The Passenger by Jack Ketchum

can’t kill her, honey. She belongs
to somebody. You could hurt her a little, though. Nobody going to bother you
about that.”
    You don’t need to see any more of this
shit, Janet thought. You can just turn away. But it seemed important to know
exactly how far this goddamn woman was willing
to go. So she watched her as she reached up and traced a slow deep line across
the woman’s thigh from hip to knee with the point of the knife, the woman trembling
and moaning, and watched the blood well up thick over the blade of the knife
onto Marion’s white- knuckled hand. Watched the hand draw away and poise to cut
again and then the black man’s bigger hand close over it gently and take the
knife away and hand it to the Nazi.
    “Come on, baby,” he said. “Leave a little somethin ’ for later.”
    As he moved her away she was smiling.
    “You’re not entirely a real nice person,”
said the guard as the music welled and boomed again. “You know that?”
    They followed him through the crowd to
the stairwell at the end of the bar.
     
    * * *
     
    At the top of the stairs he led them down
a long dark oak-paneled hall, empty but for half a dozen vases on pedestals
from which dozens of long-stemmed red roses sprouted and scented the still air,
rioting away the odor of cigarettes and stale beer below. He opened a set of
double doors to a stark, brightly lit room with a single long table and chairs
around it the only furnishings—a boardroom not unlike those back at the
courthouse except that this table and these chairs must have cost a lot more
than the taxpayers were going to put up with. Closed glass doors beyond the
desk led to an open porch—a widow’s walk. Beyond them she could see moon and
stars.
    The man at the head of the table was
middle-aged and small and thin, his wrists wiry in his rolled-back
    shirtsleeves. He looked like a
businessman who’d just spent a rough but eventful evening coming up with whole
new ways to hammer the competition. Papers fanned across the desk in front of
him. Behind him stood an immaculate gentleman with manicured fingernails and a
rose in his wide lapel and the word thug writ plain all over him.
    “Mr. Thaw?” said the guard.
    “Fine. You can leave now.”
    He backed out of the room and closed the
door.
    The man looked up from his desk.
    “Harold Thaw,” he said. “This is my
associate, Mr. Coombs. And you are Rothert, Short and Ripper. You want a car,
I’m told. Is that all?”
    “That’s all, Mr. Thaw,” Emil said.
    “Fine. Ten thousand cash.”
    Ray looked stricken. “Ten thous . . . ?”
    “You killed a policeman, Mr. Short. It’s
a very good price.”
    “I was thinking of something else, sir,”
Emil said. “Were you.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “What were you thinking, Mr. Rothert?”
    “I heard that... I understand you do ...
a certain business. With certain parties. Foreign investors, sort of..
    For the first time Thaw smiled. “What
business would that be, Mr. Rothert? I have any number of businesses and you’re
interrupting all of them. Please do get on with it.”
    She saw that Emil was distinctly
uncomfortable now but determined to do as the man said and get on with it. And even before he opened his mouth again she knew exactly where he was going with all this.
It was rumored at the courthouse. She’d heard it a dozen times. You goddamn son
of a bitch, she thought.
    “ Women ,
sir,” he said. “I understand you .. . that you deal in women sometimes.”
    For a moment Thaw just stared at him as
though he was speaking in some unknown tongue. He looked at Marion and then at
Janet and when his eyes went back to Emil again he laughed and his hands went
wide and spiderlike across the table. Behind him, Coombs smiled.
    “You’re offering me these ? In exchange for a car?” “Uh, yes, sir.”
    Thaw laughed again and shook his head.
    “Rothert,” he said, “these parties you’re talking about are
interested in twelve-year-olds. Twelve-year-olds, Rothert. Do