‘Again, the family often brings the client. Or, for a charge, we can take or fetch them ourselves, depending on the client’s condition,’
‘So who would do this?’
‘Buddy or more likely someone working for him. And a nurse or nurse’s aide, if needed.’
‘And nothing on Deshay, Louisiana?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Okay, thanks.’ She stood to go. ‘I understand there’s a party here this weekend for my ex-husband’s grandfather. Mr Power?’
‘Oh, yes. He’s a delight.’ Roselle Cross managed to say this without the barest hint of sarcasm. Claudia liked her better immediately.
Claudia paid a guilt trip to David’s Poppy, ready to shrug off blistering blame for making David unhappy if David had gained a spine and told his grandfather about their divorce. But luckily, Poppy was asleep, snoring in his bed with wild abandon, his mouth slack, lips pale with age. His roommate, watching a Spanish-language soap opera, turned up the volume higher and told Claudia in strident Spanish, ‘You live your life for all these years and then you got to worry about roommates. Roommates, like you’re in college. And me with a Purple Heart.’
Velvet awoke slowly. Clambering toward wakefulness required enormous effort; her limbs weighed like stone. The darkness around her was oceans deep, so dark that it was not an absence of light but light’s very opposite.
She breathed and fabric blocked her mouth and throat. Her tongue, dry as sand, wriggled against the plug and felt rough texture of cloth and masking tape.
She strained to move. Cords bound her wrists and ankles. In her confusion she remembered a silly flick she directed two years ago, Fit to Be Tied, and mostly, she and the cast laughed and giggled through the scene. They had found nothing enticing and erotic in bondage, lacking few restraints themselves. Pete starred in the movie and groggily she called for him, but the mouth plug turned her plea into an inarticulate moan.
She ached – her head, her jaw, her stomach – and she became aware that thick, dense silk covered her eyes. She could see no light creeping in around the blindfold’s edges.
Fear rose in her, sudden and sour as bile. She wrenched hard against the cords. They did not slacken.
She tried to remember where she had been.
Junior Deloache’s condo. After that numbnuts Whit ruled for suicide, Junior had invited her over for a drink. To calm down and think over the next move, he said. Like he was suddenly Pete’s advocate, the jerk, talking about the army of lawyers his father could command. But she had not wanted to be alone. She would have preferred having a glass of wine with Claudia Salazar, trying to persuade her to keep the case open somehow. A female friend, a tart in arms, would have been nice to have. She wanted to slap Whit; he had said he was on her side and God he was a liar. Kangaroo fucking court is what it was. But Junior was there, being kind.
Kindness had always mattered.
She remembered, coming out of the fog, a scream forming in her throat.
They’re at Junior’s condo, drinking whiskey. Anson’s not around, thank God. He gives her the shivers, creeping around in that wheelchair. Velvet gets quickly and angrily drunk. Junior paws her breasts and mutters about film speeds and money shots.
‘Let’s do a movie,’ he says. ‘Right now. C’mon.’
She shrugs off his hand and pours more bourbon, thinking he’ll be too drunk to get hard and too little to notice and suddenly he belts her, harder than she’s ever been hit before. She realizes she spoke her thought aloud. The world devolves into a spinning circle of stars, and she fights as Junior yanks down her jeans, rips her thong in half, pulls loose her sweater, snaps off her brassiere. The Sig’s still in her purse and she clambers toward it, but he punches her once, twice, and she’s lying on the carpet, stunned, bleeding. Through the foggy haze of pain she sees Junior setting up a camera, aiming it toward her, then shucking his Houston sports team clothes.
‘Gonna make a movie now, bitch,’ he says, ‘The working title is Fuck Velvet Hard. Already planning the sequel. Gonna call it Velvet Tells Me Where the Fucking Money Is.’
‘Stop it. Stop, Junior, this isn’t funny.’
He is erect and he jabs a button on the camcorder. ‘I’m not gonna get screwed over anymore. I’m a businessman. I’m gonna get to be in a fuck film, and I’m gonna get my money back.’
She stumbles to her feet, intent on getting that gun and shooting him, where’s her damned purse, but he hammers her again, his fist bouncing off the back of her head, and she falls to the floor. She pukes up the bourbon and…
Then what?
She breathed around the mouth plug. God, this wasn’t the movie, was it? Her head ached.
‘Junior?’ she tried to say.
… she hears the doorbell ring. Not the condo elevator door creaking open, not Anson wheeling back, but the other entrance, the stairs, and she hears Junior cuss softly.
A chair creaked, next to her. A finger, callused, ran along her cheek.
‘No, darling. Junior’s not here.’
She held herself very still.
The voice was low, a man’s, a little gravelly. ‘Would you like the gag removed, darling?’
She nodded.
‘You should understand – no one can hear you, but I won’t tolerate you screaming. At least not for now.’
A metal point inched down her leg. It stopped at her knee and pressed, gently.
‘Owww,’ she groaned.
‘If you scream, darling, we’ll get right down to my fun. I’ll dig open those tits and we’ll see if they’re real.’
Velvet held perfectly still, not even daring to breathe.
‘Nod once if you understand.’
She nodded.
The knife point left her knee. Gently the hands caressed her face. She heard a lock snap – Jesus, he has this thing locked on my face! – and the mouth plug was pried loose from her lips. A finger, wrapped around a damp cloth, cleaned out her mouth, dribbled welcome water over her tongue. She resisted the urge to bite down and take the finger off.
‘There you go, darling,’ the man said.
She wetted her lips with her tongue. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m your new lover.’
A sick chill goose-pimpled her skin. ‘Will you take off the blindfold?’
‘Not for a while. More fun this way.’
Fun. That word again. ‘Where am I?’
‘Heaven.’
‘Where’s Junior?’
‘Hell. Where he belongs.’
She offered a fake, soft laugh. ‘No, really.’
‘Junior isn’t going to bother you anymore. I took care of him for my sweet darling.’
‘Why am I here?’
‘I need you,’ he said.
Her tongue felt dry as dirt again. ‘Yeah, baby, I can sure understand that. We all need. Perfectly natural.’ She used her film voice, coy, trying to keep from shaking. ‘But I can’t give you what you need all tied up, baby.’
‘Quiet now,’ he said, brushing her hair with his fingertips.
‘I have a name, baby. Velvet.’
He hummed, low in his throat.
‘You untie Velvet, hon, you let me go, I’ll give you what you need.’
She felt a finger run along her naked breasts, her stomach, the cup of her navel. She suppressed a shudder.
‘What’s your name, honey?’ she asked.
She heard the chair shift. She could smell his breath, reeking of garlic and fried shrimp. He nibbled her ear and ran his tongue along its edge.
‘What’s your name?’ she tried again in a whisper, her voice cracking.
‘My name is Corey,’ he whispered back. ‘Corey Hubble.’
Then he climbed on top of her. She began to scream.
34
Whit drove, following Highway 35 as it snaked up the slow curve of the Texas coast, merging into Highway 288 north of Freeport, then sliding onto Interstate 10’s thick rope when he reached the sprawl of Houston. He crept through Houston’s never-ending rush-hour traffic and headed up toward the deep pine forests and shallow bayous of far East Texas. He could take I-10 to Beaumont and then 87 North to 1416, a farm-to-market road to the little town of Missatuck, where he suspected Kathy Breaux was waiting for Pete and her unexplained money.