Andrew Vachss - Safe House

“Depends on how much you weigh,” I told her.

She chuckled, a deep, chesty sound. Then stood up, turned her back and sat down, saying “Let’s see, okay?”

Crystal Beth was warm on my lap. Rounded and dense, heavier than she looked. Her hair smelled of rich tobacco and bitter oranges. Her solid thighs were across my knees, her bottom off to the side, crammed against the arm of the easy chair, right arm around my neck. The candle’s flame lit the tattoo along her right jaw, the arrow of her purpose still against her silence, poised and ready. She leaned back against me, closed her eyes, made a little sound I didn’t understand—I’d never heard it before.

“There’s only three women staying here now,” she said after a while. “One got an Order of Protection after her husband beat her too many times. It said he had to keep away from her. She stayed in the house. He came over one night and did it again. He tore up the Order of Protection. Then he made her eat it. Then he raped her. When the police came, it was too late.”

“Too late for what? They could still lock him up on her say-so.”

“He was educated. Somebody taught him. He beat her with an open palm against the top of her head. She thought her brain was going to fracture from the pain. He was wearing gloves. Doctor’s gloves. When he raped her, he wore a condom. And he had an iron-clad alibi. Four other men, all playing cards at one of their houses. He told her. About being educated. That was the word he used: ‘educated.’ And he told her it was going to happen again and again. Anytime he wanted.”

I rested my right hand on top of her thigh, balancing her weight, smelling her scent. Waiting.

“Another woman, she’s a young one. Do you know what ‘R and R’ is?”

“Military? Like Rest and Recreation?”

“Were you a soldier?” she asked, shifting her weight slightly.

“I was never in the army,” I told her, dodging the question.

“Ummm,” she said. Letting it hang there. Then: “It means something different now. To some . . . people. R and R, it stands for Rope and Rape.”

“Kidnappers?”

“Not the way you think. Not for ransom either. ‘Rope’ is Rohypnol. The ‘date-rape drug.’ A cute name for the Devil’s own brew, isn’t it? Rohypnol is a potent tranquilizer, ten times more powerful than Valium. And it has no taste. Slip it into a woman’s drink and she comes around a few hours later. While she’s down, you can do whatever you want.”

“Like a Mickey Finn . . . ?”

“No, not like chloral hydrate. It’s not knockout drops, it’s a paralytic agent. The victim is semi-conscious. When they come out of it, they know something happened, they just can’t be . . . sure.”

“And they can’t testify?”

“That’s right. It’s legal in Europe. They use it to pre-tranq a patient before major surgery. Supposed to work very well. But now it’s a big black-market drug over here. They sell it in the original packaging and everything. Little white pills, two to a pack. Clear plastic.”

“They got bathtub versions of that too,” I told her.

“Bathtub versions . . . ?

“Home brew,” I said. “GHB. Gamma hydroxybutyrate. There’s no legal version of it, like what you’re talking about. Any freak can mix it up. It’s got a lot of street names: Liquid X, Gook, Gamma 10 . . . It all works the same.”

“Oh,” she said, sad-quiet.

I tightened my hold on her waist, not asking her how she could describe the drug so accurately. Maybe not wanting to know. Feeling an old friend wrap its comforting cloak around my shoulders. It’s been with me almost as long as Fear, that friend.

Hate.

“There’s no defense against it,” she said quietly.

“Seems like there could be,” I told her, keeping my voice level. “It’s a chemical, right? So what you need is a reagent. Some other drug that would react with it, turn it a distinctive color. Like the DEA uses to field-test cocaine.”

“Oh God, that makes so much sense, ” she gasped, squirming in my lap. “Is that what you . . . really do?”

“You mean, am I a chemist?”

“No. I know you’re not. I mean . . . solve problems. Figure things out.”

“Some things,” I said, letting an undertone of warning into my voice.

“That’s what . . . Anyway, this young woman, the man who did it to her wasn’t a stranger, it was her boyfriend. Her ex-boyfriend. After they broke up. He talked her into having a last drink together. In a public bar. All she remembers is getting sick, him helping her out of there. When she came to, she was in his apartment. Naked. And it was hours later. She called the police too. But when they came, he told them they made love. Love, ” she said, her voice trembling with something I thought I recognized. Somebody had told her that same lie, once.

“So why is she hiding out?” I asked.

“Because he took her mind. She believes he can do it again. Maybe not with a drink . . . with food, or air particles. Or whatever. She’s quite . . . insane now. But she feels safe here. That’s why the doors are always closed downstairs. If she knew there was a man here, any man, she’d be sure you were with . . . him.”

“And the last woman?”

“You are a good listener,” she said, nuzzling against my neck. “The third woman isn’t really here. I mean, she’s been here, but she’s not here now. We have her someplace . . . else. And she doesn’t have one stalker, she has two.”

“Are they together?”

“One of them thinks so,” she said cryptically. “Do you know what a falconer is?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, then you’ll understand. Two stalkers. One’s a falcon, one’s a falconer, see?”

“No.”

“That’s all right,” she said, slipping her left hand inside my sweatshirt, short fingernails scraping my chest. Carefully, like she was drawing a map. “Do you think I’m a mystery?” she whispered.

“You’re a woman,” I said.

“What a careful man you are.” She chuckled. “And not very aggressive.”

“I’m a pussycat,” I assured her.

“A tomcat, more likely.”

“When I was young.”

“You’re not so old.”

“I want to get old,” I said, slipping the warning tone in again.

“So . . . you want to know why you’re here?”

“Yeah.”

“You want to know why you? Why I chose you?”

“Yeah.”

“And you want to get paid too.”

“Sure.”

She leaned close to my ear, speaking so softly I could barely make it out. “Do you like secrets?”

“No,” I told her, more harshly than I’d intended. Thinking of my childhood. Or what should have been my childhood.

“Not those kind of secrets,” she said, catching my thoughts from my tone, her voice still soft as gossamer. “Sweet secrets. Shared.”

“I don’t know about those kind,” I said.

“I’m going to tell you a secret,” Crystal Beth said. “Then I’ll show you one. And, if they come together, I’ll do both. All right?”

“First tell me,” I said.

“The last woman I told you about. The one with two stalkers? Well, one of them’s stalking me too.”

Ididn’t react, just let her nestle against me. Thinking how it’s always personal with some people. And how, every time I had let it be that way with me, somebody died. I felt the warmth of her cheek against mine, the woman-weight of her body . . . and reached for the comfort of the ice inside me. “An old boyfriend?” I asked her, wondering if I was being groomed as the replacement. And whose life it would cost to buy that ticket . . .

I haven’t played that game since I was a teenager, but I still remember how it felt. To be lying on the ground, bleeding, watching the fire-starter walk off with the guy I had fought, swinging her hips like she was slapping my face. The hardest lesson I ever had to learn was not to make the next girl pay for what the last one took.