Andrew Vachss - Choice of Evil

The abduction was simplicity itself. The child is the first to be picked up each morning by the bus from the private school she attends. Her nanny accompanies her to the end of the drive, where the bus stops each morning, but my observations indicated that the nanny (a young woman who may have been selected for other than her child-care abilities, but I acknowledge that to be mere speculation on my part, albeit consistent with the pattern displayed by the girl’s father in other dealings) was always bored and inattentive, often to the point where she did not even respond when the child spoke to her.

The private school is quite discreet. Their bus is virtually unmarked—a smallish vehicle, dark green in color, with the school’s name gilded subtly in Olde English script across the door panel.

The regular driver had answered the knock at his door earlier that morning. He saw. . . well, me: Dressed in a standard-issue government suit, carrying a well-traveled briefcase. He let me in without complaint, albeit with an air of victimized resignation. Had the school thoroughly vetted its employees, they would have known their driver had a prior conviction for child molestation. Actually, he had been allowed to plead guilty to a lesser, statutorily euphemized offense, but the facts were there for anyone with the will to search them out. The driver had long since completed his parole (and it was in another state entirely), but he had grown acculturated to answering the questions of white males who had a certain look about them.

That look comes easily to me: My features are both unremarkable and mobile.

The driver lived alone, in a small cottage owned by the school. Occupancy of the cottage and personal off-duty use of the bus apparently were intended to compensate for the inadequacy of his salary. . . barely past minimum wage.

The driver’s death would be discovered rather quickly. It was not, as you might imagine, a gratuitous homicide on my part. Functionally, it accomplished two things: (a) immobilization, guaranteeing that he would not give the alarm before my work was completed, and (b) demonstrable evidence that the kidnapper would, in fact, kill. The latter tends to add emphasis to negotiations.

I was well prepared with a cover story had the nanny questioned me, but none was necessary. The child ran toward the bus even as I approached, and the nanny turned her back and started toward the house before I had even opened the doors.

The child said, “Where’s Harry?” and I told her Harry was sick—I was the relief driver. I knew from my research that such an emergency-substitution system was in place, but I could not know if it had ever been utilized during the period of time the child had been attending the school. Still, she made no protest, and took her seat calmly.

Less than a quarter-mile from her house, I pulled over to the side of the road into a spot shielded by overgrowth. Within ninety seconds, the child was rendered unconscious—chloroform on a sterile handkerchief—and carried from the bus into the car I had waiting.

There was some degree of exposure during the fifteen-minute drive to the house I had prepared, but it was minimal. The child was sleeping in the trunk, I could easily explain my presence should there be any inquiry, and I expected to be invisible, with my captive totally secured, before any of the other children’s parents called to complain about the bus being late.

When the child awoke, it was near noon. Many children are frightened when they find themselves captured, but this one was quite stoic. I showed her the basement where she would remain, including the TV set (complete with video-game connectors), the private bathroom, the small refrigerator, and the convertible sofa. She nodded gravely as I explained she had been kidnapped; that it was like a game adults play. . . a game for money.

She appeared to understand (and to readily accept) the concept of extortion.

I told her that she was free to move around or do anything that she wished while I was present, but that when I had to leave—occasionally in order to complete the financial arrangements—I would have to restrain her. I showed her how the restraints worked, how comfortable they actually were, and how she could use the remote to work the television, and that she could easily reach the bathroom and refrigerator should she require either—I never expected to be gone for more than a very short time anyway.

I asked her if there was anything I could get her to make her stay easier. She wanted books. I had anticipated this—her school records indicated she was a scholarly child. But, of course, any individual shopping for children’s books in the next few days would have aroused suspicion. Especially a stranger. I was prepared: With over one hundred separate titles, all age-appropriate and of great variety. The child seemed absolutely delighted with the selection. I told her she could take all the books with her when I released her, expecting even greater happiness. However, she said she would not be allowed to have so many books.

When I asked her why that should be—after all, her life seemed filled with various—and, frankly, conspicuous—possessions, she just replied, “That’s what they say.”

“Who is ‘they’?” I asked her.

“Them.”

I did not press the point, preferring to establish as harmonious a relationship as possible.

The screen flickered, indicating he was done. I called Xyla in, and waited for the rest. It didn’t take long.

>>Mortay? Wesley’s work? Yes or No?<<

Was this maniac into myth-busting now? Mortay had been the reigning champ of the anything-goes death matches some degenerates were holding in a giant basement, but he couldn’t handle the whisper-stream saying Max could beat him. He put it all on the line. Threatened to kill Max’s baby to force a match. Right after he said that to me, one of his men was shot from a nearby rooftop. The real target was Mortay, but he’d moved faster than any human I’d ever seen, and the sniper picked off what was left. The sniper wasn’t Wesley. . . but that’s what everyone thought.

Mortay finally got dead. Although the cops couldn’t be certain-sure about it, the whisper-stream knew. After I’d shot him a bunch of times in that deserted construction-site excavation, I’d kicked a grenade into his mouth, folded his hands over his face, and pulled the pin.

In a way, that’s what started all this. I didn’t know until much later that Mortay was already on Wesley’s list. The freak was too out of control for the mob guys who paid him to make snuff videos—taking hookers right off the street for actresses—so they gave the work to Wesley. But before the ice-man could get it done, our crew had handled it ourselves. It cost Belle her life, and me my love.

If I’d known the maggot was on Wesley’s list, I would have just stepped aside and waited for the inevitable. But after the way it went down, the whisper-stream gave me the hit-man tag. A street brand that I could never shed, not in some places.

And then the stupid cafones who’d contracted with Wesley said they wouldn’t pay off, because he hadn’t done the job; I had.

That’s when Wesley started killing them all.

Was this guy asking me who was on the roof that night Mortay almost got smoked? Or was he trying to find out what kind of a man I was? Didn’t matter. No way I was going to have Xyla type El Cañonero’s name into her machine. He had been the only other pro sniper working the city then, but he wasn’t with me. He was a soldier for some Puerto Rican Independentistas, doing a job for me that night in exchange for something I would do for them. And I wasn’t going to say I did Mortay myself, either. So I played his question straight.