Andrew Vachss: Sacrifice

"What is it, Fan?" She spotted me. "Oh, here you are. Right on time."

Sheba bounded over to her. Wolfe reached down, scratched behind the dog's ears. "Sheba, playroom! Go to the playroom." The dog trotted off.

"He's okay, Fan." Wolfe smiled. The Oriental woman inclined her head about an inch, put the gun away.

I followed Wolfe back into her office. It looked like it always does: paper all over the place, walls covered with charts and graphs, a computer terminal blinking in one corner. And a white orchid floating in a brandy snifter.

"Where's the beast?" I asked, looking into the corners.

"Bruiser? He's somewhere with Bruno. Everything work out?"

I sat down across from her, lit a smoke of my own. "He brought a kid with him this time. Left him there. When I took off, McGowan's boys were hitting the back door."

She nodded, picked up a phone, pushed a button. A doll-faced young redhead with a pugnacious jaw walked in fast, her spike heels tapping on the hard floor.

"The Kent case, you got the warrants ready?" Wolfe asked her.

"All set," the redhead replied, confident.

"He delivered a kid this afternoon."

"We'll pull him in tonight."

I shook my head slightly. Wolfe caught it, looked up at the redhead. "The warrants…you have tap and search?"

"Mail cover too," the redhead said. "The Task Force is on it."

She meant the FBI Pedophile Task Force. They're right down the road from City-Wide. Must be the freak was networked way past the storefront in Times Square— the one thing baby-rapers have in common is enough to link them all over the damn earth.

"Take him tomorrow," Wolfe said, watching my face. I nodded agreement. "At work," she continued. "But start the tap tonight. If he gets a call from the Times Square people, we'll have them hooked in. Execute the search tomorrow night."

"What if he runs tonight?"

"Then grab him. But don't do it unless there's hard evidence that he's fleeing the jurisdiction, you understand?"

"Sure."

The redhead walked out fast, covering ground, her pleated skirt flying around her knees.

Wolfe dragged on her cigarette. "That's the best I can do," she said.

"It's okay. Good enough. I don't think they'll call him…degenerates don't work like that. No loyalty."

"A lower class of criminal." She smiled. A lovely, elegant face, framed by glossy dark hair shot through with two wings of white.

Wolfe knew what I was. What I did.

"Sheba was good?" she asked.

"Perfect."

"She's perfect here too. Calms the kids down like no psychiatrist ever could."

"Where'd you get her?"

"You know what happens to Seeing Eye dogs? After they work about ten years, they retire them." A soft sneer in her voice. "So their owner won't have to deal with an older dog. You know, they slow up, they get sick easily…like that."

"Where do they go?"

"Into cages. That's where I found Sheba. Can you imagine what it must be like…to work all your life, be so loyal and true…and end up in a cage?"

"Just the last part."

She nodded.

A tall, slender woman came in, sat on the edge of Wolfe's desk, crossed her long legs. An ankle bracelet gleamed. She had a Cleopatra face, long, dark nails. Kept her eyes on me as she talked to Wolfe over her shoulder. "We can't use the shield on Mary Beth. The judge ruled she wasn't a vulnerable witness."

"What does Lily say?" Lily runs SAFE, a treatment center for abused kids, works as a consultant to Wolfe's crew. I've known her forever.

"It'll be close," the tall woman said. "You'll take a look?"

"Yeah." She turned to me. "Want to see?"

"Okay," I told Wolfe. Her beautiful pal acted like I was furniture.

We walked down the hall to the playroom, stood in the doorway. Lily was talking to a little girl. The child had pale white skin, lank blonde hair, thick glasses. She was listening intently to Lily when she looked up, spotted me. Her expression didn't change.

Sheba was standing next to the little girl. I moved a bit too close and she growled, taking a step forward. Our relationship was over.

An angry-looking man in a double-breasted silk suit shouldered his way past me into the room. He had longish dark hair, a thick neck, slight Mediterranean cast to his features.

"You heard?" he asked Wolfe.

"I heard. It's your case?"

"No, it's not my goddamned case. But I'm gonna be there. He wants to watch Mary Beth, okay, we'll see how he likes me watching him."

"Rocco…" A warning tone in her voice.

"I know, I know. But…"

Wolfe turned to Lily. "How're we doing?"

"We're doing just fine. Aren't we, Mary Beth?"

The little girl's "yes" was a whisper.

I knew what was going on. The judge had ruled the little girl would have to face the perpetrator in court, not testify over closed-circuit TV like they'd wanted. And she was scared. He'd watch her, his eyes warning her, reminding her. Maybe he'd lick his lips, make a little gesture that only she knew. Maybe she'd go mute from terror. Wouldn't act like a kid on TV. A jury of citizen-hypocrites would talk about how normal the defendant looked. And another child molester would be acquitted. Her little face turned slowly, watching everyone in the room.

I stepped back against the wall, feeling her terror radiate— I've been tuned to that station all my life.

I touched Wolfe's hand. Lightly. "Could I try something?" I asked.

"What?"

"She doesn't want to see him, right?"

Wolfe nodded. We all knew who "him" was. There's always a "him" in Mary Beth's kind of nightmares. Or a "her." Sometimes "them." Never a stranger.

Rocco pushed in between us, his nose inches from my face, hoping I'd take offense. "Who're you?"

"This is a private investigator, Rocco," Wolfe told him. "He's worked with me before."

"Private investigators work for whoever pays them."

"Rocco, come over here a minute." Lily's voice.

Lily took him over into a corner. The little girl patted Sheba, watching.

The tall woman stepped next to me, pinning me between her and Wolfe. Listening.

"It doesn't matter what he can see, right?" I asked. "It's what she can see.

"Right."

"What's the distance from the witness chair to the defense table?"

"I'm not sure," Wolfe said, looking past me to the tall woman. "You know, Lola?"

"I'll find out," she said, making some gesture at Rocco. "Wait in my office," Wolfe told me.

8

A chesty thug stepped across Wolfe's threshold. He looked half my height and twice my width, straps from a shoulder holster over his arms. And an annoyed-looking Rottweiler on a heavy chain in his hand.

"I remember you," he said. Some office Wolfe had: the women looked like fashion models, the men looked like a continuing criminal enterprise.

The Rottweiler snarled his acknowledgment— he remembered me too.

"I'm waiting for Wolfe."

"She let you in?"

"Yeah."

"Bruiser, stay!" he snapped at the dog, leaving me alone.

The Rottweiler watched me, praying I'd try to leave.

9

I was on my third smoke when Wolfe and Lola came back. Wolfe smacked the Rottweiler on top of his broad head. "Bruiser, place!"

The thickly muscled beast walked grudgingly over to a far corner, lay down on a slab of carpet. Pinned me with his eyes.

"He gets along with Sheba?" I asked her.

"Not really. They don't mix much. She has her space, Bruiser has his. Sheba, she's the whole Bureau's dog. Even sleeps here. But Bruiser's mine. Aren't you, Bruisey?"

The Rottweiler made a noise between a yawn and a growl.

"The distance between the witness chair and the defense table is about thirty feet, depending on the line of sight," she said. "Why'd you want to know?"