Sacrifice

'I'm not talking about statutory rape, pal. Listen close— stand up to it now. I'm talking about black-glove, hand-over-the-mouth, knifepoint rape. Blood, not Vaseline. Pain. Screaming, life-scarring pain. A little boy ripped open, maybe one of your little boys…you like that picture?'

'Stop it! Stop it, you…'

I dragged deep on my cigarette, staying inside. 'That's what I want to do. That's what you've got to do. Help me.

'I…'

'You know. You know it happens. They did it to my client. A little boy. They split him open like a ripe melon— he's a basket case. And they videotaped it. A group. An organized group. Satanists, they call themselves, but we know what that's about, don't we, friend?'

'I don't deal with…' Sweat streaking his high forehead, tendons cabling his hands, veins like wires in his throat.

'I know you don't. You wouldn't do anything like that. Or your people. I know.' I spooled velvet over him, a cop telling a rapist he understands…those cunts, displaying themselves, wiggling like a bitch in heat, fucking asking for it, right? Men like us, we understand each other. 'But freaks like that, they have to be stopped. They bring heat, and heat brings light, you know what I'm saying? You know what I do. I've never made trouble for you, right? Help me.'

'How could I…?'

'The computer. They raped that little boy to make a commercial product. Not like your icons— not to remember a boy as he was— pictures to sell. The kid was a product, and they need a market. They'll be on the board somewhere. You could find them. Your friends could find them. That's all I want.'

'And…'

'And they'll never know. And if you should happen to slip, Wolfe will make sure you don't fall.'

He searched the pockets of his robe. Found a black silk handkerchief, patted his face dry, deciding. I waited, watching the dice tumble across the green felt in my mind.

Finally he looked up. 'Tell me what you know.'

159

Clarence slid over as I got behind the wheel. 'Where can I drop you?' I asked him.

'It's okay, 'home,' the Prof said. 'He'll come with me, ride the IRT.'

I looked over at Clarence. He nodded.

I dropped them on the East Side. Found a pay phone, called Wolfe.

160

In the front seat of Wolfe's Audi, parked on Kew Garden Hills Road, just past the cemetery. The Rottweiler was lying down on the back seat, bored with the conversation.

'Where's the switch for the recliner?' I asked her. 'I need to move this seat back.'

'It's over here. I'll release it…move back real slowly.'

'How come it's over there?'

'If there's somebody sitting where you sit, and they get stupid, I can pull this lever and the passenger seat falls straight back, into full recline.' She reached into the back, patted her dog. 'And there's Bruiser,' she said, quiet smile on her face.

I thought about being strapped in with a seat belt, lying face up like a man in a dental chair with a Rottweiler ready to pull teeth. Nice.

'I may have a way,' I said, lighting a cigarette, 'to find Luke's parents. I met a guy, years ago. A networked pedophile. Does the whole trip: he's a 'mentor' to little boys, guides them along the path of sexual awareness, keeps these photographic icons as a monument to the joy they shared. You know what I'm talking about— a child molester with intellectual cover. Pedophilia— the cutting edge of sexuality— the last taboo— you've heard it all. He's a child advocate, he says. Children are being restricted by the archaic laws, what good is the right to say 'no' without the freedom to say 'yes.' All that.'

'Like you said, I've heard it before.'

'Yeah. Well, anyway, he's doing something for a foreign government. I don't know any more about it. Bottom line: the feds wouldn't drop him even if he fell for one of their stings. I offered him immunity if the locals ever glom on to him. Told him you'd back it up. That you'd tell that to his lawyer when you get a call.'

'You told him what?'

'You heard what I said. It's a payoff Not for nothing. He turns up Luke's parents, he walks next time you pop him. If you ever do.'

'You know what you're asking me to do?'

'Yeah. Lie.'

Wolfe looked straight out through the windshield, tapping her long claws on the wheel. French manicure: clear nails, white tips. I watched her blouse move with her breathing.

'I can do that,' she said.

161

I wasn't going to rely on the freak. Even if I'd played him perfectly, even if he went for the outside fake, I couldn't be sure he wouldn't come up empty. Luke's parents could be anywhere. As close as Manhattan, as far away as Holland.