Still, she would continue to dress well when fresh clothes were brought in.
Pity that what she wore here had to go into the incinerator. What a shame to burn all those dresses.
Chapter Nine
That pale-haired f**ker was back, Van Dean thought as he glanced through thick chicken-wire fencing.
Third week in a row the guy'd come to Caldwell's fight underground. Against the cheering crowd around the fight cage he stood out like a neon sign, although Van wasn't clear exactly why.
As a knee made contact with his side, he refocused on what he was doing. Drawing back his bare fist, he snapped his arm out and connected with his opponent's face. Blood exploded from the guy's nose, a starburst of red that landed on the mat right before the man's body did.
Van planted his feet and stared down at his opponent, drops of his sweat landing on the guy's abs. There was no referee to stop Van from throwing more head punches. No rules to keep him from kicking this side of beef in the kidneys until the bastard needed dialysis for the rest of his life. And if there was even one twitch from that human throw rug, Van was going to let loose.
Bringing death with his bare hands was what the special part of him wanted to do, what the special part of him craved to do. Van had always been different, not just from his opponents but from everyone else he'd ever met: the seat of his soul was that of not merely a fighter but a warrior of the Roman kind. He wished he lived back in the times when you eviscerated your opponent when he fell before you... then you found his home and raped his wife and slaughtered his children. And after you looted his shit, you burned whatever was left down to the ground.
But he lived in the here and now. And there was another complication of late. The body holding in this special part was starting to age on him. His shoulder was killing him and so were his knees, though he made sure no one knew it, in or out of the fight cage.
Extending his arm to the side, he heard a pop and hid a wince. Meanwhile, the crowd of fifty roared and rattled the ten-foot-high chain-link fence. God, the fans loved him. Called him by his name. Wanted to see more of him.
They were largely irrelevant to his special part, though.
In the midst of the peanut gallery, he met the stare of the pale-haired man. Man, those were some freaky eyes. Flat. No glow of life in them. And the guy wasn't cheering either.
Whatever.
Van nudged his opponent with his bare foot. The guy groaned but didn't open his eyes. Game over.
The fifty or so men around the cage went apeshit with approval.
Van sprang up to the lip of the fence and swung his two-hundred-pound body over the top. As he landed, the crowd roared louder but backed out of his path. When one of them had gotten in his way last week, flyboy had ended up spitting out a tooth.
The fighting "arena," such as it was, was in an abandoned underground parking garage, and the owner of the concrete wasteland brokered the matches. The whole thing was shady by def, with Van and his opponents nothing more than the human equivalent of fighting cocks. The pay was good, however, and so far there hadn't been any busts - although that was always an issue. Between the blood and the betting, the CPD badges wouldn't have been into the scene at all, so it was a private-membership-club kind of thing, and if you squealed you got tossed. Literally. The owner had a six-pack of thugs who kept shit in line.
Van went over to the money man, got his five hundred bucks and his jacket, then headed for his truck. His Hanes undershirt was bloodstained, but he didn't care. What he was worried about was his aching joints. And that left shoulder.
Fuck. Every week it seemed like it was taking more and more out of him to serve his special part and put the guys on the ground. Then again, he was getting up there. Thirty-nine was denture time in the fight world.
"Why did you stop?"
As he came up to his truck, Van looked into his driver's side windshield. He was not surprised that the pale-haired man had come after him. "I don't answer to fans, buddy."
"I'm not a fan."
Their eyes stayed locked together on the flat surface of the glass. "Then why you been coming to my fights so much?"
"Because I have a proposition for you."
"I don't want a manager."
"I'm not one of those either."
Van looked over his shoulder. The guy was big and carried himself like a fighter, all jacked shoulders and loose arms. Iron-pan hands on this one, the kind that could crank into a fist as big as a bowling ball.
So that was the deal, huh. "You want to get into the ring with me, you arrange it over there." He pointed to the money man.
"Not after that either."
Van turned around, thinking the twenty-questions thing was for shit. "So what do you want?"
"First I have to know why you stopped."
"He was down."
Annoyance flashed over the guy's face. "So."
"You know what? You're beginning to piss me off."
"Fine. I'm looking for a man who fits your description."
Oh, that narrowed the field. Busted nose in a regular joe face with a military haircut. Snooze. "Lotta men look like me."
Well, except for his right hand.
"Tell me something," the guy asked, "did you have your appendix removed?"
Van narrowed his eyes and put his truck's keys back in his pocket. "One of two things are about to happen and you get to pick. You walk away and I get into my ride. Or you keep talking and shit goes down. Your choice."
The pale man got in close. Jesus, he smelled funny. Like... baby powder?
"Don't threaten me, boy." The voice was low and the body that backed up the words was coiled for action.
Well, well, well... what do you know. A real contender.
Van pushed his face even closer. "Then get to your f**king point."
"Appendix?"
"Not anymore."
The man smiled. Eased back. "How would you like a job?"
"I have one. And this."
"Construction. Knocking strangers around for cash."
"Honest work, both of them. And just how long have you been nosing around my biz?"
"Long enough." The guy stuck out his hand. "Joseph Xavier."
Van let that palm hang out there. "Not interested in meeting you, Joe."
"That's Mr. Xavier to you, son. And surely you wouldn't mind listening to a proposition."
Van cocked his head to the side. "You know something, I'm a lot like a whore. I like to get paid by jerkoffs. So how about you palm me a benji, Joe, then we'll see about your proposition."
As the man just stared, Van felt an unexpected shot of fear. Man, something about this guy was not right.
The bastard's voice was even lower as he spoke. "Say my name properly first, son."
Whatever. For a hundred bucks, he'd flap his gums even for a freak like this. "Xavier."
"That's Mr. Xavier." The guy smiled like a predator, all teeth, no jolly. "Say it, son."
Some unknown impulse had Van opening his mouth.
Right before he let the words fly, he had a vivid memory of when he'd been sixteen years old and had taken a dive into the Hudson River. In midair, he'd seen the massive underwater stone he was going to hit and knew there would be no change in course. Sure enough, his head had made contact as if the collision had been preordained, as if there had been an invisible string around his neck and the rock had pulled him home. But it hadn't been a bad thing, at least not right away. Immediately after the crack of impact, there had been a floating, a sweet, satisfied calm, as if destiny had been fulfilled. And he'd known instinctively that the sensation was a forerunner of death.
Funny, he had that same spacy disorientation now. And the same sense that this man with the paper-white skin was like death: inevitable and fated - and coming specifically for him.
"Mr. Xavier," Van whispered.
When the hundred-dollar bill appeared in front of him, he reached forward with his four-fingered hand and took it.
But he knew he would have listened without the cash.
Hours later, Butch rolled over and the first thing he did was look for Marissa.
He found her sitting in the corner of the room, a book open next to her. Her eyes weren't on the pages, though. She was staring at the pale linoleum tiles, tracing the pattern of flecks with one long, perfect finger.
She looked achingly sad and so beautiful that his eyes stung. God, the idea he could infect her or endanger her in any way made him want to slit his own throat.