Текст книги "Born Bad: Collected Stories"

Автор книги: Andrew Vachss

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Crossfire

 

1

"Be careful with it," the man told the uniformed parking valet. "It cost me a bundle," he added unnecessarily, the gleaming black Mercedes 600SL coupe making that statement on its own.

"Yes sir," the valet responded, throwing a half–salute, palming the ten–dollar bill and sliding behind the wheel all in one smooth motion.

The man entered the Runway Club slowly, his eyes sweeping the main room as he paid the cover charge. The joint sat in the shadow of the airport, but its name came from the long T–shaped platform that bisected the interior, not its location.

The man made his way to a small round table toward the back, a good distance from the end of the runway. It was harder to see the girls from there–early on a Tuesday night, the man was surrounded by pools of shadow.

A blonde waitress approached, wearing a tiny black Spandex skirt over fishnet stockings and spike heels. A fine black mesh blouse did little to conceal her breasts as she bent over to take the man's order.

"Absolut rocks, water on the side," the man told her, not making eye contact.

When the waitress returned with two glasses on a small lacquered tray, the man pulled a folded sheaf of bills from his shirt pocket and handed her a twenty. "A gambler," the waitress thought to herself, noting where the man carried his money. She returned with a ten–dollar bill and one single, laying them across the tabletop so they were slightly separated. The waitress took one step back, watching, her hands clasped in front of her to squeeze her breasts into deeper cleavage.

The man drew a wider separation between the two bills, this time catching her eyes–his were a bright China blue, startling under a Las Vegas tan. Then he took a gold coin from his jacket pocket, turned it in his fingers so the waitress could see both sides–a Queen's head and a maple leaf. The man pointed at the separated bills, bull's–eye tattoo prominent on the back of his hand.

"Feel lucky?" he asked.

"Go for it," the waitress smiled.

The man flicked the coin with his thumb. As it turned gently in the smoky–blue air of the club, the waitress called out "Tails!"

The man caught the coin in a cupped palm, slapped it against the back of his other wrist. He removed his hand to show the waitress the maple leaf.

"You're a winner," he said.

The waitress bent forward, delicately scooped up the sawbuck and blew the man a kiss, switching her hips as she walked away in a good–bye wave.

2

The man watched the runway dancers patiently, not reacting as one after another stepped down and continued to dance at various spots throughout the room. Other men were stuffing bills into garters or G–strings, applauding as the girls danced on tabletops. Occasionally, one of the dancers would perch on a patron's lap, but the man passed up all such offers, sipping at his drink, watching quietly.

The waitress watched too. Watched the man's slouchy–cut black silk suit, the diamond flashing on his left ring finger, the wafer–thin gold watch. She made two more trips to his table, each time opting to risk her tip, each time winning,

"Tails have always been lucky for me," she said to the man, standing hip–shot, "but I like heads too."

"Do you?" the man asked.

"Very much," she said, licking her lips.

"You're a smart girl," the man said. "You pay attention, don't you?"

"When I'm supposed to," she said, her eyes on the gold chain around the man's neck, barely visible under the open collar of his white silk shirt.

The man reached into his shirt pocket, thumbed off a bill without looking, tossed it on the table. A hundred.

"Yours," he said. "For a little favor."

"Tell me," she said, bending forward, reaching.

The man covered her hand with his, the bull's–eye tattoo holding her eyes.

"Tell Reba to come over this way," the man said.

"This isn't her spot," the waitress said. "I could…"

"Just tell her," the man said, removing his hand.

The waitress picked up the bill, said, "I'll see what I can do," and walked off, spike heels clicking on the tile floor.

3

The brunette was tall, extravagantly built, her hair a thick, wild mane falling past her bare shoulders. Her height was exaggerated by a pair of dark stockings, anchored by thick black bands around the top, flowing out of high spike heels. Her only other article of clothing was a black G–string.

"You asked for me, honey?" she said.

"Yeah," the man replied, his eyes scanning her face, not stopping until they located a tiny scar just past the corner of her right eye.

"Well, I hope it's gonna be worth it, baby….It costs me fifty to switch my spot."

The man reached forward, stuffed a couple of bills into the top of her stocking. The brunette held out a hand, so the man could help her onto the tabletop. But the man pulled her down instead, into his lap. The brunette squirmed, purring "Lap dancing costs–"

"Just do it," the man said quietly, his right hand around her waist. With his left hand, he reached into his shirt pocket, tossed several bills on the table.

The brunette tried to turn so she could throw one leg over the man's lap and face him, but he held her firmly with one hand. She wiggled her buttocks hard against the man's lap, making practiced sounds of pleasure, throwing back her head so she was cheek–to–cheek with the man, facing forward.

As she reached one hand out for the money, the man whispered in her ear, "You wanted to see me?"

She sat up, startled, but the man's hand on her waist held her close. 'You told Lucinda you wanted to see me?" he said again.

The brunette relaxed, leaning back again, her mouth close to the man's ear." You're Cross?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"I thought you'd look…I don't know…different."

"Tell me what you want," he said, voice flat.

She shifted her weight, still wiggling in time to the music, whispering, "I want a gun. A cold gun. Never used. Lucinda said you could…"

"What do you want it for?"

"A fucking paperweight for my coffee table, what do you think?" she snapped.

"I don't sell guns," the man said. "Not individual guns. You want to buy a crate, we can talk. One piece, go visit a pawnshop."

"I'll pay–"

"Tell me what you want," the man said again.

"Not here. Pick me up after work. I'll–"

"Won't the boss–?"

"I don't have a boss," the brunette said. "I rent this space. What I do after work is my own business."

"What time do you–?"

"I'll be out front at four."

4

She was standing on the apron to the parking lot at 4 A.M. when a white Cadillac sedan pulled up. The driver stepped out, a pudgy man with black hair plastered across his forehead, wearing a voluminous calf–length coat despite the summer heat. The driver walked around behind the Cadillac, opened the back door. Then he stepped close to the woman, said, "Mr. Cross is waiting," and swept his hand toward the opened door in an invitational gesture.

The brunette put one long leg inside the car, saw the man with the bull's–eye tattoo on his hand sitting inside, and climbed in the rest of the way. The door slammed behind her, and the Cadillac pulled away smoothly.

5

I have to make a stop first," Reba said. "It's over on Diversity."

If Cross felt any impatience, his face didn't reflect it.

The Cadillac purred through the empty streets, alone except for an anonymous smog–colored sedan trailing a respectful distance behind. If the driver noticed, he gave no sign.

When the white car pulled to the curb, Reba turned in her seat, facing Cross full on. "Come on," she said. "You might as well see the reason for all this."

It was a three–story brownstone, the polished wood door covered by black wrought–iron grillwork. Reba took out a key, opened the gate, then the door. "Come on," she said again.

Cross followed her up the stairs, reflecting on the wisdom of Keith Gilyard, the ground–zero poet laureate of New York…how true it was that walking up stairs exaggerates female hips…for good or for bad. The brunette was all good.

On the top floor, she used another key to let herself in. A hefty woman with short–cropped brown hair was sitting on an exercise bike, pumping away. She looked up at the entrance, gasped an incomprehensible greeting, and went back to her silent work. Reba Hashed her a smile, walked past the exercise bike down a hall, Cross close behind.

She opened the door to a small bedroom. The walls were a soft pink, decorated with dolls, stuffed animals, a giant poster of some sleek, androgynous individual holding a guitar. A blonde girl was asleep in the single bed, a quilt covering her to her shoulders. Her face, childlike in repose, showed a girl somewhere in that borderland before adolescence. Reba bent at the waist, gently brushed the girl's soft hair from her forehead, kissed her on the cheek. Then she straightened up, took a sweeping look around the little bedroom as though reassuring herself, spun on a spike heel, and walked back into the front room.

The hefty woman was sitting on a futon couch, sipping a greenish–colored liquid from a tall glass.

"You didn't let her watch that damn MTV again, did you, Anna?"

"She did all her homework first," the hefty woman said. "And her yoga too."

"I told you–"

"Come on, Reba," the hefty woman interrupted. "We had a deal. You can't stop her from growing up."

"I can stop her from growing up like I did," the brunette replied.

"Your problem wasn't MTV," the hefty girl said, her voice thick with a shared secret.

"Okay, okay," Reba surrendered. "You're going to bring her by after school, right?"

"She has gymnastics class, remember? How about you come by and watch, take her home yourself."

"You got a deal," Reba said, flashing a smile.

6

That's my Angel," she said to Cross in the backseat.

"She looks–"

"I mean, that's her name," Reba said sharply. "You want to know what she is, she's my life. My whole life."

The woman was quiet on the short drive to her apartment building. Again, Cross followed her, this time through the lobby with its half–asleep doorman, all the way up to the twenty–first floor in a silent elevator.

The apartment was two bedrooms, with a balcony and a view of the lake from the living room. "Make yourself comfortable," she said over her shoulder, walking down the carpeted hall. "I'll be back in a minute."

Cross pulled a flat cellular phone from inside his jacket, punched in a number.

"Anything?" he asked the person on the other end. He nodded to himself at the answer, put the phone back inside his jacket.

Cross looked around the living room for a minute. Finally he shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette. He was on his second drag when Reba walked back in, barefoot, dressed in a heavy white terry–cloth bathrobe, hair pulled back, face freshly scrubbed.

"There's no smoking in here," she said. "Take it outside," indicating the balcony.

Cross opened the sliding glass doors, stepped out on the balcony, hands on the railing, looking down.

"Sorry about that," Reba said from behind him. "Where I work, everybody smokes. I come home, I have to really scrub the smell out of my hair. I used to smoke, but Angel went crazy with it…cancer and all. So I promised her I'd stop. That's why I don't allow it in the house–that girl has a nose like a bloodhound."

"It's okay," he replied, taking another drag.

"What do I call you?" the brunette asked, standing against his shoulder.

"Cross."

"I'm Reba. But I guess you know that."

"Yeah."

"About what I asked you…I thought if you could see the reason why, maybe you'd change your mind."

"The kid's the reason?"

"Yes."

"She gonna visit you in the joint?"

"Oh, I'd never let her come in there. Why…?"

"Not the joint where you work. Jail. Prison. You want a cold gun, you want to smoke somebody. You don't know what you're doing, you're gonna go down."

"What do you care?"

"The way it works, you're gonna go down, the Man makes you an offer. Who sold you the gun, girlie' Like that."

"And you think I'd tell them?"

"Sure. If it meant a couple of years off your sentence, a couple of years where you get to be back with your kid, why not?"

"But if I…hired you to…take care of this problem, why wouldn't it work the same way?"

"I don't get caught," the man called Cross said.

7

Angel's eleven," said Reba, sitting at her kitchen table, holding a coffee cup in her hand. "I had her when I was seventeen. The boy who got me pregnant, he got in the wind. Joined the Army or something. I never heard from him."

Cross watched her eyes, not speaking, waiting as a stone waits.

"I was a high–school senior," she said. "And a National Merit Scholar, already accepted to college. I didn't want an abortion. They put me in a group home. It was heaven. When the blood test came back, I was so happy I cried for days. You know why?"

"Because it wasn't your father's baby''

Two bright red dots bloomed on the woman's pale cheeks. "How could you…?"

"From what you and that girl in the apartment said to each other. From what you're willing to do to protect the kid."

"You…Lucinda said you knew things."

"What's important, I do things," he said. "You got the money, I can do this."

"You don't even know what 'this' is?"

"Then tell me."

"When I got out of the group home, I tried working. Flipping burgers, waitressing, a 7–Eleven. I could keep Angel away from the damn Welfare people, but I couldn't give her the things I…

"Anyway, I tried whoring too. Escort service," she said, looking Cross full in the eye. He stared back, unblinking.

"The money was good. Real good. We moved to a better place, I could pay for the gymnastics lessons, get her a great babysitter. But it got too ugly. Kickbacks to the cops, pimps always trying to move in. Freaks who want to hurt the girls. Then AIDS. So I started private dancing. It's pretty clean, all things considered. You rent some space from the owner, pay the hairdresser and the makeup girl. You don't have to hustle drinks…the girls who do that, they do okay too. There's no sex. Unless you want to make some special arrangement for after. You dance on the tables, maybe wiggle around in their laps. You know…?"

"When I was a kid, we called it dry humping."

She flashed a broad smile. "Yeah, only now they call it safe sex. Some of the girls throw in a hand job now and then, but that's it. Anyway, I can't do this forever. I went for the implants," she said, flicking a hand across her breasts. "That's part of the deal. And I work out like a bandit. But, sooner or later, you get too old. I've been saving my money, living small, you understand? Another couple of years, I'm going to open a little place of my own."

"A bar?"

"God forbid. No, a pastry shop. I'm really good at it. Taught

myself. Here, wait a minute…"

She got up, walked over to the refrigerator, a large side–by–

side, gleaming white. She reached inside, took out a small tray of

tiny tarts, placed it on the table.

"Try the lemon, they're good, even cold."

Cross took the indicated pastry, chewed it thoughtfully. "It is good."

"Don't act so surprised. I love to cook fancy little things. I know I can make a living at it. Anna's going to help me get an SBA loan, and I already know the neighborhood I want to open up in."

"You want an investor, let me know," Cross told her, polishing off the tart and reaching for another.

Reba smiled again. Then her generous mouth turned down. "Everything was fine. Until…he showed up."

"He?"

"Wieskoft. Robert James Wieskoft. R.J., his friends call him. He's a gymnastics coach. Really top–rated. He coached three Olympians himself. I checked his references before I let him work with Angel. All the organizations said he was great."

"So?"

"He started out fine. He was really devoted to Angel. Worked overtime without asking for more money. Videotaped her so he could analyze her moves in slow motion. She really liked him too. But then he started getting strange…."

"What?"

"Oh, sending her presents. First, it would be a special pair of gym tights. Or ankle weights. But then it was flowers. Candy. Like you'd send to a date. And he wrote her letters too. About how they'd always be together. How she had to obey him if she really wanted to be the best. When he told me she should drop out of school and work with him full–time…he'd get her a tutor and all…that's when I fired him."

"Then he threatened you?"

"Threatened? No, he didn't do that. He fought against it. Said he was going to call Child Protective Services, say I was abusing Angel. That's when I told him if he did that, I'd kill him."

"And he did do it?"

"No. What he does, he stalks her. Every day, he's outside, watching. Carrying that damn video camera of his, like he's capturing her on tape or something. He calls all the time, sends notes to Angel. Then he…" The brunette put her face in her hands, crying.

Cross watched, not moving. Waiting. Finally, she stopped. When she lifted her face, it was streaked with tears, but her eyes were hard.

"He filed a petition in Family Court. Said I was abusing Angel. That I beat her, can you imagine? And he made an application to be her foster parent! The court, they told me that I shouldn't worry about it…he's just a lunatic. He can't make his own application to be a foster parent. I asked them to come and investigate me. Come right over to the house, talk to my daughter alone, speak to her pediatrician, her teachers…anything. But they said they wouldn't do that because once he tried to be Angel's foster parent, they could understand what his game was. He wants to own my child, Cross. And he's not going to stop."

"You tell the cops?"

"Sure. A fat lot of good that did. Oh, the detective was nice enough. When he stopped staring at my chest long enough to talk, he said R.J. hadn't broken any laws. It isn't against the law to go the places he goes…especially the gym…he has a right to be there. It's a free country. Once the detective found out where I worked, he said maybe he could go talk to him…but I could see what he wanted in exchange and I told him to go play with himself."

"Good move."

"I don't care. I'm not a piece of meat. I was really angry and I made a complaint about the detective. They told me to speak to this other cop, McNamara. He was really sweet. Explained the whole thing to me. He wasn't putting on the moves either…I could see it bothered him, but there was nothing he could do."

"So it wasn't Lucinda who gave you my name, was it?"

"No," she replied, eyes downcast.

"And you don't really want to buy a gun–it's a gunman you're looking for?"

"I can pay–"

"I don't do hits," Cross said. "McNamara would have told you that."

"He said…maybe you could…fix things."

"Some things. I work for money."

"I know. Me too, right? I want–"

"For this Wieskoft to go away. You don't care where he goes, that's not part of the deal."

"Do you guarantee–?"

"Guarantees cost more."

"Don't you care about what he's doing to my Angel…even a little bit?"

"If I made this guy go away…if he glommed onto another little girl and left yours alone, would you care?" Cross asked.

The brunette took a deep breath, lightly scratched one cheek with a bright red fingernail. "Tell me how much it costs," she said.

8

The two men in white coveralls with the logo of a cable TV company emblazoned across their backs were working dangerously close to the roofs edge, apparently stringing wire. Physically, they had only their uniforms in common–to a distant observer, one was remarkably small in stature, otherwise featureless, while the other looked fat, wearing a set of eyeglasses so heavy they might have been mini–binoculars. Both men worked with practiced grace, thoroughly professional to any watchers.

"You got him, Rhino?" the small man asked.

The other man grunted an acknowledgment. His huge, formless body weighed in at over 350 pounds. Nominally covered by the voluminous white coveralls, he dwarfed Cross's normal–sized frame. He pointed one gigantic hand in the general direction of a tall, slender man standing across the street from Reba's apartment building–the tip of his right index finger was missing, the scarless stub as smooth as an aluminum cigar tube, and about the same size.

Cross pulled the cellular phone from his pocket, punched a single digit. "Some of us will be around when you stop by gym class," he said. "Something may happen. It's got nothing to do with you–just go about your business."

Cross hit the END button on the phone, punched in another number, waited a few seconds, then handed the instrument to Rhino. The double–wide truck of a man took it delicately, spoke in a high–pitched, squeaky voice:

"Tall. Six foot two, maybe three. Skinny, maybe a hundred and forty, fifty pounds. Dark, wiry hair, combed straight back. Triple–black on the vine, right down to his shoes. Gold watch on his left wrist, carrying a videocam. Driving a dark blue Lincoln Town Car, license 4–Alpha–7–oh–9–X–Ray. Got it?"

The huge man listened for a minute, said, "Yeah, yeah: over and out," and handed the phone back to Cross. "Princess is still doing his Lone Wolf number," the big man laughed.

Cross punched another number, waited for the pickup, then said, "Ready to roll. ETA like we expected. Sit on him tight, all right, brother?"

9

If Reba recognized the pudgy man who had been driving the white Cadillac the night before, she gave no sign. She never gave him a second glance–her eyes were riveted to the man standing next to him…an outrageously overdeveloped bodybuilder with a shaved skull whose heavily corded, deeply veined muscles seemed to threaten the confines of his skin. The bodybuilder was dressed in a pale pink silk tank top and a pair of Spandex white shorts with a matching pink stripe down the side. But Reba's eyes never left the man's face, marveling at the heavy application of rouge, the dark eyeliner, the lip gloss…and the earring that dangled from one ear on a long chain…a miniature of a wrecking ball.

"God! You see that?" she whispered to Anna.

"I see it but I don't believe it. You think it's one of those S&M things?"

"I don't know. I thought I'd seen everything at least once, but…"

"He's here, you know," Anna said, dropping her voice.

"I know," Reba said, her eyes glancing over to a far corner where the tall man in black lounged, a tiny smile playing across his thin lips. "He won't try anything as long as I'm around, the sonofabitch."

"Just relax," Anna said, patting her friend's forearm. "That's what he wants, for you to make a scene. Did you speak to that man? The one–?"

"That was him. Last night."

"That guys He didn't look like much."

"It's not a beauty contest, girlfriend."

The youthful performers came out one at a time for floor exercises, mostly tumbling runs set to music. As the pudgy man became more one with his surroundings, the bodybuilder seemed to swell with outrageousness, imitating the tumbling moves, screaming encouragement to the kids, raising enough of a fuss so that he soon had a clear circle of empty space around him, spectators clucking their tongues in disapproval as they gave him room. The man in black was still, only his eyes animated.

"That was Roscoe Holmes!" the announcer said over the P.A. system as a caramel–skinned boy maybe twelve years old bowed deeply at the conclusion of his routine. "Next up, Angel Andrews!"

The little girl bounded onto the mat, gave a brief bow to the audience, waved gaily at her mother, and charged to the far corner, flinging herself into an airborne one–and–a–half gainer before landing lightly on her feet.

"Way to stick it, honey!" Anna shouted.

As the child got deeper into her routine, the man in black pushed himself off the wall, unlimbering his videocam, moving closer. The bodybuilder tracked him like a heat–seeking missile, banging his way through the crowd. Standing just off the man in black's right shoulder, the bodybuilder spoke in an overenthusiastic, booming voice.

"Hey! Is that one of them mini–cameras? Damn, it sure looks like fun."

The man in black looked over his shoulder, shuddered, and moved quickly to his left, slamming into the pudgy man who had quietly taken up that post.

"Please," the man in black said. "She's almost through. I have to–"

"Can I see?" the bodybuilder asked, reaching for the camera.

The man in black snatched it away, but he was too slow. The bodybuilder's hand wrapped around the man's biceps, squeezing it into liquid pain. The videocam slid from the man's hand, and the bodybuilder grabbed it, holding it to his eye. Before the man in black could react, the bodybuilder pointed the camera at his shocked face and pushed the RECORD button.

"You can't do this!" the man in black protested. "Give it back to me!"

"Oh, calm yourself, Mary," the bodybuilder said, continuing to aim and shoot.

The crowd's attention was pulled away from the gym mat, but the little girl didn't seem to notice, going through her routine with practiced, confident precision.

"Give it to me! Give it to me!" the man in black was screaming.

The pudgy man stepped forward. "I want to apologize for my friend," he said smoothly. "He's just…excitable, you know? Tell you what, we'll pay you for the tape he wasted, okay? Give me the camera, Princess."

The bodybuilder sheepishly handed over the camera. The pudgy man expertly popped out the cassette, handed the empty camera back to the man in black together with a fifty–dollar bill. "Keep the extra for your trouble, okay, pal?" he said.

The man in black's face flushed, red, then white. He grabbed the empty camera and walked out of the gym, stiff–legged.

The pudgy man pocketed the cassette, turned to the bodybuilder. "Cross said he needed an hour–Ace did the freak's car, just to be safe."

"Can we watch the rest of the routines?" the bodybuilder asked. "Can we, Buddha?"

"All right, Princess. Just don't get into anything…"

10

The man in black stalked angrily out to the school parking lot, the videocam in a white–knuckled grip, muttering a string of obscenities to himself. He stopped short when he saw his blue Lincoln kneeling on four neatly–flattened tires. He punched a keypad he removed from a side pocket to unlock the doors, ripped his car phone from its housing and was just preparing to dial when an unmarked police car pulled up. A sandy–haired man with a mustache stepped out of the sedan, moving toward the Lincoln much faster than his gait would appear. The sandy–haired man leaned in through the opened window.

"Detective McNamara, sir. I noticed the condition of your car….Any trouble?"

"Trouble? Yes, I have some trouble, Officer. I know who did this. Her name is Reba, Reba Andrews. I used to coach her daughter–I'm a gymnastics coach…maybe you heard of me? R.J. Wieskoft?"

"No sir, I'm sorry. I don't really follow that sport. Why would you think this Mrs. Andrews was responsible?"

"Well, who else could it be? I mean…she even threatened me once."

"Threatened you, sir?"

"Yes, that's what I said–are you hard of hearing?"

"I don't believe so, sir," McNamara said. "If you'll just remain calm, I'm sure we can–"

"Calm? Why should I have to be calm–I'm the one who's being harassed."

"Yes sir. I'm sure. But without some proof…"

"Never mind," the man in black snapped, reaching for the car phone again. "I'll just call my garage. If that bitch thinks she's going to…"

He was so absorbed in his own anger that he didn't notice McNamara pulling out of the parking lot.

11

That lock was Swiss cheese," the small–boned, fine–featured black man said from a leather easy chair. He looked as relaxed as a man lounging in his own home except for the sawed–off shotgun balanced delicately across his knees. "Whoever this freak is, he ain't no heavy hitter, home."

"We'll see," Cross said over his shoulder, working diligently with a set of lock picks at a gray metal filing cabinet that dominated the studio apartment. "Got it," he finally said.

His gloved hands rifled through a sheaf of papers, moving rapidly but with assurance–just another day at the office for a pro burglar.

Time passed. The black man checked his watch, but Cross's eyes never looked up from his work. "Twenty minutes," the black man said.

"Damn!"

"Z'up, home? Twenty is plenty, what we got to do."

"Look at this, Ace," Cross said, handing over a leather–bound book, diary–sized.

The man called Ace opened the book, his own hands encased in black leather gloves. Each page was meticulously covered in thin block letters.

VITAL STATISTICS – SCHOOL SCHEDULE – BABYSITTER – DUAL MEETS – DOCTOR'S APPOINTMENTS…every page devoted to exhaustive data–gathering on Angel Andrews. The back of the book held photos, some posed, some candid. A photocopy of the girl's birth certificate (the space for "Father" was blank). Copies of report cards, even a vaccination record. Every movement was documented: Wieskoft knew when she was scheduled for dental checkups, the date her report card was to be issued, what time she was dropped off at the babysitter's…

"This motherfucker's on the job 24–7," Ace said. "I know pimps don't know half this much 'bout they ho's."

"It's more than that," Cross said. "The man has a plan." He was holding a set of leather handcuffs in one hand, pouring through a whole drawer full of restraints: a leather bondage mask, various–length chains, dog collars, ball gags.

Cross stood up, opened the single closet. Inside he found a wooden yoke designed to hold a person in an impossibly uncomfortable position, leather wraps at each end for the victim's hands. Casually stored in a corner of the closet, he found an electronic stun gun, several cans of Mace, and a cattle prod.

He carefully replaced all the items in the exact position he found them, then walked over to a computer standing on a small wooden desk. He removed the dust cover, turned it on.

"Not even passworded," he muttered to himself, calling up a list of documents. He used the cursor to scroll down the list…past TAXES past REAL ESTATE. When he came to MY SLAVE, he hit the keys, opened the document onto the screen.

You will learn to obey me. You will find true happiness through obedience. We were meant to be together, you to serve me. Forever. The pain will be a learning experience. The path to liberation. Your freedom. The program will take approximately one year. Then I can allow you some freedom. When you can be trusted. I…