Killer Image (An Allison Campbell Mystery) (17 page)

Eighteen

From its plastic hideaway, Allison pulled out the portrait, now yellowed with age. The young, angelic Allison that Violet had captured over a decade ago stared back at her. She thought of Mia’s words earlier that day: “
Before
we know what horrors lie around the corner
.” How true. The Allison in that picture would soon learn just how cruel life could be.  For it was one thing to suffer. It was another thing to know a child whose short life was
only
pain and suffering. And then to be a party to that suffering? Unforgivable.

Allison dug deeper in the box until she found the letters. Crinkled from tears and handling, marked by the police, there they still hid, held together with a fat black clip. She wanted to put them back in the box, close the lid, and forget. But she couldn’t. As though with a will of their own, her hands undid the clip, her eyes began to read.

October 2

Dear Allison,

Please, please don’t be angry. Please. It’s beautiful here. You should see it. I have my OWN room with a pink comforter and pink curtains and I only share a bathroom with one other girl. Her name’s Suze and she’s so pretty. And nice. Long, red hair and green eyes. Huge boobs, like a 34DD. And they’re real. She’s gonna teach me to pole dance. Says I can make $50 a night at the club (after Sparky’s cut). Sparky got me a fake ID so I can dance. Nothing bad, Allison, so stop thinking the worse. Sparky’s not like that. He’s a gentleman. You should see my room if you don’t believe me. A framed poster of babies in flower costumes. Anne Geddes, it says. And a Monet poster. Maybe someday I’ll paint like Monet. What do you think?

Anyway, Sparky says I don’t need to gain weight. I thought for sure I’d be too skinny to work for him—you should see the bodies on some of these girls—but he says no, that some guys like their girls to look young. Gross. But whatever. As long as they pay. Imagine, $50 a night just to dance. After a few months I’ll have enough for Mexico or Colorado or at least Ohio. Anywhere but Philly. Sparky keeps our fake IDs locked up in a safe—for our own protection, he says, so we don’t get busted. But maybe he’ll give me mine when I have enough money to go. He’s nice like that.

So don’t be angry (see, I said angry, not mad, like you taught me). I know you wanted me to make the best of living with Gram and Aunt Kay and maybe my father if he ever gets himself straightened out, but I can’t go back. They’ll never change and I’m so tired of telling people that because no one listens. Foster care would’ve been even worse. Sparky’s offering me a future. And he doesn’t mind that I don’t talk much, says guys don’t want to listen to a lot of chatter anyway, or that I always have a sketchbook in my hand. Draw, he says. Whatever makes you happy.

I like it here, Allison. So stop worrying and don’t be angry. Please. I like Sparky and I like Suze and I love my room and my unlocked door and my freedom. See why I left, Allison? Home wouldn’t have worked. I had to go.

Love,

V.

Ps. Don’t try to find me. You can’t anyway. I’ll be okay. Promise.

* * *

November 1

Dear Allison,

It’s cold here. And damp. Late at night, I try to use my charcoals but my fingers are too stiff. I don’t think Sparky has heat or if he does he won’t use it. It’s too dark to see. Once we finally turn in—around 4, sometimes later—Sparky puts towels in the windows and won’t let us turn on the lights. Sometimes I watch the shadows dance around my room, they follow the waves of light that still flow in around the windows and under the door when morning comes, and I imagine what things will be like when I have the money to free myself. I’ll sell my sketches and learn to paint. I should get started now. Maybe I’ll try to use that flashlight you gave me, prop it up next to my pillow with a book so I can see better. Think Sparky would notice that? As it is, I go to bed thinking I drew a masterpiece and wake up to a muddle of lines and blurred edges.

Sparky says I need to dumb it down, that the joes don’t like too many syllables coming out of a girl’s mouth. Sparky calls them johns but that name makes me think of my father, John Junior, and then I want to cry. No good crying when you have some 200 pound man panting in your face. It only seems to egg them on. I remember the day you read Romeo and Juliet with me, Al. It was late and the other staff slept. Remember that? The two insomniacs, you called us. I think I understood love then. Line by line you translated that funny English till I finally understood why they stuck together. There’s no Romeo here, that’s for sure. Yesterday a guy came into Sparky’s club, all smooth skin and aftershave. A suit. Suze wanted him bad (more money, she said), but he chose me. Me, Allison. It was just a lap dance but I still can’t get used to the little rooms, to shaking my boobs in some guy’s face till his pants rise up under me. Sparky says to keep going, grind down on his lap till the boner goes away so I’ll get a bigger tip but I can’t seem to do that. I concentrate on his eyes and wait for the second he hands me control. It always happens. Eventually. But the control never lasts, does it? I want it to last.

A few days ago I sketched a skyscraper. Sparky took us to Love Park to meet a joe—me, Suze and Nicki. He let me take my charcoals so we looked legit. My lines were long and lean. Perfect. Think the buildings are so tall so they reach up to God, Allison? I like to think so, that there’s someone up there watching over us and he likes the straight lines and sharp angles as much as I do. Sparky says there is no god, that it’s up to us to make our way in a cruel world and sometimes you have to be cruel to do it. He says that when he slips into my bed at night. Not often, Al, so don’t worry, okay? I just squeeze my eyes
shut when it happens and pretend he’s Romeo and I’m Juliet. Even when it hurts. Sometimes love hurts, right?

Tomorrow I have to take Suze to the doctor. For a you-know-what. She cries all the time now. It pisses Sparky off and I can tell he wants to punch her but she’s money to him so he doesn’t. But he finds other ways of punishing her for all the tears, like giving her scraps to eat and taking her share of the tips. I watch and listen, so I know to keep my money hidden. I won’t even write the location here in case he gets hold of this letter before I send it. I must have close to $300 already. But then I don’t tell Sparky about all the money. Some I slip into my body before he gets to me—or I hide it in the club. I also know not to trust Nicki. I see her watching Suze. I think she’s told Sparky that Suze wants out, that she has a boyfriend now—a joe—and doesn’t want to dance. Nicki is beautiful, all sleek black hair and wild eyes, like a cat. And she’s sneaky like a cat. I don’t trust her and neither should Suze.

I’m tired, Allison, and in a few hours I have to get ready for work, so I’m signing off. Don’t try to find me. I know people are looking for me. Suze has a friend who’s connected and this friend said the cops are on the watch for a “Sparky” and his underage girls. It’s no use, Al. They’ll never find me. Sparky has a million aliases and he moves us around a lot. I always have a friend of a friend deliver these letters, so the postmarks mean nothing. I don’t want to go home, Allison. Ever. Cockroaches are better than rats. Know what I mean?

Love,

V.

* * *

December 17

I have to write fast. Sparky’s in a rage. Suze ran. She slid a driver’s license against the edge of her bedroom door till she pushed up the latch. I saw her go. She shushed me and I signaled that the coast was clear. I want her to make it, Allison. She was always nice to me and I know how much she wanted that baby. It was his. The guy who treats her nice and bought her those sneakers and that crystal necklace, the one with the two amethyst birthstones. Suze said she never had anything with her birthstones in it. Sparky made her get rid of the baby. Held her head upside down in the toilet till her skin turned blue and her eyes bulged and told her no one would miss her if he killed her. So she went to that doctor. I have a sketch of Suze under my bed. She was pregnant and sober and happy and her eyes look so exotic in the sketch. She’s an eighth Cherokee, you know.

Tonight I watched her slink past Sparky’s door. She had a fist-sized bruise on her cheek. Sparky must’ve been pissed to leave a mark. He never leaves a mark. Says joes don’t like damaged goods.

Shit. I hear him coming. He can’t know I helped her, he’ll kill me Al. I wish you were here to help me. But I’ll be okay. Just hope that bitch Nicki doesn’t tell.

V.

* * *

December 18

Oh Allison, I did something stupid. Real stupid. I’m afraid. And cold, so fuckkkkking cold. I wish I could call you, come to your house, something. I bet you’re still mad at me for leaving the way I did Allison and now I know it was a Bad Choice, but then I felt trapped and scared and so sure Sparky was the real deal. He was real alright, a real Killer, a real Ass, a real Pimp.

When I left I felt old, like twenty-one, and ready to tackle the world. Now I feel old, like Gram, and afraid I’ll never get out of this. I have to think.

Once you told me all problems seem bigger at night, that if I close my eyes and sleep, in the morning things won’t seem so bad. Remember that? It was the day after you snuck me the book and the flashlight.
We the Living
. About the girl who ran away. I still have that book, it’s all beat up now and the pages are folded cause I’ve read it a million times. Thing is, I ran but maybe it wasn’t such a great idea. Stupid. The girl in the book—what was her name? I can’t remember anything right now! Left looking for freedom. Maybe I had freedom all along, a different kind of freedom. Now I’m in it BIG, Al. My life is cursed. I always do things backward and that’s why I end up in so much trouble.

Trouble. I’m in a crap load of it. It’s late. Like 3 in the morning. And I’m tucked in between a WaWa and a Dunkin Donuts, writing with a pen and your flashlight. Everything seems hopeless. Maybe in the morning it won’t all seem so bad.

V.

* * *

December 24

Dear Allison,

Suze is dead. I think Sparky’s dead. I’m gonna tell you what happened but only because by the time you read this I’ll be long gone. Maybe even in Mexico.

The answer came to me in the morning, like you said.  I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. Find a new joe. Someone kind who will take me west or south or anywhere far, far from Philly. One last date. I can do this. I’ll have to pretty myself up cause right now I must look like a crack whore, all dirty and torn and hungry. I haven’t eaten since, jeez, days ago. Some lady with a red hat and Jesus Saves pin gave me a bag of donuts and a flier for a Christian Bible study. I ate the donuts and am writing to you on the back of the flier. Oh, and a man with a little Hitler mustache and real bad acne offered me $20 to give him a blow job behind the Asian convenience store on 11
th
and Race. There’s a spot behind the Dumpster there where the cops can’t see. It smells bad but if you press your nose against the guy’s stomach a little you can’t smell the trash so much. You’ll be happy to know I refused, though. No more joes. Other than the one who will take me far away from here.

So back to what happened. I’m running out of space and will have to write inside the church outline soon. Whoever made this flier had no idea how to draw. The church is all wrong—the perspective is off and the steeple is out of proportion. Look at it, you’ll see. I could have done it better.

Anyway, Suze ran but Sparky had one of his boys go after her and bring her back. I’ll never forget the look on her face when he dragged her through that door. She knew what was coming. Once Gram took me to see my great Uncle Ray where he worked at a slaughterhouse. I saw pigs being herded off a truck. I could hear the squeals and screams of the pigs already in there and it was clear those animals leaving that truck knew what was about to happen cause, I swear, their eyes looked human. That was how it was with Suze. She stood in the doorway of the tiny kitchen and even though two of Sparky’s thugs were pulling her toward Sparky, she dug her heels in and refused to move. I wanted to scream, Allison, anything to distract those men but I was too scared to move. And Nicki was laughing, all quiet and sneaky in the corner but I saw her eyes light up and the edges of a smile behind the hand she held to her mouth. Bitch.

I won’t give you all the details Allison not because I think you’ll be grossed out but because I can’t remember them, it all happened so fast. The thugs pulled Suze inside and Sparky told them to leave. Then he made me and Nicki watch “for a lesson” while he kicked and punched Suze until she lay on the floor like an old shirt. Blood oozed from her mouth and ears and her legs were splayed at a weird angle. She managed to pick her head up though and look at Sparky and he went for her again. That’s when I did the stupid thing. He raised his big boot to kick Suze in the head and I grabbed the closest thing, a screwdriver, and stabbed him in the back over and over and over just wanting him to stop hurting Suze. He turned on me and grabbed me around the neck and started to choke me. I couldn’t breathe, and the room started to spin then everything looked dark and far away. Then all of a sudden he let go. I looked down and saw Suze on the floor with her teeth sunk in Sparky’s leg. There was blood everywhere. Sparky yelled something and Nicki ran out the back door, I figure to get the thugs. Sparky started to kick Suze again and I knew I had to do something fast. I didn’t think, Al, I dove for the drawer where Sparky kept his cigarettes and pot and grabbed a can of lighter fluid and a lighter and some matches. I splashed fluid on him and held a lighter to his back. His shirt caught in flames, then his hair and he was screaming with anger and hate and coming for me. I pushed him as hard as I could against the counter and the flames caught the curtain and the room started to burn. I glanced down at Suze and she was lying there bleeding her eyes open staring at nothing like my mom did ages ago. I knew he’d killed her. So I ran. I ran until I heard sirens and then I ran some more. It wasn’t until I’d run so far my feet were bleeding in my high heels that I realized I’d left my money stash at the house. Too late.