Andrew Vachss - Choice of Evil

“Not necessarily. I only mean you hold the key. If you share your recipe with anyone else, they could certainly pass it along. But if you keep it to yourself, only you will know.”

“You know too.”

“I promise I shall never tell another living soul.”

“Swear?”

“Yes, child. I swear.”

“What should I call it?”

“Well, what about ‘Zoë’s Secret Recipe’?”

“No, I don’t like that. It’s not really a secret, it’s more like a. . . they *look* the same, right? As the regular ones?”

“Yes, they do.”

“So it would be a surprise? If you ate one and you didn’t know?”

“Absolutely.”

“Zoë’s Surprise,” the child said. “That’s what I’m going to call it.”

“Perfect,” I assured her.

True to her word, although the child insisted on playing checkers throughout the day, she never once complained about not winning. In between, she busied herself with drawing. Although she watched television programs when I did, she displayed no independent interest in the medium. Nor was she at all drawn to the video games, the first of my captives who resisted such temptation. She continued to be somewhat ceremonious about meals, but as it mollified her to be allowed to alter either content or presentation, I silently acquiesced to the point where it became the norm.

I observed her closely for signs of dissociation, especially as she displayed no anxiety whatever concerning the progress of reunification with her family. Some children segue into an altered state to cope with unbearable trauma and, despite my best efforts, children have reacted in such a manner occasionally. However, Zoë was fully oriented—albeit often preoccupied—at all times. And although her curiosity was, in general, boundless, it was all outwardly focused.

“I’m going to be gone when you get up tomorrow morning,” I told her. “I have to go out and check the newspapers, and pick up some of the things you wanted. But I have to leave quite early to do that, do you understand?”

“Yes. But can’t I—?”

“Zoë,” I said patiently, “it would be impossible to take you along. I already explained—”

“Not that. I just wanted to. . . Oh, never mind.”

“Wanted to. . . what, child?”

“Never *mind*!” she blurted out, stamping her foot. The first display of willfulness I had observed. I made a decision not to press her, and she soon returned to what I had come to understand was her normal affect.

In order to encourage her to go to sleep earlier than usual—I myself could not rest until she had achieved that state—I read her another story.

As soon as she was asleep, I disabled the computer, proofed the surroundings, and tested the restraints. Everything was in order.

I awoke at 4:00 a.m.—my wristwatch has a silent alarm which causes it to throb against my pulse. After showering and shaving, I selected an anonymous business suit and a well-used carry-on bag. But when I re-entered the main room to have a cup of tea before I left, Zoë was up and bustling about.

“Why are you up so early, child?” I asked her.

“Well, I had to make breakfast, didn’t I?”

“It’s too early for you to eat. Why don’t you go back to—?”

“Not me, you. You have to eat something before you go out. It’s important to always have something in your stomach.”

“Very well,” I told her, not wishing to cause her any distress when she would be alone for so long.

She made an omelet with several different ingredients. I didn’t watch her closely, preferring to be surprised. It was excellent, despite the pale color and altered texture.

“What did you put in this, Zoë?”

“Cream cheese and red peppers.”

“Well, you’ve done it again. This is quite astounding.”

“You won’t forget, will you?”

“Forget what?”

“What you’re going to get. When you’re out?”

“A deck of playing cards,” I told her. “And some fresh bread, if I can find it.”

“You *did* remember.”

“It wasn’t a very complex task,” I told her. “Why would you expect me to. . .”

“People forget stuff,” she said, dismissively.

“My memory is flawless,” I responded.

“I wasn’t. . . Never mind.”

Not wishing to evoke another tantrum, I did not pursue the matter. After testing the security of the restraints, I said goodbye to Zoë and left the hideout from the first floor.

The drive was uneventful, as I had hoped. The radio had nothing about the kidnapping, despite my enduring its repetitive blather for the entire trip. I was fortunate enough to locate a spot in the short-term parking lot, the advantage being the coin-operated meters as opposed to a human being who filled the same role in the larger lot. The rates were near-extortionate, but a full hour was permitted, so there was no risk of an identifying ticket from one of the uniformed drones eagerly circling awaiting just such an opportunity.

The young woman at the airport concession counter rang up my innocuous purchases: People magazine, a lurid-covered paperback book, a deck of playing cards, and, of course, USA Today. I made certain that, upon inquiry, she would not recall a man matching my “description” as having purchased only the newspaper. She pulled a receipt from the cash register and handed it to me along with my change, never making eye contact. I placed them in my carry-on bag, a round-trip ticket to a nearby city in my inside breast pocket against the unlikely chance of being asked to produce a reason for my presence.

The airport did, indeed, feature a bakery. I purchased three loaves of French bread, then made my way out of the terminal toward where a group of people had gathered to smoke. I had a pack of cigarettes in my pocket, opened with several missing, in preparation. It was not at all uncommon for ticketed passengers to wait outside until the last moment in order to ingest as much nicotine as possible in the fresh air (the contradiction apparently lost upon them) to fortify them for the coming deprivation. However, once certain I was not being shadowed, I simply proceeded across the various walkways until I reached my car. I left the airport as undetected as I had entered.

As an act of self-discipline, I did not examine the newspaper until I re-entered the basement. The child looked up when I entered, her artwork spread in front of her, classical music of some kind playing on the radio.

“Hi!” she said brightly.

“Hello, Zoë.”

“Did you get—?”

“Of course,” I assured her, pulling out the deck of cards and the French bread.

“No, I meant. . . did you get the paper?”

“Yes.”

“And did they—?”

“I don’t know yet,” I told her. “Let’s see.”

Apparently, the child took that statement as an invitation (although it was not so intended, I could not fault her for taking the words literally) and perched herself on the arm of the chair I was occupying as I searched for the appropriate section.

The response was there. Precisely as instructed. I pointed it out to Zoë.

“Does that mean they’ll buy me back?” she asked.

“It would appear so,” I replied. “But it may be a ploy of some kind.”

“What’s a ploy?”

“A ruse. A. . . trick.”

“Oh. How will you know?”

“There are stages to these operations. As we progress, the truth will emerge.”

“But you are going to ask them for money, right?”

“Certainly. That is the whole purpose.”

“Do you have a lot of money?”

“I. . . don’t know, child. I suppose that would depend on what ‘a lot’ means to you.”

“Do you have a million dollars?”

“Yes,” I told her truthfully. “I have considerably more than that, in fact.”