refer to was the monastery.
He recalled the exhilaration he'd felt when talking to his prisoner, when making his speech to airport security. After six years of relative silence, talking had made him feel strangely good. His mood changed abruptly as he asked himself why he'd bothered to leave his prisoner in the van.
Well, I couldn't very well have taken him with me.
No, of course not. But...
I had an option.
Yes, but you didn't take it.
In the old days...
True. When you fought for your life on the hill, you killed your opponent. (Mea culpa.) But here you had a choice.
At once the implication struck him. In the old days, he wouldn't have allowed the man to live.
Chapter 5.
Despite the changes in the world while he'd been away, one aspect at least remained the same. Or possibly it too was worse. Boston's Combat Zone.
After leaving the bus, he headed toward downtown Boston, walking through streetlight-haloed darkness along the city's weirdly angled streets (the legacy of the haphazard 1600s, a city planner's nightmare), passing chrome-and-glass structures next to historic brick-and-board facades, their interiors no doubt stripped and varnished, filled with hanging plants and Oriental rugs.
But as he ventured farther into the city's labyrinth, the buildings became oppressive. Pride gave way to neglect. He reached the jungle of the predators. The scavengers. The Combat Zone.
Prostitutes, twenty feet apart, lined both sides of the streets. Despite the cold October night, some wore tight skirts, often leather, hitched above their knees, or slashed long dresses that bared the skin up to a buttock.
As Drew walked past, they squinted at him, assessing.
"Hey, sweet thing."
"How'd you like your string pulled, love?"
Drew studied them as they studied him, scanning their faces, searching for a faint suggestion that this or that woman could be of use to him.
A garish yellow car screeched to a stop beside him. Drew pivoted on guard, gripping the Mauser beneath his padded vest. He blinked, startled, as a woman in the passenger seat exposed her breasts, the nipples encircled by lipstick, and raised her eyebrows in question.
Drew felt an unfamiliar tingle in his groin. He shook his head fiercely. She laughed and turned to the man beside her, who raised a beer can to his mouth and stomped on the gas pedal, roaring away.
He struggled to subdue the perverse swelling. His sex drive had disappeared effortlessly in the monastery; now, within hours of returning to the world, it was back. He forced himself to continue walking, searching, but Arlene's face came vividly to his memory.
A young black woman attracted his attention. Her thick dark hair was cropped close, like a boy's. Her breasts swelled beneath a Celtics sweatshirt; above it, she wore an open plastic coat. But what attracted him was that she kept pinching in distress at what appeared to be a rip in the calf of her panty hose. The gesture evoked his sympathy.
As he approached, her eyes flickered. She straightened, jutting out her breasts.
"Have you got a place?" Drew asked.
"What for?"
"It has to have a bed."
"What for?"
Drew frowned. He couldn't believe that he'd made a mistake about her.
"Be specific," she added. "What are you asking me?"
He understood. "Entrapment? You're afraid I might be a cop?"
She blinked her long eyelashes. "Now why would a cop want to bother me?"
"It's been so long I forgot. I'm supposed to ask how much. If I'm the one who mentions the money, you can't be charged for soliciting."
"How much for what?"
"To spend the night."
"And what do you want to do for the night?"
She wouldn't believe the truth, he realized, so he made a proposition.
"Oh." She relaxed. "Is that all? For a minute, I thought you looked kinky. All I can say is you must have a high opinion of yourself if you think you can do that all night. Fifty bucks."
Even six years ago, that price would have been low. "For all night?"
"Hon, one thing at a time. Maybe. We'll
He recalled the exhilaration he'd felt when talking to his prisoner, when making his speech to airport security. After six years of relative silence, talking had made him feel strangely good. His mood changed abruptly as he asked himself why he'd bothered to leave his prisoner in the van.
Well, I couldn't very well have taken him with me.
No, of course not. But...
I had an option.
Yes, but you didn't take it.
In the old days...
True. When you fought for your life on the hill, you killed your opponent. (Mea culpa.) But here you had a choice.
At once the implication struck him. In the old days, he wouldn't have allowed the man to live.
Chapter 5.
Despite the changes in the world while he'd been away, one aspect at least remained the same. Or possibly it too was worse. Boston's Combat Zone.
After leaving the bus, he headed toward downtown Boston, walking through streetlight-haloed darkness along the city's weirdly angled streets (the legacy of the haphazard 1600s, a city planner's nightmare), passing chrome-and-glass structures next to historic brick-and-board facades, their interiors no doubt stripped and varnished, filled with hanging plants and Oriental rugs.
But as he ventured farther into the city's labyrinth, the buildings became oppressive. Pride gave way to neglect. He reached the jungle of the predators. The scavengers. The Combat Zone.
Prostitutes, twenty feet apart, lined both sides of the streets. Despite the cold October night, some wore tight skirts, often leather, hitched above their knees, or slashed long dresses that bared the skin up to a buttock.
As Drew walked past, they squinted at him, assessing.
"Hey, sweet thing."
"How'd you like your string pulled, love?"
Drew studied them as they studied him, scanning their faces, searching for a faint suggestion that this or that woman could be of use to him.
A garish yellow car screeched to a stop beside him. Drew pivoted on guard, gripping the Mauser beneath his padded vest. He blinked, startled, as a woman in the passenger seat exposed her breasts, the nipples encircled by lipstick, and raised her eyebrows in question.
Drew felt an unfamiliar tingle in his groin. He shook his head fiercely. She laughed and turned to the man beside her, who raised a beer can to his mouth and stomped on the gas pedal, roaring away.
He struggled to subdue the perverse swelling. His sex drive had disappeared effortlessly in the monastery; now, within hours of returning to the world, it was back. He forced himself to continue walking, searching, but Arlene's face came vividly to his memory.
A young black woman attracted his attention. Her thick dark hair was cropped close, like a boy's. Her breasts swelled beneath a Celtics sweatshirt; above it, she wore an open plastic coat. But what attracted him was that she kept pinching in distress at what appeared to be a rip in the calf of her panty hose. The gesture evoked his sympathy.
As he approached, her eyes flickered. She straightened, jutting out her breasts.
"Have you got a place?" Drew asked.
"What for?"
"It has to have a bed."
"What for?"
Drew frowned. He couldn't believe that he'd made a mistake about her.
"Be specific," she added. "What are you asking me?"
He understood. "Entrapment? You're afraid I might be a cop?"
She blinked her long eyelashes. "Now why would a cop want to bother me?"
"It's been so long I forgot. I'm supposed to ask how much. If I'm the one who mentions the money, you can't be charged for soliciting."
"How much for what?"
"To spend the night."
"And what do you want to do for the night?"
She wouldn't believe the truth, he realized, so he made a proposition.
"Oh." She relaxed. "Is that all? For a minute, I thought you looked kinky. All I can say is you must have a high opinion of yourself if you think you can do that all night. Fifty bucks."
Even six years ago, that price would have been low. "For all night?"
"Hon, one thing at a time. Maybe. We'll
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