Макс Коллинз - No One Will Hear You

“Swell,” Anna said, standing with arms crossed. “We’ve just narrowed our suspect pool to every breathing male in Los Angeles who ever hit on a pretty girl.”

That earned some weary smiles.

Pall, not smiling, said, “But our man had to stalk them — he’s cleaning out their bank accounts, so he’s only going after women he already knows have money. How does know?”

Jenny said, “From their accounts.”

“But how did he get in there in the first place?”

“By sending in the Trojan horse and getting their keystrokes and passwords — we’ve already got that.”

“You’re not seeing it,” Pall said. “Don Juan isn’t randomly e-mailing women, who turn out to have money. Nobody’s that lucky. So he’s starting somewhere.”

“With actresses,” Jenny said.

“Yes. And not every would-be actress has money — most are fairly broke, right?”

“Right,” Harrow said, beginning to get it.

Pall said, “If he’s going in the show-business door, maybe he’s an agent, or an acting teacher, or producer...”

“Or posing as one,” Chase said.

“So,” Pall said, “he must go through a number of women who don’t meet his financial standards. But how many does he have to go through to get to the ones with money?”

Anna said, “And who are they, and how were they contacted?”

Choi said, “If you can’t track the killer...”

“... track the victims,” Harrow said.

The late-night visits from the old man started not long after their mother abandoned them. His sister — only twelve at the time — had been the first made to pleasure the old man.

A year or so later, the boy also would receive the occasional nocturnal visit — the old man stuffing that thing into this place and that. If the boy gagged or protested, beatings followed. For several years, sister and brother took turns keeping the old man happy.

Finally a new awful ritual began — their father using one of them for his pleasure while the other one was made to watch. ‘Cause if you didn’t watch, somebody got slapped. Maybe the watcher, maybe the watched, which somehow was even worse than getting slapped yourself.

This had all happened a long time ago... ...but tonight he was back there again, back in that tiny, musty attic bedroom of his sister’s. He had long since learned a price was paid when he turned his head, so he watched intently in the darkened room, or anyway his eyes went in that direction though privately, secretly, he was making them blur, as the old man towered over his now sixteen-year-old sister .

That one time, she’d had the temerity to appear without panties, ready for him, having been completely cowed by the old man. That had been a mistake. Turned out, the panties were part of the ritual .

That night the old man had beaten her, severely, not to mention shouting at her that she was a slut and a common whore .

Ever since, they both made sure to play the game by the old man’s rules. That way it would be over sooner and with less pain, if no less shame .

So, while the boy sat in a straight-back wooden chair, his eyes blurred on the action, the old man forced his daughter to stand there facing her brother as father stood sideways and unbuttoned daughter’s blouse and moved in close to stroke her smooth, alabaster skin, nearly luminous with only the moonlight filtering through the flimsy curtains lighting their sins .

That was the only bad thing about the boy blurring his vision — it gave the acts a dreamy look, a kind of gauzy prettiness that wasn’t right .

Dreamy look, but nightmare sounds, smells. Even sitting across the room, the boy could smell that fetid breath — liquor, cigarettes, the very odor of the old man’s hollow existence... must be how Hell smelled. The boy’s sister knew not to protest and had learned to make her whimpers and ouches sound like she liked it though her eyes screamed otherwise .

Briefly, the boy thought about having another go at the old man, but fear overwhelmed him. Every time he had tried to stop their father, the boy ended up on his ass, blood running from his mouth or nose. Once, the old man had kicked him so hard in the ribs, the boy puked blood, continued coughing it up for days .

The old man was solid as a house and had a good fifty pounds on his son’s narrow ass. Knowing he couldn’t win the fight, the boy sat on the chair, willing himself not to cry, to try to show strength for his sister, his fists balled if impotent at his sides .

“Pretty,” the old man said in his scratchy voice .

Even in the moonlit room, the boy could see the old man’s paw tremble as he slowly pulled the girl’s panties down her long, white legs. Then the old man helped her out of them, before he sat her on the edge of the bed .

The old man just stood there, towering over her, not quite blocking her from the boy’s view. When she unzipped the fly, the scratchy sound of metal was like an echo of the old man’s terrible voice .

The boy, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood, watched as his sister did what she had to, as he himself had done so many times. He blurred his eyes more, more, more, till he was almost blind, but when he heard the bedsprings and then his sister’s sharp intake of breath, he could see it anyway, in his mind’s eye. He couldn’t blur that. He couldn’t make that go blind .

Looking down, the boy saw the cord for the cheap plastic lamp that was the only light the old man allowed in here .

“What you doin’ there, sonny? Eyes front!”

The boy’s eyes snapped back to his father hunkered over the girl, but as soon as the old man’s attention was back on what he was doing, the boy’s eyes returned to the cord. Just pull the plug and run over there and get the cord around the old man’s neck and then squeeze like a son of a bitch till the old man was dead...

“Boy! You ain’t watchin’, boy!”

“Sorry, sir,” the boy said. “I will, sir.”

When the old man returned to his business, the boy did not hesitate .

He swooped down, grabbed the cord and lamp in his hands and jerked them free from the wall. The old man had just started to back away from his victim, hearing something, when the boy looped the cord around his father’s neck and jumped on his back, pulling the cord taut .

The old man tumbled off the bed, taking his son with him, knocking the wind from the boy, who reflexively loosened his grip on the cord .

Like a wounded animal, the bare-assed old man rolled over, snatched up the cord and wrapped it around his son’s neck, yanking the ends tight, like the old bastard was tying his boots. The boy choked but made no sound .

The naked girl flew at her father, but he backhanded her and she smacked against the door frame with a sick squish and slid to the floor in a human puddle .

The boy tried to scream, but still no sound came out, precious air harder and harder to come by. His mouth just kept working, though nothing happened, no air able to enter, no sound able to emerge. He could feel his eyes bugging and as he clawed at the cord, he could feel himself scratching wounds in his own throat, trying to get one finger under the killing cord .

Sweat streamed down his forehead, into his eyes, burning them. Still, he could see the wild eyes of his killer, his own father, the perverted old bastard pressing down on him as he pulled like a madman on the ends of the cord .

The boy couldn’t inhale, yet still he could smell the old man’s foul breath welcoming him to Hell .