The twisted shit that stoked his engine couldn’t be found on television, not even satellite, but he was likely making do with what he could get, poor suffering bastard. I choked down the growl that threatened to push its way from my throat and closed the car door. This was business. If I kept that first and foremost in my mind, I might get through the next few hours without resorting to violence. Saul wouldn’t thank me for putting a source in the hospital . . . no matter how much he deserved it. As for paying his debt to society, ten years fell short . . . by about ninety or so.
Resting my hand on the hood of the car, I waited until the dizziness settled and then I headed for the front door. I plodded the ten feet and every step felt mired in the thickest mud. Michael hovered behind close enough to catch me if I fell, but I managed to avoid the embarrassment. Standing on the concrete blocks doubling as a poor man’s verandah, I raised my fist and knocked on the door. As we waited, I commanded, “Stick close while we’re in there. The guy’s a . . .” I stopped and reconsidered. Michael had had a psych course, true enough, but how in depth they would’ve covered child molestation I couldn’t begin to guess. And it was not a concept I particularly wanted to get into while standing on a pedophile’s porch. I settled on an evasive, “He’s a bad guy, and he likes to hurt kids. I want you to be careful, okay? Keep me between you and him at all times.”
Technically, Michael was probably too old for Vanderburgh, but he did look younger than seventeen. He had the self-possession and an intellect older than his years but the appearance and na?veté that could have him passing for fifteen, maybe even fourteen. Worse, he was beautiful. If anyone had said that to me when I was that age, I would’ve squirmed with outrage. Beautiful simply isn’t a word a guy wants applied to him. Good-looking. Hot, if it was a girl saying it . . . sure, no problem, but not beautiful. Unfortunately for Michael, that was the word that suited him the best. He’d outgrow it eventually. In a few years he’d be the model type I’d joked about when I’d cut my hair. But for now he was a young David, pure as shining white marble and incandescent as the sun.
“Why? I can take care of myself, Stefan,” he countered with an obstinate streak that was beginning to show more and more. “If I have to.”
Maybe he could and maybe he couldn’t. From what I’d seen this morning, he was in no hurry to hurt anyone, and that was all to the good in my book. It could be that might change when it came right down to the wire; I couldn’t say. Regardless, I wasn’t about to place him in a situation that required him to use an ability that he was so obviously ambivalent about; not if I could avoid it.
“Against assholes like this guy you shouldn’t have to,” I replied firmly before pounding on the door again. “So stick close.”
“Who is it?”
The wary question was easily heard through the cheap metal of the door. “Friends of Skoczinsky’s,” I answered. “We need a doctor.”
Silence. Then came a voice. “You have money?”
“I wouldn’t be standing here if I didn’t.” The jamb was scratched and the grain irregular beneath my hand, but it was enough to keep me upright. “Now hurry up and open the door before I give it a new puke paint job.”
There was the metallic chuckle of a lock tripping and the door opened, a rectangle of light in the dusk. Standing there in a dark blue robe over burgundy and white striped pajamas was Santa Claus. His pink scalp peeked through snow-white hair. His short beard was as curly as the cocker spaniel my mom had had before she died, and his eyes, half hidden behind bifocals, were the same limpid brown. Just how goddamn disturbing was this? Forget the better mousetrap; someone had built a better pervert. He was a malignant hook concealed in the bait of pudgy cheer.
Robe straining over the swell of belly, Vanderburgh looked me up and down. Full pink lips curved into a distasteful sneer. “You couldn’t have made yourself more presentable first?”
He had a lot of gall. He hadn’t wasted any spit and polish on the outside of his squalid shack, but he was bitching at me over some dried blood. I can’t say that I was much in the mood to hear it, whether it came directly from old St. Nick’s mouth or not. “And my money’s just as dirty as I am,” I drawled, “but I bet you’ll take it just the same.” Pushing past him without an invitation, I blinked. What he hadn’t wasted on the outside he’d run wild with on the inside. There wasn’t much space in the small living room, but what there was he’d filled with plush furniture, lamps of jeweled glass, and finely woven rugs that covered a dingy tile floor. The television was plasma and hung like a cherished painting in a place of honor on the far wall.
“Nice. I guess you don’t shoot all your cash into a vein.” I wanted nothing more than to sink onto that soft, soft sofa and sleep for days. But even if I’d trusted Vanderburgh enough to shut my eyes, it simply wasn’t in the cards.