Down in the Zero (16 page)

"Okay," the kid said. He motored along in silence for a few minutes. "Can I try it?" he asked.

"Try what?"

"Blending. I'll go through town first, okay?"

"Sure."

The kid had a sweet soft touch with the wheel, piloting the big car in the light traffic with assurance. He pulled to a smooth stop behind a chocolate Porsche coupe, waiting patiently for the light to change.

"Give yourself more room," I told him.

"What do you mean?"

"You're too close to the Porsche. If he stalls, or just decides to sit there, you can't go around him without backing up first, see?"

"Yeah," he said, nodding.

"Drive with a zone around you, like a pocket of air. Another car comes in the zone, you adjust, understand? It's like you always leave yourself an escape route, never get boxed in."

He turned off to the highway, stayed just past the speed limit, looking over at me for approval.

"On the highway, stay with the packs, all right? Always keep cover around you. You want to pass, make sure there's another clump out ahead of you."

He nodded again, rolled into the middle lane behind a Subaru wagon. The kid held his position for a bit, then he pulled into the left lane, circled the Subaru and pulled in behind a three–car train in the middle lane.

"You got it," I told him. "Remember, this car is a crate. That's what it looks like, that's what people will see. Only time you show what it can do is when you got no choice."

The kid ignored the speedometer, driving by the tach and the oil pressure gauge. Another few minutes and he pulled over by a freestanding pay phone.

"See that switch?" I asked him, pointing to a toggle under the dash. "You throw that, the brake lights will disengage. You can leave it in gear with your foot on the brake, nobody watching will know you're ready to go.

He threw the switch as I got out, left the motor running.

I tossed coins into the slot, made the connection.

"Gardens," Mama answered.

"It's me. I need to talk to the Prof. Can you reach out, ask him to be at the phone anytime after midnight?"

"Sure. Everything okay?"

"Getting tricky. But I can see a light, maybe."

"You want Max yet?"

"Not yet, Mama."

I stepped back into the Plymouth. The kid had it rolling away before I had the door closed, merging with traffic like a pigeon joining a flock.

"Nice," I said.

He flushed, didn't say anything.

"Y
ou need me for anything tonight?" he asked.

"No. I got stuff to work on. You?"

"There's a party. At Roger's house."

"Party?" This kid was so damn in–and–out…one minute panicked, the next partying.

"It's cool. There's a…girl I know. Maybe she'll be there. I thought maybe I'd ask her if she wants to come along Sunday. For the race."

"Why don't you just call her and ask her?"

"Well, I don't really know her that well. I mean… she doesn't exactly know who I am. I
met
her and all, but…"

"I got it. What's her name?"

"Wendy. She was in classes with me at school. Then I didn't see her when she went to college. She…writes poetry. I read some once—it was in the school magazine."

"You like her, huh?"

"I
always
liked her. But she doesn't hang with my crowd. I mean, she smokes dope and all, but she doesn't tank or anything. She's very deep."

"So what makes you think she'll be there tonight?"

"She's close with Scott's girlfriend Denise. I just figured…it's worth a shot, right?"

"Always is," I told him. "You want the Plymouth?"

"Oh no," he said. "I don't want anybody to know what I'm gonna be running on Sunday. That's a surprise. I'll take the Miata."

"Good luck, kid."

"Thanks."

"Take the phone with you."

"It's right here," he said, tapping the pocket of his jacket.

I
heard the rasp of the Miata's exhaust a little past nine. I prowled the apartment, probing the edges of my plan in my mind, looking for weak spots. The bugged phone—I couldn't tell if it was a line tap or a full–house microphone. There was the intercom too. Maybe the Mole could figure out what was what, but me, I'd play it like the whole thing was an audio zone.

Ten o'clock came and went. No Fancy. I smoked a cigarette, wondering if I'd miscalculated. A nervous tap on the glass. I went over, let her in. She was wearing a white T–shirt over a pink linen skirt, carrying a matching jacket in one hand and a big black leather purse over one shoulder. She stood there in white medium heels, head slightly down.

"I'm sorry I was late," she whispered.

I glanced at my watch: six minutes past the hour. I reached out and took her right hand, held it in my left with her chubby palm up.

"I don't want to hear your excuses, bitch!" I said, and slapped her upturned palm hard. The sound was clear in the quiet apartment—I hoped the microphone got it.

Fancy looked up, firelight in her big gray eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again.

"Come over here," I told her, jerking her by the hand toward the couch. She came compliantly, breathing harsh now. I walked her past the couch toward the back bedroom. In the doorway, I pulled her to a halt.

"You know what, bitch? I think you'll get the message better if I teach you someplace else…like outdoors. Would you like that?"

"Yes," she said, real soft.

"Come along," I told her, switching my grip from her hand to her wrist. I walked her back to the door, pointed down. She took the stairs, stopped at the bottom and waited. I took her into the garage, opened the passenger door to the Plymouth. She stepped in, held the pose way too long. When she figured out I wasn't going to smack her offered rump, she sat down. I crossed to the driver's side, started the car and backed it out.

She didn't say a word on the drive, sitting like a girl in church, hands in her lap. I found the place I wanted, one I spotted on my recon visit a few days ago. A stand of high trees maybe a hundred yards off the highway with a creek running past. I guess it belonged to somebody, but I didn't see a fence. I turned off, parked so the Plymouth's nose was pointing back out the way we'd come, killed the engine.

"Sorry about all that," I told her, handing her my pack of cigarettes.

"I …don't understand," she said. "I thought you were going to…"

"People were listening," I told her.

"Where?" she asked, a shocked–scared look on her face.

"Back at the apartment. At least I think so. Cherry's got some kind of intercom hooked up," I told her, not mentioning the phone. No risk there, Randy knew about the intercom himself.

"But why…?"

"If anyone's listening, they would have thought you and me were gonna play, right?"

"That's what
I
thought too."

"Light that for me, will you?" I said. She fumbled in her purse, came up with a silver lighter that looked like a lipstick. Fired it up, handed it over. "Thanks, girl. Look, did you mean what you said? About helping me?"

"Yes."

"If you did, now's the time," I said, putting it right to her while she was off–balance. "Can you get me into Rector's?"

"Rector's? Sure. I could get you a guest pass. But I couldn't go as your slave—they don't know I switch. I don't, actually."

"Switch?"

"Be a submissive. I don't do that. If any of my…clients saw me there wearing a collar, it might turn them off."

"I wasn't—"

"But I wasn't lying," she went on like I hadn't spoken. "I mean, in your bedroom, that first time. I gave you your choice because I thought it would turn you on but I…got wet when I made the offer. And I came tonight expecting…I don't know. I wanted to try it. And when you slapped me, it worked."

"The slap was for the sound," I said. "So anyone listening would think…"

"I was late on purpose," she replied, as if she hadn't heard me. "To give you an excuse. To punish me."

"Look, Fancy, I don't want to get into Rector's when they're having one of their parties. Isn't there any after–hours for a joint like that? In daylight or something?"

"It closes at four. There's a cleaning crew after that. And it doesn't open up again until eight at night. I…go there sometimes in the day."

Sure you do—nothing like a quickie during lunch hour when you're in the blackmail business.
"By yourself?" I asked out loud.

"No…"

"So even if someone saw you go in with me, they wouldn't think anything of it?"

"Yes, that's true, but…"

"But what?"

"What do you want in there?"

"I want to look around. I think one of the people who goes there may he involved in the suicide thing," I told her, lying glibly. What I wanted was a good look—maybe Cherry had another hiding place. Or a laptop computer.

"How long would you have to be in there?"

"An hour. No longer."

"All right. I'll do it. I have the keys. It'll take a couple of days…"

"That's okay. Perfect." I put an arm around her shoulders. Her breasts strained against the T–shirt as she turned toward me. I dropped her hand to her hip, pulled her close.

"Don't," she whispered. "Please don't…kiss me. I hate that."

I snapped my cigarette out the window with my left hand, watching the red tip sail toward the creek. She put her face into my neck, I could feel her breath against my throat. "I don't want to neck," she said urgently. "It's too…innocent. Like kids. I don't want to be a kid. Tell me what to do. Tell me what to do—order me to do it."

"Fancy…"

"Please!"

I took a deep breath through my nose, smelling the mossy darkness. Then I slid across the seat toward the middle, touching her hips with mine.

"Get on your hands and knees," I told her.

She did it, facing out her window, back arched.

"No, stupid bitch," I said, hard–voiced. "Turn around."

She did that too, pulling herself around with her hands on the back of the seat.

"Unzip my pants," I said.

Her dark hair fell all around her face as she bent to do it. The zipper sound was like fabric tearing.

"Take it out." My cock sprung free, standing up rigid. I put my right hand on the back of her neck, shoving her down across my lap, flattening my cock against me. She moaned as I roughly pulled her skirt up around her waist. The pink silk bikini panties were just a thin strip across the width of her bottom—I hauled them down past her knees.

"Don't take them all the way off," she whispered. "It's better if they—"

"Shut up," I said, pulling the panties down more, leaving them hooked over one ankle. I turned slightly sideways, put my thumbs under her heavy breasts, wrapping my hands around her back. I picked her up, dragging her against my chest. Then I put my left hand on the inside of her right thigh and pulled her leg over so she was straddling me. She was sopping wet but it was still a tight fit. I set myself, rammed up hard. She grunted, penetrated. Her breasts pressed against me, her face next to mine, looking out over the back seat. I could feel the wetness all around me, smelled the blood beneath her skin.

"Wiggle your butt, bitch," I whispered.

She ground into me, humping like she was going to buck herself off, muttering words I couldn't understand. I stroked her back, then gripped her shoulders from behind, slamming her into me with each downstroke. I heard a deep, sharp intake of breath.

"Don't make a goddamned sound," I told her.

She let go with a rush, a split second before I did.

H
olding her, I could hear the soft slapping of water over rocks in the creek. She was crying softly, gulping like a kid does, trying to get it under control. We stayed like that until my cock softened and gravity pulled it down…out of her.

She wasn't going to move. I gently pushed on her left shoulder, turning her around as I took her off my lap, felt the slight adhesive tear from the dried fluids bonding us.

She slumped against me. I zipped up my pants, ran my hand over the front of her thigh.

"Pull your skirt down, Fancy."

"Sleepy," she said softly, curling up, putting her head in my lap. I patted her back. She squirmed into a comfortable position, pulling her knees up to her waist.

I lit a cigarette. She didn't stir. I looked down. She was on her side, quiet, the pink panties around one ankle. I tugged her skirt down almost over her hips, the way you cover a sleeping child.

Sitting there, I went someplace else in my head, searching. There was a thread somewhere. A strong thread, so deeply woven that if you pulled it, the whole fabric would unravel. I knew it, but I couldn't see it.

When Fancy played her domina games in that white room, was anyone else in on the profit end? Even if there was, a blackmail racket didn't explain things. Not all of them, anyway. Blackmail's a high–wire act—one slip and they sponge you off the concrete. And blackmail wouldn't pay the kind of money Cherry was showing.

If she was on to the new identities of people who disappeared, that would buy her a whole lot more of those gems that I'd found. But how would she know?

And how did Charm know about Cherry's stash if she wasn't working with her?

Why would Cherry tell Fancy about me? Why did she tell Randy? There's a tropical spider, I don't remember its name. What this spider does, it climbs into another spider's web. But it doesn't get trapped, it waits. The spider who spun the web feels the vibrations, runs over to wrap up its prey. Then he's lunch.

F
ancy rolled her head back and forth in my lap like she was wiping her nose. She sat up, tugging her skirt down the rest of the way, smoothing it over her thighs. She reached down, plucked the pink panties from her ankle, put them into her purse.

"You were going to stay here all night?" she asked.

"I didn't want to wake you."

"That was sweet…but I wasn't asleep."

"You were…peaceful."

"Can we go outside?"

"Sure, if you want."

She took off her heels, slid over against me. I opened my door, climbed out. Held out my hand. She took it. We walked down to the creek in the darkness. Fancy found a fallen tree, the tips of its dead branches dangling into the creek. She tugged on my hand until I sat down next to her. Then she let go of my hand, spun so her back was against me, stuck her legs straight out on the tree, balancing easily.