Knight In Black Leather by Gail Dayton (people reading books .txt) 📗

crazed butterflies were trying to escape. "I have no intention of killing anyone. Who are you?"

"Who the fuck are you?"

She descended the last few steps, peering into the musty gloom. "I'm Marilyn."

"You don't look like the Flashman's usual type." The voice came from a huddled lump lying on a bare mattress in the far corner.

"Thank God. I'd just as soon not have that pleasure." Her eyes adjusted to the dim light as she moved slowly across the empty space. The lump refined itself into a boy, maybe twelve years old, wrapped in a filthy blanket.

"What are you doin' here?" He touched his tongue to a split in his lower lip. In the shadows, the bruises against his pale skin looked black, and her stomach twisted. Was this what would happen to Pete?

"I got carjacked." Marilyn kept moving toward him.

"By Flash? Why?"

"Mm-hmm." She sat on the mattress, moving slowly to keep from alarming the boy. "Look at me. How bad are you hurt?"

He sucked at his split lip again. "I can stand it. Why did Flash want you?"

"He hates my boyfriend. I had Eli's son with me." Marilyn took his chin gently in her hand and turned him to face her. Some of the dark spots were scrapes as well as bruises. None of them had been cleaned. "Is there water?"

"Over there." He pointed. "There's a john and a water faucet. No sink though. Just a bucket."

The bucket would work better than a sink. Marilyn headed for the corner the boy had indicated. It looked as if someone had once had plans to add a bathroom but had got no further than the traditional stand-alone "Pittsburgh Potty," and the water faucet, plus a drain in the floor. She turned on the tap and peered at it in the dim light until she was sure it ran clear.

"What's your name?" She rinsed out the bucket with the icy cold water. Surprisingly, it appeared to be no worse than dusty.

"Slug."

"Slug?" She filled the bucket with a few inches of water and carried it back to him. "That's not a name. What's your name, really?"

He shrugged, remaining silent as Marilyn cast about for something to use as a cleaning cloth. She considered tearing off a piece of the blanket wrapped around him, for about two seconds. The thing was so nasty, she'd be wiping dirt on him rather than cleaning it off.

She took the scarf from around her neck, the cashmere one that had, in a way, started everything, and dipped a corner in the water. "Look at me."

Slug pulled away, eyeing her suspiciously. "Why? What are you doing?"

"I'm going to clean your scrapes so they won't get infected."

He shook his head. "I'm okay."

"No, you're not. Now, shut up and let me clean your face." Marilyn turned him toward her. Wetting the scarf again, she dabbed at the trail of blood on his chin leading down from the split lip. "What happened?"

"Wa' do you fink 'appen?" His words were muffled by her cleaning. "Flashman happened. I quit him when he was inside--in jail, I mean. When he got out, I wouldn't do what he said, and he didn't like it."

Oh God. Marilyn's hands shook and she had to pause to get them under control. She knew every city had prostitutes, even child prostitutes, despite all that police and everyone could do. But to have a child she loved in the hands of someone who forced children to do such a thing... "Oh, God."

Only after she spoke did she realize she'd spoken aloud.

"What?"

"He's got Pete." Marilyn swiped away a tear and rinsed the scarf in the bucket, forcing herself back to work, carefully cleaning the dried blood from Slug's pale face.

"Oh." He'd stopped trying to avoid the wet scarf, passively submitting to her ministrations.

"How old are you?"

"Fourteen." He studied her, watching her every move.

"Oh, come on. How old are you really?" Marilyn wiped away more dark brown blood and every millimeter she cleaned made him look even younger.

"How old do you want me to be? I can be whatever age you want."

Marilyn shuddered. Why did he have to terrify her like this? "I want you to be whatever age you really are."

"Fourteen."

"And your name really is Slug?" She cocked an eyebrow, letting him see her disbelief.

He only shrugged. "How old is Pete?"

She almost dropped the scarf as her fears for Pete hit her again. He took it and continued the clean up himself.

"He's nine." Marilyn twisted her hands together to stop their shaking.

"You're really worried about him." Slug's voice held wonder. "And he's not even your own kid."

"I'm worried about you, too." She was.

"You don't even know me."

"I know enough. I know you need somebody to worry about you."

"I don't need anybody."

"I do." Marilyn reached for the scarf, but Slug held it out of her reach. "I don't know what I would do if I were alone down here. If I had to sit here by myself and try not to think what could be happening to Pete... I'd--go crazy, I guess. I am so glad you're here."

The boy stared at her for a long minute. "Huh," he said finally, shaking his head. He dunked the scarf in the bucket again and started scrubbing at the back of his neck.

"Let me do that," Marilyn said.

"Better not. It's blood."

She looked at him, feeling stupid because she didn't understand his meaning.

"Blood. AIDS?"

"Oh." Now she felt even more stupid. "I didn't think of--"

"I know."

"Do you have it?"

He shrugged. "No clue. But I couldn't always make the johns use a rubber. Mostly they wouldn't, for blow jobs, but they say you can get it that way too."

Oh God. She hated hearing him talk so matter-of-factly about it. But was Eli's complete silence any better?

Did he think he was hiding it from her? It had been a wild, horrified guess at first, but enough little comments had been dropped, by Eli and by Detective Jackson, that her suspicions were pretty well confirmed.

She understood Eli's desire not to talk about such