Survivor: 1 (22 page)

'"There's more." Brad quickly told the lawyer about
Debbie Martinez, the arrival of Animal, and the cinematographer, Al. He told Billy about the long night Lisa
had spent with Debbie, wondering if she was going to be next. When Brad got to the part about Lisa's desperate
plea for her life and her bringing up the homeless
woman they had run into on the first day of their trip,
Billy's hand went up to his mouth. His eyes were wide
with terror. "Oh my God, please don't tell me what I think
she ... she..."

"She told them she'd lead them to this woman and her
baby," Brad said. His voice sounded dead. He felt dead.
He drained the rest of his drink. "She said they could have
this woman and her baby in exchange for her own life.
And she offered them money. All the money in our savings account.'

And ... and they went for it?" William's face was
damp with sweat.

*Yes. They took her in their van and she got the money.
Then she ... led them to .. "

"Oh fuck," Billy said. He hadn't taken another sip since
Brad had begun, but now he drained the entire contents
of the glass. "Where's the rest of that bottle?'

Brad got up to retrieve the bottle. When he brought it
back, William took it and refilled his glass. Billy's hand
shook as he poured the whiskey. He looked like he had
just seen a horrible car accident. "Jesus Christ, Brad,"
William said, drinking down half of the glass's contents.
"Jesus fucking Christ!"

1bey were going to renege on their deal," Brad said.
"They tried to abduct her in the parking lot of that Coco's,
probably to take her back to that cabin. But somehow-I
don't know how she did it-she escaped. She got the hell
out of there and screamed at the top of her lungs and
they split."

"And they got that lady, right? And her baby?"

Brad nodded. He poured himself another glass of Jim
Beam.

"Fuck!"

The two men were silent for a moment. William drank
down the rest of his whiskey and quickly poured himself
a refill. Despite already drinking steadily for the past forty
minutes or so, Brad didn't feel the least bit drunk. He was
sweating it out as rapidly as he was pouring it down.

"Billy, I need your help," Brad finally said, his voice low
and shaky.

William looked at him. "What do you want to do? Go to
the police?"

"1 don't know," Brad said. "I want to do something,
but ... I'm confused and I'm scared and..."

"Are you afraid these guys will come after you?"

Brad felt like he was going to collapse. He struggled to
contain his emotions; he could feel his limbs shaking. He
nodded, the tears springing to his eyes. "Yes"

William leaned forward. He set his hand on Brad's
knee, looking directly into his face. "Listen, buddy, there's
nothing to worry about. I'm going to help you, okay?"

Brad nodded. His throat hurt. He wiped his eyes with
the back of his hands. "Yeah," he said, stammering. "I'm
sorry, Billy," he said; choking back the tears. "It's just ...
I'm just so glad she's back and ... and I had no idea what
she went through and to ... to think that ... it was much
worse than she let on ... God, no wonder she's been acting this way!"

"I know," William said. He took Brad's hands in his
own. Billy was acting more like a fatherly figure to him
than a friend. Billy was twenty years Brad's senior, but he
looked thirty."But now we know, and that means we can
do something about it."

"I don't know what we can do, though," Brad said. He
took a deep breath. He took a peek down the hall where
his and Lisa's bedroom was, then looked back at Billy.
"She didn't want me to tell anybody. She's scared that
they'll make good on their threat. I know she is."

'Thankfully, Lisa has a good memory," William said.
He had gained a lot of composure, and his stature was
making Brad feel good about calling the lawyer over.
"She got names. Tim Murray, Al, and Jeff. No last names
on the other fellows, but I'm sure that shouldn't be too
hard to get. We do have one full name of a victim,
though. Debbie Martinez. That should be easy to trace. If
she and her husband own a cabin in Big Bear, we can
probably find the place Lisa was taken and locate the
deed."

"Do you think we should go to the police?" Brad asked.

"You're goddamn right we should go to the police,"
William said. Now Billy was looking more angry than
confused or frightened.

"I'm scared," Brad said. He looked at William, feeling
suddenly flush with adrenaline. "I'm scared of what
might happen if we go to the police. These guys have
our address, and they have her social security card, for
God's sakes!"

"Don't worry about that," William said. "I can get you
and Lisa whisked away into a protection program. They
won't be able to find you"

"Shit." Brad broke down and cried.

He felt hopeless.

When he gained a little bit of control over himself, he
looked up at William. "I don't know what to do," he said,
wiping his eyes. "I feel like ... such a helpless idiot.*

"Leave it to me," William said, gripping Brad's knee
with his hand. "I'll take care of everything. I'll talk to Detective On. He'll probably want to talk to Lisa again. We'll
have to talk to her when she wakes up tomorrow. She
might not like it, but we'll have to reassure her that the
two of you will be safe and we'll catch the people who
did this. We're gonna get these bastards, Brad. I'll hunt
them down myself if I have to.'

Brad gripped his friend's hand. "Thanks. Thanks a lot. I
don't know what I'd do without you."

William offered Brad a smile of encouragement. "I'll
take care of everything."

The Seagram's Business District in the City of Industry
comprised rows of industrial buildings that circled the
perimeter of a large lot in a U shape.'Iwin rows of identical buildings flanked this structure. The majority of the
businesses that operated in the thirty or so spaces fell on
the industrial side: commercial printers, T-shirt manufacturing plants, auto-body shops, glaziers, electronics
shops, computer hardware manufacturers. The office Al
Pressman was visiting this evening bore the legend Mark
and Sons, Printers, and it was at the end of the lot. He
pulled in front of the sliding door of the garage into what
would have been the print shop but which had since
been turned into a makeshift film studio. Al turned the
car off and sat in the front bucket seat, listening as the engine cooled. He hated this fucking car. It was a Pbrsche,
and it had a great engine,.but he hated it anyway. It was
too goddamned tiny. Like driving a roller skate on the
highway. When he got his check for the latest job he was
going to get a Corvette. He'd always liked 'Vettes. They
were not only strong, they were durable and wouldn't
crumple if you sneezed on them.

Al sat in the car for a moment. It wasn't every day he
got called to Rick Shectman's place of business. He usually dealt with Sam Bash, who gave out the orders for jobs. Most of the time it was routine blood-sport shit. The
last job-the one that had turned into quite the gold
mine thanks to the Miller woman selling that homeless
woman and her baby down the river-had been
arranged by Sam. Al had been told to shoot footage that
was to include Animal and a woman that Tim Murray
brought. That was it, no questions asked. Al had been surprised to see two women at the cabin, but when Tim explained what had happened he'd shrugged it off. Since
they had to get rid of the other bitch anyway, might as
well film the shit, right? He was paid to operate a camera
and catch the right angles and provide the right amount
of lighting, then edit the shit down. That was it. And Animal was paid to do what he did best: rape, torture, and
then kill people. They didn't care who they did it to, as
long as they were paid.

Except this job had been different. Sam Bash had
been quite explicit when he told Al that the woman Tim
brought was a special job, that there was double money
involved in it. Fine. No big deal. So when the bitch mentioned the homeless woman and the baby, of course it attracted their attention. There were plenty of pedo freaks
out there who got off on the prepubescent scene, but infants were another league altogether. You just didn't find
many of them in the extreme hardcore underground. Al
had known of junkies who sometimes sold their babies
for crack and the kids usually wound up dead from whatever freak they'd been sold to. Al knew there was a thriving pedophile underground that got off on this shit, and
he knew some of them had money falling out of their assholes. He'd seen the dollar signs immediately, so he'd
gone to another part of the cabin and made an executive
decision. He'd pretended to call Sam with the news, and
Tim just about shit his pants when he came back and told him that the Miller bitch was out and the other
woman and the baby were in. Later, while Animal was
putting Lisa in the van, he'd pulled Tim aside and told
him the real deal: get Lisa Miller's money, get the homeless woman and the baby, and get back to the cabin
pronto. They were still going to do the Miller bitch as
planned. That had made Tim feel better, but then the
cunt had escaped. Tim had been fucking paranoidhell, Al had been paranoid too and had had to indulge in
some blow to cope. He'd just about had a fit when Tim
came back sans the Miller bitch, but he eventually
calmed down. "We'll get her," he'd told Tim. "Don't worry.
They want her, we'll get her, but I think right now they're
going to be pretty happy with what we got now"

He'd explained that to Sam Bash the day after he made
the delivery, when Bash called and asked in an icy tone
why he had not carried out the job he'd been paid to do.
"You paid me to shoot a scene that included Animal and
whatever woman Tim Murray brought me," he'd explained. "'That's all I did, no questions asked."

It was clear that Bash had been pissed, even though he
conceded that they already had two buyers willing to
pay two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the tape
with the infant. That was more than double what he'd get
for a normal snuff film. They'd exchanged a few more
words and Sam had rung off with a "you'll be hearing
from me," then he'd hung up. Al hadn't heard from him
since.

In the last week, though, he'd talked to Tim. They'd
been paying close attention to the news and there'd
been no media coverage of Lisa Miller's abduction. Tim
had even done an Internet search and had come up
with nothing. Tim told Al he'd been yelled at by Sam too,
and he was nervous. You didn't fuck with these people;
Al knew that, and he assured Tim they'd be fine. "You gob her address. I can hold Sam off for another week until
the money for these films comes in. That'll be a nice
pacifier for him. Then, say in two weeks, me and you
pay a surprise visit to Ms. Miller. Get yourself a white
panel van and I'll have a shot of morphine all fixed up
and ready for her. It'll be a nice quick abduction, and
this time we'll just do it. She'll be dead and disposed of
within a few hours after we pick her up, and the next
day Sam'll be happier than a pig in shit. How's that
sound?"

That had sounded fine to Tim, and Al had lain low for
the rest of the week. He didn't hear from Tim or Animal,
and he tried to keep a low profile. He didn't even call
Sam to check on where his money was. Then this afternoon he got a phone call from Rick Shectman telling him
to get over to his print shop for an evening meeting regarding the next job. Rick and Sam were acquainted, and
from the brief conversation he had with Rick, Al surmised that Sam had gotten over his anger regarding the
last job. The money the organization had just made
must've sweetened them up.

Al reached under his seat for the coke vial he kept in a
compartment he had gouged into the seat. He opened it,
reached a pinkie in, and scooped some blow out with his
fingernail. He took a snort up his left nostril, dipped his
nail back in for seconds, snorted that up his right nostril,
then rubbed the residue over his gums. He replaced the
vial under the seat and checked himself out in the
rearview mirror. Might as well get this over with. He
opened the door, swung his long legs out of the Fbrsche,
and headed to the office. He felt amped up and ready to
do business as he entered and paused for a moment at
the threshold, letting his vision get adjusted to the darkness. "Yo," he called out. "You here, Rick?"

in the back," a voice called out.

Al made his way through the office to the rear of the
establishment.

Mark and Sons Printers had originally been a commercial printer that operated a four-color press. The
back room was a darkroom where paste-ups were shot
and converted to plates for printing. There had once
been two presses, but one had been sold and the other
sat against the rear wall under a layer of dust. The remaining floor space of the shop had been cleared away
from other printing machines and was now used as a
makeshift studio for some of the hardcore S&M loops Al
shot. Rick Shectman, the guy who had inherited the
printing business from his father, only did business as a
printer occasionally. Mostly he used the press to generate child pornography or other illegal underground
smut. He also ran drugs and stolen jewelry through the
shop. And he leased space to Al for the production of
some milder hardcore S&M. "As long as they don't get
blood and shit all over my floor," Rick had told Al one
day a few years ago in that thick Slavic accent he'd inherited from his father. "You can use my shop. You use
big-titty women, you tell me so I watch, yes?" He'd smiled
a gap-toothed smile.

Rick Shectman was a man who conducted himself in
a casual manner, but Al knew he was a heavy key player
in the illegal hardcore community. He was one of the
money people. He knew the clients. And he knew the talent. Al, Tim, and Animal had worked for Rick five times in
the past three years, and Al knew Rick to be a fair man,
but a hard one. Rumor had it that he'd once beaten a customer who had commissioned a torture film with a lead
pipe after the customer failed to come up with the fee for
the finished product. The beating had been so bad that
the victim had lost both eyes. Al had heard of worse
crime bosses. The guys back east in New York and New Jersey, they didn't tuck around. They usually had a goon
squad get medieval on your ass if you tucked with them,
and you wound up at the bottom of New York Harbor
with a pair of cement boots.