Andrew Vachss: Sacrifice

"Which means…?"

"What you do, what others like you do, it's love, right?"

He nodded, wary.

"You don't force kids. Don't hurt them…anything like that."

"As I told you. What is wrong with our behavior… all that is wrong with our behavior, is that it is against the law. We are hounded, persecuted. Some of us have been imprisoned, ruined by the witch-hunters. But we have always been here and we always will be. You didn't come here to engage in philosophical discourse…"

"No. Just to get things straight."

He got to his feet, turned his back on me. Tapped some keys rapidly on the computer, too fast for me to follow. He hit a final key with a concert pianist's flourish. The machine beeped. He got up, went back to his easy chair.

"You've been logged in. Physical description, time of arrival, your code name, everything. It's all been transmitted— the modem is open."

"I didn't come here to do anything to you."

"I'm sure."

"Listen to me," I said, leaning forward, keeping my voice low. "Can we not be stupid? I didn't come here to do anything to you. But don't confuse yourself— the Israelis aren't your pals. I don't know what you did for them, what you do for them…and I don't care. But all they are is a barrier. A threat. Like you think I am. Somebody drops you, they aren't going to get even. Understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes, quite well. You are saying if I don't give you information you want, you'll kill me."

"That's cute. You got enough for your tape recorder now? I'm not threatening you. Not with anything. I'm just trying to tell you something…and you should listen. Listen good…maybe you don't want this on tape."

He steepled his long fingers, regarding me over the top of the spire. I counted to twenty in my head before he moved a muscle. He got to his feet, languid movements, tapped into the computer again. Sat down, waiting.

"This is the truth, okay?" I told him. "You don't have friends in high places. Not true friends. What you are is an asset…something of value. Everybody protects what they value. You know that good as anyone. You have this valuable painting, okay? Somebody steals it, you try and buy it back. But if there's a fire, all you can do is collect on the insurance. The Israelis can't protect you unless it's the federales who pop you. They got no reach with the locals. What I have for you, it's another barrier. Something you can't get from your friends."

He raised his eyebrows, didn't say a word.

I reached in my pocket, handed him an orange piece of pasteboard, about the size of a business card. He turned it over, held it up.

Get Out of Jail Free.

"Is this your idea of a joke?"

"It's not a joke. You got a lawyer, right? Probably got a few of them. Have your lawyer go over to City-Wide, speak to Wolfe…you know who she is?"

"Yes."

"See if I'm telling the truth, then."

"I'd get…?"

"Immunity. Kiddie porn's the only way you're going down, right? The only risk you take. And you're not getting stung by Customs— you don't deal with people you don't know. Only way it's gonna happen, somebody drops a dime, City-Wide does the search."

"There is nothing here."

"You're looking at the big picture, pal. And that's a mistake. What you should be looking at is the frame, see?"

He took a breath. Small, cold eyes on mine. "You couldn't deliver," he said quietly. "We know about Wolfe. People have…talked to her before. She's not…amenable…to…whatever you propose."

"Have your lawyer talk to her again. Do it first, before you do anything for me, okay? I'll tell you what I want, tell you right now, in this room. Just listen— I guarantee you it won't be against you or your people. Give me a couple of days, have your lawyer go see her, all right? Nothing's changed, you don't have to do a thing. You decide, okay?"

He steepled his fingers again. I counted in my head. "Tell me what you want," he said.

158

I lit a smoke, centering. I'd only get one shot.

"We both know how it works, you and me. Child molesters…"

His thin lips parted— I held up my hand in a "stop!" gesture, going on before he could speak. "I'm not talking about your people now. There's people who molest children, right? I'm talking about rape. Sodomy. Hard, stick-it sex. It happens. Don't go weak on me now. I know what you do— I know what you told me. I could play it back for you, word for word. The kids you're involved with, it's love, right? There's always a consent— you wouldn't do a thing without it. I remember what you said…you're a mentor, a teacher. Not a rapist. I'm separating you now— listen good. Those people who say child sexual abuse is a myth— we know better, you and me. I'm not saying you do it— I'm saying it gets done. People do it, right?"

"Savages do it."

"Yes. Fathers rape their daughters, it's not a fantasy. Humans kill kids, make films of it, it's not a myth."

"And you think we're all the same, you think…"

"No," I said, eyes open and clear, calling on a childhood of treachery for the effortless lying that they made second nature to me before I was ten. "What you do, people could argue about it, but I know you love children. Maybe I don't agree with it, but I'm not a cop. It's not my job. It's the baby-rapers who make your life hell, isn't that true? You love children. You'd be as angry about torturing them as anybody else would. Even if the laws changed, even if they eliminated the age thing, made it so a kid could consent to sex, then they'd be like adults, right? And rape is rape."

"Society calls it rape when…"

"I'm not talking about statutory rape, pal. Listen close— stand up to it now. I'm talking about black-glove, hand-over-the-mouth, knifepoint rape. Blood, not Vaseline. Pain. Screaming, life-scarring pain. A little boy ripped open, maybe one of your little boys…you like that picture?"

"Stop it! Stop it, you…"

I dragged deep on my cigarette, staying inside. "That's what I want to do. That's what you've got to do. Help me.

"I…"

"You know. You know it happens. They did it to my client. A little boy. They split him open like a ripe melon— he's a basket case. And they videotaped it. A group. An organized group. Satanists, they call themselves, but we know what that's about, don't we, friend?"

"I don't deal with…" Sweat streaking his high forehead, tendons cabling his hands, veins like wires in his throat.

"I know you don't. You wouldn't do anything like that. Or your people. I know." I spooled velvet over him, a cop telling a rapist he understands… those cunts, displaying themselves, wiggling like a bitch in heat, fucking asking for it, right? Men like us, we understand each other. "But freaks like that, they have to be stopped. They bring heat, and heat brings light, you know what I'm saying? You know what I do. I've never made trouble for you, right? Help me."

"How could I…?"

"The computer. They raped that little boy to make a commercial product. Not like your icons— not to remember a boy as he was— pictures to sell. The kid was a product, and they need a market. They'll be on the board somewhere. You could find them. Your friends could find them. That's all I want."

"And…"

"And they'll never know. And if you should happen to slip, Wolfe will make sure you don't fall."

He searched the pockets of his robe. Found a black silk handkerchief, patted his face dry, deciding. I waited, watching the dice tumble across the green felt in my mind.

Finally he looked up. "Tell me what you know."

159

Clarence slid over as I got behind the wheel. "Where can I drop you?" I asked him.

"It's okay, 'home," the Prof said. "He'll come with me, ride the IRT."