Blossom (25 page)

179

T
EN–THIRTY THAT NIGHT. I sat on the bed, smoking, watching Blossom dress, fresh from her shower. She stepped into a pair of tiny black panties, snapped on a matching bra. Looked at herself in the mirror. Took the bra off, tossed it on the bed. Slipped a soft pink sweater–dress over her head. It came down to mid–thigh. She checked the mirror again. Hiked up the skirt to her waist, pulled a sheer stocking over each leg, fastening each one with an elastic garter. A dab of perfume behind each ear, generous splash of fire–engine–red lipstick. Tied a black scarf around her waist for a belt.

"Those won't do," she said.

"What?"

"Those gangster clothes of yours. We're going parking, you can't wear a suit. Put on a pair of jeans, you can borrow a leather jacket from Virgil."

180

T
HE INSIDE OF the 'Cuda smelled like Blossom. We talked softly, Blossom bragging about how she'd pulled it off with Lloyd.

"I figure, I owed him that one."

"You see his face? Anything you ever owed him in life, you paid off."

Her smile flashed. She leaned over, kissed me on the cheek.

Swamp darkness. The kind that rises from the ground.

Blossom bounced in her seat. "Come on."

"Come on, what?"

She turned so she was on her knees, leaned across the shift lever into me, tongue stabbing into my mouth, making her sounds. My hands on her back, stroking her.

"Pull it up," she whispered into my mouth.

"What?"

"My skirt, honey. Let go, let him feel it. Let him feel what lovers do. Let him bring his hate—have it out. Come on, baby."

Her skirt slid over the nylon, my thumbs hooking the waistband of her panties, pulling them down to her knees. She reached back, pulled them all the way down, leaving the black silk hooked around one ankle. Then she crawled into my lap, facing me, reaching underneath her for my zipper, her coppery estrogen smell almost choking me. She pulled me free. "This is mine," she hissed. "Give me what's mine," fitting herself over me, her neck arched against my face.

I felt her magnetic wetness. "Come…come…" she whisper–moaned against my face. A machine–gun burst ripped open the night, devil's raindrops splattering against the windshield. Instinct threw her down against me as I frantically tried to turn, get my back between Blossom and the sniper fire.

High harmonic crack of the sniper's assault rifle. Virgil's carbine boomed out an answer. Bullets slammed into the car, rocking it on its tires. Spotlights beamed across the rise, bullhorn crackled:
"Police!
"

I shoved Blossom away from me, clawing for my pistol. Found the door handle. "Get outta here. Back to Virgil's. Go!"

And I was out the door, crouched behind the car, pulling up my zipper, pulling it together.

The gunfire stopped. Sounds of men thrashing around in the dark wood. I took off to my right, running hard.

181

I
COVERED THE length of the blacktop, crouching low. All the way to the end, watching the night above me, praying for the hunter's moon to show.

Plunged into the woods, over the fence. Grabbed a breath, belly–crawled my way up the rise toward the railroad tracks. Far to my left, the cops were still beating the bushes. I stopped at the top, shallow–breathing, feeling the ground against my cheek.

The guns were quiet. I stood up, worked my way over the tracks to the far side of the woods. I backed against a tree, antenna out.

The distinctive rumble of the 'Cuda's exhaust, growling along in low gear, somewhere behind me.

Something moving. To my right. Clumsy–sloppy, blundering. Fear–booted. I took off, feeling his trail, following the blood spoor.

A sapling branch lashed my face, warning me. I dropped to one knee, listening.

I felt the panic, heard him crashing down the back side of the hill, heading for the slough where he'd been born. Where it started. I stumbled onto a dog path through the brush. A black plastic sniper rifle lay discarded on the path, the night scope a blind eye now.

Sirens to my left, homing in, surrounding.

The only fear I felt was his. Then: a stick figure in camouflage gear, running, arms pumping, hands empty. I leveled the pistol, sighted in.

Wesley's voice: Make Sure.

I lowered the .38, took off after him.

He flew around a corner just as I reached the street. Sprinted up a dirt alley a block from the water, coat flapping behind him. I closed the gap. Did he have a mail–order killing knife strapped to his boot?

Kill–lust driving me at him, not mine.

Wesley's chill in me, patient.

I heard the 'Cuda again, its stump–puller engine throttled down.

A dog yapped fearfully.

My eyes picked up an image of movement. It disappeared. I stood, scanning, the pistol down at my side. The closest shelter was an aluminum house trailer sitting like a bloated mushroom in an overgrown patch of jungle, no lights in the windows. A high–pitched moan rode the air as he charged across my path, right for the trailer, never breaking stride.

He dove inside before I could bring the gun up.

The sirens closed in. The door to the trailer stood open. I flattened my back against the metal, dropped into a crouch, slid inside, head down, eyes up, the stubby pistol held before me like a divining rod.

Freakish wet sounds.

He was crumpled on the floor, holding his crotch, mewling.

"It's over, Luther," I told him, my voice shaking. "All over, now."

The sniper's eyes found me. Dry ice, burning cold. His face was a ravaged skeleton, claw marks on his cheeks from his own hands, clear fluid all over his chin. Wesley called to me. I cocked the pistol.

"Don't do it." Sherwood's voice, behind me.

The thing on the floor spasmed, making noises I never wanted to hear again.

182

T
HE TRAILER WAS a tiny, humpbacked thing, kitchen against one wall. I passed the closet–sized bathroom, heading for the back. His room. A TV set, twisted coat hanger for rabbit ears. Fast–food cartons, TV dinners. Empty Coke bottles. Rancid smells. Stack of magazines in one corner, as high as my waist. Newspaper all over the floor, like you'd put down for a dog that wasn't housebroken. Sleeping bag with a camouflage–pattern lining. CB radio. Cheap pair of binoculars hanging from a strap on the wall. Neat row of X's drawn above them in red crayon.

Six marks. There wouldn't be eight.

183

W
HEN I STEPPED back into the front room, there were three squad cars outside, bubble–gum lights rotating in the windows. Red and white.

A cop in a baseball hat and flak jacket pulled Luther to his feet, making a face at the smell. Snapped the handcuffs behind him. Walked him outside to the waiting cars, now bright with probing spotlights.

"You think…?"

"It doesn't matter." Sherwood cut me off.

We stepped into the night air, watching. Luther was ducking his head to climb into the back of the squad car, the SWAT Team cop right behind him.

I lit a cigarette. A shot rang out, slamming the sniper against the squad car door. Blood flowered on what was left of his face.

"Down!" Sherwood screamed at the cops, hitting the deck. My eyes twisted to the left. A flash of soft pink in the darkness.

I moved away into the night, hearing tires torture rubber as a car took off close by.

Nobody gave chase.

184

I
SHOOK HANDS with Lloyd. "Thank you. For everything," he said. He looked older, harder. Softened as Blossom kissed him goodbye.

"You always have a home here, brother." Virgil.

Rebecca stood just to the side. "Look at you men. You don't know how to do anything, do you?" She wrapped her arms around me, hugged me fiercely. Her face was wet against mine.

Virginia watched from the side, her hand on Junior's shoulder.

185

T
HE LINCOLN took us through the steel city onto the highway. I parked at O'Hare. Carried Blossom's bags inside. We stopped at the gate. She faced me, her hands wrapped in the lapels of my jacket. Turquoise eyes glistened with secrets I'd never know.

"Listen to me, trouble–man. I don't know where I'm going, how long it will take me to get there. Maybe I'll be alone, maybe I'll live in a nice big house with a white picket fence, have a husband and four kids. I don't know. Wherever I'll be, I'll be a doctor. Follow the scent, you know what I smell like. You can always find me.

"Blossom…"

"Just listen to me—I know what's mine. Wherever I end up, I'll tell you one thing, I'm going to have a dog. A big, nasty killer dog who loves only me, protects me with his life. Every night, just before I go to bed, I'm going to let my dog out into the yard. Anybody comes after me, he's going to raise holy hell. You find my house, Burke. Wait until dark. When you come over the fence for me, that dog, he won't bar the way.

She turned and walked, her heels clicking, trailing mystery and promise behind her.

186

T
HE PLANE DROPPED into La Guardia. I took a cab back to my life.

Acclaim for
A N D R E W  V A C H S S

"Burke is an unlikely combination of Sherlock Holmes, Robin Hood, and Rambo, operating outside the law as he rights wrongs….Vachss has obviously seen just how unable the law is to protect children. And so, while Burke may be a vigilante, Vachss's stories don't feature pointless bloodshed. Instead, they burn with righteous rage and transfer a degree of that rage to the reader."

—
Washington
Post Book World

"Taking Burke off his home turf to deal with a Midwestern kind of seediness was a brilliant move. Vachss's characters are, as always, carefully sketched, the dialogue is sharp, and the driven Burke is a creature you can't spend enough time with. Many writers are trying to cover the same ground as Vachss. A handful are good. None are better. For anyone interested in this kind of fiction, Andrew Vachss, sculpting pieces of art out of the scummiest wastes of humanity, must be read."

—
People

"Compelling…powerful.…Vachss is America's dark scribe of the 1990s….His protagonist Burke is our new dark knight, a cold–eyed crusader."

—James Grady, author of
Six Days of the Condor

"The best detective fiction being written…. Add a stinging social commentary…a Célinesque journey into darkness, and we have an Andrew Vachss, one of our most important writers."

—Martha Grimes

"Move over, Hammett and Chandler, you've got company….Andrew Vachss has become a cult favorite, and for good reason."

—
Cosmopolitan

"A sleuth who lives not just on society's edge, but on its underbelly….Strong, gritty, gut–bucket stuff, so unsparing and vivid that it makes you wince. Vachss knows the turf and writes with a sneering bravado….Burke prowls the city with a seething, angry, almost psychotic voice appropriate to the devils he deals with….Vachss is good, his Burke books first–rate."

—
Chicago Tribune

"Vachss seems bottomlessly knowledgeable about the depth and variety of human twistedness."

—
The New York Times

Andrew Vachss

Andrew Vachss has been a federal investigator in sexually transmitted diseases, a social caseworker, a labor organizer, and has directed a maximum-security prison for youthful offenders. Now a lawyer in private practice, he represents children and youths exclusively. He is the author of numerous novels, including the Burke series, two collections of short stories, and a wide variety of other material including song lyrics, poetry, graphic novels, and a "children's book for adults." His books have been translated into twenty different languages and his work has appeared in Parade, Antaeus, Esquire, The New York Times, and numerous other forums. He lives and works in New York City and the Pacific Northwest.

The dedicated Web site for Vachss and his work is
www.vachss.com

BOOKS BY

ANDREW VACHSS

Flood
Strega
Blue Belle
Hard Candy
Blossom
Sacrifice
Shella
Down in the Zero
Born Bad
Footsteps of the Hawk
False Allegations
Safe House
Choice of Evil
Everybody Pays
Dead and Gone
Pain Management

Copyright © 1990 by Andrew Vachss

All rights reserved under International and Pan–American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in hardcover by Alfred A. Knopf Inc., New York, in 1990, and in trade paperback by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 1996.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or arc used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Library of Congress has cataloged the Knopf edition as follows:
Vachss, Andrew H.
Blossom / Andrew Vachss.–1st ed.
p. cm.

Random House Web address:
www.randomhouse.com

eISBN: 978-0-375-71905-9

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