Missing You
Page 25
Patience.
For those who made the cut, well, it depended.
Louis Castman enjoyed inflicting pain. Titus did not. It wasn’t that violence bothered him—Titus could take it or leave it. He just always sought the most profitable avenue. Still Titus had followed Castman’s methods: You invite the girls to be photographed. You take some pictures—Castman actually had an eye for it—and then you attack them. Simple as that. You put a knife to her throat. You take away her phone and wallet. You cuff her to the bed. Sometimes you rape her.
You always drug her.
This would go on for days. One time, with a particularly beautiful strong-willed girl, they kept her like that for two full weeks.
The drugs were expensive—heroin was Titus’s favorite—but that was yet another business expense. Eventually, the girl would get hooked. It never took much time. Heroin was like that. You let the genie out of the bottle, it never got put back in. For Titus, that was usually enough. Louis, on the other hand, liked to film the rapes, set the girl up so it looked consensual, and then, just to remove any last shred of hope the girl had, he would threaten to send the tapes to their often religious, traditional parents.
In many ways, it was the perfect setup. You find girls who start out already scarred, already on the run, with bad daddy issues or maybe escaping abuse. They are, yes, wounded gazelles. You take those girls and then you strip away whatever else might be left. You hurt them. You make them afraid. You get them addicted to a drug. And then, when all hope is gone, you give them a savior.
You.
By the time he put them out on the street or into a higher-end brothel—Titus worked both—they would do anything to please him. A few ran back home—a business expense—but not too many. Two girls even managed to make their way to the police, but it was their word against his, with no evidence, and by then, they were crack (or heroin) whores and really, who believed them or cared?
That was all behind him now.
Right now, Titus was finishing up his afternoon walk. He enjoyed this time, out alone in the woods behind the barn, surrounded by the lush green of foliage and the deep blue of the sky. This surprised him. He’d been born in the Bronx, ten blocks north of Yankee Stadium. Growing up, his idea of outdoor space had been the fire escape. He knew only the hustle and noise of the city, believed that it was part of him, in his blood, that he had been not only fully acclimated to brick and mortar and concrete but could not live without it. Titus had been one of eight children living in a run-down two-bedroom walk-up on Jerome Avenue. It was impossible for him to remember a time when he was alone or could bask for more than a moment or two in silence. There was little tranquility in his life. It wasn’t a question of craving it or not. It was simply an unknown.
When he had first visited the farm, Titus thought there was no way he could survive the stillness. Now he had come to love the solitude.
He found his way into the smaller clearing, where Reynaldo, an overmuscled but loyal worker, kept guard. Reynaldo, who was playing fetch with his dog, nodded at Titus. Titus nodded back. The original Amish owner had built root cellars out here. A root cellar was merely a hole in the ground with a door as cover—an underground storage unit to help preserve food at cooler temperatures. They were virtually undetectable if you weren’t looking for them.
The property had fourteen of them.
He strolled past the pile of clothes. The bright yellow sundress was still on top.
“How is she?”
Reynaldo shrugged. “The usual.”
“Do you think she’s ready?”
It was a dumb question. Reynaldo wouldn’t know. He didn’t even bother responding. Six years ago, Titus had met Reynaldo in Queens. Reynaldo had been a skinny teen working the gay trade and getting beaten twice weekly. Titus realized that the kid wouldn’t survive more than another month. The only thing Reynaldo had resembling a family or friend was Bo, a stray Labrador retriever he’d found near the East River.
So Titus “saved” Reynaldo, gave him drugs and confidence, made him useful.
The relationship had started as yet another classic ruse, as with the girls. Reynaldo became his most obedient lackey and muscle. But something had changed over the years. Evolved, if you will. Strange as it might seem, Titus had feelings for Reynaldo. No, not like that.
He considered Reynaldo family.
“Bring her to me tonight,” Titus said. “Ten o’clock.”
“Late,” Reynaldo said.
“Yes. That a problem?”
“No. Not at all.”
Titus stared at the bright yellow sundress. “One more thing.”
Reynaldo waited.
“The pile of clothes. Burn them.”
Chapter 14
It was as though Park Avenue froze.
In Kat’s periphery, she could still see the students trudge by, still hear the occasional laugh and car horn, but all of it was suddenly so far away.
Kat held the picture in her hand. It was that shot of Jeff on the sand, the broken fence behind him, the waves crashing in the distance. Maybe it was the beach scene, but it now felt as though seashells were pressed against both her ears. Kat felt adrift, numbly holding the photograph of her old fiancé, staring at it as though it might suddenly explain everything to her.
Brandon stood. For a moment, she worried that he might sprint off, leaving her with this damn picture and too many questions. She reached out and grabbed his wrist. Just to make sure. Just to make sure that he didn’t vanish.
“You know him, right?” he asked.
“What the hell is going on, Brandon?”
“You’re a cop.”
“Right.”
“So before I reveal anything, you have to give me immunity or something.”
“What?”
“It’s why I didn’t tell you before. What I did. It’s like the Fifth Amendment or something. I don’t want to incriminate myself.”
“Coming to me,” Kat said. “It wasn’t a coincidence.”
“It wasn’t.”
“How did you find me?”
“That’s the part I’m not sure I should tell you,” he said. “I mean, the Fifth Amendment and all that.”
“Brandon?”
“What?”
“Cut the crap,” Kat said. “Tell me what the hell is going on. Tell me now.”
“Suppose,” he said slowly, “the way I found you. It was kind of, well, illegal.”
“I don’t care.”
“What?”
For those who made the cut, well, it depended.
Louis Castman enjoyed inflicting pain. Titus did not. It wasn’t that violence bothered him—Titus could take it or leave it. He just always sought the most profitable avenue. Still Titus had followed Castman’s methods: You invite the girls to be photographed. You take some pictures—Castman actually had an eye for it—and then you attack them. Simple as that. You put a knife to her throat. You take away her phone and wallet. You cuff her to the bed. Sometimes you rape her.
You always drug her.
This would go on for days. One time, with a particularly beautiful strong-willed girl, they kept her like that for two full weeks.
The drugs were expensive—heroin was Titus’s favorite—but that was yet another business expense. Eventually, the girl would get hooked. It never took much time. Heroin was like that. You let the genie out of the bottle, it never got put back in. For Titus, that was usually enough. Louis, on the other hand, liked to film the rapes, set the girl up so it looked consensual, and then, just to remove any last shred of hope the girl had, he would threaten to send the tapes to their often religious, traditional parents.
In many ways, it was the perfect setup. You find girls who start out already scarred, already on the run, with bad daddy issues or maybe escaping abuse. They are, yes, wounded gazelles. You take those girls and then you strip away whatever else might be left. You hurt them. You make them afraid. You get them addicted to a drug. And then, when all hope is gone, you give them a savior.
You.
By the time he put them out on the street or into a higher-end brothel—Titus worked both—they would do anything to please him. A few ran back home—a business expense—but not too many. Two girls even managed to make their way to the police, but it was their word against his, with no evidence, and by then, they were crack (or heroin) whores and really, who believed them or cared?
That was all behind him now.
Right now, Titus was finishing up his afternoon walk. He enjoyed this time, out alone in the woods behind the barn, surrounded by the lush green of foliage and the deep blue of the sky. This surprised him. He’d been born in the Bronx, ten blocks north of Yankee Stadium. Growing up, his idea of outdoor space had been the fire escape. He knew only the hustle and noise of the city, believed that it was part of him, in his blood, that he had been not only fully acclimated to brick and mortar and concrete but could not live without it. Titus had been one of eight children living in a run-down two-bedroom walk-up on Jerome Avenue. It was impossible for him to remember a time when he was alone or could bask for more than a moment or two in silence. There was little tranquility in his life. It wasn’t a question of craving it or not. It was simply an unknown.
When he had first visited the farm, Titus thought there was no way he could survive the stillness. Now he had come to love the solitude.
He found his way into the smaller clearing, where Reynaldo, an overmuscled but loyal worker, kept guard. Reynaldo, who was playing fetch with his dog, nodded at Titus. Titus nodded back. The original Amish owner had built root cellars out here. A root cellar was merely a hole in the ground with a door as cover—an underground storage unit to help preserve food at cooler temperatures. They were virtually undetectable if you weren’t looking for them.
The property had fourteen of them.
He strolled past the pile of clothes. The bright yellow sundress was still on top.
“How is she?”
Reynaldo shrugged. “The usual.”
“Do you think she’s ready?”
It was a dumb question. Reynaldo wouldn’t know. He didn’t even bother responding. Six years ago, Titus had met Reynaldo in Queens. Reynaldo had been a skinny teen working the gay trade and getting beaten twice weekly. Titus realized that the kid wouldn’t survive more than another month. The only thing Reynaldo had resembling a family or friend was Bo, a stray Labrador retriever he’d found near the East River.
So Titus “saved” Reynaldo, gave him drugs and confidence, made him useful.
The relationship had started as yet another classic ruse, as with the girls. Reynaldo became his most obedient lackey and muscle. But something had changed over the years. Evolved, if you will. Strange as it might seem, Titus had feelings for Reynaldo. No, not like that.
He considered Reynaldo family.
“Bring her to me tonight,” Titus said. “Ten o’clock.”
“Late,” Reynaldo said.
“Yes. That a problem?”
“No. Not at all.”
Titus stared at the bright yellow sundress. “One more thing.”
Reynaldo waited.
“The pile of clothes. Burn them.”
Chapter 14
It was as though Park Avenue froze.
In Kat’s periphery, she could still see the students trudge by, still hear the occasional laugh and car horn, but all of it was suddenly so far away.
Kat held the picture in her hand. It was that shot of Jeff on the sand, the broken fence behind him, the waves crashing in the distance. Maybe it was the beach scene, but it now felt as though seashells were pressed against both her ears. Kat felt adrift, numbly holding the photograph of her old fiancé, staring at it as though it might suddenly explain everything to her.
Brandon stood. For a moment, she worried that he might sprint off, leaving her with this damn picture and too many questions. She reached out and grabbed his wrist. Just to make sure. Just to make sure that he didn’t vanish.
“You know him, right?” he asked.
“What the hell is going on, Brandon?”
“You’re a cop.”
“Right.”
“So before I reveal anything, you have to give me immunity or something.”
“What?”
“It’s why I didn’t tell you before. What I did. It’s like the Fifth Amendment or something. I don’t want to incriminate myself.”
“Coming to me,” Kat said. “It wasn’t a coincidence.”
“It wasn’t.”
“How did you find me?”
“That’s the part I’m not sure I should tell you,” he said. “I mean, the Fifth Amendment and all that.”
“Brandon?”
“What?”
“Cut the crap,” Kat said. “Tell me what the hell is going on. Tell me now.”
“Suppose,” he said slowly, “the way I found you. It was kind of, well, illegal.”
“I don’t care.”
“What?”
