Blossom

come you can make it through the night. We both know you guys never stop. Like you said, feelings don't hurt. Looking at pictures, that don't hurt either.'

'That's right. The pictures, they're an… outlet, you understand? A release valve. Those therapists, they don't understand the need. The drive. I'm my own therapist now. I can look at the pictures, fantasize in my mind.' Watching my face. 'And get off when I have to, when the drive pressures me. In the institution, they tried to take that away from us. Control our thoughts. Fascists. We had to look at the pictures and then they'd shock us. Blast us with electricity. It hurt.

After a while, I couldn't even get a hard-on when I saw beautiful little pictures.'

He was crying, face in his hands. They taught him how to do that inside the walls too. I waited for it to stop.

'It doesn't matter, Roger,' I told him, voice low, soft-cored. 'The rape went down at four forty-five in the afternoon. You were spotted just before two at the flea market. It's almost two hundred and fifty miles from there to Brooklyn. No way it could have been you.'

He looked up, tears streaking his face. I went on like I'd never stopped. 'There's a two-twenty flight out of Keene, New Hampshire. Air New England. Flies to the Marine Air Terminal just past La Guardia. Five minutes from the BQE. Maybe another twenty, thirty minutes to Brooklyn.'

He went quiet. I felt the young lawyer stiffen behind me.

'I drove my car up there,' he said.

'But you didn't drive it back, did you? One of your freak friends, another collector, he did that, right? Then maybe he flew to Boston, where he had another car waiting of his own. You guys trade these little favors, don't you? Like you trade the pictures?'

'You're crazy! You think I raped some little girl in the back of a taxicab?'

'I think you have two cars, Roger. There's the van you use for your business. The one you drove up to New Hampshire. And one you keep for prowling. You drive the car to the Marine Air Terminal, park it in the lot there, take a cab home. Then you drive the van to the flea market. Get yourself seen. Take the plane back here, hop in your car, and go to work.'

I lit another smoke. 'The cops'll find the other car, Roger. They'll check the passenger manifest list for the airline. And they'll find your friend too. It won't be hard.'

'You can't tell them any of this. Attorney-client privilege. You said so.'

'There's something special about kids, isn't there, Roger? That soft, smooth skin. How they got no hair anywhere on their little bodies.'

'Shut up!'

'They'll find that car, Roger. And they'll find the kid's blood in the back seat. You're going inside. Again. For a long fucking time.'

'I'm sick…you can't…'

'You're a maggot. A maggot down for Rape One. Of a child. With force and violence. And you're a two-time loser. So it's the Bitch for you. Habitual Offender. That's a life top in this state. But look at the good side: they don't do therapy on lifers. You'll be all alone in your cell, and you can paint your freak pictures in your mind all you want. You're done.'

'You can't tell! I know all about it. You can't tell— you'll lose your license.'

'Hey, Roger. I'll never tell. But if some smart cop decides to look for that other car of yours, that's just the breaks, huh?'

He came across the table then, reaching for my throat. I jammed the stiffened fingers of my right hand into his diaphragm, shifted my hands to the back of his neck as the breath shot out his mouth, snapped his face hard into the top of the table. By the time I felt the young lawyer's hands reaching around my chest to pull me off I was done.

I was faster then. Smarter now.

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

'GET 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.'