Down in the Zero (34 page)

"Yes, mistress."

"All right, miss. Get up. Right now!"

Charm got to her feet. Fancy pointed at a barrel standing off to one side. It was full–size, standing in a shallow wooden cradle so it wouldn't roll. Charm lay on the barrel, face down. Fancy fastened the wrist and ankle straps, pulling them tight. Then she lifted Charm's skirt to expose the white cotton schoolgirl panties.

"You're a bad girl!" she said again. "And now you're going to pay for it." Fancy picked up the little whip and held it high—I could see the hard muscle flex in her arm. She cracked it across Charm's bottom, again and again. Charm groaned.

"You better keep your smart mouth shut, bitch. Or I'll really give you something to cry about," Fancy said, whipping her more.

It went on and on. Longer than I thought anyone could take it, but Charm didn't make another sound. Finally, Fancy stepped back, tossing the whip aside. Then she pulled down Charm's panties, displaying the violent red stripes.

"She's ready for you now, master," she said to me.

I stepped behind Charm, put one hand on the small of her back. My right hand flashed.

"Aaaargh!" It was a scream of rage.

I walked around the barrel, facing her. She looked up, craning her neck, tendons standing out, psycho eyes dry iced.

"Did that hurt?" I asked her.

"Yes!"

"The pain's not over," I told her, holding up the hypodermic needle so she could see it.

"What…what is that?"

"Don't you recognize it, Charm? It's your serum. Your special little suicide drug. Time to find out if it works."

"You …!" she snarled, her body rigid with strain as she fought against the straps.

"Forget it," I told her. "It's too late. You got ninety days, Charm. That's the way you set it up, right? Ninety days. To find out the truth. Maybe it works, maybe it doesn't. If it works on you, it'll work on anybody, wouldn't it? You never even
thought
about killing yourself."

"I'll kill
you
," she said. No emotion—a viper's promise.

"No, you won't do that. See, the same scientist who cracked your code, he's working on an antidote. Maybe he'll get it done in time, maybe he won't. You can't take that chance, can you? Here's the deal. The last deal you'll ever make. I'm walking out of here now. When I get the antidote, I'll call you. And it'll cost you. I figure you can scrape up some serious money pretty quick, especially if you're motivated. How's about two million bucks, you miserable blackmailing bitch? Two million bucks, for your life?"

"I can get it," she said, calm.

"I know. My man says he's close. Couple of weeks, at the outside."

"How would I know—?"

"You won't. You never fucking will. What I want is the money. It's up to you.

"But what if I—?"

"I'll stay with you," Fancy said. "I'll stay with you, Charm. Every minute. I won't let you…kill yourself, I promise."

"I love you, Fancy," Charm said.

"I know," Fancy told her, stroking her sister's face.

I
t only took me a few minutes to pack the next morning. Sonny was standing outside, patting the Plymouth like he was saying goodbye to it. I gave the command and Pansy jumped inside.

"This came for you. Yesterday, by messenger," he said, handing me a heavy buff envelope, sealed tight.

"Thanks," I said, slipping it into my pocket.

"Burke, I can never—"

"Shut up, kid," I told him. "I'll be watching for your name in the Grand Prix."

"Or Daytona, I haven't made up my mind yet."

"It doesn't matter, Sonny. You found yours, that's what counts."

He grabbed me in a bear hug, almost cracked my ribs.

I didn't look back. Neither did Pansy.

B
ack in my office, Pansy prowled her old haunts as I slit open the envelope Sonny had given me. A short note, on thermal fax paper.

Jubal told me. Everything. You did what I asked you to do. I don't know what you think of me, but I love my boy. I know he's safe now. I didn't mean for things to happen like they did. It was just business. We're all square, you and me. No hard feelings.

It was signed "Cherry."

T
en days later, a knock at the door of the motel room I was renting in New Rochelle, just south of the Connecticut border.

Fancy stepped in, wearing a severe black business suit, low–heeled pumps, a black pillbox hat on her head. An alligator briefcase was in one hand, as thick as a book bag. She gave me a chaste kiss, walked over and sat on the bed.

"Here it is," I said, handing her a hypo–ready bottle of blue liquid. "Draw five cc's, give it to her in the butt."

"Will it really work?"

"That's what the man says," I told her.

She nodded, handed me the briefcase. I opened it. Stacks of neatly banded bills, all hundreds. I'd already told them—no sequential serial numbers, used bills. I didn't count it.

"I have to get back soon," Fancy said. "I left her tied up. There's no way she could kill herself, but it could get real uncomfortable after a while."

"That's okay."

"Well, I guess this is—"

"Not quite yet," I told her. "There's one more thing." She looked a question at me with her deep gray eyes. "I'd sure like to see how that tattoo turned out," I said.

I
met Blankenship in the parking lot of Yonkers Raceway, the spot behind the paddock where the overhead fixtures cast more shadow than light.

"It wasn't the doctor," I said. "Like I told you before. Nobody at the hospital. Nobody who legitimately works there, anyway."

"Who?" is all he said.

I told him about Charm. Not the whole thing, just enough. "She's taken off," I told him. "I got word she's heading for Switzerland. We're looking. Sooner or later, she'll turn up."

"I'll get a passport," he said.

I
thought it was over then. That shot I'd given Charm when she was posed over the barrel, it was a dummy. As useless as the phony antidote she'd just bought. Her fangs were pulled.

I was done.

And the Zero wasn't pulling.

I
had time after that. But it didn't feel like the kind of time a judge gives you anymore.

I used the time. Thought about that bromeliad I'd seen in Fancy's greenhouse—the one without roots. Plants die in pots, but they never die in gardens. Not really die. They return to the ground, to nourish their brothers and sisters coming up.

The cash all went to a laundry I know. For thirty percent off the top, we got back clean money—some mob–run movie house was going to do boffo box office in the next few weeks. I split the take with my family, equal shares. "Slick as ice, but twice as nice," the Prof praised me. "And you did it without the gun, son."

Clarence said he was going to buy some ground. On the Island. So he could always go home.

Michelle counted the cash in her perfectly manicured hands. Told me about a new place she'd found. In Colorado. Where they'd take her the rest of the way back to herself.

The Mole grunted.

Mama's face lit up, her faith in the world's balance restored.

Max didn't say anything.

Me, I went across the barrier. In my mind. Talked to Belle. To the boy who died in that house of terror.

I'd always have the pain. I made it for myself, like Fancy's tattoo. And I'd carry it around the same way.

I'd always feel sad. But I felt something else too.

Forgiven.

I had me back.

B
elinda was still writing. Maybe I'd answer her someday, find out what the game was.

Or maybe I'd go find my Blossom.

I
remember the day. It was in September, crisp, with the winter hawk's promise far in the distance. I sat in the back booth of Mama's restaurant, checking the mail her driver brought over from the warehouse. The envelope had no return address. Inside, a clip from a newspaper.

TWIN SISTERS TRAGEDY! the headline said. Twin sisters were vacationing together in Maine, near the coast. They went rock climbing. One of them jumped or fell from a high cliff. Dead on impact. Her sister was inconsolable. Told the cops Charm had been depressed. They'd gone climbing to get away from all the pressures of business. Just the two of them.

I put the newsclip in an envelope. Mailed it to Blankenship—flowers for Diandra's grave.

I
wondered if Charm saw the Zero on the way down. And if she blinked.

About the Book

Andrew Vachss has reinvented detective fiction for an age in which guilty secrets are obsolete and mrder isn't even worth a news headline. And in the person of his haunted, hell-ridden private eye Burke, Vachss has given us a new kind of hero: a man inured to every evil except the kind that preys on children.

Now Burke is back, investigating an epidemic of apparent suicides among the teenagers of a wealthy Connecticut suburb. There he discovers a sinister connection between the anguish of the young and the activities of en elite sadomasochistic underground, for whom pain and its accompanying rituals are a source of pleasure—and power.

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 © 1994 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 1994, and in trade paperback by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 1995.

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

The Library of Congress has catalogued the Knopf edition as follows:
Vachss, Andrew H.
Down in the zero: a novel/by Andrew Vachss.
Random House Web address:
http://www.randomhouse.com/

eISBN: 978-0-375-71908-0

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