Born Bad (10 page)
Authors: Andrew Vachss
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…"
T
he 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.
T
hat 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…
Cross exited the document, went back to REAL ESTATE, studied the screen for several minutes, nodding to himself. "You hear anything on the phone yet?" he asked Ace, speaking over his shoulder.
"No, man. And I be surprised behind it, to tell you the truth. Once that monster–mutant starts playing Junior G–man, there's no turning off his mouth."
"That's it!"
"What, home?"
"You just put it together for me, Ace. Locked and loaded. Let's get the hell out of here."
H
e's going to kidnap the child," Cross told his crew. They were in the basement of the Red 71 poolroom, as removed from prying eyes as if they had been on another planet.
"Ransom?" Rhino asked.
"No," Cross said. "Torture. He's got it all laid out. First he snatches the kid, probably use that stun gun he's got to take her down. He's got this cabin, way out in the sticks. Owns it outright, no mortgage. The plan is to bring her up there. And
keep
her, see? He's got this whole conditioning program worked out. Like he was a coach. Only it's a POW thing. Pain conditioning. He's got a library of bondage–torture books. You know how it plays…all those freaks think the same way…he's gonna
train
her, right? Own her the same way he owns the cabin. He's just waiting for the right time. And he's getting near critical mass."
"We got a plan too, right?" Rhino said.
Cross looked around the room. "Any ideas?" he asked.
"Get the motherfucker and turn off his lights?" Ace offered;
"I got it," Princess said, barely able to contain his excitement. "How about this? I knock on his door, tell him I'm selling high–tech surveillance equipment…like night scopes and all, see? That'll get his motor running. So he lets me into his apartment and I wait for the right moment–then I snap his neck like a fucking twig and throw him out the window. Okay' Then I write a suicide note and split. Is that slick or what?"
"What," Ace said sourly.
"Princess," Cross said patiently, "he takes one look at you and he starts screaming. Come on…."
"Hey, that's the beauty of my plan–I'll wear a disguise."
Rhino gazed at the ceiling as if it had some answers.
Buddha said, "Jesus H. Christ." Very quietly.
Cross shot the pudgy man a look.
"How about a car accident?" Buddha asked, trying to divert Princess. "You know…drunk driver, leaving the scene of the smash. I could take him out soon as it gets dark."
"How do we get paid, then?" Cross asked.
"I dunno," Rhino replied. "Isn't the woman–?"
"Yeah, she's in for a piece. But we need to score at both ends, cover our nut with this one," Cross told him. "I got an idea. Okay, you guys all have a clear sight picture, right? Just take a look at the video Princess made if you need a refresher. Keep on him like a blanket…I don't know when he's gonna blow, but it has to be soon."
T
he white telephone buzzed. Wieskoft looked up from his computer, surprised–the number was unlisted–he only used it to make outgoing calls–take–out food and 900 numbers. His favorite was 1-900–LOLITAS.
He reached for the receiver cautiously.
"Hello…?"
"Good evening, sir," a clear, distinct voice came over the line. "My name is Morgan…I'm in the private delivery business. I thought you and I could meet, maybe discuss my services."
"I don't want any deliveries. Who gave you my…?"
"Sure you want a delivery, pal. A live one, if you get my meaning. My prices are very reasonable, and I guarantee I'll deliver the package right to your door…or any place you say. Remember, it's a guarantee. And no risk to you. None whatever."
"Leave me alone!" Wieskoft screamed, slamming down the phone.
C
ross strolled away from the pay phone and climbed into the passenger seat of the Shark Car. Buddha threw the car into gear and made the vehicle disappear into a clot of city traffic.
"That should do it for the pressure cooker. We mailed him a copy of the video Princess took, too. Maybe he'll move before he was ready to–he'd be easy then."
"What if he just lays there? What's the backup?"
"You still in touch with that researcher? Cheryl?"
"Sure," Buddha replied. "What you need?"
"Tell her everything she can get on the President's kid. The daughter, what's her name, Chelsea or something?"
"Yeah, that's right. What you want to deal with that draft–dodging weasel for?"
"What difference would that make, brother?"
"Hey, come on, Cross. We was both in the Nam–how you feel about guys that slicked their way out of it?"
"I wish
I
had," Cross said, looking out the window.
T
wo days later, the cellular phone rang in the basement of Red 71. Cross looked up from a stack of clippings on a door laid across a pair of sawhorses he was using as a desk.
"What?"
"He's in a rental car, parked right across the street." Rhino's voice, even squeakier than usual, lowered to a whisper.
"You got him tight?"
"In a box. He tries it today, he's going down."
"Stay on him," Cross said, breaking the connection.
"What's with all this stuff" Princess asked, indicating the pile of clippings.
"We're making a bomb," Cross told him. "Want to tell Ace to come downstairs?"
T
he delicate–featured black man's hands matched his face. His fingers were long, tapered, the nails immaculately manicured and covered with clear polish. He sat at the makeshift desk under a powerful lamp, working with a straight razor, his hands covered with membrane–thin surgeon's gloves.
"Got it," he finally said, carefully applying a last drop of paste to the back of a piece of newsprint.
Cross laid the artwork out in long row, nodding his head. "You got the touch, brother," he said admiringly. "This'll do it."
M
cNamara stood in one corner of the boxing ring, wearing a loose pair of pants and no shirt, modified boxing gloves on his hands, with footguards that left the soles of his feet bare…kick–boxing gear. His handler dipped a black rubber mouthpiece in the bucket, started to place it in McNamara's mouth, but the cop shook it off, took one step forward, shaking a fist.
"I'm warning you, Princess. You try and head–butt me this time, I'm gonna stop your goddamned heart!"
Princess stood in the other corner, devoid of makeup and earring, his grotesque torso rippling under a sheen of oil. He shrugged his shoulders in a "Who, me?" gesture, grinning, as Cross kneaded the back of his shoulders, waiting for the bell.
