Palindrome by E. Z. Rinsky

underage girls, selling their bodies to diseased perverts in exchange for an opiate drip and just enough spending money to replace the clothes that your clientele rip off of them in their animal frenzies . . . It’s much too late for you, Matty. But you can at least spare a few poor souls the torture you’ve inflicted on thousands of others. If we bring you this tape to listen to, and it proves what we think it does,” Courtney says, “no more girls. Keep the gambling, the shvitzing, the drugs. But no girls. You send them back to wherever you got them. Back to their families. With cash.”
    Orange grows very still, then manages to nod dumbly.
    â€œOkay,” he whispers.
    â€œIt might tell you something you don’t want to hear,” Courtney says. “Is it heaven? Hell? Or most likely, something you’ve never even considered. No matter what it tells you, you send them home. Do I have your word?”
    â€œI . . . Yes,” he nods queasily, and I’m pretty sure he means it.
    â€œSo you still want us to bring you the tape for a listen?” I ask him.
    â€œOh yes,” Orange whispers. “More than ever.”

 
    PART TWO:
    Pause

 
    I T’S AFTER TEN at night, and Courtney is at the wheel of our rented Honda Accord, speeding north on I-­95. There’s a drizzle of freezing rain.
    The plan is to check out the murder scene first, since it’s on the way to the institution housing Silas. We should get to Bangor by one, then we’ll check into a motel. Murder scene has been cold five years, one more night won’t make a difference. I’ve got my phone in my hand, am staring blankly at the screen.
    â€œOrange isn’t just a filthy idiot.” Courtney is babbling; he’s been unable to settle down since leaving Midtown Fitness. “He’s also a narcissist. And that’s his mistake: He thought he could figure this all out himself. Never bothered to ask for help,” Courtney chortles. “All that time thinking somebody named Egnaro was the key to finding the Beulah Twelve . . .”
    I lean back in my seat.
    â€œCan you please explain what the fuck is the Beulah Twelve?”
    Courtney shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me.
    â€œI’m sure you’ve heard of them. Must just not remember. It was huge news for a week a few years ago. Beulah is this tiny little town in rural Colorado. Twelve upstanding male citizens kidnapped a boy of seven. They brought him to the leader’s house—­his attic had been converted into some kind of crazy church. They killed the boy on an altar. Very sacrificial, ritualistic. Any of this ringing a bell?”
    â€œMaybe,” I lie.
    â€œAnd then .” Courtney grins. “The twelve men disappeared into thin air. They left the boy flayed on the altar, got in their trucks, and disappeared . A few weeks into the investigation it turns out all twelve of them were seen in Chicago, plus they used their credit cards there. Maxed them out, I think. But besides that, no trace. Ever. They never found any of them.”
    I’m feeling a little too tired for this. I watch the windshield wipers furiously smack away raindrops.
    â€œOkay . . . so?”
    â€œSo clearly Orange’s client—­Egnaro—­ was one of them. He was going nuts about how they ‘did it’—­that must mean killed the kid, right? But what if Savannah ’s death was related to the Beulah Twelve? What if—­” Courtney is as animated as I’ve ever seen him. And instead of gesticulating with his hands, he seems to be taking out his excitement on the gas pedal, accelerating to punctuate every revelation. “What if Silas was part of the Beulah Twelve!”
    â€œLet’s not speculate.” I sigh. “Patience, thoughtfulness, subtlety, right?”
    â€œAbsolutely.” Courtney nods furiously.