Clockwork Redux

Chapter Three

There's something hard beneath the mat, a little raised bump under the arch of his foot.

He swoops down and claws it up. The key winks at him, a sly come-on. He snatches it and holds it up to the porch light.

Oh, thank you God for this idiot's stupidity.

He pushes it into the lock, and it catches the tumblers with a snick-click. Holding his breath, he twists it clockwise, and hears an agreeable 'chock'. He shoves the door open with the heel of his hand. It swings inward with a well-oiled sigh, and he follows it. Every muscle in his body is straining for the jump.

Nothing happens.

Nobody leaps at him when he places one skinny foot on the shag carpet. Nobody yells, "Who's there?!" when he eases the door shut behind him.

The place has that empty, abandoned feeling to it. Suspended animation. He stands there, up to his fucking ankles in carpet, and breathes the peace in and out. Strange to be somewhere totally without tension; odd to feel light and calm.

And then comes the scream. A woman's scream; a shrill howl that does not pass through his ears but splits his brain to the core. It slices through his head as white light goes through a prism, splitting into rainbow gibberish at the base of his skull. It is not the kind of sound you only hear; it rattles his teeth, shimmers the air in front of his eyes, prickles his skin with teeny eeny claws.

The woman pauses for breath. Her gurgling gasp is audible, even from the bottom of the stairs, half a world away. Her next effort is hoarse and scratchy, like a broken violin, but the words are clear:

"Do it-DO IT NOW YOU FUCKING BASTARD! I don't care....I don't even care anymore, I just want it to stop....IF YOU PUT IT IN MY MOUTH AGAIN I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL BITE IT CLEAN THROUGH THIS TIME, just make it quick, OH PLEASE! OH, CHRIST, YOU BETTER STOP THIS, MOTHERFUCKER...."

He takes the stairs slow, keeping his pace steady. Will she mention Taylor? Has he got the right abducted prostitute? This could get embarrassing.

"....Just please, please, listen to me-did your fuckin', I dunno, those fuckin' henchmen of yours-did they kill her? Did they hurt her? I hope they killed her...."

Interesting. He stops his measured, lion-paced slouch down the landing to listen to what she says next.

"....Because I know what you'da done to her if you got her alive. Did you? Did you-" an ugly, hopeless sob-"did you sell her? Are you gonna rent her out?"

A deep, rattling breath; a beat of silence; another attempt. A gloss of rationality over her woodwormed despair:

"Her name is Taylor. She's four years old. Big eyes. Huge. And she never lets on that she's scared or in pain. She likes those cheap red popsicles that you can get from the kiosk on Third Avenue. She likes going to the Laundromat and watching that Jokester cartoon on the TV. She's still a baby to me, she's my baby, and she's just like your kids. I know you got kids, Falcone, I saw their pictures downstairs. Will you please, please think like a human being for once and not hurt her?"

He's just outside the bedroom door. There's a crusted brown stain on the lintel. Even from here he can smell it: blood and semen and sweat; vomit and stale wine; that pheronomal woodland woman smell. His stomach flip-flops, queasy and quick.

"You're right outside." She has worn herself out. All that is left in her now is resignation; a bovine acceptance of the charnel-house. "Come on in already and finish it. Be a man and do it clean."

He twists the handle and walks in. The whore is naked on the bed. Her wrists and ankles are handcuffed to the bedposts. She stares at the ceiling, not wanting to see her death.