Sympathy for the Devil by Justin Gustainis Read Free Book Online Page A

outside chance...
    "Sure, I can do that," Morris said, and stood. Helen Kowal rose also, but her husband remained seated in the worn, overstuffed armchair that had probably been 'Dad's chair' for twenty years or more. He did not look at Morris.
    "Her room is upstairs," Helen Kowal said. "This way."
    Two flights of threadbare, creaking stairs led to the big house's second story. At the landing between staircases, Helen Kowal paused, waiting for Morris to catch up. As he reached her, Morris said, "I guess your husband isn't coming with us?"
    She shook her head. "He don't go in there anymore. The things she does... no father should see his daughter that way."
    Morris nodded, as if he understood completely. But he was puzzled as he followed Helen Kowal up the remaining stairs and along a carpeted hallway.
    She stopped at a door of brown wood that looked newer than the jamb that held it in place. The doorknob was surrounded by the metal plate of a heavy security lock. Helen Kowal reached into the side pocket of her housedress and produced a key ring.
    "This didn't come with the house, did it?" Morris said quietly.
    "No," she told him, sliding a key into the lock's thin aperture. "We had it installed after."
    The door opened smoothly on oiled hinges.
    The large room would have made a Spartan feel right at home. It contained a bed, a plastic commode with a roll of toilet paper on the floor next to it, and the girl, who lay in the bed, covers pulled up to her chin.
    Morris had thought that Helen Kowal would perform introductions, to put the girl at ease with the stranger. Instead, she simply closed the door and stood with her back against it, arms folded as if to ward off a chill.
    Morris walked slowly toward the bed.
    Mrs. K. didn't relock the door. Maybe she's afraid it would stop us from getting out fast, if we need to.
    Susan Kowal, age seventeen, calmly watched him approach. All he could see of her was a thin face and a mop of medium-brown hair, tangled and matted as if it hadn't been either combed or washed in quite a while. Her body was just a vague shape under the gray, stained blanket.
    I don't know what's wrong with this poor kid, but keeping her in here is tantamount to child abuse. The parents don't know any better, but there's got to be a better place for her than this fucking prison cell.
    He stopped at the foot of the bed and rested his hands lightly on the metal frame. "Hi, Susan," he said pleasantly. "My name's Quincey Morris."
    "Hi, Mr. Morris. Are you a doctor?" Her voice was high, a natural soprano.
    "No, I'm not. But I was visiting your folks, and they asked me to come up and say hello. I figured you hadn't had much company, lately."
    Her mouth twitched in what Morris supposed was intended as a smile. "Not too much, no."
    "How long have you been...?" Morris found himself searching for a tactful way to describe her circumstances. No point in upsetting her.
    "The Prisoner of Zenda?" Her voice was mild, without bitterness. "I'm not sure. The trees are bare, aren't they? They had all their leaves when Mummy and Daddy put that big lock on the door. It was hot out, too."
    Mummy and Daddy? Dear God - this kid needs a doctor, maybe a series of them. Not an exorcist.
    It looked as if her hands were moving under the blanket. Was she scratching herself? Bedbugs wouldn't be hard to imagine in this hellhole.
    He wondered if having an itch was like yawning - one person starts and, before you know it, you're doing it too. Morris had a healed burn scar on his neck, half hidden by his collar. Given the circumstances under which he'd received it, he did his best to forget it was there. These days, he was succeeding more often than not. But sometimes it itched a little. Like right now.
    "Your Mom and Dad tell me that you've been having some pretty serious problems lately. What do you think is -"
    The girl threw her head back, eyes shut tight, breath coming fast between her clenched teeth.
    "Susan, what's wrong?" Morris asked