just to his left, a building with the smoothness of age and an air of discretion. Suddenly an older woman erupted from the beveled front doors and down the six stone steps, her arms flapping wildly, yelling her head off.
The woman looked like a domestic with bad taste, with her hair tinted a violent red, her fingernails lacquered orange, her dress a South Seas print in bright colors. Odd, but she wore old ladies’ shoes on her feet and her nylons were baggy around her knees. She was large, her face heavy, her brows thick across her forehead. She wore too much makeup. She was shrieking now, incoherent. Taylor registered all this in a moment; then he was running to her.
“I’m a police officer. What’s wrong?”
She tried to get her breath, eyeing him as if she couldn’t believe that a cop was standing right in front of her, then frowning as if she didn’t really want him there, as if this was her one chance at drama. He tightened his hold on her upper arms and shook her lightly. Another scream, thankfully, died in her mouth.
“Oh, Jesus, Jesus! My little girl, she’s up there bleeding to death!”
“Did you call an ambulance?”
The woman shook her head and her eyes rolled.
“Take me to her now.”
He had to shove her to get her moving. Several people hurried by them, heads down, eyes averted. It was, after all, New York. Something like this shouldn’t be happening in this neighborhood.
Taylor followed the woman up one flight of stairs, wide stairs in polished oak. Beautifully maintained. No filth, no Flatbush Avenue smells, just a dull rich scent of an expensive room spray. The stairs resounded beneath their steps, deep and full.
“Did your daughter cut herself? What happened? Why is she bleeding?”
The woman shook her head and turned down a wide immaculate corridor and shoved open a thick mahogany door.
“Ellie?” she shrieked. “Where are you, girl?”
Taylor heard a wispy cry. He pushed past the woman and ran through the long spacious living room into a hallway. He turned into the first room, and there she was, lying naked on a single bed, a girl of no more than fifteen. Her face was blotchy and swollen and there was blood smeared all over her legs and onto the white sheets. She was gasping for breath, and when she saw Taylor, she grabbed the sheet to cover herself and jerked back against the headboard. Her eyes were dilated with terror and swollen with pain and tears.
Taylor immediately stopped and smiled. “What happened? I’m Taylor and I’m a police officer and I won’t hurt you. Let me help you, okay? Tell me what happened?”
“Bandy poked it into me and he hurt me and now I’m bleeding like I’m going to die.”
“What’s your name?”
“Ellie.”
“Ellie,” he repeated, smiling. Rape, he thought. He saw a phone on the table by the bed. He smiled at the girl even as he moved toward the phone. “It’ll be all right. I’m going to call an ambulance. All right? No, don’t cry out. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She was frozen with fear but she didn’t make another sound. Her small face, if anything, got even paler. Taylor dialed 911 and ordered an ambulance, turning to see the woman standing in the doorway, wringing her hands, her eyes fastened on the girl. He asked her the address. He had to ask her again. Once done, he replaced the phone in its cradle.
“Now,” he said, smiling, “tell me about Bandy.” He leaned over her and gently pulled the sheet from her fingers. “No, I’m not going to hurt you, but I’ve got to see how much blood you’re losing. Please trust me, okay, Ellie?”
The girl nodded. “Bandy hurt me bad.”
“I know, I know. Now, let me see. Hold still.” Even as he said those words, even as he was pulling the bloodstained white sheet down her body, he was remembering that long-ago night in a Paris hospital emergency room. And he knew why Ellie was bleeding.
“Who’s Bandy?” he said again as he eased the sheet to her knees. Poor little tyke. He flinched at the sight of a man’s sperm mixed violently with so much blood, and the blood was still flowing out of her. “Don’t move, Ellie.” He turned to the woman. “Bring me four towels, quick!”
He lifted the girl’s hips and slid two pillows beneath her. When the woman silently handed him the towels, he pressed one of them against Ellie and covered her lower body with another. He sat down beside her, applying as much pressure as he could.
“Tell me about Bandy.”
“No!”
It was the woman, and now her face was flushed and she was shaking. “Bandy didn’t do anything, not a thing! This stupid girl, she came onto him and what was he to do?”
Oh, God, Taylor thought, that night in the Paris hospital so clear again in his brain, and then the Paris newspaper of several days later, telling how the girl, Lindsay Foxe, had seduced her brother-in-law—and then he hadn’t read anymore, but he still remembered what that doctor had told him. He’d boarded his plane and come home. He looked down at Ellie. Hell, this pathetic little scrap hadn’t cried out a thing, only her fear and her pain. He looked up at her and said again, “Tell me about Bandy, Ellie.” And to the woman when she opened her mouth, “Shut up. Go outside and bring the paramedics up when they get here. Go!”
“She’s a liar! Don’t believe a thing the ungrateful little slut says!”
Jesus, Taylor thought. He raised his right hand and gently touched his fingertips to the girl’s soft cheek. “It’s going to be all right now, Ellie.”
“Bandy’s my uncle, my mama’s brother. I’ve known him forever.”
Taylor nodded. He didn’t think he could have stood it if she’d said it had been her brother-in-law.
“Is this the first time he stuck himself inside you?”
The girl nodded. “He made me do things to him for a long time now, but he never stuck that fat thing of his in me until today. I didn’t want him to, but he made me. He made me bend over and he stuck it in me.”
“Where is he?”
“He ran off when Mama came back early. He left me.” Tears were seeping out of her eyes, falling into her mouth, choking her.
He felt the wet of her blood on his hand, soaked through the towel. He pulled it away, tossing it to the floor. He saw that the flow was still steady, cursed softly, and pressed another folded towel against her. “Just hold still, sweetheart. You’ll be fine in just a little while. I’ll get Uncle Bandy for you. I won’t let him get away with this.”
But Taylor knew in his heart that if she hadn’t hemorrhaged her mother would never have panicked and come tearing out of the apartment to find him, and the little girl’s rape would have gone unnoticed, unreported, and Uncle Bandy would probably have enjoyed her until she managed to escape from home.
When the paramedics arrived not five minutes later, a man and a woman, Taylor told them what had happened and showed them what he’d done.
“Good job, Lieutenant. Come on, Linda, let’s get this poor kid to the hospital. You’ll be along later, Lieutenant? The doctors will want to speak to you.”
“Yeah, I’ll be along. Take good care of her.” He smiled at the girl and said quietly, “Don’t worry. They’re going to treat you like you’re the president.” And added to the paramedics, “I want to nail the bastard who did this to her. Tell the doctors to be careful about how she’s examined. We’ll need sperm samples. You know the routine.”
He called Dorothy from a public phone and canceled out the evening. He heard her sigh, but she was game, and dutifully asked after the girl.
He took a taxi to Lenox Hill and strode into the emergency room. He could hear Ellie sobbing from the moment he walked into the long narrow room. And the memories flooded him. He unconsciously rubbed his left arm where the break had healed long ago.
He hadn’t been able to help Lindsay Foxe. He walked into the small cubicle without hesitation. A woman doctor was working on Ellie and she looked up, frowning.
“I’m Lieutenant Taylor. I found her. I was worried and heard her crying. Can I do anything?”
The doctor nodded. “Okay, Lieutenant. Talk to her. Tell her she’ll be fine.”
Taylor stroked Ellie’s face, pitching his voice low and soft. When she shuddered, he held her, never ceasing his meaningless words.
