Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [6]
I made a gesture to Max and his hand vanished from the freak's neck. "You made a big mistake, Mark," I told him.
The freak looked at me. He tried to talk but his Adam's apple kept bobbing into his voice box. "Just calm down," I told him, "take it easy, Mark." It took a while before he could speak.
"Wh…what do you want?"
"What do I want, Mark? I want you to leave people alone. I want you to stop threatening their kids. I want you to stop getting your kicks by torturing people like you did this morning."
"Could I explain this to you…could I tell you about…?" he wanted to know.
"Mark, if you want to tell me you're a sick man and that you can't help yourself, I got no time to listen, okay?"
"No," he said, "I don't mean that. Just let me…"
"Or maybe you want to tell me how the bitch asked for it—or how she really enjoyed the whole thing—is that it, Mark?"
"Well, I just…"
"Because if that's it," I told him, leveling the pistol at his eyes, "I'm going to blow your slimy face all over this car, you understand?"
The freak didn't make a sound—I'd just used up his only two options and he couldn't think of another. I pulled the keys from the ignition and got out of the car, leaving him inside with Max. The trunk had two cartons of newspaper clippings about kids, plus an assortment of magazines that made Penthouse look like House & Garden—Bondage Beauties, Women in Chains, Leather & Discipline, all hand–job specials for long–distance rapists. I took the stuff out and piled it on the ground; then I got back in the car. The glove compartment had two canisters of the halfass "mace" they sell over the counter, a billy club, and a roll of Saran Wrap. A Saint Christopher's medal dangled from the rearview mirror. Still no surprises.
"Where do you work, Mark?" I asked him in a friendly tone.
"Con Edison. I'm an engineer. I've been with them for…"
"That's enough, Mark!" I said, jabbing him in the ribs with the silencer. "Just answer my questions, okay?"
"Sure," the freak said, "I just…"
I jabbed him again, harder than before. "Mark, you and me have got a problem, understand? My problem is how to stop you from doing this stuff again, okay? And your problem is how to get out of here alive. You got any good suggestions?"
The freak's words were tumbling all over themselves, trying to get to the surface. I guess he was better on the phone. "Look, I'll never…I mean, you don't have to worry…"
"Yeah, Mark, I have to worry. People paid me to worry, you understand what I'm saying?"
"Sure, sure. I didn't mean that. I'll never call her again, I swear."
"Yeah, that's right—you won't," I told him. "Now get out of the car, okay? Nice and slow."
He never tried to run. Max and I walked him back deep into the woods until I found what I was looking for—a flat stump where the Parks Department had chopped down a monster maple tree for some stupid reason.
"Mark, I want you to kneel down and put your hands on the tree—where I can see them."
"I…" the freak said, but it was a waste of effort. Max's clenched hand drove him to the earth. I let him kneel there as though I had all the time in the world.
"Mark, I notice you're all dressed in survival gear—it's real nice. When you drive yourself to the hospital, you tell them you were out in the woods fucking around and you fell and hurt yourself, okay?"
"Hurt myself?" he whined.
"Yeah, Mark, hurt yourself. Because that's just what you did today—you hurt yourself. You always hurt yourself when you try and fuck with people, right?"
"Please…please, don't. I can't stand pain. My doctor…"
I nodded to Max. I saw his foot flash in the morning light and I heard the crack—now the freak only had one thighbone that went from end to end. His face turned dead–white and vomit erupted from his mouth, but he never moved his hands. Even slime can learn.
"Every