Pain Management

“That’s when he asked me.”

“I know. But if he had asked you, during that weekend, you would have told him Rosa was around somewhere. Or in the bathroom. Or at the movies. Whatever you agreed on. Then you’d have called her, given her the heads-up, and she would have called home.”

“Why would you say—?”

“She needed you for a running start. Probably figured nobody would ever check—she seems like a very smart young lady, and she would have been planning this for a while. But she had a backup plan in case they did.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You mean I can’t prove it, don’t you, Jennifer? They’re not the same thing.”

“I’m not saying anything,” she said, folding her arms.

“Okay. Tell me about the crow girls, then.”

She narrowed her eyes, trying to read mine. Someday, she’d be even better than her father, but right now she wasn’t in his league. “What about them?” she finally said.

“Charles de Lint . . .”

“Yes, sure. I mean, everybody knows that. But what are you asking me?”

“How could I read about them?”

“The crow girls? Why, they’re in all . . . Wait!” She bounced off the bed, walked over to a short bookcase suspended over her computer terminal, pulled down a book, and handed it to me.

“Moonlight and Vines,” I read aloud. A different title from the one I’d gotten at the bookstore.

“There’s a separate story just about them—the crow girls—in there.”

“Thanks. I’ll bring it back to you.”

“Okay.”

“Well, Jennifer . . . thanks for taking the time to talk with me.”

“That’s all? I mean, you aren’t going to—?”

“No. There’s no reason for you to trust me. I was trying to think of a way I could convince you that I’d never do anything to hurt your friend. I just want to find her, make sure she’s all right. If she doesn’t want to come back home, I wouldn’t try to make her. But I see you’re not ready to believe me.”

She tried to polygraph my eyes again. Then asked, “Are you going to say anything about—?”

“Your phone relay system? No.”

She nodded slowly. “It was just for that weekend,” she said quietly. “The number is no good anymore.”

“No answer when you called the next week, Jennifer? Or was it disconnected?”

“How did you—? Oh. It was a pay phone. On the street. Whoever answered it told me that.”

“And the next time you tried it?”

“The next time, it was a different person. Just someone passing by in the street.”

“Thank you.”

“I want Rosa to be okay.”

“I know. Me too.”

“Will you tell me?”

“Tell you . . . what?”

“If you find her. If you find her and she won’t go back, would you let me know? First, before you . . . do anything?”

“I promise.”

“Be careful,” Jennifer’s father told me by way of goodbye. His son didn’t say anything; he was too busy cracking his knuckles and memorizing my face.

“What was that all about?” Kevin asked me on the way back to where I’d left my car.

“What do you mean?”

“That business with Dr. Dryslan at the end. He almost seemed to be . . . I don’t know . . . warning you or something.”

“He’s a father. Jennifer’s his daughter. You know how that goes.”

“Yes,” he said.

Maybe he convinced himself.

“I must go to work soon,” Gem said. She absently twirled a towel into a turban for her just- washed hair, oblivious as always of her own nudity.

“Tonight?”

“I do not mean for one night. Back to work. With Flacco and Gordo.”

“Ah.”

“Yes. In another few days, we must go.”

I didn’t say anything.

“You have no questions?” she said.

“No.”

“Not where I am going? Not when I will return?”

“No.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s none of my business.”

“So . . . where you go, what you do, when you would be back . . . that would be none of my business, yes?”

“Yes.”

“You are my husband.”

“Gem—”

“It is not for you to say; it is for me to say.”

“Is that right? How would you like it if some guy came up to you and said, ‘Hey, bitch, you’re my wife’?”

“It is not what I say,” she said calmly. “It is what happened. Between us.”

“But you just said—”

“Those are just words.”

“This isn’t making any sense.”

“That is your choice,” she said, walking out of the room.

I went back into the night, looking for a working girl working alone. When I finally spotted one, she was wearing orange hot pants, standing hip-shot in invitation.

Right next to the black Subaru parked at the curb.

I figured whoever was in the Subaru had her covered, but I could live with that. I nosed the Caddy alongside her, hit the power window switch with my left hand, and slid my right over the grip of the Beretta.

She stuck her face all the way into the car so that her heavy breasts draped over the sill, made a kissing sound at me.

“Where’ve you been, baby?”

“Looking for you,” I told her. Her hair was raven black, bowed out around her cheekbones and curving back sharply just past her chin. Couldn’t see much of her features in that light.

“Well, you found me. Now what do you want to do with me?”

“Talk.”

“I’m not out here to—”

“Talk for money,” I cut in quickly. “Buying your time, same as anyone else. Only you keep your clothes on.”

“But not my mouth shut. Sounds like a date to me.”

“I don’t care what you call—”

“Unlock the back door,” she said, suddenly.

I hit the switch, heard the distinctive thunk. She pulled herself out of the window. I heard the brief clacking of her stacked heels as she walked around to the back. The door opened as I turned to look behind me. She leaned in,