Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [27]
31
"GET UP, Lloyd." Virgil gripped the kid's shoulders, shook him gently.
The kid moaned, whimpering something, still half asleep. I wouldn't want his dreams. We let him use the bathroom, throw some cold water on his face. Not saying anything, letting him feel the pressure. When he came back to the main room, we had a straight chair set up. It wouldn't be light for a couple of hours. I sat directly across from the kid, within whispering distance. Virgil was a few feet away, sitting on an angle to us, something dark on his lap.
"Here's the way it works, Lloyd," I told him, neutral–voiced. Working it flexible: soft to hard, hard to soft. First the shell, then the center. "You and I have a talk. About all this stuff that's been going on. And you tell me the truth. You always tell me the truth. About everything. Every single time. You know why?"
"I told the truth, I…"
"You know why, Lloyd?" Shifting my voice a notch closer to hard. His eyes flicked up to mine, sulky. Dropped. "Because that's the way I'll know, see?" I said. "I find out you lied about one thing…any thing…then you're a liar, understand? And you didn't shoot those kids, did you?"
"No!"
"And that's the truth, isn't it?"
"Yes. I swear."
"Cross your heart and hope to die?"
"Yes!"
"Lloyd," I said, my voice laced with a tinge of sorrow, like it was out of my hands. "That's what you're doing, boy. Don't lie. Don't let me catch you in a lie. No matter what the truth is, tell it to me." I leaned forward. "Nothing's as bad as dying, Lloyd. Anything else, me and Virgil, we could fix it. But don't lie."
"I…won't."
I leaned back, lit a smoke, nodding my head to seal the deal. He didn't ask for one. Virgil didn't move.
"You got friends at school?"
"Yes. I mean, maybe…not really. Friends. I mean, guys I talk to but…"
"But you work alone?"
"At the store?"
"No, Lloyd. When you go out at night. You walk by yourself?"
"Sometimes…"
"You look in windows?"
"I'm sorry…I'm sorry…"
"It's all right, Lloyd. I know about the windows. Nobody ever sees you, huh?"
"No."
"You do that at home too? Before you moved up here?"
"Just a couple of times."
"It's okay. Take it easy. You're telling the truth. Nothing to worry about. You ever take your rifle with you? When you go out walking?"
"No. I never did. I swear."
"You ever let them see you?"
"Who?"
"The women. The women in the windows."
"No. I wouldn't want…"
"You ever take it out, play with it…while you watch?"
"Nooo. No. I just wanted to…see them…see what they look like…just…"
"Okay. You were scared…when you went out walking?"
"Not…scared. Like, uh…nervous, you know?"
"I know." Shifting gears—same highway. "Those magazines. The ones the cops found in your room. Where'd you get them?"
"I sent away for them."
"What kind of magazines were they?"
"About…women. I…"
"There's more of 'em over in the corner—found 'em down in the basement." Virgil's voice. Like saying the milk was in the refrigerator. "You want to see them?"
"Yeah."
He got up, came back with a foot–high stack, bound with twine. Dropped it on the floor next to my chair, pulled at the cord. A knot unraveled.
"Lloyd know these were here?" I asked him.
"Yeah. Never touched them either," he said, answering my next question.
I shone my pocket flash on the first one. "Beauty in Chains." Women bound, gagged, blindfolded. In street clothes, some half dressed, some nude. Bent over chairs, standing on tiptoe, hands suspended over their heads, hog–tied. Helpless. Ropes, straps, handcuffs. They were all like that. All the same. Some had the covers pulled off. A few had pages ripped out. Not neatly cut. Jagged edges. Torn.
"How much did these cost?" I asked