“I know,” she said. Not ashamed, just stating a fact. “It didn’t work. It wasn’t my . . . purpose. But this is. This truly is.”
“This is a shelter too?”
“Yes. But not for battered women. Or prostitutes. Or runaways. It’s a safehouse from the Beast. From stalkers.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Maybe it’s just the degree, I’m not sure. But some men, no matter how ugly they were in the . . . relationship, when it’s over, they let it go. And some women, they aren’t afraid enough. Or they still think things can be fixed. I’m not a psychologist. I couldn’t give you a name for the difference. But we know it when we see it.”
“So where do I come in?” I finally asked her.
“It’s too dark in here now,” Crystal Beth said by way of reply. She stood up, walked over to the desk, took out a candle, held a match to the bottom until it was soft, then jammed it against the desktop and lit the wick. The flame was faint, but it bathed her in a red-yellow glow.
Then she studied me. Or my face, anyway. If it was a patience test, she was playing with a pro. I let her do it, not challenging, just waiting.
“You’re here because now I have one too,” she finally said.
“One what?”
She didn’t say anything more. I went back to waiting.
“You never stared at my body,” she said suddenly.
“What?”
“My body: My chest. My legs. My hips. You never stared. Not once.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.
“You don’t exactly . . . display yourself.”
“No, I don’t. But that wouldn’t matter. That only . . . frustrates some men, doesn’t it?”
“I guess so. What I don’t get is the point.”
“You’re not gay,” she said. A flat statement, not a question.
“If I was, I wouldn’t score any style points for not checking you out?”
“No, I don’t mean that. Gay men do that too. Especially your butt, for some reason.”
“Where are you going with this, Crystal Beth?”
“You like my name, don’t you? Most men don’t. They always call me ‘Crystal,’ like that’s easier for their tongues. Do you know why?”
“No.”
“Neither do I,” she said, getting to her feet. “You’re very into self-control, aren’t you?”
“I’m not saying.”
It got me the laugh I was playing for. “You don’t drink, right?” she asked. “Or take drugs?”
“No. Unless you count nicotine.”
“I’m not a hypocrite,” she said, nodding her head toward her own cigarette makings. “I know it’s a drug. But that’s not what I mean. About self-control. I’ll bet I could come and sit on your lap and we could talk. Just talk. Comfortable. What do you think?”
“Depends on how much you weigh,” I told her.
She chuckled, a deep, chesty sound. Then stood up, turned her back and sat down, saying “Let’s see, okay?”
Crystal Beth was warm on my lap. Rounded and dense, heavier than she looked. Her hair smelled of rich tobacco and bitter oranges. Her solid thighs were across my knees, her bottom off to the side, crammed against the arm of the easy chair, right arm around my neck. The candle’s flame lit the tattoo along her right jaw, the arrow of her purpose still against her silence, poised and ready. She leaned back against me, closed her eyes, made a little sound I didn’t understand—I’d never heard it before.
“There’s only three women staying here now,” she said after a while. “One got an Order of Protection after her husband beat her too many times. It said he had to keep away from her. She stayed in the house. He came over one night and did it again. He tore up the Order of Protection. Then he made her eat it. Then he raped her. When the police came, it was too late.”
“Too late for what? They could still lock him up on her say-so.”
“He was educated. Somebody taught him. He beat her with an open palm against the top of her head. She thought her brain was going to fracture from the pain. He was wearing gloves. Doctor’s gloves. When he raped her, he wore a condom. And he had an iron-clad alibi. Four other men, all playing cards at one of their houses. He told her. About being educated. That was the word he used: ‘educated.’ And he told her it was going to happen again and again. Anytime he wanted.”
I rested my right hand on top of her thigh, balancing her weight, smelling her scent. Waiting.
“Another woman, she’s a young one. Do you know what ‘R and R’ is?”
“Military? Like Rest and Recreation?”
“Were you a soldier?” she asked, shifting her weight slightly.
“I was never in the army,” I told her, dodging the question.
“Ummm,” she said. Letting it hang there. Then: “It means something different now. To some . . . people. R and R, it stands for Rope and Rape.”
“Kidnappers?”
“Not the way you think. Not for ransom either. ‘Rope’ is Rohypnol. The ‘date-rape drug.’ A cute name for the Devil’s own brew, isn’t it? Rohypnol is a potent tranquilizer, ten times more powerful than Valium. And it has no taste. Slip it into a woman’s drink and she comes around a few hours later. While she’s down, you can do whatever you want.”
“Like a Mickey Finn . . . ?”
“No, not like chloral hydrate. It’s not knockout drops, it’s a paralytic agent. The victim is semi-conscious. When they come out of it, they know
“And they can’t testify?”
“That’s right. It’s legal in Europe. They use it to pre-tranq a patient before major surgery. Supposed to work very well. But now it’s a big black-market drug over here. They sell it in the original packaging and everything. Little white pills, two to a pack. Clear plastic.”
“They got bathtub versions of that too,” I told her.
“Bathtub versions . . . ?
“Home brew,” I said. “GHB. Gamma hydroxybutyrate. There’s no legal version of it, like what you’re talking about. Any freak can mix it up. It’s got a lot of street names: Liquid X, Gook, Gamma 10 . . . It all works the same.”
“Oh,” she said, sad-quiet.
I tightened my hold on her waist, not asking her how she could describe the drug so accurately. Maybe not wanting to know. Feeling an old friend wrap its comforting cloak around my shoulders. It’s been with me almost as long as Fear, that friend.
Hate.
“There’s no defense against it,” she said quietly.
“Seems like there could be,” I told her, keeping my voice level. “It’s a chemical, right? So what you need is a reagent. Some other drug that would react with it, turn it a distinctive color. Like the DEA uses to field-test cocaine.”
“Oh God, that makes so much
“You mean, am I a chemist?”
