipped to play at that game."

"Maybe better than giving the child a voodoo story about magic stones."

"You fight the Devil with the Devil, Mr. Cross. And it will work. Watch and see."

4

I did watch. Watched the little girl testify in court, her tiny hand clutching the magic stone. The defense attorney hammered away at her, like a sweating, fat pig, boring for truffles. But she stuck it out—he couldn't change the truth. I was proud of her.

I saw her mother across the courtroom, but I didn't move toward her. Saw her take my daughter's hand and lead her away after it was over.

They looked so alike in my eyes.

5

When it came time for sentencing, the courtroom was near empty. The case hadn't made the papers—I guess it was no big deal.

The defense attorney put an expert on the stand. This expert, he was a doctor of some kind. He told the court the man was sick. A pedophile, that's what he called him. Said he'd done a couple of dozen children the way he'd done little Mary. A sickness in him, couldn't be helped. But they had this program he could go into, fix him right up. So he'd be okay.

The D.A. wanted him to go to prison, but the judge said a lot of stuff about mental illness and let him off with probation. Said he had to attend this special program. He could barely keep the smile off his face when he thanked the judge.

6

I can't make up for it, I know. There's only so much I know about life—I'm a thief.

Two weeks later I went into the building where they interview the abused kids. The ladder was in my pocket—a couple of hundred yards of dental floss, woven into a rope. I went up the side of the building like it was a staircase.

They don't even lock the windows on the fourth floor. I found the Jamaican woman's playroom with my pencil flash. The lock yielded in an eye–blink.

I filled my pocket with stones from her garden.

7

It took me another five days to find the man's address, watch his movements, get the timing right.

It's almost midnight now. Dark inside his apartment building too—I unscrewed the light bulbs in the hallway. I'm waiting on the landing just outside his door. Waiting for him to come home from his therapy group.

Waiting with a sock full of magic stones.

The Promise

I got a Legal Aid lawyer. Just like the last time. Young dude. White. Nice suit.

He told me I was busted 'cause this is a racist society.

The Probation Officer is this old man. Maybe forty. Tired old white man. Losing his hair in front. Sorry old suit, don't even fit him right.

I told him the girl was riding through the park on her bicycle. She said something nasty to me, so I threw this bottle at her. Didn't even hit her. She called the cops. I was right there when they came.

PO said the girl said she didn't say nothing to me. I told him she was a lying cunt.

PO didn't say nothing after that.

Girl was riding through the park on her pretty red bicycle. Never even looked at me with her eyes but I know she was laughing inside. I said hello to her, and she went past like I wasn't there. Bent over the handlebars, her ass bouncing in the air like she was telling me to kiss it. I threw the bottle as hard as I could. Right at her fucking head.

Women laugh at me like that all the time.

I got to see the judge tomorrow. Some old man in a black robe. Won't even look at me.

I'll tell him I never meant nothing. Say I'm sorry about the whole thing. It won't take long.

They'll probably send me to counseling again.

One night I'll catch one of those bitches alone.

The Unwritten Law

Sometimes it's easy, but this time Joanne didn't even have her clothes off. I sprayed a lot of shots around the plush private office, making sure the first one got him in the back of the head. Then I dropped the pistol, slumped in a chair like my life was over.

Joanne stripped real fast, tossing her clothes on the leather couch, the black garter belt and push–up bra floating on top of the conservative gray business suit. Still in her black stockings, she took care of the other guy, leaving only his calf–height argyle socks.

Head wounds don't bleed much. She stuck her finger in the opening, painted a little splatter on one cheek. Then she crawled over in a corner, wrapped herself in his suit jacket.

By the time the cops came in the door, she was trembling.

"Oh Christ." the first cop said, looking at the body. "That's Gerald Lee Ransom."

At the police station, they took me and my wife into separate rooms. Read me my rights. I kept mumbling how I didn't care anymore. My wife would be telling them how I turned the gun on myself when I was finished, held it right against my temple, pulled the trigger over and over again on the empty cylinder.

The cops let me smoke, asked me if I wanted anything to eat. If I wanted a lawyer.

I told them it didn't matter now. I'd suspected Joanne for weeks. Whispered conversations on the phone, hang–ups when I answered it myself some nights. A motel key in her purse. Expensive jewelry we couldn't afford—I'm a commission salesman and I wasn't making that much. One day I was so discouraged, I came home early. The back bedroom smelled like sex. I slapped her around then, I admitted that. But she never confessed, never told me the truth. The night it happened, I told her I had to go to a sales meeting, but it wasn't true. I waited down the block. When I saw her car leave, I followed. Right to the big office tower. I knew where she was going. She's an interior decorator—I'd heard her talk about "Gerry" before…how she was going to redo his whole office, give him a giant discount, get him to talk about her work to all his big business pals. I knew it was a lie.

Was I going to kill her too? the cops wanted to know. I told them I didn't know what I was going to do, maybe just throw a scare into him, tell him to stay away from my wife. But when I saw them together, her bent over his big desk, her butt in the air like that, him plunging into her from behind like a dog…the noises she was making…it all went red.

I was in jail almost six months before the trial started. Pleaded Not Guilty. Temporary Insanity. Ransom's wife said she knew he'd been sneaking around, just not with who. My wife admitted the affair. Admitted others too. She cried on the witness stand, said she didn't know what was wrong with her—she'd always been like that.

There were three women on the jury. They watched as Joanne crossed her legs, flashing her round thighs for everyone to see. They didn't believe her, the slut.

My lawyer never mentioned The Unwritten Law, just told the jury I was a good man, unhinged by a cheating, scheming whore of a wife. I'd never been in trouble before. They acquitted me of murder, found me guilty of manslaughter.

The judge gave me three years in the state pen. Ransom's wife got all his money. Joanne left town

She'll be waiting for me when I get out. A million dollars isn't bad pay for three years at hard labor. Ransom's wife will pay the money as soon as the estate is settled and she can convert some of it into cash.

And if she balks, Joanne will play the tapes for her.

Treatment

I

The prosecutor was a youngish man, better dressed than his government salary would warrant, ambition shining on his clean shaven face. He held a sheaf of papers in his hand, waving them for emphasis as though the jury were still in the courtroom.

"Doctor, are you trying to tell this court that it should leave a convicted child molester free in the community? Is that what you're sayings'

I took a shallow breath through my nose, centering myself, reaching for calm. "No, Mr. Montgomery, that is what you are saying. The defendant suffers from pedophilia. That is, he is subject to intense, recurrent sexual urges and sexually arousing fantasies involving sexual activity with prepubescent children."

"Fancy words, doctor, but they all come down to the same thing, don't they? The defendant is a homosexual who preys on little boys…isn't that right?"

"No, it is not right. In fact, your statement is rather typical of the ignorance of the law enforcement community when it comes to any of the paraphilias. A homosexual is an individual whose sexual preference is for those of his or her own gender.

Such a preference is not a disorder, unless such feelings are dystonic to the individual…and that is relatively rare. You would not call a man who engaged in sexual activity with young girls a heterosexual offender, would you? Of course not. The root of much of the hostility against pedophiles is, actually, nothing more than thinly veiled homophobia."

The prosecutor's face flushed angrily. "Are you saying the State has prosecuted this offender because of homophobia, doctor?"

"It is surely a factor in the equation. Isn't it true that you personally believe homosexuals are 'sick,' sir?"

"They are! I…I'll ask the questions here, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind. I was trying to answer your questions more fully, to give the court a better understanding of the phenomena involved. If you check the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of the American Psychiatric Association, you will see that homosexuality is not listed as a disorder. Pedophilia is. The specific code, for your information, is 302.20. Homosexuality is present at birth. Hard–wired, if you will. Sexual activity with children is, on the other hand, volitional conduct."

"And they're not born that way?"

"No. There is no biogenetic code for pedophilia. The essential etiology is an early sexual experience—those you would call perpetrators began as those you would call victims. Once infected, the victim learns to wear a mask. They are capable of the most complex planning, often with great patience."

"So every child who is molested becomes a molester?"

"Certainly not. Some do, some don't. As I explained, it essentially comes down to a matter of choice. No matter what a person's circumstances, he always owns his own behavior."

"So, then…what does this manual of yours say about recidivism, doctor?"

"That's a good question. The course of the disorder is usually chronic, especially among pedophiles fixated upon the same sex. Recidivism, however, fluctuates with psychosocial stress—the more intense the stress, the more likely there will be a recurrence."

"So you admit offenders like Mr. Wilson here are more likely to commit new crimes?"

"All things being equal, yes. However, we don't treat such individuals with conventional psychotherapy. We understand the chronicity of their behavior, and it is the goal of treatment to interdict that behavior. To control their conduct, not their thoughts. I am completing my research for a journal entry now, but all the preliminary data indicate an extremely high rate of success. That is, with proper treatment."

"This 'treatment' of yours, doctor…it doesn't include prison, does it?"

"No, it does not. Incarceration is counterindicated for pedophiles. The sentences, as you know, are relatively short. And the degree of psychosocial stress in prison for such individuals is incalculable. In fact, studies show the recidivism rate for previously incarcerated pedophiles is extraordinarily high."

"But he wouldn't be molesting children in prison, would he?"

"I understand your question to be rhetorical, sir, but the real issue is long–term protection of the community, not temporary incapacitation. Even when therapy is offered in prison, and it rarely is, it is an axiom of our profession that coercive therapy is doomed to failure. No treatment is perfect, but we know this: the patient must be a participant in treatment, not a mere recipient of it."

The judge leaned down from the bench. With his thick mane of white hair and rimless glasses, he looked like Central Casting for the part.

"Doctor, so what you're saying is that motivation is the key?"

"Yes I am, your honor. And Mr. Wilson has displayed a high level of such motivation. In fact, he consulted our program before he was ever arrested, much less convicted."

The prosecutor slapped the table in front of him. "Sure! But he knew he was about to be indicted, didn't he, doctor?"

"I have no way of knowing what was in his mind," I replied mildly. "And the source of the motivation is far less significant that its presence."

"So what's this 'cure,' doctor? What's this wonderful 'treatment' of yours?"

"The treatment is multimodality. Not all pedophiles respond to the same inputs. We use groupwork, confrontation, aversive therapy, insight–orientation, conditioning, even libido–reducing drugs when indicated."

"How much were you paid for your testimony today, doctor?"

The defense attorney leaped to his feet. "Objection! That isn't relevant."

"Oh, I think I'll allow it," the judge said. "You may answer the question, doctor."

"I was paid nothing for my testimony today, sir. I evaluated Mr. Wilson, provided a report to his attorney, a copy of which has been furnished to you. I charge my time at seventy–five dollars an hour. I haven't sent in a bill yet, but I imagine the total will come to around fifteen hundred dollars."

"No further questions," the prosecutor snarled.

II

You're as good as they say you are," the defense attorney told me, shaking my hand in his paneled office. "Nobody knows those people like you do."

I nodded, waiting patiently

"It's just amazing…the way you predicted everything the prosecution would do. Hell, I thought we were dead in the water on this one. Told Wilson he could expect to do about five years in the pen. And here the judge hands him probation on a platter."

"Psychiatric probation," I reminded him.

"Yeah, I know. He has to stay in treatment with you for the full term or he goes inside. But so what? It's a better deal than he would have gotten in the joint."

"I kept my word?" watching him carefully.

"You surely did, my friend. And don't think I've forgotten about our arrangement, either. Here you are, just like I promised."

The check was drawn on his escrow account. Fifteen hundred dollars. I put it in my attaché case along with the ten thousand in cash lying next to it on his teakwood desk. As agreed.

III

Wilson sat across from me in my private office, his face a study in eager anticipation.

"This won't be easy," I told him. "We have to remake you, start from the beginning. And we begin with honesty, all right?"

"Yes, that's what I want. Honesty. I didn't see much of it during my trial."

"Tell me about that."

"Well, the boys lied. I don't mean about…what we did. But about how they felt about it. You know what I'm saying? I didn't force them…any of them. It was love. A special love. All I wanted to do was be something special to them. A loving, special friend. That D.A., he turned it into something ugly. The jury never heard my side of it."

"How did it start?"

"With that boy Wesley…the first one to testify. When I first met him, he was eight years old. And you never met a more seductive little boy, always wanting to be cuddled. He doesn't have a father, you know. I mean, it's natural for a boy to seek love."

"I know."

"And I loved him. Why should that be a crime? I never used force, never hurt him even once."

"How do you feel…about being prosecuted?"

"I feel like I'm the victim. I did nothing wrong—it's the laws that are wrong. And, someday, you'll see, the laws will change. I mean, kids have rights too, don't they? What good is the right to say 'no' if they don't have the right to say 'yes'?"

"The law says they're too young to consent to sex."

"That's a lot of crap. Kids know what they want. You know how willful they can get, how demanding. I've been around kids all my life. That's the way they are."

"Okay, look. Your problem is a simple one, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"You got caught."

"But…"

"That's your problem, Mr. Wilson. You got caught. And our treatment here, it's to guarantee it doesn't happen again."

Suspicion glazed his eyes. "How could you do that?"

"First of all, we set the stage. You'll get therapy for a while, learn how to talk the talk. Then, eventually, you'll be relocated. You'll never be able to live around here after what happened. Never get a job working around kids. But, after a while, you'll be able to move to a new town. And start over."

"Is this a trick?"

"No trick. I know my business. And I'm smart enough to know it's all a matter of packaging. This is America. Whatever we call things, that's what they become. And what they're going to call you is 'cured,' understand?"

He nodded, dry–washing his hands, still apprehensive. "You said something in court…about drugs…"

"Don't worry about it. Sometimes a court insists on DepoProvera…so–called 'chemical castration.' But that's not a problem here. And even if it were, we could give you one of the androgen group, reverse it almost instantly."

"My lawyer said it would be real expensive."

"Oh yes. We're the only clinic in the country that provides this range of services, but look what you're getting for your money…no victim confrontation, no shock treatments, no encounter groups, no drugs. Just preparation for how you're going to…successfully…live the rest of your life. And you don't spend a day in jail. Pretty good, isn't it?"

"How did you…?"

"Get into this? It's easy enough to understand. While I was still in medical school, I realized that pedophile treatment is the growth industry of the nineties. The money's great, the malpractice premiums are low, and there are other benefits too."

"Like being paid in cash," he said, smiling the sociopath's smile.

"Like that," I said, holding out my hand for the money.

IV

Okay, Mr. Wilson, you're about ready for discharge. Our records will show you've completed intensive individual psychotherapy, participated in group, undergone aversive conditioning. All satisfactory. I can truthfully say you're ready to live without probation supervision. Have you made plans?"

"I sure have. In fact, I've been corresponding with a few boys in an orphanage in Florida. You know, counseling them about their problems. I've been offered a job down there, and I'll be leaving as soon as my lawyer gets me released from probation."

"Good. There's just one more thing. You've never really apologized to the boys, and most therapists think that's a key element in treatment."

"I don't want to…"

"No, of course you won't have to see them. What would really help persuade the court is a letter from you to the boys…just telling them you understand what you did, how you take full responsibility. Like we taught you, remembers Urge them to go on with their lives, and promise they'll never see you again, okay''

"You think it'll work?"

"I'm sure it will work. I know these people. Write me out a couple of drafts, and I'll stop by tonight when I'm done with the last group and look them over. Then we'll pick the best one."

"Thanks, doc. You saved my life again."

V

Wilson lived in a modern highrise right near the city line. I rang his bell around 11:30. He buzzed me in. The lobby was deserted—the place is mostly a retirement community. I insisted he move from his old address to a place where there were few children around. To reduce the temptation.

I took the steps to the twenty–sixth floor, not even breathing hard. I don't get to work out at the dojo anymore, but I like to stay in shape.

Wilson had a half–dozen samples ready for me, all in his educated handwriting on personalized light blue stationery. He stepped out onto the balcony to smoke a cigarette while I read them through. Finally, I found one that was suitable.

I'm sorry for everything I did. I know now that no excuse, no rationalization will ever make things right. I've been learning about myself, and now I know the truth. You are the victims, not me. I know why I did what I did, and I'm sorry for all the pain I caused. It's better this way. You will never see me again. I hope you grow up to be good citizens, and always stay true to yourselves. Goodbye.

His signature was strong, self–assured. I left the letter I selected on his desk. Then I went outside to join him on the balcony.

The night was warm, velvety dark. City lights winked below, quiet and peaceful.

"Was that what you wanted, doc?" he asked.

"Perfect," I said, patting him gently on the back. "Look out there, Mr. Wilson…see your future."

He leaned over the balcony. I knife–edged my right–hand, swept it into a perfect power–arc to the back of his neck, followed through with the blow, spinning on my right foot and sweeping him over the side with my left hand.

He didn't scream on the way down.

I stepped back inside, dialed 911, told them he had jumped. While I waited, I tore the other letters into small bits and flushed them down the toilet.

Treatment works.