The Missing Link 02: Liza

"Yes, it is," he said, as if answering my unspoken question. "Now put it on; don't button it up." I did. It was too big for me. My skin crawled where the soiled fabric touched it.

"Kneel," he said. I knelt in front of him.

"Get my cock out." My well-trained fingers took over, quick and efficient. He didn't have to tell me to suck it. When he fucked me, stretching me out on the low table and towering over me like a huge black omen, I came within minutes. When he climaxed shortly after, he growled something inaudible. We lay exhausted. Our sweat and sex juices mixed with a third smell -- sickly sweet. I guessed spilt blood might smell like that.

Bile rose from my stomach.

Things went on in a quick blur after that. I woke alone in my ruined bed the next morning to find a letter with instructions. So I filled three suitcases and a few boxes with clothes and things for Eric and me. I cleaned up, dressed and waited for a car to pick me up and take me to my mother's. A luxury van arrived at the appointed time, bringing two huge men to my doorsteps. While one of them loaded the suitcases, the other one tore the dress off my body and fucked me on the hall's floor. His mate joined him when he was done loading -- his fat cock stretched my jaw. Soon both of them filled me with their sperm.

When they left I remained on the cold tiles, dazed and too slow to get up and follow them. The van had already reached the end of the driveway when I at last scrambled to my feet and stumbled out onto the porch. Their stench was in my nose, my thighs were slippery with their goo as I broke down on the front lawn, never minding my old neighbor's alarmed gaze.

Inside I went for my cell, calling my mother, but her phone was dead -- it didn't even go to voice mail. I tried Robert's hotel again and only got a female voice assuring me he had checked out and left no address. He never gave me a cell phone number. My stunned brain grasped for possibilities until it shut down, leaving me on the living room's rug crying my heart out.

It must have been the ringing of my phone that tore me out of my stupor. I had no idea how long it had been blurting out the ridiculous ringtone Eric had selected for me when he was five.

"How does it feel now?" a voice said. It was Roger's.

"Roger?" I squawked. "Roger?" My throat was too swollen to give my words space. He chuckled.

"Yes, " he said. "Stupid, betrayed Roger."

"I never, I... ," I protested.

"Stuff it," he said. "I only call you to let you know Eric is safely with your mother, who, by the way, knows all about your sick lifestyle. She agreed it would be for the best to take the boy away from you. His father is in prison, his mother is a whore, well... not many options left. So don't try to find them; don't try to ruin the boy's life any further."

"No don't, Roger, please don't! Not Eric, not..." I cried out, but he chuckled some more.

"Listen, bitch," he went on. "Listen well as it concerns your future -- or what's left of it. My men will return and take you to a place suited for a whore like you. Don't resist; they are not known for their empathy. Enjoy your life, it'll be busy."

"Roger!" I cried out. "Roger, please, why are you so cruel to me?" I repeated his name, but the cold little beeps had already declared the phone call to be ended. I threw the innocent box into a corner, hugging myself with pity.

***

That was five months ago. I am writing this on an old laptop one of the other girls smuggled in. I have to get my story down piecemeal, as I'm not often alone on my lumpy mattress. I stopped taking the drugs they offer me. They do a marvelous job of making me forget, but I shouldn't forget, should I? It would feel like betrayal and I betrayed enough people to last a lifetime.

I want Steve to read this, although I have no idea how to get it to him. Not that it will help him much, nor will it help me, but he has a right to it. Last week some news seeped in about his trial. It seems he was found guilty of the double murder and won't ever leave prison again.

I wonder if he knows we set him up -- mainly Roger, of course. But it would never have happened without my help, would it? I am as guilty as Roger is, maybe even more so, because he acted out of love for me. Or was it hate? And is there a difference?

My actions ruined six lives. Firstly I caused Steve to end up with a lifetime sentence, never able to see his son grow up. Secondly I ruined little Eric's life by robbing him of the parents he needs so much. Thirdly I caused Robert and his guard to be killed. Maybe Robert deserved it, but things would never have come to this if I hadn't betrayed Steve. I loved being Robert's slut, first betraying Roger's love and later Steve's. It was also me who created the monster Roger became. I provided the gunpowder he used to blow up our lives.

Oh yes, Roger is an evil bastard, but it was my betrayal that made him one. When I was in here for about three months, he visited me. By that time I swam in and out of a cloud of drugs and orgasms. My body had been fucked into a bruised bag of diseased flesh; my mind was a crumbling ruin.

I didn't recognize him as I went automatically for his fly. But his hands stopped mine and he pushed me back. The mists in my head lifted long enough to make me see who he was.

"Don't touch me with your filthy fingers, whore," he said. I just nodded, sitting back on my heels, gazing up. He looked good, but his face was carved in stone. Seeing him sent a thrill down my belly -- still.

"I sent you to where you belong, didn't I, Liza?" he said, sitting down on the edge of my bed. "I bet you are very grateful." I didn't respond; I just looked.

"Anyway," he went on, "I need you to know before you die that this was all your fault. And die you will, Liza, soon but slowly." He smiled as he said that. It was a cruel, snakelike smile. I couldn't watch his face any longer and dropped my gaze to my fingers; they wriggled nervously in my lap.

"I am sorry," I muttered.

"Oh yes, Liza, you are a sorry slut," he said. Then he rose and walked over to the dirty sink with its broken mirror.

"I loved you, you know?" he said, turning on his heels. "Back at college you were the love of my life. I was obsessed with you." His eyes misted over, but only for a second.

"Imagine," he whispered. "Imagine the pain I felt when my asshole father grabbed and raped you. His cronies held me back, but forced me to watch how you quickly turned into the greedy slut you obviously were all along." I tried to protest, one hand rising limply.

"Don't deny it," he hissed. "I knew you just loved it. Admit it, Liza, you already forgot about me when his fucking sperm hit your cunt!"

There was silence after the echo of his last words. It was impossible for me to look up at him. Every word was the truth, the sad, irretrievable truth. He sighed.

"Goddammit, Liza, I was such a boy. I hated you for what you did, but at the same time I couldn't live with the knowledge that you'd let yourself be used in ways that would kill you slowly. I knew daddy's parties, daddy's friends and daddy's morals. I was amazed that you were still alive and with him after almost a year. He'd never kept his toys for more than a few months and here he was still fucking you, drugging you, sharing you. So I decided to get you away from him." He once more walked away, waving his right hand in a throw-away arc.

"I know, I know," he said. "Stupid juvenile moonstruck behavior. But it wasn't just that. I hated him, always have. I hated him for what he did to my mother and sister. How he treated them, and me. He always ridiculed me, my plans, my ambitions, even my manhood. Taking you away from me was just one more blow in a long, long series of cruel acts." His eyes suddenly returned to me.

"I decided things had to stop. I got you into the hospital and then had you flown back home. Daddy couldn't do a thing, as I had gathered information on him that would destroy his business. If he'd touch me or you, the bomb would go off automatically, so you were save. I paid Suzan to be your therapist while she spied on your progress and possible plans. She got you back on your feet and back to school, where you just as quickly dumped me for goddamned Steve Stevenson."

Another silence.

"I hated the fucking slime ball," he went on, toneless. "I just died seeing you fall for him, drifting off -- once more forgetting about me. This time there was no brutal rape; there were no strong hands to keep me away, but I found that I couldn't do anything about it anyway. All through my youth daddy had seen to it that his prediction about me being a spineless wimp fulfilled itself. My heart was trampled upon and I knew not how to fend for it. Once, only this once I had stood up against him and this was how I was repaid by you. It broke me. You broke me, but my obsession stayed. I told myself that I should step aside for now. If I really loved you, I should allow you to be with whom you really loved -- and hope you'd change your mind. Blah blah."

The emotions had long since returned to Roger's voice and his eyes -- did I see tears? He sat down on the only chair, pressing his folded hands between his knees, rocking back and forth. Then he looked up with a jerk of his head.

"I almost died, Liza," he said. "You nearly killed me that time. But I kept close to you, almost stalking you. I even ingratiated myself with the asshole, becoming his friend just so I'd be there when you'd get tired of him. I was sure you would, you know -- tire of him? He was a boring, poor nobody, on his way to becoming an even more boring bean counter. Silly me. You didn't love him at all, did you? You fucked him over as hard as you did me, I know. I knew everything, Liza. And at long last I realized I had to accept the inevitable. After graduation and your engagement I went abroad."

Sounds seeped in through the thin walls, filling the silence. A girl cried out, flesh slapped on flesh, male voices growled; there were shards of Latin music. I realized that I'd never been out long enough to know where exactly Roger had sent me. I'd been drugged and even blindfolded most of the way. Many girls were Latin, English was hardly ever used -- so maybe we were in Mexico, or even South America? I didn't care; why should I?

Roger had turned to the sink. He opened the rusty faucet and watched the brown water running out. He closed the tap again. Its pipes ticked and clanged as usual, while the dirty water slowly sank into the clogged drain, leaving a yellowish film.

"I never got you out of my system," he said, his gaze reaching mine through the mirror. "I kept sending those ridiculous Christmas cards and things, just for fear of being forgotten. I worked like an idiot, hoping that my efforts for daddy's enemies would at least dent his wealth and even once in a while thwart a few of his plans. It took me two years to realize what I was doing. That was when I began convincing myself that I got over you, over revenge, and could move on."

A series of blood curdling shrieks came from further down the hallway. It distracted Roger, I saw. I knew it was just business as usual. A girl was tortured by a customer; a new girl, maybe. I also knew that no one would check or even bother. It had happened to any one of us. Twice I had seen still and lonely shapes under white sheets being rolled on a gurney past my door. Most of the time I was too stoned to care.

When the silence returned, Roger went on.

"I started dating, " he said. "Well, more like fucking on one night stands; the way macho career monkeys do. It took me less than a year to get disgusted by it. Well, anyway, before turning into an entirely hollow shell, I met Annika." The name startled me, or rather the way he pronounced it. There was a sudden flush of warmth in his voice.

"Annika was... is a Swedish girl I met in Paris. She was... is everything you are not, Liza -- friendly, earthly, no nonsense healthy. I think I fell in love with her. No. I rather swam ashore to join the firm earth she offered the castaway I had become." He stopped, shaking his head.

"No," he went on. "To be honest, I used her to heal myself. I'd become an asshole and it was the asshole thing to do." Another silence. Giggles in the hallway as girls walked by.

"We had... have a child, you know? A boy, Lars. He is in Stockholm now, with his mother and his new dad. I guess he forgot about me by now." I watched him closely.

"Okay!" he cried out, and his open face shut down again. "Enough of this sentimental bullshit. I bet you'd love to suck my cock or even have it swim around a while in your Olympic sized cesspool of a cunt, eh?" He laughed a below zero laugh. It made my spine crawl.

"But no," he went on, killing his smile. "I have to be the one still standing, in the end, remember? I deserve a happy ending. You'll be the one dying and I won't give you a chance to tear me down with your decease-ridden body. Daddy's dead... you'll soon envy him for the clean, fast bullet while the slow pains of your ruined flesh torture you. Steve won't survive jail very long either, I bet. But I? I'll live forever!" Another bout of crazy laughter startled me. He looked like a madman.

"Where was I? Oh yes," he said. "When my marriage scattered, I sent all the evidence I had on daddy to him -- the evidence that kept him away from you, remember? It wasn't taken away from me by betrayal as I told you; I did it myself. I had a plan. Not a week later he kicked in your door and raped you back into the whore you'd always been -- the slut that slumbered beneath the veneer Suzan's therapy had restored. It still surprised me how fast you changed. Well, anyway. The rest of my little plan you know; you had front seats. There was the cufflink, the mentally fucking over of you and Steve; and the gun of course, ah yes, the gun." He sighed, smiling. I studied my hands.

"Tell me about Eric, please," I said, looking up. "How is he? Is he happy? How is mom? Can she cope?"

My line of questions tore him out of his private madhouse.

"Eric?" he said, as if having trouble placing the subject. "Ah, your little boy. Don't worry, he's fine and so is your mother. No need to think of them; they are well provided for, trust funds and all that. I am rich now, of course. And you can't do anything for them anyway, can you? Why worry now? You never cared from the moment you whored yourself out again, did you? He's better off without you, as would Steve have been. As would I... You'd only fuck his life up even more."

I started crying. It took me by surprise, as it had been ages since I cried. He just laughed.

"Now you cry," he said, and yes, I cried. For a while I was not able to stem the flood of tears that ran over my emaciated cheeks. The fat mascara must have streaked the layers of pancake. I stumbled to my feet, swaying on my legs. I saw the claw like nails on my fingers stretching out in Roger's direction. He yielded, but I stepped closer.

"I am sorry, Roger," I said, my voice a whisper. "I know it means nothing to you anymore, but I am sorry for what I did to you and Steve and Eric." Roger raised both hands. He had retired into a corner; his face showed a growing panic. The gloating madman had gone.

"Get down, get away from me, you whore!" I ignored him, taking another step. He swung a hand back to hit me, but he didn't. I never flinched.

"Yes, Roger," I said. "You should hit me. Why not kill me? I deserve it. Please kill me, no one will care." He didn't respond. He just stood like a statue, one hand raised. My face was into his by now, my breath touching him. I bet it still reeked of my last customer's goo.

"I was bad, Roger," I said. "I was weak and greedy, but I was never evil. I don't think I ever loved anyone but Eric and if I said otherwise, I am sorry. I guess I was confused, not knowing my love could mean so much to you and Steve. I am sorry and now I want you to leave." I stepped aside, giving him room to pass. He just kept standing, wide eyed. His hand trembled, so did his lip. The last traces of the man Roger melted away, only to leave the boy -- the lonely, maltreated boy I once saw in that room with the four-poster bed.

Then the frozen moment shattered. He ducked and ran out of the room. The door swung shut with the cheap bang of its thin wooden panel.

I fell face down on the mattress, crying.

***

A few last notes.

No one heard of Liza Stevenson again. The girls who found her naked body dangling from a makeshift rope in her tiny room in a Nicaraguan brothel never knew her name. The huge half breed Indian who dug her grave in the back yard was a mute. After his shovel flattened the earth over her body and the sun baked the last moisture out of it, no one would ever know that somebody had been buried there.

No one read the short letter she wrote and left on the battered laptop. The woman who cleaned up the room sold the machine for a packet of cigarettes.

Steve Stevenson did not die in prison. Anonymous sources produced an avalanche of information on Robert Count Moreland's embarrassing involvement with officials who had the power to pull strings -- if given the right incentive. One of those strings miraculously opened Steve Stevenson's cell door, not even two years after it had closed behind him. He, his son Eric and his mother-in-law disappeared after that. Rumor has it they live somewhere in Canada. Other rumors insist they live in Europe, though.

The new Count Moreland took over his father's empire for a very short time, before selling his stakes in every company he owned. Quite a number of charities and Non Governmental Organizations saw their funds swelling after that. No one ever made a link to the anonymous man living amongst the ruins an earthquake left in Port-au-Prince, Haïti.