Exposed (Madame X, #2)(50)
A long inhalation of the cigarette, causing the orange tip to flare bright. “I know.” Smoke trickles out of his nostrils. “I’ll take you.”
The drive back through the pink-to-gold light of dawn is silent. The radio is off. Logan does not speak and neither do I.
He pulls up directly in front of Caleb’s tower. Finally, he looks at me. “You know how to find me. I will wait, Isabel.”
“For how long?” I ask, wanting to look away from his indigo gaze and finding myself unable to do so.
“Until you tell me to stop waiting.”
TEN
I stand alone in the middle of the lobby of your tower. The reception desk is fully staffed: two older white men, a striking young black woman with a shaved scalp, and a Hispanic man of indeterminate age, which means probably about thirty. They all glance at me, notice me, and then return to their work, but the black woman makes a very brief phone call. Which means they know who I am and have alerted Len, most likely.
Indeed, it is Len who appears from the bank of elevators, expression inscrutable, aged, weathered, hardened features cast in stone. He does not greet me, doesn’t say a single word. Merely gestures at the elevators. I nod and accompany him onto the elevator marked Private.
The ride up is long.
“Len,” I say, curiosity getting the better of me. “How old are you?”
“Forty-nine, ma’am.”
“What is the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
A very thick silence as Len stares down at me. “I would say it’s probably impossible to pinpoint one single thing. I’m not a good person, and I never have been.”
“Indulge me.”
An outbreath, blown between pursed lips, eyes cast to the roof of the elevator car. A moment of thought, in which Len looks nearly human. “I fought in the first Desert Storm. Marine Recon. We caught this insurgent, me and two guys from my unit. We holed up in a little hut near the Kuwaiti border and tortured the unholy f*ck out of the poor bastard. He knew where some high-ranking Iraqi military generals were hiding, and we were told to get the intel by any means possible. So we did.”
“What kind of torture?” I cannot help asking.
“Why would you want to know this shit, Madame X?”
“I’m not Madame X anymore, Len. My name is Isabel. And I’m learning that no one is ever as they seem.”
Len nods. “Fair enough. We ripped his fingernails out with pliers. Cut strips of his skin off with a box cutter. Burned toes off with a blowtorch. Waterboarded him. Beat him half to death. Stuck pins in him until he looked like a pincushion, and then heated ’em up with a lighter.”
“My god,” I breathe. I am horrified. “Did he survive it?”
“Oh yeah. Point of torture is to cause pain so bad they’ll tell you anything to make it stop. So yeah, he survived long enough to sing about the generals, but when we had what we needed, we put a couple rounds in the back of his head.”
“Double-tap,” I say, thinking of Logan.
Len nods. “Yeah, we double-tapped him, and left him for the vultures and the ants.”
“Tell me one more thing,” I ask.
“Sure, why not.”
“What’s the best thing you’ve ever done?”
“That’s a helluva lot harder.” Len is silent for a long time. “There was this girl. In Fallujah. Local girl. We were headed out on foot after a raid, and I heard screaming. Followed the sound, against orders. Discovered some local fellas running a train on the girl. Killed ’em all. I had some local currency in one of my pockets, and I gave it all to her, then pounded leather back to my unit. Whenever I could, I stopped by and helped her out. Brought her money, food, clothes. Whatever I could scrounge up. I still dunno why. I don’t stand by rape, I guess. I’m an evil motherf*cker, don’t get me wrong. I’ll beat up, torture, and murder men without thinking twice about it, but I won’t touch a woman in violence, and won’t stand to see it happen. I may be a bastard, but I’ve got my own code of honor. Such as it is, at any rate.”
“What happened to her?” I ask. “The girl?”
A shrug. “Lost contact with her. Battle of Fallujah happened, and it got to where I couldn’t really go looking anymore without getting my ass shot off.”
“Have you ever killed anyone for Caleb?”
A stony stare. “We’re not talking about Mr. Indigo.”
“You have.” I meet Len’s glare. “Would you kill Logan if he told you to?”
Len’s answer is immediate: “In a heartbeat.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s dangerous.”
“So are you. So is Caleb. I’m surrounded by dangerous men, it would seem.”
Another shrug. “You’re not wrong there.” The car stopped a long time ago, but Len has been holding the doors closed. Now he allows them to open. “He’s not back yet, but he will be shortly.” The conversation is over, apparently.
“Thank you, Len.”
Len seems puzzled by my thanks. “Yeah.” And then he’s gone, doors closing between us.
I don’t know what I’m going to say. What I’m going to do. You will be here soon and I’ve got a million, billion questions, and answers that I don’t know the questions to, and demands I don’t know how to formulate. Needs I don’t know how to meet. And all of this requires that I face up to you and not flinch, speak to you and not succumb to your sorcery.