Survivor: 1 (40 page)

Then a click. She'd hung up.

Rick sat trembling in rage. He'd recognized Mabel's
voice well enough. And Tim ... if Tim was dead or dying,
that meant-

No, he thought. She couldn't have escaped. She fucking couldn't have! They'd fucking drugged her! It was supposed to have been quick and easy, slice and dice and a
quick romp with Animal, and then the film was supposed to be in the can. He was supposed to have the
product no later than six tonight. Which meant-

Rick took a deep breath and composed himself. He'd
tried calling Tim on his cellular three times and he kept
getting Tim's voice mail. Rick didn't have a cellular number for Animal for security reasons, and Mabel wasn't answering her cell phone, which meant Rick had no idea
what the tuck was going on. It was well past two Pm.; the
film should have been done by now. Tim should have at
least called to tell him it was completed.

I have a feeling he lucked this one up, Rick thought, a
sense of dread settling in his system. Now what?

First things first. Contact the buyer. Tell him there's a
problem. Warn him. Then retrace your steps, make sure
you have no paper trail that will lead to Tim Murray. The
phone number Tim Murray had was listed under somebody else's name, some poor victim of identity theft. If
the cops did come poking around, they'd find that Rick
was calling somebody named Sergio Melendez from
Canoga Park. Since he'd only called Tim at that number
three times, he could easily plead that he kept forgetting
he was getting the wrong number. Easy. That was a lie that would hold up easy, since all three calls were made
within the past day.

The buyer was the hard part, though. Sam Bash had
arranged it. Sam was an old mainstay in the scene. He
knew Rick's dad from way back, and he arranged the
parties, private functions, slave auctions. The buyer knew
Sam through the scene. It had been Sam who had come
to Rick with the job, explained what the buyer wanted.
Rick had agreed. The money offered up front had been
twice the normal amount due to the risk. Rick had given
instructions to Sam, who'd made separate. arrangements
with Al and Tim. After the fuckup, Tim had called Sam,
who had called Rick immediately and told him, "You're
on your own. You don't know me, but the contact does.
He'll be in touch.'

A week later, the buyer had paged Rick. The number
Rick dialed rang to a pay phone. The client had been
pissed-he didn't give a fuck about what had been delivered. He wanted what he'd paid for. And if he didn't deliver ... well, he told Rick certain information Rick didn't
think anybody was privy to. That had gotten Rick royally
pissed.

He'd been tempted to send somebody after the buyer,
but Sam had assured him if he did that it would ricochet back. "Finish the job," Sam had advised. The buyer
will contact you with more information." This had
started Rick's plan in getting the Miller bitch, which had
led to this.

Rick would have to leave the house and contact the
buyer at a pay phone. First he had to make sure he wasn't
being watched. A couple of detectives had come poking
around yesterday and this morning, trying to dig up that
old second-degree-rape charge. That had stemmed from
an incident five years ago when Rick was brought up on
charges that he had filmed the sexual assault of a drunken college student at a Prat party. Cops never found
the tape-it had been quickly sold to a purveyor-but
the girl, despite her inebriation, had remembered Rick
and provided a description. And because Rick's father,
Boris, had been involved in the extreme hardcore scene,
it only stood to reason that he should get scrutinized by
law enforcement. Yeah, so what if he made a few legitimate pornos for the amateur market? Big deal! Well, it
was a big deal now. He'd always had to step carefully before in this business; he'd always assumed that law enforcement had heard of his involvement in the illegal
porn industry, which was why he always took pride in being as careful as possible. He had been careful in this latest job as well, employing the usual methods of setting
up multiple barriers between himself and his contacts.
But the customer obviously knew the ropes and was a
member of the scene himself, otherwise Sam wouldn't
have been involved. And he'd had the money too, in
cold, hard cash. What had surprised Rick had been the
customer's request of the victim. He'd actually given Rick
a name!

Rick leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes. That
had never happened before in all his years in the extreme hardcore industry. Usually when a purveyor of
hardcore commissioned a film, the only criteria they had
in the victims were age and race. Tim Murray had a
steady supply of potential victims from the circle he ran
in, kids who ran away from home and got into the hardcore scene for the money and shock value. Kids like that
wouldn't be too surprised to walk onto a hardcore S&M
set and see Animal in his leather bondage hood. Hell,
they always thought they were just in for a little rough
stuff for a few hundred bucks! What the fuck did they
know about the real world, where rich perverted pricks
got their rocks off watching cheap little whores get snuffed out? Tim always made sure to check into their
histories before making his selection. Sometimes he
even found his subjects on the streets. He'd pick them up,
show them some feigned kindness, buy them drugs,
food, give them some shelter. Tim had his fun with them
too, no problem with that; he liked his dick sucked as
much as the next guy. Once they passed the screen test,
and if Rick had a client who requested a particularly
bloody film, Tim was perfectly happy to pass them off.
And true to form, the cops never came looking for the
missing person in question. Why would they? Both Tim
and Rick were two and three steps removed from the victims. They protected their tracks expertly.

But this client .. , he was different. Sam had explained
what he wanted to Rick, and at first Rick hadn't liked it.
Too risky. Chick like that, a lawyer at a big firm, even if
you don't miss her the parents will go bugfuck looking
for her. But Sam had assured Rick in that smooth voice of
his that the buyer had been planning this for the past
year now. The buyer would make sure everything would
work like clockwork. He would even pay double Rick's
normal fee. That had aroused Rick's interest, and he had
quickly called Tim and discussed it with him. Tim had
agreed to the job after discussing the plan and, in turn,
Tim had contacted Al and Animal with the usual setup.
The first transaction was made through Sam. A second
transaction was made in the restroom of a Mexican
restaurant in Whittier, after Sam was out of the picture.
When Rick saw him for the first time, he'd relaxed; he'd
seen the guy at a few extreme hardcore parties in the
past dozen years or so. He was one of the quiet ones, one
of the purveyors of pain who enjoyed sitting back in the
shadows watching scenes of blood sports and torture.

So what had happened? Al had fucked up royally and the bitch had escaped. Tim had been freaked out, and
even Animal had been a little nervous. But at least they
had gotten the money they'd extorted out of her, and
Rick had earned some extra money. The tape of Animal
and the infant had fetched a nice price from a wealthy
pedophile in Seattle, and that had almost made up for
Al's fuckup. The client had been royally pissed, of course,
.and demanded they get the bitch back and do what he
had fucking paid them to do. During that first phone
conversation he'd had with him in a phone booth after
the fuckup, Rick had told the guy to fuck off-didn't he
see that they'd almost been caught? The numbfuck didn't
get it, and actually threatened to expose him. "I'll bring
you down, Rick. I'll fucking expose you, I've got shit on
you that'll have the DA on you so fast it'll make your balls
burst." Rick had responded accordingly. Oh yeah? What
about you? You commissioned the fucking film, you goddamn pervert motherfucker. It takes two to tango.

And the client ... that rich, smug, corporate bastard ... he'd tucking laughed. "You think the police are
going to believe you?You're a convicted criminal! Your father was a peddler of child pornography and bestiality
films! The cops know you make hardcore S&M films, that
the so-called mainstream stuff you do straddles the line.
They know you've produced child pom, that you've trafficked in other shit. You're a fucking convicted sex offender! You think they're going to believe you? You out of
your fucking mind?"

"Yeah? Big fucking deal! Tim will back me up, and so
will Animal and-"

And you'll squeal on them to get me busted? Listen to
yourself, you cheap bastard! Nobody's going to believe
you. You can't pin me to this. There are no records, no
witnesses, nothing! Nobody even knows we met. All of our phone calls were done at pay phones. We've had all
our meetings in public places, at restaurants in the fucking men's room. As far as the cops go, we don't exist. This
transaction doesn't exist. There's no way to tie us together
because, by the very nature of the product you produce,
you have to stay as far away from people like me as possible. Am I right?"

And Rick had nodded, wanting to reach out and wrap
his fingers around the man's neck and squeeze until he
couldn't see his knuckles. He'd had to restrain himself.
So he'd nodded, said he'd do his best, and the guy had
said, "Don't just do your best. Just do it. I'll give you a few
weeks to collect your bearings and I'll call with a new
plan. And don't even think about having somebody
come after me, either. If I go missing, or if I get hurt, I've
already made sure that the cops will find you and you'll
be fucked."

"Oh, and you're willing to disgrace your family? Is that
it?You gonna hurt your family's memory of you by exposing yourself for the perverted motherfucker you are?"

The client had laughed, and it was a laugh devoid of a
soul. "I won't give a shit, Rick. I'll be dead. Won't I?"

Rick stood up and retrieved his keys from the table in
the living room. He had to call the client. It was the least
he could do ... tip the client off to what was happening
and lay low. Well, Rick would make a few other calls to
New York, to a certain family he knew in the old neighborhood that was tapped into the scene. Fill them in on
what was going on. And if the cops came nosing around,
Rick would know that the client had spilled the beans.
Then one phone call would be all it would take to get Eugene and Maxwell out from New York to pay a visit to the
client. He'd think of a way to distance himself from the
job he'd done.

He left the house, locking it behind him, and got in his car. As he drove to the liquor store on the comer of San
Gabriel Boulevard and Foothill, he replayed in his mind
what had happened next. Rick had agreed to follow
through with the client's plan, but he had been pissed
over the fuckup. Somebody had to pay, and if it wasn't
the client then it would have to be somebody else. So he
had called the meeting at the shop, telling Animal to
ready himself up for some torture and bloodshed. Rick
figured Tim or Al had fucked up, and he didn't really care
which one went down-he had been growing rather
tired of both of them lately. Still, Al was a cocky sonofabitch, and things had played out naturally that night
when he'd immediately started denying everything. Tim
had started squealing the minute he got to the shop, and
Rick knew the shit had gone down exactly as Tim described. He already knew from Sam that Al had never
called him. Al had had explicit instructions to deliver a
product to Rick. He'd delivered, all right-and he'd lied
to Rick and Tim when he told them Sam had OK'd it. Guy
was a fucking weasel. That just made it easier to kill him
right there, that night, on the floor of the print shop.

Well, Animal had done that part, of course. But it had
been Rick's decision. And he'd felt better after having
made it.

Rick pulled into the liquor store parking lot by the
bank of pay phones. He turned off the ignition and
climbed out of the sports car, hurrying to the phones.
He'd committed the client's phone number to memory,
and now he dialed it after dropping a quarter in the slot,
waiting for him to pick up after two, three, four rings-

"Hello?"

Rick had been poised to hang up if somebody other
than the client answered, but he recognized the voice.
'It's me.'Iheres a problem!

'Now what?'

Rick could tell that the client had an idea something
was afoul. He had that tone of voice that seemed to suggest he was bothered by something.

"1 just got a call," Rick said. it didn't sound good. You
never saw me, you've never met me, you've never heard
of me before. Furthermore, you've never been involved
in the circle. I'm going to call a few people we both
know and ask them to deny they've ever seen you. Do
you understand?"

The client tried to sound tough. "What the hell happened? If you-"

"She got away," Rick said, more firmly. "Remember.
We've never met. My guess is that the cops will start
knocking at your door. You know what to tell them, and
you know what to expect if you start singing" He hung
up, closed his eyes, his breath harsh in his ears.

For some reason it felt like a tremendous weight had
been taken off of his shoulders. Rick sighed, picked up
the receiver, and dropped another quarter in the slot. He
couldn't relax now, even though he felt better about
warning his client. He had to be on guard, lay low. With
that in mind, he dialed the next number he had in mind
from memory, beginning the process of covering his trail.

Her mouth was dry; she was thirsty.

She could feel her energy draining ... her body growing light with sleep.

And each time she felt herself weakening she shook
her head, reawakening herself, then trudged on ahead,
concentrating on piloting the SW over the rocky terrain.