Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [94]
“Did you—?”
“Wait, Burke. Please. The next day Goldor left on a plane for California. We have people there, he was followed. Some of us went to his house in Westchester but we found no sign of Luz. We thought she perhaps had been taken for sale too, but we knew he only sold children—so we assumed she was dead. Then our people in California told us that some of Goldor’s people were dealing in films—videotapes. Sex films, torture films. We arranged to buy all of the films, one of each, and they were sent here. When we viewed the films we were looking for clues to where they might have been made, thinking we might find a way to locate Lucecita. We found the answers and we swore by our blood that Goldor would die. There are some things one cannot say in any language. Some things you must see yourself.”
Pablo gestured to the shadows to bring the videotape monitor close to the table. I heard the sounds of a cassette being inserted, heard a switch flip, and the screen began to flicker. The overhead light went out. Sitting in the darkness, I saw:
A starkly lit room, all in black and white, with a shot of a longhaired woman seated on a straight chair in the center. The camera zoomed in and I saw the woman was held to the chair with a thick band around the waist and two more thinner ones crossing over her exposed breasts like bandoliers. She was naked except for a dark ribbon tied around her neck. The woman was saying something—biting off the words. There was no sound except for the hum of the machine and a slight tape hiss.
Suddenly she lunged forward, but the chair didn’t move. The camera panned down to the chair legs and you could see they were bolted to the floor, held down by metal brackets.
A man entered the frame, wearing a black executioner’s mask that extended down almost to his chest. He had a dog’s collar in one hand and a short three-lash whip in the other. The woman’s hands were free, and the man extended the dog collar to her. She spat on the extended hand, and the whip cut down across her exposed thighs. The woman leaped in the chair, bucking against her bonds, her soundless mouth wrenched open in pain.
The man approached again, holding out the dog collar. The woman flashed out her nails at him but he was too quick. He put down the collar and the whip and came closer, almost within striking distance. He was talking to her, using his hands in a be-reasonable gesture. The woman appeared to calm down, her eyes dropped to her waist.
The man came back to her with the dog collar. She shook her head no. He put it on the floor, shaking his head, then picked up the whip and came to her again. Another slash across her thighs, again she bucked and silently screamed. He tossed the whip aside and walked away from her, turning his back.
The screen flickered and I wondered if parts had been edited out. Then I saw the man close in on the woman until he was just beyond her reach. He crouched in front of her, like he was negotiating with a stubborn child, then gestured that he would set her free, pointing to something out of the camera’s view. The camera followed his hand to a leather-covered sawhorse, like carpenters use. He came over to the woman, unsnapped the bindings, and set her free. Again the sweeping gesture with his hand toward the sawhorse, like a headwaiter showing you to your table. The woman started in that direction, shaking her head to clear it—then suddenly the camera blurred as she tried to run. The man grabbed her by the hair and slammed her to the ground, driving a knee into her back—he punched her repeatedly with one black-gloved fist while holding her down with the other.
He stood up—legs spread, standing over her. His stomach moved in and out rapidly like he was breathing hard through the mask. He half-lugged, half-carried the woman back to the chair, positioned her in it like she was before and refastened the bindings. He stepped out of the picture, the camera zoomed in to