Blossom (8 page)

30

I
COULDN'T WATCH his eyes, so I listened to his breathing. Feeling the rhythm, waiting for ragged to go smooth. For that twilight sleep to settle into REM. That's why they do surgery past midnight and before dawn—it's when the body shuts down, goes limp inside. The knife goes in easier.

The luminous dial of my fancy watch said 3:45. The kid was under, quiet now. I fished a quarter from my pocket, tapped it softly against the leg of my cot. An answering tap from Virgil. Awake, and ready. I flexed my upper body, pulling into a sitting position without using my hands. The kid didn't stir. Virgil sat up too—I could see his shape in the darkness. He followed me around the corner to the furnace. A whispered conversation, and we were ready to work.

31

"G
ET UP, Lloyd." Virgil gripped the kid's shoulders, shook him gently.

The kid moaned, whimpering something, still half asleep. I wouldn't want his dreams. We let him use the bathroom, throw some cold water on his face. Not saying anything, letting him feel the pressure. When he came back to the main room, we had a straight chair set up. It wouldn't be light for a couple of hours. I sat directly across from the kid, within whispering distance. Virgil was a few feet away, sitting on an angle to us, something dark on his lap.

"Here's the way it works, Lloyd," I told him, neutral–voiced. Working it flexible: soft to hard, hard to soft. First the shell, then the center. "You and I have a talk. About all this stuff that's been going on. And you tell me the truth. You always tell me the truth. About everything. Every single time. You know why?"

"I told the truth, I…"

"You know
why,
Lloyd?" Shifting my voice a notch closer to hard. His eyes flicked up to mine, sulky. Dropped. "Because that's the way I'll know, see?" I said. "I find out you lied about one thing…
any
thing…then you're a liar, understand? And you didn't shoot those kids, did you?"

"No!"

"And that's the truth, isn't it?"

"Yes. I swear."

"Cross your heart and hope to die?"

"Yes!"

"Lloyd," I said, my voice laced with a tinge of sorrow, like it was out of my hands. "That's what you're doing, boy. Don't lie. Don't let me catch you in a lie. No matter what the truth is, tell it to me." I leaned forward. "Nothing's as bad as dying, Lloyd. Anything else, me and Virgil, we could fix it. But don't lie."

"I…won't."

I leaned back, lit a smoke, nodding my head to seal the deal. He didn't ask for one. Virgil didn't move.

"You got friends at school?"

"Yes. I mean, maybe…not really. Friends. I mean, guys I talk to but…"

"But you work alone?"

"At the store?"

"No, Lloyd. When you go out at night. You walk by yourself?"

"Sometimes…"

"You look in windows?"

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry…"

"It's all right, Lloyd. I know about the windows. Nobody ever sees you, huh?"

"No."

"You do that at home too? Before you moved up here?"

"Just a couple of times."

"It's okay. Take it easy. You're telling the truth. Nothing to worry about. You ever take your rifle with you? When you go out walking?"

"No. I never did. I swear."

"You ever let them see you?"

"Who?"

"The women. The women in the windows."

"No. I wouldn't want…"

"You ever take it out, play with it…while you watch?"

"Nooo. No. I just wanted to…
see
them…see what they look like…just…"

"Okay. You were scared…when you went out walking?"

"Not…scared. Like, uh…nervous, you know?"

"I know." Shifting gears—same highway. "Those magazines. The ones the cops found in your room. Where'd you get them?"

"I sent away for them."

"What kind of magazines were they?"

"About…women. I…"

"There's more of 'em over in the corner—found 'em down in the basement." Virgil's voice. Like saying the milk was in the refrigerator. "You want to see them?"

"Yeah."

He got up, came back with a foot–high stack, bound with twine. Dropped it on the floor next to my chair, pulled at the cord. A knot unraveled.

"Lloyd know these were here?" I asked him.

"Yeah. Never touched them either," he said, answering my next question.

I shone my pocket flash on the first one. "Beauty in Chains." Women bound, gagged, blindfolded. In street clothes, some half dressed, some nude. Bent over chairs, standing on tiptoe, hands suspended over their heads, hog–tied. Helpless. Ropes, straps, handcuffs. They were all like that. All the same. Some had the covers pulled off. A few had pages ripped out. Not neatly cut. Jagged edges. Torn.

"How much did these cost?" I asked Lloyd.

"Twenty–five dollars was the most. Some were fifteen, one was only five."

In the underbelly of the human heart, dirt isn't cheap.

"You look at these?" I asked Virgil. Buying time. Something about the magazines. Something past the obvious. The way inside.

"I looked at them." His voice was flat, giving nothing away.

I lit another smoke, turning the pages, getting the feel. Lloyd watching me. Waiting for the judgment.

It came to me. "The pages you ripped out…where are they?"

"I threw them away."

"No you didn't."

"I
did!
I mean…I didn't throw them away exactly…I…burned them."

"Where?"

"In the woods. Just past the dunes. I made a campfire. Every time."

"Every time?"

"Every time a new one came…with those pictures."

I dragged on my smoke, looking down the white barrel of the cigarette, visually placing the red tip in the center of Lloyd's out–of–focus face. Like the laser–dot from a sniper rifle. Zeroing in. "What was in the pictures, Lloyd? The pictures you burned up."

He made a strangling sound deep in his throat.

I felt Virgil settle into himself. Knowing it was important, not knowing why. Knowing he had to wait. He had a hunter's patience. I had a convict's.

Lloyd felt the weight. "Could I have a smoke?"

"When it's over. What was in the pictures?"

He took short, shallow breaths. The blankets were coming off and he knew it was going to be cold.

"The pictures…they were getting hurt."

"The women?"

"Yes. I couldn't look at them."

"Who was hurting them?"

"Men, mostly. Sometimes other women."

"Tell me."

"They beat them. Whipped them. Even…c–c–cut them once. Ugly. So ugly…"

He was crying. Not a sociopath's tears. Crying for someone else. It felt right. I had to be sure. I probed the wound, watching for the runoff. Clean or dirty. Blood or pus. "You don't like other people in your pictures, Lloyd?"

"Other people…?"

"You can't own the women if there's somebody else there. They wouldn't be all yours."

"All mine? They're not mine. I just wanted to see…not be so…"

"Afraid?"

"Yes." Sobbing now.

"When they're helpless…tied up…you can look all you want? Like when they're in the windows?"

"Yes."

I couldn't close the wound until it was clean. The scalpel probed again. "Lloyd, you ever see a dead woman?"

"No."

"Ever want to see one?"

"
No!
God. No.
Dead?
"

I zoned in on his face, going into his skull, reaching out, searching to see if that maggoty little worm of evil was there. My voice was soft, smoothing the road, stroking the beast to full boil. "A dead woman, Lloyd. A dead naked woman. Just lying there. You could do whatever you wanted. She'd be all yours. She'd never say anything. Whatever you wanted to do…"

He stumbled from the chair, staggering past me, making wounded–animal sounds. I held up my hand to stop Virgil from going after him.

We heard him hit the floor in the bathroom. Heard the low grunting scream—ripped from his guts like he'd ripped the pictures from his tortured mind. Projectile vomiting, his lungs hitting the top of his throat.

When he got his breath, he used it for crying.

32

A
FTER A WHILE, the crying was over. My work wasn't. I nodded to Virgil. We walked around the concrete corner, found the kid sitting in his own stink, face in his hands. Drained.

"Get on your feet," I told him. "Clean yourself up."

He made noises. Didn't move.

"Now," I told him, voice hard.

"I
can't
."

I turned on the shower full blast. Virgil grabbed the kid under his armpits, hauled him to his feet. I turned the hose on him. He sagged in Virgil's hands. The water hit him clean, ran off foul.

We let him finish the job himself. Waited while he toweled himself off. He came back inside wearing an old red flannel bathrobe. I pointed at the chair. He sat down again.

Virgil tossed him a pack of cigarettes. It landed in the kid's lap. He didn't move, didn't raise his head.

"It's okay, Lloyd," I said, propping him up for what had to come.

"I told the truth." His voice was thin, sad.

"I know. But we're not done. Can you light that cigarette?"

"I don't know." Fumbling in his lap.

"Try."

A wooden match flared in Virgil's hand. He was kneeling next to the kid, one hand on his shoulder. Lloyd got it going, took a deep drag. Coughed. Took another. The early dawn light seeped in. The boy's skin was transparent, the skull showing through.

"You re scared of women, Lloyd?"

"I…think so."

"But you like them?"

"Yes. I do…like…them. I think I do. But when they talk to me…"

"I know. Someone told you they wouldn't like you, didn't they? Someone told you they'd know something about you…"

His shoulders shook like he was freezing. Crying again, the cigarette dropping from his hand. Virgil plucked it off the kid's lap, one hand still on his shoulder, trying to send his strength into his wife's cousin. Not knowing why yet, trusting what he felt.

I lit a cigarette of my own. Centering myself, watching the red dots that always danced before my eyes when the freaks played with kids. Remembering. Getting past it. Like I had a long time ago. When I made my choices.

"Who was it, Lloyd?" I asked him. Voice soft, not waiting for the answer. "Your mother's boyfriend? A teacher? The coach? Your uncle?"

I let Virgil's rock–hard core work its way into the boy's guts. Waiting for the anchor to set.

"How did…how d'you know?"

"I know who did it. Not his name. But I know him. They're all alike. Listen to me, Lloyd. They're all liars. You told us the truth here. And you're going to beat this. He lied to you. As soon as you tell us everything, I'll start to prove it to you."

"Ain't nobody gonna hurt you, son." Virgil's voice. The kid caught the last word, grabbed at it like a lifeline. He wouldn't have to face the monster alone.

Anymore.

"It was the preacher," he said. "The preacher."

"Yeah. When did it start?"

"When I was nine. Just before I was ten. Just before my birthday. He had model race cars. Radio–controlled. He used to take me to the races. He said, when I was ten, he'd let me steer one in a time trial."

"And your mother, she thought it was great, you spending time with him?"

"She sure did. My real father, I don't know where he is. Mama said the preacher was a good man. I think she liked him herself, you know? Always inviting him over for dinner, saying like he needed a wife to make a home for him and all. He was nice to me. Took me for rides in his car, bought me a baseball glove. Like I was his own son, Mama said."

"How'd it happen? He show you some pictures?"

"Pictures. Little boys, with no clothes on. That's the way it started. He'd let me play with the video games he had in his house if I took my clothes off. I didn't want to do it, but…in the pictures, like…boys were doing all kinds of things without their clothes on. Like he said. It was a natural thing. For a special treat once, he took me camping. He told me stories, about wolves and bears in the woods. I wasn't scared, but he said he'd better let me in his sleeping bag so I would be okay. It felt…weird…but…he was the preacher and all…"

"It's okay."

"He said we had a special love. A special secret love, he said. He said God picked me for him, 'cause I was special. It was a mark, a mark only certain people could see. A mark on me."

"And you couldn't tell anyone…"

"Couldn't tell anyone. Couldn't make him stop."

"So you started to get into trouble…"

"To make it stop. When I got to be around thirteen, I felt things inside of me. I thought, maybe they'd put me away someplace, like in one of those juvenile homes…and…stealing cars…riding by myself…I felt scared but…
good
, you know?"

I knew.

"How'd you know where to buy those magazines?"

"He had them. Not like mine. Bad ones. I copied down the address where he sent away for them."

Virgil lit a smoke, handed it to Lloyd. The kid dragged on it greedily, blowing it out his nose and mouth at the same time.

"Did the preacher know where your mother sent you?"

"Yeah. He wrote to me. Telling me I'd be back soon and we'd have good times again. He even said maybe he'd come up here to visit me just before school starts in the fall."

"Those pictures…the ones you saved…not the ones you ripped out. You thought women could see this mark you have on you?"

"That's what he said. He said they'd always see it. And maybe they'd laugh at me. Or worse. He said women are evil. Nasty, smelly evil things. Down there."

"But you like them, don't you, Lloyd?"

He nodded.

"You know what that means?"

"No."

"Listen to me, now. Listen good. It means the preacher was a liar. There's no mark on you. There never was. Women won't hurt you…not the ways the preacher said they would. You're a man—you'll be a man. The preacher can't change that."

"The stuff…he made me do…I…"

"It doesn't mean anything, Lloyd. Nothing. You want to know about women, you're curious about them. That's
natural
, okay? All young men, they feel like that. Tying them up so they can't hurt you…peeking in windows so you can watch without them seeing you…you don't need that. There's other ways."

"How?" Spark of desperate hope in his eyes.

"You'll see. Me and Virgil, we'll show you. It'll take some time, but it's going to be all right.
All
right, understand?"

He nodded. Wanting it to be true.

"Lloyd? One of the kids around here, he told the cops they were sneaking around, looking in on parked cars. Remember?"

"Yes. It's true. I was with them."

"And you told the other kids that you hated them…that maybe something should happen to them?"

"I didn't mean it. It just…hurt so bad. That they could be with girls and I couldn't. The mark…"

"The mark is gone, boy. It never was there. It was a lie. And this is the truth. Don't hate women. Don't be afraid of them.
They
never did anything to you."

"I…"

"But somebody did, Lloyd. The man who told you about evil…that's what
he
was. Understand?"

The kid ground out his cigarette. Hands shaking, but his voice was steady then—hot wire of pain burning. "I hate him," he said.

"That's the first step," I told him.