Andrew Vachss - Choice of Evil

Friday’s telephone message to the target was simplicity itself:

If the proof you requested is sufficiently satisfactory to you and you wish to proceed with negotiations, please so indicate by replacing *red* as previously instructed with *yellow*. It is not, repeat *not* necessary that the material be similar, only the location.

That evening, Zoë became agitated, claiming that I had not been listening to her. No explanation would satisfy the child. In truth, I was at a loss for such explanation myself, vainly attempting to fill in the apparent gaps in our conversation in confabulatory fashion. I remembered a phrase from one of the TV shows Zoë and I had watched together, some trendy serial about “relationships” she said she had not been allowed to watch at home but had heard about from her friends at school. I told her, “My mind must have been somewhere else.”

The child came over to the chair where I had been slumped—itself somewhat remarkable, as I pride myself on my correct posture—and said, “I know.” Then she shyly kissed my cheek. It may surprise you to learn that this was not such an unusual event during the term of my career. Children, once their survival instincts have been activated, often attempt to curry favor with captors. However, there was none of that quality about this child’s conduct. While puzzling, it posed no danger to the operation, so I resolved to consider it post-completion, a time always more conducive to contemplation.

Saturday morning brought with it the next phase. Again, assumption-upon-assumption: (1) the target had, in fact, placed the red material on the flagpole; (2) the target had, in fact, received the video of the child; (3) the target had, in fact, decided to open negotiations and had so signified by replacing the requisite marker as directed.

The latter assumption is not, as the amateur might assume, auto-warranted. On several occasions, I have encountered parents who simply refused to negotiate—whether in blind obedience to police instructions or because the child’s return was not desired, I have no way of ascertaining to any degree of scientific certainty. While it would be possible to theorize that some negotiation offers would be rejected on the ground that the child him/herself was a participant rather than a victim—a not-uncommon occurrence among teenagers of the ultra-wealthy class—I avoid this by capturing only children too immature to concoct such a scheme. And, on one occasion, my research failed. It was impossible to convince the child’s father—a notorious drug-lord of foreign ethnicity—that I was not the representative of a rival gang but an independent entrepreneur. As a result, no money changed hands. I consider such an attempt imperfect, but a learning experience. Nevertheless, I had assumed no risk of discovery, as the target insisted on his view of reality, attacking the rival gang with great ferocity. While Zoë’s father was himself a member of organized crime—indeed, if my information was accurate, the head of a continuing criminal enterprise—I was unconcerned about him misperceiving the facts. Kidnapping children of enemy gang leaders seems a cultural phenomenon—common among some groups, unheard of in others. As always with such groups, morality is not an issue (despite the wishful thinking of some screenwriters). Only tactics are of importance. There is a Darwinistic quality to establishment and maintenance of ongoing criminal-group activity, and media exposure is, eventually, antithetical to survival. So those “sources” so highly prized by newspaper reporters are rarely in possession of *working* knowledge. That is, they may know names, dates, places, and events. But they do not understand the interstitial tissue which binds the enterprise. Thus, their information may destroy a gang, but cannot be used to replicate one.

I have developed a pre-recorded menu which allows me to “converse” with targets without actually speaking. The target is presented with a series of questions and directions. The response determines which menu item I then select. The R&D component was rather lengthy, but I now have the system perfected, reducing not only risk of identification but the length of all conversations.

Therefore, with both assumptions and equipment in place, I dialed the target’s home.

“Hello?” A man’s voice, crisp with tension, but without that crackling underpinning of anxiety characteristic of most in his position.

I tapped a button on my console and the pre-recorded voice said: “You have the proof. Do you now understand that we have your child? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ *only*, please.”

“Yes.”

“Do you understand that your child is unharmed, and will remain unharmed if we conclude our business successfully?”

“Yes.”

“Are you prepared to pay for your child’s safe return?”

“Yes.”

“Have you notified the authorities?”

“No.”

“The price is seven hundred thousand dollars, U.S. currency. Confirm you understand: Seven hundred thousand dollars.”

“I under—I mean. . . yes.”

“By what date will you be prepared to pay?”

“Uh. . . give me, three, four days, okay?”

“The date you have selected is suitable. Now listen carefully. Do you have a method of electronic banking?”

“Yes.”

(It was well he answered as he did, as I knew the truth.)

“Can you place the money in an account subject to your *immediate* transfer authorization?”

“Yes.”

“During what hours can such transfers be effectuated?”

“Uh, what. . . twenty-four hours. I mean, anytime at all.”

(So the target was experienced in such matters. My guess was that he probably utilized one of those easily penetrated Cayman Islands bank accounts.)

“Friday. Nine-fifty-seven a.m. Have you marked that time?”

“Yes.”

“*Prior* to that time, you will dial up the account in which the money is placed. At nine-fifty-seven precisely, I will call. You are to recite the account number I read to you then and *immediately* authorize the transfer. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“We will know within approximately thirty-five seconds if you have complied. If you have done so, the child will be released within the hour, and returned to you by close of business the same day. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

I terminated the conversation.

It was always hard to tell when his transmissions ended. Every single time, I scrolled down until I hit a blank wall. I did it that time too. When the screen started to change colors, I was ready. I thought about trying to answer him myself—I had been watching Xyla each time and I thought I could do it—but there wasn’t any point if she’d already seen his stuff. And I couldn’t shake the thought that she had. His next toll didn’t ask for a fact from the past. I had to look at it a couple of times to make sure what he was asking:

>>Wesley. Me. Difference? One word<<

Time to see if I could find a button to push. “Send him this,” I told Xyla, and watched.

professional

come up on her screen.

If I had it figured right, my response would be a stake in his heart. But even if it was, I knew it wouldn’t kill him. Vampires I understood. What else is a child molester but a blood-bandit who breeds others of his tribe from his own venom? But this guy was way past that.

And I wondered if he’d keep playing by his own rules.

Back at my place, I sat down with Pansy to watch some TV. She used to love pro wrestling years ago, but now she hates it. I don’t understand why, but she’s real clear about it. Her favorite is this Japanese soap opera, Abarenbo Shogun. Maybe soap opera isn’t right, but I don’t know what else to call the damn thing. It takes place in eighteenth-century Edo, where the Shogun has a secret identity as the resident bodyguard for the boss of the firefighter brigade, and it’s all about him bringing truth and justice to his subjects. He does it with his sword, and the body count is even higher than the old Untouchables used to be. Every time, it ends with the Shogun revealing his true identity to the perps and ordering them to commit seppuku. They, quite reasonably, refuse and decide to fight it out. Fat fucking chance. The Shogun also has a pair of ninjas working for him, a young guy and a dazzlingly beautiful girl who looks like a geisha most of the time and only lets her hair down when she’s slashing and stabbing. The bad guys always retreat behind their hirelings, and the Shogun has to hack his way through to them. He faces off by cocking his sword to display the royal crest—the same flashy way movies show a guy jacking a round into the chamber—and starts his walk, complete with special theme music. The outcome is not in doubt. At the end, he orders his ninjas to finish off the main culprits. Pansy knows her TV.