Baal

HE CRACKED THE TOP off a can of beer and stood at an open window staring down at the dark quiet street. She's been late before but not like this. The bus never ran this late.



He'd tried the grill but it was past closing and no one answered the telephone. Maybe the bus had broken down. No, she would've called. Maybe she missed it and had to walk. No, that was a hell of a long way. Maybe she'd had an accident; or maybe she'd gotten crazy like she had before when she didn't come home for two days and they'd finally found her sitting in the park, doing nothing but just sitting.



Shit. Why does she do these things to me? He drank the beer down and placed the can on the splintery windowsill. She's more than two hours late. More than two hours and where can she be this time of night? He picked up the telephone and started to dial her parents' apartment in Jersey City but then he recalled her mother's whining voice. He put the receiver back on its cradle. Not yet.



Out in the distance, above the packed dirty rows of square-shouldered buildings, a police siren wailed. Or was it an ambulance? He'd never learned to tell the difference like some people could. Something had happened. Standing in the dark small fourth-floor apartment that inhaled the odors wafting from beneath other doors, he was certain something had happened.



And he stood waiting and frozen until someone knocked at the door. But he knew it would not be her; no. The police officer with an impassive acne-scarred face simply said, "I have a car outside."



In the car on the way to the hospital he asked, "Is she all right? I mean..."



"I'm sorry, Mr. Raines," the police officer said. "They asked me to pick you up."



He sat in an antiseptic-white waiting room on the seventh floor and clenched his hands. Hit by a car. That was it. Oh Jesus God hit by some drunk while she was walking to her bus stop.



Even at this early-morning hour, Bellevue moved at a frantic life-and-death pace. He watched the doctors and their nurses consulting charts in low-keyed, serious voices. And a sight that chilled him to the bone, a man in a suit sprinting down the hospital corridor, his shoes clat-clat-clatting on the linoleum. He sat and watched these private dramas until finally he was aware of someone standing beside him.



"Mr. Joseph Raines?" someone asked. A tall gaunt man with tightly curled gray hair. He said, "I'm Lt. Hepelmann." He flashed an NYPD badge and Joe rose from his seat.



"No, no. Sit down. Please." Hepelmann put a hand on the younger man's shoulder and eased him back down into the chair. He sat beside him and drew his own chair closer, as if he were a friend about to advise him on a personal matter.



"I knew she was late and I knew something had happened," said Joe, staring into his palms. "I tried the grill but no one answered the phone." He looked up. "A hit-and-run driver?"



Hepelmann's deep-set blue eyes were calm and untroubled. He was used to scenes like this. "No, Mr. Raines. I don't know who told you that, but she was not struck by a car. Your wife has been... assaulted. She's safe now but still in shock. She might have died but some nigger saved her. Ran the guy off and chased him a block before he got away."



"Assaulted? Assaulted? What does that mean?"



Hepelmann's jaw tightened. This was the moment that broke them to pieces, the mental image of some guy ramming himself in between thrashing thighs. "There was sexual penetration, Mr. Raines," he said softly, as if sharing a secret.



Raped. Jesus Christ. Jesus Holy Christ. Raped. He looked directly into Hepelmann's eyes with a savage ferocity. "You got the sonofabitch?"



"No. We haven't been able to get a description. Probably it's some nut who has a history of... violations. When Mrs. Raines recovers we'll get her to page through our mug files. We'll get the guy."



"Oh man. Oh man oh man oh man."



"Listen, you want a cup of coffee or something? Here. A cigarette."



He took the cigarette the lieutenant offered. "Christ," he said weakly. "But she's okay, right? I mean, no broken bones or anything?"



"No broken bones." Hepelmann leaned forward until he might have been whispering in the other man's ear. "I've worked a lot of these cases, Mr. Raines. These things happen a hundred times a day. It's rough, yes. But you adjust to it. And usually the woman adjusts faster than the man. Everything's okay now. It's over."



The man didn't react to this statement as Hepelmann had seen others react. He simply sat and smoked the cigarette, his eyes boring down the tunnel-like hospital corridor. Someone was paging a Dr. Holland on the address system.



"Some people are just like animals," Hepelmann said. "They think of one thing and they go after it. Hell, they don't care who it is. I've investigated violation cases where the victims were eighty-year-old grandmothers! Hell, they don't care. Their minds are gone already."



Joe sat quiet and still.



"You know what they ought to do? And I'm a firm believer in this. They ought to take these damned guys and cut their balls off. I'm sincere."



Someone was walking toward them down the corridor. Joe watched the man approach. He presumed the man was either another police officer or a doctor because he carried a clipboard.



Hepelmann stood up and shook the man's hand. "Dr. Wynter, this is Mr. Raines. I've told him she's going to be okay."



"That's correct, Mr. Raines," the doctor said. There were deep lines of strain around his eyes. "She's suffered some minor cuts and abrasions but otherwise she's physically sound. She's in a mild state of shock now; it's natural after something like this so don't be alarmed. Now you're going to have to be very strong for her. When she begins to recover she's going to have a little orientation disorder. And she may believe you think less of her. That's a problem many rape victims encounter."



He was nodding. "Can I see her?"



The doctor's eyes flashed over to Hepelmann and then back to the other man. "I'd rather you didn't right now. We're trying to keep her sleeping under sedation. Tomorrow we can get you in to see her for a few minutes."



"I'd like to see her now."



Dr. Wynter blinked.



"The doctor's right," said Hepelmann, grasping the other man's elbow. "Look. It's been a tough night. Go home and get some sleep. Okay? I'll even give you a ride."



"Tomorrow," Dr. Wynter said. "Check with me tomorrow."



Joe ran a hand over his face. The men were right. She should sleep for a while and, anyway, there was nothing he could do. He said, "Okay."



"Here," said Hepelmann, stepping toward the elevators on the other side of the corridor. "I'll give you a ride home."



Before the elevator doors closed on Raines and the policeman, Dr. Wynter said, "She's going to be all right"



Wynter stood motionless for a moment after they had gone. He trembled inwardly from the confrontation with the man. What was he? A taxi driver, Hepelmann had told him. The man had looked intelligent; a high forehead, eyes that when not cold with fear would be warm and generous, moderately long dark hair that curled over his collar. An intelligent man. Thank God he had not pressed to see his wife.



Dr. Wynter walked back up the corridor to the nurse's station. He asked one of them, "Mrs. Raines is resting now?"



"Yes, sir. She'll be calm for a while."



"Very good. Now listen to me well. You make your nurses understand this." He lowered his voice. "No word on any other floor about her condition. This is our problem. Okay?"



"Yes, sir."



He nodded and continued through the corridor around to her room. He stopped himself as he reached for the door. No need to look in on her again; no need to look at her body and ask himself and the skin specialist Dr. Bertram what the hell it was. He knew the answer. But what in Christ's name would he tell Raines? What was the logical explanation for those burns on her body? Certainly not friction burns incurred as she was forced to the harsh concrete.



The burns were in the shape of human hands.



First-degree burns, yes. Nothing serious, but...



Handprints where the rapist had grasped her. Hands burned across stomach and arms and thighs as distinctly as if they had been dipped into red paint and then slapped against her smooth white flesh.



And two fingerprints.



One on each eyelid.