Damaged Goods (25 page)

The decadent aroma of chocolate cake permeated the house, giving it a warm and welcoming feel. She’d given up looking for Hershel’s secrets when she found the box of cake mix in the cupboard, but not a single damning clue. Silvie wandered from room to room, imagining that the place was hers. It was so much like the home she had dreamed of owning when she was younger, and it was as though she just now recognized it.

Hershel’s furniture was expensive. Nicer than she would have picked out, with its rich wood grains and delicate details. His sofa was shaped like a kidney bean and had carved feet with leaves and scrolls. Another dark band of wood ran the length of the backrest, with a scallop shell carved at its pinnacle. There was a matching chair, both in burgundy velvet. And the table between them was of the same dark wood but simpler in design, and topped with white marble. It looked elegantly old. Not like the trash her father had hauled home and called antique. His were musty, sagging copies of these sophisticated pieces. As she studied the intricate detail of the carving, she understood that what she’d thought of as good furniture had, in fact, been clumsy imitations. The revelation made her see herself as uneducated and backward. But the fact that she understood her backwardness also gave her a powerful new sense of direction. She could remake her life. She could
become anybody she wanted, now that she was almost free of Jacob.

She would return the photos. She might scratch the faces off first, though. But then what would happen to the other girls? She didn’t recognize them, and she’d spent her first night after leaving Wyoming in a roadside Motel 6, studying those little faces. It was the discovery of these girls that had propelled her into a frenzy of terror and a hasty run for it. Where were those girls now? Silvie believed they were dead. No different from the photos of missing people flashed on the evening news. Only to discover weeks, months, sometimes years later, that they had been murdered. Would she rob grieving families of some sense of closure when Jacob Castor finally died and was revealed for what he really was?

The chaos in her mind had finally crystallized into a hard nugget of honest recognition. She didn’t fear running from Jacob the way she feared staying with him. The images of these girls had only reinforced what she subconsciously understood. Jacob Castor would eventually be finished with her. She was now fourteen years older than she was when they first met. She was no longer a little girl. No longer able to pretend to giggle and play, or wear her hair up in purple bows. And, while she wanted more than anything to live as the woman she’d grown into, she still painted her nails cotton-candy pink. She would eventually fail to interest him, and he wasn’t the kind of man who would have his castoff lover fawned over by another man.

When Hershel found Silvie standing in the kitchen, frosting a chocolate layer cake, all concern about Carl’s whereabouts evaporated. Who knew where the man was, whether he’d be back tomorrow, preparing for the sale. He’d wasted the afternoon, having gone looking for him. Carl was probably hanging out with friends somewhere and couldn’t get a ride back to Scholls.

Silvie, though, was beautiful.

He suspected that she didn’t even know it. She flashed an embarrassed smile his way when he looked over her shoulder at the confection she’d created.

“Thought you might like something sweet,” she said.

Stay forever
, he thought.
Stay forever
.

“Somebody named Marilyn Stromm called. She said she can’t make it tomorrow. She pinched a nerve in her back.”

“Damn.”

“She was vaccinating sheep,” Silvie added. “Said she got one by the hind legs and it kicked the crap out of her.”

“Bet that hurt,” Hershel said, peeling off his jacket. He didn’t know that Marilyn, who had worked for him for more than five years, even raised sheep. Didn’t know or had forgotten? No, he never knew. Hershel was coming to understand that forgotten
things had a vague presence, like an oily sheen on the surface of his mind. There, but slippery and elusive. Unknown things were simply that: unknown.

“Who is Marilyn Stromm?”

“She’s my clerk. Does the auctions.”

“Oh. Who’s going to be your clerk, then?

“I’ll think about that after cake.”

Silvie licked the frosting from the spatula. “How about me? What would I have to do?”

Hershel sized her up. “Well, the clerk writes down every item that is sold, with the buyer’s number and the price.”

“That’s all?”

“I guess there’s a little more to it than that. You have to record the lot number. Helps if you can spell, but it’s not a requirement. But your writing has to be legible. That
is
a requirement. And you have to pay close attention. If you space out you miss stuff, and I can’t go back.”

“I think I can do that, except maybe the spelling part.”

“You would do that for me?”

“Sure. South Store doesn’t need me until Thursday.” Silvie dropped the dirty dishes into the sink.

“I’ll pay you,” he said.

She scowled down at the dishes in her hands. Had he been wrong to offer?

“You’ve done so much for me. I wouldn’t feel right about that,” she said.

“I would’ve paid Marilyn; there’s no reason I wouldn’t pay you. And you’re helping me out hugely.”

She shrugged noncommittally and began sudsing the dishes.

After supper they settled on the sofa and found an old movie starring Jack Nicholson. She snuggled against his side as if she’d been made for him. He wanted it to last forever.

“I called my mother,” she said. “I wanted you to know so you aren’t surprised by the phone bill.”

“You don’t have to account for everything you do.”

She was quiet, and he wished he could see her face.

“But I’m glad you called. Is she okay?”

“I guess.” Silvie twirled a lock of hair between her fingers, inspecting the ends. “I had to hang up when she begged me to tell her where I am. But … at least she knows I’m alive.”

He squeezed her shoulder.

“Jacob knows I’m okay, too, now.” She touched his hand lightly. “Do you think he can trace the call back here?”

Hershel hadn’t thought of that. A sharp pain stabbed at his forehead. He’s got the technology, he thought. And the authority to request a trace.

She pulled away to look at Hershel.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Oh my God. What have I done?”

He pulled her in tight again. “I’m not going to let him hurt you. He’ll have to deal with me.” Hershel’s mind worked through the scenarios. How would he know who this man was if he saw him?

“Hershel, I better go.”

“Don’t be silly. Where will you go?”

“I don’t know. But he’ll find me here.”

“Then he’ll find me, too.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Silvie, you’ve become very important to me. I will protect you.”

She pressed her nose against his windpipe. “He’s a very dangerous man.”

Hershel gave her his most reassuring smile. “There’s every chance that I am, too.”

Kyrellis scanned the auction barn. It was packed with soon-to-be bidders previewing the offerings, picking through boxes, inspecting
and appraising merchandise. He couldn’t remember when he’d seen this many people here. Stuart, one of Hershel’s floor men, cussed his way through the growing crowd, his eyes darting from side to side. He nodded curtly at Kyrellis as he passed.

Hershel’s office door stood open, and he was on the phone, leaning over his desk. Kyrellis wandered past the girl in the concession stand, who was too busy rushing about pouring coffee and sodas, scooping popcorn into small paper sacks, and ringing up sales to notice him. A line of ten or so people waited patiently to place their orders.

Kyrellis shut the door behind him, gaining Hershel’s attention.

“Send anyone you’ve got. They just need to have strong backs and speak decent English.” When he hung up, he stared at Kyrellis.

“Trouble?”

“Can’t find Carl. Didn’t show up yesterday. No sign of him today. I need him. We’ve got the biggest crowd we’ve ever had tonight, with all this architectural stuff. How does a man just go missing after years of consistency?”

“No idea,” Kyrellis said. “He didn’t seem the reliable type, anyway. You’re probably better off.”

“Why are you here? What do you want?”

“Our man, Jacob Castor …” He could tell by the look on Hershel’s face that the name was familiar. “He’s raising a million dollars for those pictures.”

“You filthy son of a bitch.”

“I’ll sell them to you for half that. To protect the girl, of course.”

“You’re nothing but a predator.”

“Welcome to the garden of predators, my friend.” Kyrellis sat in the chair opposite Hershel’s desk. He gazed sadly at his hands.

Silvie took her place on the auctioneer’s stand, pulling the stool up to her new work space. She looked out over the crowd and her
upper lip trembled. She’d had no idea all these people would be watching her. She opened the new package of pens sitting on the desk and studied the carbon-paper forms. They were long, narrow strips in quadruplicate: white, yellow, pink, with the cardboard copy on the bottom. Each form was laid out with spaces for ten items, encapsulating the things that Hershel had explained, with perforated lines for splitting them apart. She wondered how she’d know the lot number. Something to ask Hershel. She looked at the tiny clock pasted against the back of the podium, where only she and the auctioneer could see it. It was six-fifteen. Where was he? And where was Carl? She hadn’t seen him among the floor men or the other employees. But she’d seen the bully, who had looked her up and down, not even bothering to close his mouth.

A red-haired girl appeared at Silvie’s elbow, tiny from that perch four feet above the floor.

“This is for Hershel,” the girl said, handing up a paper cup of orange soda. “What are you drinking?”

“Coke, I guess.”

The girl nodded. “I’ll bring it right out.”

“Do you know where Hershel is?”

“He’s trying to get more help for the floor. Carl didn’t show.” The girl disappeared before Silvie could ask any more questions.

She glimpsed Kyrellis as he took a seat in the front row. He nodded, keeping her in his sights.

“A newbie,” the bully said, now standing where the concession girl had been. “What’s your name?”

She considered him coolly but didn’t answer, which she knew would piss him off. She’d been appraised by too many men, some twice the age and income of this asshole. He might as well understand right now that she wasn’t giving what he was looking for.

He leaned an elbow against the lectern, too close to her thigh—a bold act. His beard was cropped short, and he rubbed it with his palm. “Haven’t seen you around? Where you from?”

“Mars,” she said.

He laughed, but his eyes darted around the floor now.

“Don’t you have things to do, Stuart?” It was Hershel, and his voice boomed, even with the noise of the crowd. The man jumped.

“Just welcoming the new help, boss.”

“She’s not ‘the help.’ She’s a friend of mine who was kind enough to do us a favor.”

He nodded to Silvie. “Good luck.”

Hershel took his place, squeezing Silvie’s shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry—you’ll be able to keep up with me. It’s a lot easier these days.” He took up his microphone, thanked the crowd for coming, and opened the bidding on a tap-and-dye set.

The smooth rhythm of Hershel’s auctioneering lulled Silvie, and she found herself losing track of the items and becoming swept up in the way he sang out the numbers. This man she’d come to know as hesitant in his speech and slow to find his words rolled through items with perfect tempo. Occasionally Stuart called out the name of an item when Hershel paused a beat too long, but they worked together like old partners. She scribbled down names, prices, lot numbers, and bidder numbers until her hand ached. Before she knew, it was nine o’clock. As she recorded the sales of glass doorknobs, six-panel fir doors, tin ceiling tiles, plaster molds, and dozens of other things she’d never heard of and had no idea how to spell properly, she began to see the potential in this weird business. In the run of ten minutes she guessed they’d sold a thousand dollars in merchandise, yielding more than three hundred dollars in commission. And all Hershel had to do was open his doors to bring it in and see it out again, in the span of a week. She glanced up at him as he called the numbers on a pristine porcelain sink from the 1930s. What she didn’t know about this man.