Sal grunted. “You’re talking about the Nazis.”
“I’m talking about human nature. That everyone has inside him-or herself the capacity for evil. Some people will never act on it, others will definitely act on it, and still others will act on it only if the right circumstances present themselves. They’ll make it twenty, thirty, forty years being a fine, upstanding citizen. But then the forty-first year…”
“How is that an encouraging thought?”
She shrugged. “Who said I was being encouraging? It’s a fact of life. And just because I’m about to become a mother, doesn’t mean I’m suddenly going to stick my head in the sand. The world is a hard place. People suck. Monsters do live under the bed—or, frankly, in Daddy’s room down the hall. But you know what?”
“If I kill myself now, it won’t hurt as much later?”
“There’s a corollary to the banality of evil, and that’s the banality of heroism.”
Sal groaned. “Please tell me you’re not talking Superman.”
“Actually, I’m talking the opposite of Superman. I’m talking about the Everyday Average Joe that one day, when the right circumstances present themselves, suddenly saves the day. The stranger on the subway platform who jumps down to assist the fallen commuter. The woman shopping in the store who not only notices the sad little girl, but calls the police. For every act of cruelty, there is an equal and opposing act of courage. That’s human nature, too.”
“Your mother and sister are murdered,” Sal said softly, “so you save the rest of the world?”
“I don’t need you to tell me my story, Sal. I know who I am.”
Sal flushed. His gaze returned to the storm, but his hands were fidgeting on his lap.
“I’m not quitting, Mac. It’s not what I do.”
“You just called me Mac.”
“I did not—” But then she caught herself, realized she had, and it was her turn to flush. She didn’t know what she was doing anymore. She should return to her room. She should do something.
But she remained where she was, sitting next to Sal, watching his hands fidget, feeling the darkness wash off him in waves.
And it occurred to her for the first time—the banality of evil. Was that what she was doing here? Waiting for the right circumstances to present themselves so she could do what she knew she shouldn’t do? Touch Sal’s face? Turn him toward her? Find his lips with her own because something in him called out to something in her? The hurt, or maybe it was the rage. The need, the deep, endless need because something had gone wrong long ago and there was nothing that could be done about it now but nurse the wound.
She wanted him. Or at least was drawn to him. It startled her. Scared her. She thought of another psychology paper she had analyzed in college. That most people didn’t require the cruelty of strangers to screw up their lives; most people were perfectly capable of doing it themselves.
Sal had turned. He was studying her, his eyes unreadable in the dark. She could feel his hunger, taut, restrained.
And then the lightning cracked, illuminating the small alcove with a flashing wink before casting them back into shadow. She saw his face, stark with physical need. And she heard her husband’s voice, telling her he would be home in the morning. The thunder boomed. Sal leaned forward. She tilted her head up.
“I’m sorry,” Kimberly whispered.
She got up, clenched her hands into fists, and quickly walked away.
Her room was dark when she opened the door. She fumbled for the light switch, flipped it, but nothing happened. She entered, closing the door behind her, starting to tremble now with the aftermath of what she’d nearly done, feeling supremely rattled. She was not that kind of woman. She did not do those kinds of things.
Goddammit, when had she become such a basket case?
She made her way to the bed, reaching for the bedside lamp when she suddenly heard a warning hiss and realized she was no longer alone.
Something significant, black, skittered across her bed. She reached instinctively for her shoulder holster, then remembered that she’d disarmed for dinner. She grabbed the lamp, throwing it at the racing form as she fell back, hitting the wall. She slid along its length until she banged into the desk at the opposite end of the room. Her fingers found the desk light, scrambling for the switch, while across the room, she once again heard the primitive hiss.
She snapped on the lamp in time to register two things at once: The world’s largest, scariest damn spider was reared back on its hind legs on her bedside pillow, waving its fangs. And a teenage boy sat calmly beside it, holding a gun.
“Who the fuck are you?” Kimberly exploded. Belatedly, she glanced at her field kit where she’d stashed her Glock .40. Eight steps away max. But she’d lose another minute unzipping the bag, reaching in, retrieving her semiautomatic…
Her gaze ping-ponged to the door instead. Ten steps away max, but then twisting the knob, yanking it open, getting all the way clear…
She returned her attention to the boy. He sat calmly, gun level, hands steady, still not saying a word.
She tried an experimental step forward. Moment she moved, the oversize tarantula reared back and hissed again. She stopped; it dropped back on all eight legs, waiting.
“Who are you?” she tried again, eyes on the spider, but head angled toward the boy. “What do you want?”
“His name is Diablo,” the boy supplied conversationally. “He’s a Theraphosa blondi—a species of tarantula from South America. Most tarantulas don’t have enough venom to harm humans. Their bites feel like nothing more than a bee sting. Not Diablo. He’s capable of ripping off your fingers, tearing the flesh from your hands. He hasn’t had dinner yet, and as you can tell, he’s a little pissed off about it.”
Kimberly’s hands dropped in front of her rounded belly. Field kit, she thought again. Quick dash, unzip the bag, reach inside for her weapon…No dice. Kid could pull the trigger of his gun in a split second. And the spider…She didn’t want to think about it.
“You’re the caller,” she ventured. “The one who had me listen to Veronica Jones’s tape.”
“I tried,” the boy said flatly. “I gave you a chance. You failed.”
“I’m here now. We can talk.”
The boy merely waved his gun. “I didn’t come to talk, lady. I came to graduate.”
Kimberly contemplated the door this time. If she could just inch to the side, get close enough…
“Does Dinchara know you’ve escaped?”
“Escaped? Lady, who the hell do you think sent me?”
She faltered, tried again: “He knows we’re here?”
“Everyone knows. You and your friends paradin’ all over town, flashing pictures. It was always only a matter of time. But that’s all right. Your visit simplifies things. Now I don’t have to hunt. We can cut straight to the main event.”
“Is that what you want? I know what’s going on. What he makes you do. It doesn’t have to be like that.” She inched forward half a step. The boy and tarantula didn’t react. She went for another step. “Dinchara picks up the prostitutes, doesn’t he? He brings them home, does terrible things to them. And you hear it, don’t you? Maybe you’re even in the room. Forced to listen and watch, but there’s nothing you can do. Then it’s over and he makes you clean up the mess. Plastic, paper, does he put anything down or does he prefer to make you do all the work?”
The boy was staring at her with a fascinated look. She’d gotten it right, or at least close enough. She was talking to him about all the things he was never allowed to mention, and that had him hooked.
“He drains the blood,” the boy murmured. “In a tub. Less mess, less weight, makes it easier for later.”
“He wraps them up, or do you do that?”
“Both. Body’s hard to manage, it takes two.”
“What does he prefer? Old bed linens, garbage bags, burlap? Or has he experimented around with it? The choices are endless.”
“Nylon. Fro
m the Army surplus store. Cheap, efficient. He likes things like that.”
“You help him carry the bodies to the truck.” She made it another inch.
The boy shrugged. “You do what you need to do. That’s how the game works. You make him happy and then he doesn’t hurt you so much.”
“How long have you been with him?”
“Too long to do anything differently now.”
“Is he your father?”
“My parents are dead.”
“He’s your guardian?”
“He’s the Burgerman,” the boy said mournfully, spider sitting beside him. “Grinding the naughty boys into dust.”
“It’s not your fault,” Kimberly said. She’d made it a foot closer to her field kit, her fingers wiggling impatiently at her side. “You’re obviously assisting him only under duress. Work with me now and I can make this stop. I can help you.”
But the boy’s face abruptly shut down. His mood shifted and it wasn’t in her favor. “I am making this stop,” the boy stated, raising the gun. “He’s already found a replacement. Time for me to go.”
“The younger boy. Did he kidnap him, too?”
“Stay still. I know what you’re doing. Just stop it, all right. Don’t move!”
“What’s your name? Tell me your name. Let me help you.”
“You don’t get it. I don’t have a name. He took it. He takes everything!” The boy’s voice was rising now, getting agitated. She forced herself to still, remain calm. The spider was playing with the base of the fallen lamp, allowing her to home in on the twitchy teen.
“What about Ginny Jones?” she asked, taking a shot in the dark, because both the boy and Ginny knew Dinchara, so it was reasonable to assume they also knew each other.
The boy blinked, appearing uncertain for the first time. “What about Ginny?”
Kimberly drew a deep breath, took another gamble: “What about Ginny’s baby? Aren’t you the father? Don’t you want a life with her someday?”
“That’s what she says.”
“Have you heard from her? Is she okay—”
“She’s outside. Waiting in the car to drive me away.”
“What?”
The boy burst out in a rush: “She chose you, you know. Read you took on some other killer guy, thought you might be able to work some magic. I told her she was crazy. All these years later, like some chick with a badge is really gonna make a difference. Guess it doesn’t matter anymore. You failed, so here I am. Me and my little friend, just like Al Pacino said. Ready to get the job done.”
“Please, Dinchara will never let either of you go. You help him dispose of the bodies. Ginny earns him cash. Why would he ever let you graduate?”
“He’s got a replacement—”
“A young kid! Too small to help haul a body.”
“We put them on litters. Drag ’em up. Boy’ll get tough soon enough.”
“All the way up Cooper Gap?” she asked incredulously.
The boy took the bait. “Cooper Gap? What the fuck are you talking about? We got our own network, above Blood Mountain and all the skippy little Cub Scouts. Dump a hooker, watch a little boy pee. Makes for a great day with the Burgerman.”
“It’s not your fault,” Kimberly said softly, urgently, three feet forward now, so close to her field kit, so damn close…“Surely you understand, it’s not your fault—”
“I just want to fucking graduate!” the boy screamed, suddenly sitting up. The commotion startled the tarantula. It reared, fangs arching. The boy turned, pointed his gun, and pulled the trigger.
The tarantula and the lamp exploded on the bed. Kimberly sprang forward, feeling bits of ceramic sting like shrapnel slicing into her skin. She made it three more steps, then the boy screeched: “DON’T MOVE!”
She was at her field bag, fingers on the zipper. But she forced her hands down, forced herself to take a deep breath, regard the boy calmly. He was bleeding, too, across his nose, on his cheek, his chin, his neck.
“Let me get you a towel—” she started.
“He did terrible things to me,” the boy said dully. “You have no idea. And then I did terrible things because I didn’t know what else to do. And it’s been so long now…I don’t even…I had parents once. At least I think I did…I am tired. I’m just…so tired.”
“Talk to me. Help me understand.”
“Ginny wants us to get married,” he said as if she’d never spoken. “She wants us to go away, have our baby, be a family. I don’t know what a family is.”
“We can make this happen. It’s not too late—”
“Do I get a job? Wear a tie? I never finished fourth grade. What kind of job does that get you? I know how to fuck, kidnap little kids, and kill hookers. Where’s that needed in the workforce? Find me that want ad—”
“You’re young, there’s still time—”
“She doesn’t know what I did. That’s all. She thinks Dinchara did it, but no, that would be too easy. He handed the gun to me. ‘Pull the trigger, boy. Don’t be an asshole. You know she’d run back to him if she could. Pull the goddamn trigger.’ So I did and then he was dead and it’s only a matter of time before she figures it out or Dinchara tells her just for kicks.”
“You shot Tommy Mark Evans.”
“I had to. You don’t understand. Practice, you see. So I could graduate. So I could finally be free.”
Blood had pooled on the gashes on his face. Now it began to slowly trickle down, like a trail of tears, as he raised the gun again, took careful aim.
Kimberly’s hand flew to her duffel bag, fingernails scrabbling frantically against the nylon surface. Goddammit, why’d she have to zip the bag? She was never gonna make it. The gun leveling, pointing…
She grabbed the bag, held it in front of her swollen belly, as if that would make a difference…
“I can’t be a daddy,” the boy whispered. “I can’t be around little kids. All I know how to do is destroy them.”
And then, in the next heartbeat, the gun turned, found his temple. Her voice, starting to scream. “Nooooooo!”
“Don’t let your baby ever meet someone like me. Don’t ever let it fall into the hands of the Burgerman.”
The boy pulled the trigger.
The shot deafened her. Or maybe it was her own desperate wail, trying to call it back, as the far side of the boy’s skull opened up, blew against the wall, rained gray matter across the bedside table.
She was still screaming when her father forced open the door, when Rainie and Sal bolted into the room, when the boy’s body finally fell with a silent thud against the carpet and she could see one sightless eye, staring at her accusingly, and she still didn’t know his name.
THIRTY-FOUR
THE WOMAN WHO USED TO BE MY MOTHER WAS WAITING where she said she’d be. She sat at a little wrought-iron table, outside a busy coffee shop. She had one leg crossed over the other, her hands clasped nervously on her knee.
I watched her from across the street, hidden in the shadows of a doorway. I kept telling myself to step forward. But my legs didn’t want to move yet. I stood, I watched, I felt something heavy and hard grow in my chest.
First time I called, she hung up on me. Second time, she accused me of playing a cruel prank. Then she’d started to cry and that upset me so much I hung up on her.
Third time, I composed myself better. I kept it simple. I had information on her missing son. I wanted to meet with her. I thought I could be of help.
I don’t know why I put it like that. Why I didn’t just say I was her little boy. I’d been snatched out of my own bed when I’d been too young to save myself. I’d spent the past ten years surviving unspeakable horrors. But I was old now. The Burgerman didn’t want me anymore. Maybe I could return home. Maybe I could go back to being her little boy.
I wanted to tell her these things. I wanted to see the smile I remembered from my sixth-birthday party, when she led me to the garage where there was a brand-new Huffy bike topped by
a big red bow. I wanted to watch her flip back her long dark hair the way she did when she leaned down to help me with my homework. I wanted to snuggle up with her on the sofa, my head against her shoulder as we watched Knight Rider on TV.
I wanted to be nine years old again. But I wasn’t.
I caught my reflection in the glass of the store window. My sunken eyes, hollowed-out cheekbones, overgrown shaggy hair. I looked like a hoodlum, the kind of kid shadowed by security officers at the mall, the kind of kid other parents didn’t trust hanging out with their son. I didn’t see my mother’s features imprinted onto my own; I saw the Burgerman.
Across the street, my mom was fidgeting restlessly, twisting a ring on her right hand over and over again. She kept glancing over her left shoulder as if waiting for me to appear.
All at once I got it. She wasn’t looking for me. She was checking in with someone else.
I followed her line of sight, and finally made out the uniformed officer, standing just around the corner from the coffee shop. He turned to frown at my mom, as if to warn her to settle down, and I saw his face.
I sucked in my breath.
These are the things that no one tells you, that you must experience in order to learn:
You never can go home again. A boy raised by wolves will someday only have wolf left inside him.
And a mother’s love can burn.
I arrived back at the apartment at 3:05 p.m. I remember because when I walked through the door, the first thing that I noticed was the clock hanging on the far wall. It read 3:05 and that struck me as funny. Such a normal time. Such a normal day. Such a normal afternoon.
For such an abnormality.
I didn’t take off my coat. I didn’t kick off my shoes. I had never crossed the street to my mother. Instead, I had headed to a pet store five blocks away. Now, I had a brown paper bag in one hand, a brand-new Louisville Slugger in the other. I left the apartment door wide open and strode straight into the Burgerman’s bedroom.