Down in the Zero (29 page)

"Good plan."

"It was…wonderful, man. I can't tell you…"

"Let's go back and watch," I said.

W
e found a place to stand off to the side. "I can't
see
," Fancy said. I hunted around, found a sturdy–looking wooden crate, stood it on end. "Try this," I said. She stepped up, posing gingerly on her spike heels, one hand on my shoulder. "It's perfect," she said. "Can you find one for Wendy too?"

I took a quick walk around, looking. The Viper was getting ready to try again. I caught the glint of sun on glass somewhere to my right. A man in an army field cap, binoculars to his eyes. He took them down. It was Blankenship. I turned my eyes back to the course. The Viper was heading for another DNF. I turned back toward Blankenship. He was gone.

I found another crate, carried it back. Wendy climbed aboard, balancing herself without difficulty.

Brewster was the last to run. He rammed the 'Vette through, clipping a couple of cones, but he didn't make the cut…the timer said 1:29.04.

"It's me and John Margate," Sonny said, fingering the car keys.

S
onny went first. As soon as I heard the Plymouth on the starting line, I knew he'd bypassed the mufflers—the sound was as ominous as an earthquake tremor. The muscular machine gave off a sustained guttural scream as Sonny slashed through the course. Wendy and Fancy were both yelling something, but I couldn't make it out. Fancy whipped off her sweatshirt, waved it around her head like a flag. Sonny came across the finish line sideways, slid almost off the course.

1:27.52.

"Soonnnny!" Fancy screamed, waving the sweatshirt. This time, everybody looked.

Margate's Lola didn't look like it was going any faster. He razor–sliced the cones, as sure–footed as a tightrope walker.

1:27.44.

"Fuck!" I said to myself.

T
hey awarded the trophies at the edge of the course. Seemed like most of the crowd stayed around to see it. Brewster took his third–place cup like the surly bastard he was. Then they called Sonny's name. The applause was sustained, heavy. The kid took his second–place trophy, held it up for a second to more applause, and walked off. Margate took his first–place prize like a man accepting the mail.

We all stood together, watching the rest of the presentations. There was a trophy for everything: longest distance traveled, oldest car competing, you name it. The announcer was a jolly–looking fat guy with a full beard. He had a deep, rich voice, like he did it for a living. Then he said: "And now for the crown jewel…Outstanding Driver of the Meet. The vote was unanimous. And the winner is…Sonny Cambridge!"

Sonny staggered forward, a dazed look on his face. He took the huge silver trophy in both hands, turned to face the crowd. John Margate stepped up, extended his hand. Sonny shook it. Margate raised Sonny's hand high. The cheers sounded like what you'd hear at a prize–fight.

W
e waited for Sonny by the Plymouth. He was surrounded by people—I could barely make him out in the throng. When he finally walked over, he had a trophy in each hand. "This is for you, Burke," he said, handing me the second–place cup. "Thanks, man. For everything."

I shook his hand, not saying anything.

"You know what?" he said. "John Margate said he wants me to run SCCA. In his car! He's got a couple of Nissans he's been preparing, says I can drive one of them. Isn't that amazing?"

"Not to me. Class knows class."

He nodded, not fully absorbing it yet, dumb with happiness. "Wendy," he said. She stepped next to him, copper eyes alive.

"This is for you," the kid said, handing her the big silver trophy.

She hugged the cup. I made a motion to Fancy. We started to move off when Brewster walked up.

"Not bad, wimp," the dummy said. "Maybe someday we'll do it for real, you and me."

Sonny turned his eyes to Brewster. Different eyes, now. Gunfighter's eyes—calm and hard. "You know the Old Motor Parkway, Brewster? Where it goes off–road, past the tannery? There's a bridge at the end of the dirt road. A rickety old wooden bridge…only room enough for one car at a time. Tell you what…you meet me there tonight and we'll go down that road. First one over the bridge wins."

"You're fulla shit!"

"Midnight, okay?"

"Crazy fuck!" Brewster said, walking off.

"Sonny…" I said.

"He'll never show up," Sonny told me. Not a kid anymore.

I
t was almost four in the afternoon when we finally pulled out of the airport lot. Sonny and Wendy were going their own way. Me, I needed a pay phone.

"It's me," I told the Mole.

"They get in and out?"

"Yes."

"They find it?"

"I don't know yet."

"A
bout time you put your top back on," I told Fancy as I climbed back into the NSX.

"Oh, come on. It looks just like a halter, doesn't it? Anyway, I got excited—I wanted a flag to wave, you know?"

"Yeah. It worked out great."

"Sonny's so different," she said. "He's really changed."

"He hasn't changed at all, girl. What happened was he's just starting to be himself."

"That's how it works?"

"Sometimes. For some people. Like what you do in your greenhouse—seeds to buds to flowers, right? Depends on the soil, the weather…parasites, crop dusters…the whole works."

"Is that going to happen to me, Burke?"

"It already is."

The scenery swept by the windows of the low–flying car, a green blur. Fancy was quiet, playing with the band of the cowboy hat in her lap.

"You promise?" she asked.

"Promise what?"

"That I'm changing…getting to be me."

"Yes."

We neared the turnoff for her street. Fancy put the cowboy hat back on her head, reclined her seat until she was lying almost flat, looked up from under the brim.

"Can we go back to your place?"

"It's not a good idea."

"How come?"

"People could be…listening, like I told you before. I'm not sure or anything, but I want to play it safe."

"Is that why you took me…outside that first time?"

"I guess it was."

"I…liked it there. Outside. Could we…?"

"After it gets dark," I told her.

T
he parking lot at Rector's was empty, as deserted as yesterday's hot restaurant. I nosed the Lexus through a full circuit, checking, Fancy following in the NSX.

"I don't see why we have to take two cars," she'd complained, hands on hips in her living room.

"If someone…a member, say, just happened to pass by, it wouldn't spook them to see your car, right?"

"Of course not. I told you."

"Yeah, okay. But if they thought you were with a…client, they wouldn't expect just one car, would they?"

"I…didn't think of that. Are you always so careful?"

"That's the real me," I told her.

The back door was thick, with enough steel plate to do credit to a crack house. Fancy opened a metal box, pushed some buttons, waited.

Then she inserted her key. I heard heavy tumblers click as the deadbolt snapped open.

We walked inside. The front room was what you'd expect from a private club for rich people: heavy dark red velvet drapes, a long, plain wooden bench directly across from a checkroom with waist–high Dutch doors. The place was musty with that perfume–smoke–sweat smell…reeking of Last Night.

Fancy's heels tapped on the varnished hardwood. "What do you want to see first?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Okay, this is…what's that?" she yelped, looking at my right hand.

"It's a gun, Fancy."

"I can
see
that. What's it for?"

"For whatever."

"I don't like guns."

"I don't like them either. Come on, let's just do it, all right?"

She gave me a sad–puzzled look for a second, then turned on her heel and played tour guide. Some of the rooms were spare, almost Oriental in furnishings, others were lush, Victorian. One even had a fireplace. The dungeon was garden–variety B&D—racks and restraints, even a metal bar set into the floor, with hooks for the ankle cuffs. I couldn't see a closet anywhere—no place to store what I was looking for.

"Does she have an office here? A private office?"

"Who?"

"Cherry."

"Just a little one. We're not supposed to go in there," she said.

"Show me."

"Burke…"

"Bitch, I'm done playing.
Any
kind of playing, understand? Where is it?"

The door was behind a set of floor–to–ceiling royal purple drapes. The knob was tiny, a delicate piece of faceted crystal with a keyhole in the center. The lock was a joke. I loided it with one of Juan Rodriguez numerous credit cards—the only thing he ever used them for. Fancy stayed outside. It was just as well—the room was a small, windowless box, the walls lined with thick acoustic tile. The ceiling was covered with the same tile, the carpet industrial dark gray.

The only furniture was a slab of butcher block held up by sawhorses at each end and a simple swivel office chair. On the butcher block: a plain–paper fax machine, a three–line phone, a calculator, some kind of ionizer to keep the air clean. Another one of those dual–zone clocks, set the same way. And a laptop computer. Underneath it all, an anti–static plastic mat.

I sat down, pulled on a pair of surgeon's gloves, opened the laptop, turned it on, smoothing out the cheat–sheet the Mole had given me with one hand. The screen ran through a whole bunch of nonsense I couldn't understand, finally settled down into a menu.

WP

Optimize

AntiVirus

Park

I followed the Mole's road map, used the arrow keys, highlighted WP, hit the return. The computer cycled, and I got a blank screen. I hit F5. The screen listed one directory: DATA. No documents listed. I tried the C:\ prompt. All I got was:

I checked all the directories—they were all legit, no subdirectories, hidden or otherwise. The thing was empty—probably vacuumed before Cherry took off. I tried the other menu items in order, but they just performed as advertised. I finally hit Park, heard a couple of electronic beeps. The screen said: HEADS PARKED ON ALL DRIVES. POWER OFF THE SYSTEM NOW. I turned it off.

"Are you done yet?" Fancy asked from outside the door, tapping her foot.

"I'll tell you when I'm done—just keep quiet."

The fax machine was empty of incoming. There was a row of direct–dial buttons on its face, sixteen of them. I took out a piece of paper, tapped the keys one at a time, writing down the numbers as they appeared in the liquid crystal display, then hitting the Stop button before the call could go through. They all started with 011—international calls.

The phone didn't have a display—I left it alone. Nothing taped under the butcher block. No loose tiles. The carpet was all of a piece, tacked down tight at the corners.

"Is there another place?" I asked Fancy. "What do you mean?"

"Another private place. Like this one."

"No."

I
walked through again anyway, Fancy trailing behind, more at ease now that I wasn't looking anyplace she hadn't been. In a back corner, I spotted a circular staircase, black wrought iron.

"Where does that go?"

"It's just a room I…use sometimes."

"Lets see."

"It's just a room, Burke. A trick room, okay?"

"Get up there!" I said, pushing her toward the staircase, punctuating the order with a smack on her butt. I followed close behind. The room stood on a small landing, built–out walls along the sides, nothing else there. She opened the door without a key, and stepped over the threshold.

It was the white room—the room I'd seen in the video I took from Cherry's safe.

I stood in the doorway, sweeping with my eyes. The foot of the bed was a few feet from a pure white wall, the seamlessness broken only by a shadow box, black glass in a white wood frame.

"How does this work?" I asked her.

"It's like a light show," she said, flicking a toggle switch at the side of the box. The black screen sparkled at the center, a burst of red–centered yellow. Then the colors flowed into a series of comet trails, mostly shades of blue and purple. Soundless explosions burst new colors into the box, waves of different colors swept them away.

"I don't get it."

"I…make them watch it, sometimes. It helps them get out. Let go."

"You always turn it on? When you…?"

"No. Some of them like it, some don't."

So the camera worked right through it. It wouldn't matter if she turned it on or not—if she was telling the truth.

Time to find out.

"Turn that off," I said. "And come over here."

She did it. Walked over obediently enough. I slapped her hard enough to make her sway on her high heels. Her hands flew to her face. "What…?"

"Shut up, bitch. Put your hands down. Put them behind your back."

Her gray eyes widened. I slapped her again, harder. "It's about time you learned the truth about yourself," I told her, my voice flat and hard. "Are you going to do as you're told?"

"Yes."

I slapped her again.

"Yes sir," she said that time, in the zone where she wanted to be— somewhere between turned on and scared—but maybe just a little too close to the far edge.

I grabbed her shoulders, spun her around, pushed her forward until she was bent over the bed. I pulled her skirt up roughly. "Don't you move," I warned her, unthreading the belt from my slacks, doubling it up in my hand.