The Hunt. Andrew Welsh-Huggins

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      10

      “YOU REALLY THINK THIS IS WORTH IT?” I said, turning onto Main Street off Third a few hours later. The temperature had dropped into the upper thirties. “Is anybody going to be around?”

      “Cocks need sucked no matter the weather, QB. They’ll be out.”

      I shook my head at her language. Brusque exterior, indeed. But sure enough, we saw our first girl just a couple of blocks after crossing over the highway and across Parsons. She was staring down a guy dressed like a bad imitation of a bum, one hand on a shopping cart filled with scrap metal, the other waving at her. He didn’t look like a paying customer. I pulled up to the curb, parked, and got out. The man took one look at us, laughed out loud, and rattled down the street.

      “Yeah?” she said. I pegged her as late teens, early twenties, black, wearing tight jeans and an orange sequined blouse with a tear in the side under a thin, unzipped gray hoodie. She had a face three degrees from pretty that wasn’t helped by dark bruising on her left cheek. Her eyes were glassy and she swayed as she spoke. I told her my name and my job and what I needed. I showed her the Reardoor.com picture of Jessica.

      “You a cop?”

      “I’m private, like I said.” I thought of the scene with my father. “Like a security guard.” The afternoon visit had gone only marginally better, but at least we hadn’t come to blows.

      “Bullshit.”

      “He’s true,” Theresa said, from the van.

      “Who’s she?”

      “My backup,” I said. “In case I get in trouble.”

      “You gonna need more than her.” She studied the photograph for a minute, finally shaking her head and handing it back. She had to take a step to keep her balance. “Don’t know her.”

      “You sure?”

      “Not many white girls this side of town. Why you looking for her?”

      “Like I said, she’s missing.”

      “Missing from where?”

      It was a good question, actually. “People who care about her haven’t seen her in a while.”

      “Ain’t that nice. Still don’t know her.”

      “Could you call me if you see her?”

      “Not likely. She probably dead, anyway.”

      “Why do you say that?”

      “’Cause of that guy killing the girls. Why else she be missing?”

      “Lots of reasons, I hope. How about you? Aren’t you worried, being out here?”

      “Nah.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because.”

      “Because why?”

      “’Cause the girls he got was stupid. Probably did dumb shit. Went someplace they shouldn’t have. Did stuff they didn’t need to.”

      I couldn’t help myself. “Like it was their fault?” I said.

      She laughed, and for the first time I could hear a cold in her chest. “You some big expert on us, huh?”

      “I wouldn’t say that.” I thanked her, gave her my card, and got back in the van. I watched her crumple up the card and toss it in the gutter as I drove away.

      “She’s lying,” Theresa said.

      “About what?”

      “About the guy. The killer. She’s worried.”

      “How do you know?”

      “I know. It’s just she’s got more important things to think about right now.”

      “What’s more important than a serial killer?”

      “How about, her next fix? How about, turning enough tricks to make her daddy happy? Happy enough he don’t beat the shit out of her later. All that on your mind, a rope around your throat’s the least of your concerns.”

      “Point taken.”

      We continued the drive east. A few blocks down I pulled over quickly. Two women were giving us the deadeye from a vacant lot across the street beside an abandoned convenience store. One black, one white. The white woman looked a lot like Jessica.

      I got out and crossed over, Theresa following behind me.

      “This ain’t BYOB,” the white one said, looking at Theresa. I studied her more closely and realized I’d been mistaken. She had the same high forehead and cocky purse to her lips as Jessica, and she was about the same height СКАЧАТЬ