The Girls He Adored (27 page)

“Did Christy do that to you?”

“With a pair of handcuffs.” Pender mimed a stiff-armed stabbing motion.

“God-dayyum,” said Anh Tranh—she seemed to be impressed.

T
HE POWDER-BLUE
Coupe de Ville scraped its exhaust pipe a few times on the high crown of the dirt logging trail as Maxwell drove back down the mountain, and the next stretch of narrow, twisting county roads definitely cramped Maybelline's style, but when she reached Interstate 5, she was in her element. She ate up the miles and crossed the forty-second parallel into Oregon shortly after seven
P.M.

Not that Irene knew anything about parallels or borders— Maxwell had ordered her into the trunk just before they joined up with the interstate at Redding. He allowed her out to pee only once, at a gas station near Weed with sufficiently isolated restrooms. The rest of the time she lay in a darkness broken only by the intermittent white flashing of the brake lights, and later, after dark, by the hellish red glow of the taillights.

Oddly enough, Irene found herself almost welcoming the worst stretches of road, the steepest climbs and drops, the sharpest turns. At least the constant vigilance and sheer physical effort required in order to prevent herself from being tossed around the trunk like loose luggage helped keep her mind from dwelling obsessively on the horrors and indignities of the recent past or, even more terrifying, the foreseeable future.

After a few hours on the interstate, another forty-five minutes of gently winding highway, then one more bumpy stretch of nauseating serpentine loops, S curves, and switchbacks negotiated at minimal speed, Maybelline finally came to a full stop. Maxwell climbed out, leaving the motor running. Irene heard the sound of a gate creaking open, and understood with a sense of relief mingled with dread that the end of the journey was at hand.

But there was one last hill for Maybelline to climb, a hill so steep that Irene had to brace herself with both hands to avoid being slammed against the back of the trunk. Then the car stopped again, and the trunk lid opened. Maxwell stood over Irene, his face lit eerily from below by the taillights. He asked her if she were all right. She couldn't think of an answer—words would not come.

Max reached in and helped Irene out of the trunk. She was weak, sore, and queasy, but the fresh air was a revelation, delicious, intoxicating; greedily she filled her lungs, leaning against the car until she felt able to stand on her own.

When she tried to walk, though, Irene's legs gave way beneath her. Max put his arm around her and half carried her around to the front seat of the car, helped her in, then closed the door behind her. She stared dazedly through the windshield, saw Maybelline's headlights illuminating a mysterious looking tunnel fifteen feet high and twenty feet long, made of chain-link fencing overgrown with vines and briars, with locked gates at either end. On either side of this sally port, a high, electrified chain-link fence extended on into the darkness as far as she could see.

“Wait there,” called Max, stepping into the glare of the headlights. “And whatever you do, don't open your door or roll down your window.” Then he unlocked the gate and was immediately swarmed over by a pack of stocky, savage-looking black-and-brindle dogs. Irene shrieked and closed her eyes, certain that Maxwell was about to be torn to pieces.

When she opened her eyes again, Maxwell was on the ground and the dogs were worrying at him, nipping and darting and growling in their throats. Then she heard Max laughing at the bottom of the pile, and realized it was only play.

After roughhousing with the pack for a few minutes, Max shooed them back into the kennel, unlocked the inner gate, returned to the car, drove straight through the sally port, and relocked both gates behind him.

“In case you ever wanted to leave here in a hurry, this would be a real bad way to go out,” he informed Irene diplomatically as they started off again.

The blacktop forked on the other side of the fence. Maxwell took the left fork, a short spur that petered out at the edge of the woods, overlooking a vast expanse of meadow sloping downward toward a dark ravine.

“Oh my,” said Irene, when Max switched off the headlights.
Beyond the meadow, across the ravine, a jagged, two-horned mountain peak broke the horizon. Above it was the most spectacular night sky Irene had ever seen, a dust storm of silver stars splashed against a backdrop of incomprehensible blackness. When her eyes focused on the blackness, the stars glittered and pulsed like a living sea. When she focused on the stars, the blackness seemed to drop away dizzyingly, leaving her teetering on the edge of the universe.

Maxwell turned off the engine, and he and Irene sat together for a few moments in a deep silence that was somehow enhanced rather than broken by the clicking of the cooling manifold, the scraping of the cicadas in the meadow. Then he started up the engine again, switched on the lights, threw Maybelline into reverse, backed her up slowly until they reached the fork in the road, and this time took the right fork, which wound north along the crest of the forested ridge.

“Here we are,” he announced, as the headlights picked out a long, narrow, three-story house at the edge of the forest.“Welcome to your new home, Irene.”

Home
. The word chilled Irene something awful. What a permanent sound it had. How she wished he'd used some other word.
House, room
—anything but
home
.

A
NH
T
RANH INSISTED ON
examining Pender's wound. She had him sit on the edge of the bed. He could feel the heat of her as she leaned over him and gently tugged the adhesive tape away from his scalp, then dabbed the wound clean with a damp washcloth.

“Not too bad,” she reported. “One of the stitches pulled loose, but it don't look infected. Wait here, I'll be right back.”

She returned with the first aid kit from the office, applied what he thought was an antibiotic ointment, fastened a small butterfly strip where the stitch had given way, then rebandaged it expertly. It wasn't until she was patting the adhesive tape into place that Pender noticed the small round tin container with oriental writing on the bedside table.

“What is that, what did you put on there?” he asked nervously.

“Calm down—it's this amazin' Chinese shit Wong gets. Take it with you, put it on every day.”

“You sure it's safe?”

“My girlfriend got herse'f sliced to shit by a trick last year. Wong made her put this stuff on it every day—six months later you could hardly even tell she got cut.”

Anh stepped back to admire her handiwork, then began taking off her skirt.

“Whoa there,” said Pender.

“It makes my ass sweat. You want me to be comfortable, doncha?”

He did indeed. What they were about to go through would be not unlike a therapy session: without the aid of hypnosis he would try to get her to relive that evening a little over a year ago. But while
Pender wanted her to be comfortable, he also wanted to be able to focus on the job at hand, so he suggested a compromise and she agreed.

Which is how Special Agent E. L. Pender found himself sitting up in bed in a cheap Dallas motel/whorehouse conducting an affective interview with a prostitute who was wearing one of his long-sleeved white shirts over a halter top and transparent panties. Having conducted an interview in bed in his underwear the night before, he was less bemused than he might have been.

At least he was dressed this time, in polyester Sansabelt slacks and a brown Banlon shirt. He had removed only his hat, bloodstained now, his jacket, and his Hush Puppies. He had his pocket notebook in one hand and a pen in the other. “Comfy now?” he asked Anh.

“I guess.”

“All right, I want to take you back to that night with Case—I mean Christy.”

“Man, what a creep. He was one of those johns, he didn't just wanna fuck me, it was like he wanted me to fall in love with him, too, you know what I mean? He—”

“Hold on there, Annie. When I say take you back, that's what I mean. See, the part of your brain that sums things up, and makes judgments, and compares things to other things, that's an entirely different part of your brain from the part that stores the memories themselves. And that's the part we need to get at tonight—that's where the details are. And you know what they say, the devil's in the details. I'll start you off. What room was it—this one?”

“Unh-unh. Nope. Twenty. Other wing, far end.”

“Okay, you walk up to the door. It's closed. It's right in front of you. Picture the numbers on the door. A two and a zero. You knock. He says . . .”

“It's open.
He says, ‘It's open. . . .’ ”

“Sometimes you see a trick, you think what the fuck's
he
doing, payin' for it. This one's cute, he's young, he smells good, fresh, like limes when you just cut 'em open. And I can tell he's already hard, even before he forks over the cash. Some guys're twitchy about the money part, but this guy, it's like it's part of the fun.

“The second time—and I'm just catchin' my breath, like maybe a minute went by, no lie—so the second time, I'm suppose to pretend like I'm his little girl. I been ast that before, lots, I guess on
account of I'm small. And small here, you know. I tell him the second time's extra, and playin' let's pretend is double extra, and
nobody
hits me. He says my love, start the meter. I get called lots of things—‘my love’ ain't usually one.

“The spooky thing is, the second time, it's like he's a whole different person. He moves different, he talks different, he even fucks different. . . .”

Of course, Pender didn't really need
all
the details. The trouble was, you didn't know which ones you needed until you had them all. Casey was priapic, a chameleon, liked to play games, carried a thick wad of cash. Nothing new in any of that; he'd had over two thousand dollars—hundreds wrapped in twenties—in his possession when he was arrested.

The third act of the drama was more revealing: this time Casey was the naughty little boy and Anh was the teacher. . . .

“I dunno what I'm suppose to be spankin' him for, but
he
sure do. ‘I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.’ He's lying on his stomach, I'm whalin' on him pretty good, then he grabs me, turns me over, and fucks me like an animal. I don't mean just doggy-dog, I mean like you couldn' a got him off me with a bucket of cold water, you'd a had to blast him with a farhose. But it ain't personal—it's like
I'm
not even there. He starts off apologizin' to this teacher, then he's bangin' the shit outta me, then he wants to ass-fuck, where I do not go, I'm very sorry, but he don't care 'cause I ain't me, I'm this teacher. He knocks me down, he sticks it in, he says something like ‘Meet Max, how do you like Max,’ shit like that.

“Now old Wong might be a dickhead, but he do try to watch out for us. I start screamin', he sends Big Nig—his name's Ng but everbody calls him Big Nig—to check on me. Nig uses the passkey, all holy hannah breaks loose.

“And Big Nig, you gotta understan', his mama got raped by a black GI, so he's half ‘Mese, half black, and pure pissed off. Plus he's twice Christy's size, plus he's suppose to be a big karate expert and all. Anyway, he come bustin’ in, see if the john's killin' me or what. Two seconds later, Big Nig's on his back and Christy's sittin' on top of him bangin' his head against the floor. I mean, dayum, if the carpet in this place was any thinner, Nig's brains would of been all over it before Wong shows up with his horse pistol.

“Christy, he hears Wong drawin' the hammer back on that big
ol' Colt, he climbs off. Says we had a misunderstandin'. I say well I don't
think
so. So he gets his pants off the chair, pulls his roll out, starts peelin' off Franklins—when he gets to five I say okay, I misunderstand now.