Choice of Evil

understand that we have your child? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ *only*, please.”

     “Yes.”

     “Do you understand that your child is unharmed, and will remain unharmed if we conclude our business successfully?”

     “Yes.”

     “Are you prepared to pay for your child’s safe return?”

     “Yes.”

     “Have you notified the authorities?”

     “No.”

     “The price is seven hundred thousand dollars, U.S. currency. Confirm you understand: Seven hundred thousand dollars.”

     “I under—I mean. . . yes.”

     “By what date will you be prepared to pay?”

     “Uh. . . give me, three, four days, okay?”

     “The date you have selected is suitable. Now listen carefully. Do you have a method of electronic banking?”

     “Yes.”

     (It was well he answered as he did, as I knew the truth.)

     “Can you place the money in an account subject to your *immediate* transfer authorization?”

     “Yes.”

     “During what hours can such transfers be effectuated?”

     “Uh, what. . . twenty-four hours. I mean, anytime at all.”

     (So the target was experienced in such matters. My guess was that he probably utilized one of those easily penetrated Cayman Islands bank accounts.)

     “Friday. Nine-fifty-seven a.m. Have you marked that time?”

     “Yes.”

     “*Prior* to that time, you will dial up the account in which the money is placed. At nine-fifty-seven precisely, I will call. You are to recite the account number I read to you then and *immediately* authorize the transfer. Do you understand?”

     “Yes.”

     “We will know within approximately thirty-five seconds if you have complied. If you have done so, the child will be released within the hour, and returned to you by close of business the same day. Do you understand?”

     “Yes.”

     I terminated the conversation.

It was always hard to tell when his transmissions ended. Every single time, I scrolled down until I hit a blank wall. I did it that time too. When the screen started to change colors, I was ready. I thought about trying to answer him myself—I had been watching Xyla each time and I thought I could do it—but there wasn’t any point if she’d already seen his stuff. And I couldn’t shake the thought that she had. His next toll didn’t ask for a fact from the past. I had to look at it a couple of times to make sure what he was asking:

>>Wesley. Me. Difference? One word<<

Time to see if I could find a button to push. “Send him this,” I told Xyla, and watched.

professional

come up on her screen.

If I had it figured right, my response would be a stake in his heart. But even if it was, I knew it wouldn’t kill him. Vampires I understood. What else is a child molester but a blood-bandit who breeds others of his tribe from his own venom? But this guy was way past that.

And I wondered if he’d keep playing by his own rules.

Back at my place, I sat down with Pansy to watch some TV. She used to love pro wrestling years ago, but now she hates it. I don’t understand why, but she’s real clear about it. Her favorite is this Japanese soap opera, Abarenbo Shogun. Maybe soap opera isn’t right, but I don’t know what else to call the damn thing. It takes place in eighteenth-century Edo, where the Shogun has a secret identity as the resident bodyguard for the boss of the firefighter brigade, and it’s all about him bringing truth and justice to his subjects. He does it with his sword, and the body count is even higher than the old Untouchables used to be. Every time, it ends with the Shogun revealing his true identity to the perps and ordering them to commit seppuku. They, quite reasonably, refuse and decide to fight it out. Fat fucking chance. The Shogun also has a pair of ninjas working for him, a young guy and a dazzlingly beautiful girl who looks like a geisha most of the time and only lets her hair down when she’s slashing and stabbing. The bad guys always retreat behind their hirelings, and the Shogun has to hack his way through to them. He faces off by cocking his sword to display the royal crest—the same flashy way movies show a guy jacking a round into the chamber—and starts his walk, complete with special theme music. The outcome is not in doubt. At the end, he orders his ninjas to finish off the main culprits. Pansy knows her TV.

Anyway, when I finally got cable here, I learned that there’s an all-news TV show too, just like the radio. I clicked it on. Another dead baby. Beaten to death. ACS wasn’t giving out any explanations, although it admitted the family was “known” to them. ACS: that’s “Administration for Children’s Services.” When I was a kid, they called it BCW. They’ve changed the name half a dozen times since then, usually after a bunch of babies die.

Even when they die, it doesn’t amount to much. I remember the last big media-play murder. Kid doesn’t show up for school for a whole year. Nobody even checks. Finally, they come around looking. Little girl’s not there. Turns out the mother’s boyfriend strangled her to death while the mother held the kid’s hands so she couldn’t struggle. Then they wrapped the body in plastic and duct tape and trucked it through the snow in a laundry cart to a Dumpster near a vacant lot. The DA offers the mother probation for her testimony, and she gets on the stand and tells it like it happened. The jury’s so full of hate for the DA letting her walk away, they convict the guy only of manslaughter, not murder, trying to divide the blame by sending a message. Same way the jury did with Lisa Steinberg’s killer—his girlfriend got a free pass from the DA too. Wolfe had that kind of case once. Only she took