Exiled (A Madame X Novel) (16 page)

The plastic binding my hands together parts, and I am free.

The robe pools onto the floor.

You close the knife blade. Pace in caged-tiger circles around me. Pocket the weapon. Gazing at me. Your eyes, my God your eyes, they are haunted, blazing with pain and need. Your mask has slipped, Caleb. The emotion within you is a cauldron. No . . . a caldera, crumbling to reveal an active volcano beneath, ready to erupt.

Your chest rises and falls heavily, as if you have recently run a marathon. You are gazing at me as if I am the source of all life, and you are a dying monster, ravening in the shadows, hungering for the sweet morsel of life just beyond its reach.

I remain utterly motionless. Watching you pace in circles around me. Naked. Vulnerable. Terrified. Confused.

And then you move up behind me. Touch my spine. Trace each knob downward. Feather your palms, yes, lovingly over my bottom. Cup my hips. I do not move. I hate your touch. Hate it. But you are manic, unbalanced, and I fear you. So I must allow it, I think. I want to go home to Logan. I want to feel the baby in my belly grow.

As if reading my mind, you press your front to my spine, and your fingers dance around my sides, between my ribs and my arms. Your palms flatten against my belly. It has begun to bump, just a tiny little bit.

“Is it true?” You murmur this, ever so gently, in my ear.

“Yes.”

“How far?”

“Thirteen weeks.” My voice shakes.

“And you do not know if it is mine or his?”

“No. There is no way to know. Not until after the birth.” There is, actually, but my doctor said the procedure came with risk, and wasn’t worth it. I agreed. But I’m not about to say this.

“I don’t suppose it matters.” You turn away from me. Pace away, long quick angry steps.

And then back. Kneeling in front of me. Eyes wide, wondering. You press ten gentle fingertips to my belly. Gently, reverently.

“But . . . if you carried my child inside you . . . ?” You breathe this, as if it is too wild a notion to be believed. “
My
blood, beating within you.
My
bloodline, growing in your uterus.”

“Stop, Caleb,” I whisper. “Please, just . . . stop.”

“If it were mine, what then?” You stand up. Stare down into my eyes.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what then.”

“I have tried to let you go, Isabel. Time and again. I try. But I just . . . cannot.” You turn away again, as if ripping your gaze from me, painfully. Rub the stubble on your jaw with a palm. “I can’t.
And now that you’re pregnant, now that you may have my son or daughter growing inside you—how can I let you go?”

I risk a step closer to you. “You have to, Caleb. You
must
. It is all there is
to
do. Find it within you, Caleb. Please.”

“I can’t!”
This, desperately. Shouted, spittle flying. “Do you have
any
fucking clue what I’ve been through because of you, Isabel de la Vega?”

“No, Caleb, I do not. How could I? You’ve lied to me at every turn. Hidden the truth from me. Locked me away from myself, from my life, from my past.” I breathe out slowly, trying to regain some measure of calm. “You
knew
me, didn’t you? Before the coma? Before the accident. You knew me.”

Your gaze sharpens. Slices into me. “You’ve remembered something, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“
You
tell
me
, Caleb.”

A frustrated sigh. You turn away, snatch my robe off the floor. Bring it to me, hold it open for me. I slide my arms in, and you tie it closed, reluctantly, reverently. You have never behaved thus. As if I am something precious.

Always I felt like just . . . a possession. A watch you were jealous of, but that held no real emotional value to you. As if you possessed me merely so no else could. Owned, but not cherished.

This, the way you look at me now, the way you touch me now . . . if you’d shown this side of you all these past years, perhaps there could have been something for us, between us. But it’s too late. Too late.

You cling to the belt, the knot, for several long moments, and then, as if physically forcing yourself to do so, you release the belt. Breathe in, out, again, and again. Just staring at me. As if plumbing the depths of my soul through my eyes, seeking something.

And then you turn away, walk the many paces to the window. Assume that familiar pose, one arm barred horizontally on the window, your forehead resting on your arm, in the crook of your elbow. Other hand lifted to the glass, fingers tapping a rhythm. Weight on one leg, the other knee bent.

Staring into the past.

I put my back to the window a few feet away from you, sink to sit on the floor.

“You were just a girl when I first saw you. Fourteen, not yet fifteen, but nearly. You were in the process of blooming from an awkward girl into a lovely young woman. I knew, the moment I saw you, that you would be . . . stunning. A Helen of Troy, a woman for whom armies would go to war. But then, you were just a girl. No tits, hair in a sloppy braid, staring wide-eyed at the big bad city, this place, this modern Babylon. You were with your parents. I knew you’d be stunning, because you looked just like your mother, and holy mother of God, that woman was gorgeous. More than gorgeous. A woman to kill for, to die for. A true Spanish beauty. Long thick black hair, firm, dark, unblemished skin even at her age, forty or so. Eyelashes so thick you could almost hear them as they swept against her face. And her body, your mother, Isabel, she had the body of a goddess. Your father was a damned lucky man. He was a rather handsome man, himself, however. A little older than her, I think. Forty-five, nearly fifty, perhaps? Going a little silver at the temples, but it gave him that distinguished air, you know? Tall, straight, strong. A good bit of stubble, not quite a beard. You were between them, your mother on the inside, you, and then your father nearest the street. All three of you were fresh off the boat, so to speak. You were literally clutching your visa in your hands, still. You’d gone straight to Fifth Avenue, like all the tourists do.

“I passed you. But that moment, when I first saw you, I will never
forget that moment for as long as I live, Isabel. You looked at me, and you saw me. Your face told the tale. You thought I was handsome. So I smiled at you, and you ducked, looked away, blushing, giggling. I saw then how beautiful you would be. And I knew, once you came of age, that I would have to have you. But not until you were of age. I was no pedophile, no predator of young girls. In my world, I had men like that . . . eliminated with extreme prejudice. If a man came to me looking for young girls, he would vanish. I would see to it. I had no patience for such filth. Did not, and do not.”

You tap the window, fall silent for a while. I wait, knowing you will continue. Needing you to continue.

“I was a pimp then. There is no other word for it. But I was good to my girls. I took care of them. Kept them off drugs. Fed them, clothed them, gave them somewhere safe to live and do business. Made sure their clients were clean, and not rough. Made sure no one abused them. And I never took advantage of their services myself. At least, not without paying for it like anyone else. I was not a good man. I am not, and never have been. Never will be. But back then? I was . . . bad. I was on the rise. Twenty-five years old and so very angry at everyone, at life. I was making money hand over fist. I was hungry for respect, for success. I was ruthless. If someone got in my way . . . well, they regretted it. But I had standards. Rules. A code. All of my girls were at least eighteen, and they knew, each and every one of them, what they were getting into. I never coerced them or forced them. I made sure they were loyal to me and only me, yes, but . . . they were not victims. And you . . . I’d never seen anyone like you. You were sweet. Innocent. Young, then, too young. But you . . . you
saw
me, Isabel. You looked right at me. And you didn’t do so with fear or disgust. Not like everyone else. You should have. And if you’d been able to see what I truly was, you would have. But I was selfish, and I liked the way you looked at me.

“I kept tabs on you, on the three of you. Nothing nefarious, I just . . . kept track. You went to school in Brooklyn. Your father worked at a jewelry store, a little place owned by a very distant cousin, I think. Or a friend of a distant cousin. I don’t remember anymore. Your mother worked for a hotel, cleaning rooms. It was demeaning work for a woman meant to be an empress, but she did it with vivacity and determination. For you. So you could have shoes and clothes and some money to spend. Your father and mother both worked very long hours to put a roof over your heads and food in your bellies, which meant you were much alone. You had no friends that I ever saw. You never left school with anyone, you never met anyone outside of school. Once school let out, you would go to the library. But you’d stop for a snack on the way, at the same bodega every time. You liked your sweets. You’d get a Coke, and a Snickers bar. I had the feeling, when I watched you, that you got these things as a form of rebellion, that your parents wouldn’t approve, which is why you did it. You’d stay at the library for long, long hours, reading. I never knew anyone to read so many books as you. You’d just sit in the stacks, nose in a book, from when school ended until late at night. Your father rarely came home before midnight, and your mother nearly that, and they’d both be gone a few hours past dawn. Seven, eight at the latest. You were . . . very independent. You’d take yourself to school, take yourself home. I assumed you made your own breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Always alone.”

“It sounds as if you kept very close track of me indeed, Caleb.”

You do not bother to turn, to look at me. “Oh yes. It was unhealthy, and I knew it. But I couldn’t help it. My work suffered. I fucked up a rather important deal because I was watching you rather than doing my due diligence. But I couldn’t help it.”

“Why? What was it about me?”

A sigh. “Just . . . you. Everything. I do not know if I can explain
it, even now. Something in you spoke to something within me. I was impatient for you to grow up, for you to be . . . ready for me. I never interfered in your life, nor that of your parents. I wanted to. I wanted to drive you to school so you wouldn’t have to walk. I wanted to feed you. Stop you from eating trash. A body like yours, or rather a body such as I knew you would have one day . . . it deserved better treatment than you were giving it. You were just a teenage girl, so you knew no better. But I wanted better for you.”

Another sigh. Knuckles tapping on the window. Toe tapping on the floor.

“What was it about you?” you repeat. “What
is
it about you now? I don’t know. I’d never even spoken to you. But I . . .
knew
you. I knew you. I knew the books you liked. Classics, fiction, philosophy. Hemingway, Voltaire, Rousseau, Sartre, Tennessee Williams, Hawthorne, Shakespeare, the Romantics . . . you read so much, so widely. You possessed so much intelligence, so much raw beauty and potential. I wanted it all. I wanted to . . . shape you. It wasn’t sexual, not then. As I said, I am not a predator. Not of that sort, at any rate. If I was not, as I have already said, a good man, I was not so depraved as to prey on fourteen-year-old girls.”

“I believe you, Caleb,” I say. And I do. I do not know why, but I do.

You turn, finally. “You believe that?” Eyes narrowed, jaw muscles flexing, a breath. “You believe that I never meant you harm? That I did not then, and do not now?”

I must consider my next words carefully. “I believe that you were not a predator of young girls. That is what I meant.”

You hear what I do not say, however. “But you do not believe the rest?”

“Given all that has occurred between us, it is difficult. You shot and nearly killed Logan—you
meant
to kill him. You kidnapped me
out of my home. You tranquilized my dog. I was bound and gagged and blindfolded. You have mixed truth and lies and omission for so long that I do not know how to believe anything you say.”

You frown at me, stare at me. “I suppose I cannot fault you for that.” You brace your spine against the glass, cross your arms over your chest. “But believe, if you are able, that everything I’m telling you is the truth. Nothing left out, nothing false.”

“I will try.”

“That is all I ask.”

“I have a question, though.”

“What?”

“Why now?”

You let your head thud back against the thick glass, let your eyes slide closed, as if summoning an answer from deep within. “It is time. For many reasons.”

“How illuminating.” My voice is flat, sarcastic.

You snarl. “You wish the truth?”

“Yes—”

“Then do
not
mock me, Isabel. Do not forget who I am.” You pivot, resume your earlier pose, leaned against the window, facing out, but now with your arms still crossed. “We met for the second time by accident. If you believe nothing, believe that. I hadn’t meant to ever come face to face with you again until you were at least eighteen. But then, I believe it was the day after your sixteenth birthday—you saw me in a café, and approached me. I tried to be rude, hoping you would go away. For your own good. I was not ready for you, nor you me. But you were persistent. You sat down at my table, ordered an espresso and a
pain au chocolate
. You carried on as if we’d always known each other. You told me your name, and asked me mine.”

You pause for so long I wonder fleetingly if you’ve fallen asleep.
But you continue, only now your voice is so low I can barely hear you. I move closer.

“You are responsible for Caleb Indigo, you know. I’ve never told anyone that, but it’s true. You asked me my name, and I panicked. I didn’t want you knowing who I was. I didn’t want you finding me, finding out that I was a pimp, and a former prostitute myself. It wouldn’t have been hard for you to find out. None of it was secret. I don’t know. I just . . . panicked. When I was a prostitute working for Miss Amy, there was a man. A client of hers, and thus, of mine. He was a vicious, brutal son of a bitch. Completely cold. Never gave away anything. Nothing. His name was Caleb. He would show up for an appointment with me, and he would just . . . use me. I was never a small or weak person, but he—” Your voice cracks. You suck in a breath. “I envied him his ability to obscure all of his emotions, all of his thoughts. When you asked me my name, his came to mind. So I told you my name was Caleb. ‘Caleb what?’ you asked me. You were wearing the blue dress. You know the one. Indigo. Not just blue, but indigo. And thus, Caleb Indigo was born.”