Andrew Vachss - Flood

“And you used to like pain, didn’t you? You can tell me. I understand. When you were younger, yes? You understand. You did wrong things and you were punished and you knew the truth and you felt better, didn’t you?”

Flood said yes again and kind of moaned, and I wondered if there was any way to shoot him with the lipstick so that he wouldn’t die and I could finish him off myself.

Goldor kept on. “Do you want me to help you? Help you get the things you want, be the woman you can be? A life, a life of truth and beauty and richness?”

“How? I mean, what do I-”

Goldor’s voice shifted pitch, got tighter and harder. “Go over to that table on your left, you see it?” Flood nodded that she did. “You’ll find something on it. I want you to bring it to me, Debbie. Bring it over here to me.”

Trancelike, Flood walked over to the table, bent and picked up something. She turned around and walked back to Goldor, holding a short whip with three separate lashes at the end. She bent forward slightly and handed the whip to him. He looked steadily at her, said, “Do you understand?” and she said, “Yes. The truth… to be free.” Goldor took the whip from her and climbed off the stool. He stood to one side, holding the stock of the whip in one hand and the tips of the lashes in the other. Flood stood there watching him, hands clasped just below her breasts.

“Now, Debbie, I want you to bend over, turn your head to the side and put your face on this cushion.” He indicated the bar stool.

“Can’t I…?”

“Debbie, you have to do this. I have explained it to you. I don’t want to think you didn’t understand.”

“But first… I mean, shouldn’t I…?”

“What?” The barest hint of impatience crept into that controlled voice.

Flood said, “Can’t I…?” and reached down and unsnapped the button to the bottle-green pants.

Goldor’s rich, dark-toned laugh boomed out. “Of course. Debbie, my child, you understand so beautifully. Yes-most appropriate. I’m so glad you do see.”

Goldor patiently held the whip as Flood hurriedly jerked the pants down over her hips, hooking her thumbs so that her panties came down with them. She started to walk over to the bar stool, stumbled, let out a nervous laugh, and bent to unzip the white boots. She pulled off the boots, climbed out of the pants, kicked everything away from her, and walked to the stool again. Goldor saw the fire-scar on her rump and grunted in surprise-then smiled with teeth so perfect and even that they must have been false or fully capped.

Flood bent over the stool, flexed each leg like a ballerina warming up, and Goldor let out a moan like a man with stomach cramps and stepped toward her, raising the whip to his shoulder. I heard the whistle of the whip in the dead quiet of the room-Flood’s right leg flashed in the orange light and I saw a whitish blur and heard a thump like a boxer’s fist slamming into the heavy bag and Goldor went flying backward. He hit the floor like a bag of wet garbage.

Flood spun with the momentum of her kick like a kid’s top gone berserk until she was almost on top of Goldor. Another spin and her foot shot into his throat, lifting his heavy body right off the ground. Then she whirled and ran over to me. She unsnapped the straps from the chair’s arms, crying and trying to talk at the same time.

“Burke, Burke, are you all right? Oh don’t be dead, Burke. Burke…”

“Flood… I’m okay. Just help me get up.”

She pulled me to my feet and we walked over to Goldor. Forget it. The maggot had finally found the truth. He was as dead as a junkie’s eyes. When I put my fingers to the side of his neck to be sure, there was no pulse, no breathing. I felt along his chest-three or four ribs on the right side were just plain gone, probably right through his lung. I felt his throat too but I couldn’t even find his Adam’s apple in the pulpy mess Flood had left.

I had my legs back, if not my stomach. We didn’t have much time. My watch said 9:22. Flood was out of it, still mumbling to herself-or to me, I couldn’t tell. I grabbed her shoulders, made her look at me. “Flood, listen to me. He’s gone. We can’t talk to him now. Take this,” I said, pulling a black silk handkerchief out of my pocket, “and go over everything we touched, understand? We weren’t here, got it?” She moved away like a robot, mechanically wiping every surface in the place. She was out of it. I told her to put on her clothes and stand there while I wiped things myself. I didn’t know how much time we’d have.

I ran through the house until I found the giant kitchen, grabbed a handful of cleaning fluids and some paper towels, and rushed back to the room with the orange lighting. I soaked the paper towels in the fluids, took out half a dozen cigarettes, lit them one by one, then put each burning butt inside a book of paper matches so that the fire would come in contact with the match heads when they burned down to the end. I loosely wrapped each little firebomb in the fluid-soaked paper towels, planting them all around the room. A final sprinkling of the fluid over the arms of the leather chair and the seat of the bar stool, a quick run to the kitchen to replace the fluid containers and wipe them down. I checked the room-Flood was still sitting there, a white-faced statue.

I pulled out my pocket flash and worked my way down to the basement. I knew I’d find what I needed down there… a complete set of barbells suspended over a stand used for bench presses. I wrapped the silk handkerchief around the heavy steel bar and carefully pried off the weights.

Back to the orange-lighted room. I dragged Goldor against one of the tapestry-covered walls, propped him up in a sitting position, took the steel bar in my hands, and swung from the heels, crushing his throat until his head was almost ready to fall off. Next I went to work on his chest and ribs until the skin broke open and his insides started to run onto the rug. When they did the autopsy the cops would tell the doctors about the steel bar-at least they wouldn’t be looking for a martial arts expert.

Flood just sat there, watching me, holding the white boots in one hand. I grabbed her other hand and dragged her to the front door, still wiping off surfaces we could have touched or brushed against. I opened the door and looked out into silent darkness. The floodlights were dead-the Mole had done his work. I could hear the crackle of the flames behind us. We were out of time.

I slipped out with Flood right behind me and quietly opened the doors to the Volvo, whispering to Flood to throw her boots inside and help me push the car from behind her door. I did the same with mine, holding onto the steering wheel with my right hand. The Volvo rolled smoothly down the paved driveway and into the street, and I hopped in when it was moving too fast for me to keep up. Flood did the same a second or so after me. I slipped the stick into second gear, popped the clutch and it fired right up.

I crawled around the corner, took another turn, and flicked on the headlights, then drove out of the area heading north, piloting the Volvo like it belonged there, I hoped.

We passed other cars, but no cops. Route 95 was right where we’d left it. Flood started crying when we crossed into New Rochelle, looking straight ahead out the windshield with tears rolling down her face like she didn’t know they were there. I kept to the exact change lanes through New Rochelle, hooked the Hutchinson River Parkway and exited toward the Triboro. I didn’t say anything to Flood, letting her cry quietly in peace. It was too late for talking.

We were supposed to come away from this trip to the suburbs with an address for the Cobra. Instead we had netted one dead sadist, one homicide investigation, one possible arson rap, and a cold dead trail. By the time we neared Flood’s place I knew I was starting to recover from Goldor’s Taser attack-I could tell by the taste of blood in my mouth.