Free Blossom by Andrew Vachss Page A

genius with those things. She knows how to get inside, past the crash–codes…"
    "No!"
    "Sure, Roger. You're not making any money selling that flea–market crap, are you? Not
real
money. Like you said, you have to know what your customers want."
    He turned to the young lawyer. "Can he
do
this?"
    The young lawyer shrugged. "We're just trying to help."
    "This is all privileged, right?"
    "All privileged," the kid assured him.
    "If I did…uh,
share
with other collectors, that wouldn't prove anything."
    "Nothing at all," I told him. "In fact, it would explain a lot of things. Like how you really make a living. And how come you can make it through the night. We both know you guys never stop. Like you said, feelings don't hurt. Looking at pictures, that don't hurt either."
    "That's right. The pictures, they're an…
outlet,
you understand? A release valve. Those therapists, they don't understand the need. The drive. I'm my own therapist now. I can look at the pictures, fantasize in my mind." Watching my face. "And get off when I have to, when the drive pressures me. In the institution, they tried to take that away from us. Control our thoughts. Fascists. We had to look at the pictures and then they'd
shock
us. Blast us with electricity. It
hurt.
After a while, I couldn't even get a hard–on when I saw beautiful little pictures."
    He was crying, face in his hands. They taught him how to do that inside the walls too. I waited for it to stop.
    "It doesn't matter, Roger," I told him, voice low, soft–cored. "The rape went down at four forty–five in the afternoon. You were spotted just before two at the flea market. It's almost two hundred and fifty miles from there to Brooklyn. No way it could have been you."
    He looked up, tears streaking his face. I went on like I'd never stopped. "There's a two–twenty flight out of Keene, New Hampshire. Air New England. Flies to the Marine Air Terminal just past La Guardia. Five minutes from the BQE. Maybe another twenty, thirty minutes to Brooklyn."
    He went quiet. I felt the young lawyer stiffen behind me.
    "I drove my car up there," he said.
    "But you didn't drive it back, did you? One of your freak friends, another
collector,
he did that, right? Then maybe he flew to Boston, where he had another car waiting of his own. You guys trade these little favors, don't you? Like you trade the pictures?"
    "You're crazy! You think I raped some little girl in the back of a taxicab?"
    "I think you have two cars, Roger. There's the van you use for your business. The one you drove up to New Hampshire. And one you keep for prowling. You drive the car to the Marine Air Terminal, park it in the lot there, take a cab home. Then you drive the van to the flea market. Get yourself seen. Take the plane back here, hop in your car, and go to work."
    I lit another smoke. "The cops'll find the other car, Roger. They'll check the passenger manifest list for the airline. And they'll find your friend too. It won't be hard."
    "You can't tell them any of this. Attorney–client privilege. You said so."
    "There's something special about kids, isn't there, Roger? That soft, smooth skin. How they got no hair anywhere on their little bodies."
    "Shut up!"
    "They'll find that car, Roger. And they'll find the kid's blood in the back seat. You're going inside. Again. For a long fucking time."
    "I'm sick…you can't…"
    "You're a maggot. A maggot down for Rape One. Of a child. With force and violence. And you're a two–time loser. So it's the Bitch for you. Habitual Offender. That's a life top in this state. But look at the good side: they don't do therapy on lifers. You'll be all alone in your cell, and you can paint your freak pictures in your mind all you want. You're done."
    "You can't tell! I know all about it. You can't tell—you'll lose your license."
    "Hey, Roger.
I'll
never tell. But if some smart cop decides to look for that other car of yours, that's just the breaks, huh?"
    He came across the table then, reaching