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“Did he ever mention any names of voodoo priests?”

Wanda shook her head. “No, no names. He was always careful about names. There’s a look on your face. How could what I have told you just now help you?”

“I think the less you know about that, the better, don’t you?”

She stared at me for a long time but finally nodded. “I guess so.”

“Is there any place . . .” I let it trail off. I was going to offer her a plane ticket or a bus ticket to anywhere. Anywhere where she wouldn’t have to sell herself. Anywhere where she could heal.

Maybe she read it in my face or my silence. She laughed, and it was a rich sound. Shouldn’t whores have cynical cackles?

“You are a social worker type after all. You want to save me, don’t you?”

“Is it terribly naive to offer you a ticket home or somewhere?”

She nodded. “Terribly. And why should you want to help me? You’re not a man. You don’t like women. Why should you offer to send me home?”

“Stupidity,” I said and stood.

“It’s not stupid.” She took my hand and squeezed it. “But it wouldn’t do any good. I’m a whore. Here at least I know the town, the people. I have regulars.” She released my hand and shrugged. “I get by.”

“With a little help from your friends,” I said.

She smiled, and it wasn’t happy. “Whores don’t have friends.”

“You don’t have to be a whore. Gaynor made you a whore, but you don’t have to stay one.”

There were tears trembling in her eyes for the third time that night. Hell, she wasn’t tough enough for the streets. No one was.

“Just call a taxi, okay. I don’t want to talk anymore.”

What could I do? I called a taxi. I told the driver the fare was in a wheelchair like Wanda told me to. She let Jean-Claude carry her back downstairs because I couldn’t do it. But she was very tight and still in his arms. We left her in her chair on the curb.

I watched until the taxi came and took her away. Jean-Claude stood beside me in the golden circle of light just in front of my apartment building. The warm light seemed to leech color from his skin.

“I must leave you now, ma petite. It has been very educational, but time grows short.”

“You’re going to go feed, aren’t you?”

“Does it show?”

“A little.”

“I should call you ma vérité, Anita. You always tell me the truth about myself.”

“Is that what vérité means? Truth?” I asked.

He nodded.

I felt bad. Itchy, grumpy, restless. I was mad at Harold Gaynor for victimizing Wanda. Mad at Wanda for allowing it. Angry with myself for not being able to do anything about it. I was pissed at the whole world tonight. I’d learned what Gaynor wanted me to do. And it didn’t help a damn bit.

“There will always be victims, Anita. Predators and prey, it is the way of the world.”

I glared up at him. “I thought you couldn’t read me anymore.”

“I cannot read your mind or your thoughts, only your face and what I know of you.”

I didn’t want to know that Jean-Claude knew me that well. That intimately. “Go away, Jean-Claude, just go away.”

“As you like, ma petite.” And just like that he was gone. A rush of wind, then nothing.

“Show-off,” I murmured. I was left standing in the dark, tasting the first edge of tears. Why did I want to cry over a whore whom I’d just met? Over the unfairness of the world in general?

Jean-Claude was right. There would always be prey and predator. And I had worked very hard to be one of the predators. I was the Executioner. So why were my sympathies always with the victims? And why did the despair in Wanda’s eyes make me hate Gaynor more than anything he’d ever done to me?

Why indeed?

26

THE PHONE RANG. I moved nothing but my eyes to glance at the bedside clock: 6:45 A.M. Shit. I lay there waiting, half drifted to sleep again when the answering machine picked up.

“It’s Dolph. We found another one. Call my pager . . .”

I scrambled for the phone, dropping the receiver in the process. “H’lo, Dolph. I’m here.”

“Late night?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Our friend has decided that single family homes are easy