The Death Box(97)

My mind was racing, trying to recall everything I knew about disturbed minds when we heard the crunching of feet on gravel or shell.

A door opening. Closing.

“Come in here, Xavie. I should have a kiss. An innocent kiss.”

A pause. “There we go. Wasn’t that nice? Come over here, Xavie. To the bed. Isn’t it pretty? I know how you love pink. Talk to me, Xaviera.”

“What’s with the Xaviera?” Gershwin whispered.

“It’s either the name she was sold under, or part of this lunatic’s fantasy.”

“I told you to talk to me, Xavie,” the perp said, a thin wire of anger in his voice.

Leala found her voice. “I’m sorry … my throat is so dry. If I had …”

The anger seemed to turn to contrition. “Of course. I’m sorry Xavie, you’ve had nothing to drink for hours. I have some Pellegrino water. Is that all right?”

“Si.”

The captor offering an apology? It suggested the guy wasn’t in full master–slave mindset. There was something almost childlike in his response, a small clue to his mental make-up.

Footsteps moving away. A door closing. And then, Leala, to us: “He has gone for the moment. I am in a pink room in a big white house. There is one man wearing a robe. I think his mind is broken. There is a chain from mi neck to the above. My hands are loose but I cannot move far. I am very scared. When he looks at me he sees something not here.”

I pulled the putty from the mic. “Get his name,” I whispered. “We need his name to know where you are.”

“I am not sure if he any more knows who he … He comes. Please help me.”

We heard the door. The perp’s voice.

“What were you saying?” Suspicion.

“I was praying, Señor … Señor …” Hanging the word out, hoping he’d supply his name.

A laugh instead. “Please, Xaviera. Remember how you and your amigas used to make fun of the church and the priests?”

“I do not remember, señor. I am not Xaviera.”

A slap and a yip of pain. I felt my fists clench.

“Do not lie to me, Xavie. Your days of lying are over and I will not stand for it. I grew up. Would you like to see where I grew the most?”

“What’s with his voice?” Gershwin asked. “It’s deeper.”

“The fantasy’s taking over.” Something else I had learned about madness from my brother. “He’s shifting to an inner vision.”

“Do you want to open my robe, Xaviera? I have a surprise for you.”

A pause. “Not until I hear you speak your name.”

“What?”

“Can you not speak? Can you not say your name?”

“Don’t you dare make demands of me.”

“Then slap me again,” Leala said. “Maybe like your daddy taught you to do. Did he have a name? Does no one in your family have names?”

“Uh-oh,” I said. “Easy, Leala.”

“Me llamo es Leala Rosales,” she said. “I am proud of my name. Does yours disgust you? Are you shamed by your name? Does it bring vomit to your lips?”

The sound of a slap. “SHUT THE FUCK UP, XAVIERA!”

“Jesus,” I whispered. “He’s going off.”

“My name came from mi madre y papa!” Leala said. “Did you have no one to name you?”

“I SAID SHUT UP!”

Another slap. I pictured Leala half-hanging by a chain from the ceiling as a robed monster battered her face.

“When it was asked what name to put on the certificate,” Leala continued, “did your mama say, ‘That thing is so insignificant … it deserves no name. Is that what she said?’”

Three slaps. It was like hearing a whip crack. Then …

“You know who I am, you stinking little tramp … MINARD CHALK! MY NAME IS MINARD SIMPSON CHALK!”

“On it,” Gershwin said, relaying the information to Key West cops hunched over keyboards and waiting. A long and frightening pause before Gershwin looked up. “They’ve got an address. They can be there in five minutes. It’s ten from here.”

“Tell them to roll. I gotta stay and listen.”

Gershwin relayed the decision. Twenty seconds later the pair of cruisers hit the lights but not sirens, blasting away as back-up.

A minute passed. I heard slow footfalls punctuated by pauses. I pictured the guy circling Leala and letting his imagination run wild, the savoring phase. Our on-board computer buzzed with incoming info. Gershwin read the screen. “The fucker’s in the national sex-offender database: Minard S. Chalk, thirty-four years of age, four arrests for voyeurism, San Clemente and Seattle, most recently in Minneapolis …”