Mask Market (35 page)

“That’s what happens to little girls who get turned into trained dogs, Mother.
Lap
dogs, remember?”

“You’re being—”

“You still have your collection of baby-sized speculums, you filthy fucking bitch? You still have your model-train transformer? The one with the extra wires for bad little girls who don’t learn to make Mommy happy?”

“You are insane,” the woman said. Emphatically enough, but I could hear the stress fractures in her voice. “You’ve been insane since you were a child.”

“Nobody’s insane here,” I said, soothingly. “Nobody’s even unreasonable. You see, your husband—your ex-husband, I should say—was very forthcoming, Ms. Summerdale.”

“He never knew any—” she blurted out, before she realized what she was saying, and clamped down on the words.

“He knew more than you ever imagined,” I said, finishing her thought. “And it wasn’t just that he had an idea; he had proof. I wonder if the people who bought your house in Westchester ever found the wires for the microphones.”

She sat there, stone-still, not moving a muscle. Her face was a frozen, expressionless mask.

“Your ‘crafts room,’” I said. “The one with the lock on the door, the double-pad carpet, and the acoustical tiles on the walls. The room where you were teaching Beryl private mother-daughter stuff. The room your husband was never allowed in. You thought he bought that, didn’t you? Everybody needs their own space, right? And, after all, he had his den, didn’t he?”

She still didn’t move. Didn’t react when Beryl dropped her burning cigarette butt into the vase, and immediately lit another.

“There are over twenty
boxes
of cassette tapes,” I lied. “No video, but the audio makes it clear enough.”

“I was in therapy for years and years,” Beryl said, on cue again. “But I could never figure out what was
wrong.
If it wasn’t for those tapes, I’d still be loaded up on antidepressants, walking around like a zombie. Good old Daddy. All those years, you thought you had him castrated. But he was doing just what
you
were doing, only coming at it from a different angle. You were both fucking me. Fucking your little girl. You did it for fun, and Daddy did it for money. Your money. Now it’s my turn.”

“What do you want?” the woman said, dead-voiced. Speaking to me as if Beryl wasn’t in the room.

“My client is going to need a lot of treatment,” I said, greasily. “Expensive treatment. This is much more important to her than digging up the past. What good would that do?”

The mother’s mask shifted. “You think you can come into my own home and blackmail me, you grubby little shyster? I’ve got lawyers that would crush you like the cockroach you are.”

“I’m sorry you characterize a sincere attempt to settle a viable case out of court as ‘blackmail,’ Ms. Summerdale,” I said, reaching for my attaché case. “I did warn you this was a possibility,” I said to Beryl.

“I like it better this way,” she said, licking her lips. “I can’t wait.”

We hadn’t even gotten to our feet before the mother caved.

“H
ow do I know you won’t be back?” the mother said, a half-hour later.

“Because we’re going to give you not only a properly executed and fully binding release of any and all claims against you for any reason, covering my client’s life from birth to the present day, but a cast-iron confidentiality agreement, one that requires my client to pay you triple the amount of the settlement as liquidated damages should she disclose any of the…material we discussed.”

“I…”

“And,”
I said, “something even better. A notarized affidavit from my client acknowledging that the…allegations we discussed were a complete fabrication. I have all the documents right here,” I said, soothingly, fondling the black leather attaché case. “You’re not settling a lawsuit; you’re agreeing to pay for your daughter’s desperately needed long-term treatment.”

“It’s a lot of money.”

“Oh, please,
Mother,
” Beryl said, in a teenager’s voice. “It’s, like, only a fraction of what you’d be leaving me in your will anyway, isn’t it? Just look at it as an accelerated inheritance.”

“When do you expect to—?”

“Right this second,” Beryl told her, both hands on the leash. “You’ve got a computer somewhere in this house. And you’ve got online access to your money, too. Maybe not all of it, but more than enough to cover what you’re going to pay me. A few mouse-clicks, and it’s all wire-transferred.”

“Even if I could—”

“Oh, you can,
Mother.
Come on, let’s go play.”

B
eryl tapped keys on her cell phone.

“It’s there,” she said. “Move it out, and close the account down. Now!”

“I never want to see you again,” the woman said, spent.

“Oh, you won’t,
Mother.
Just one more thing, and we’re out of here forever.”

“What?” she said, hollowed out way past empty.

“The baby,” Beryl told her, a hideous smile playing over her lips. “After what you taught me, I always wanted a little girl of my own.”

“You’re…”

“You can just buy another one. And I know you will. After all, you haven’t even started ‘training’ this one yet. But I need more than money, Mother. I need to take something from
you.
” She clasped her hands in a prayerful gesture, said, “Oh, please, please, tell me you understand,” as soft-voiced as a scorpion.

“S
ign there…and there,” I told Beryl.

“I still don’t see why I should have to split the money with you. It was me she did those things to, not you. And if you hadn’t brought me back…”

“We went over all that. You keep what you got from Parks; we split what we got from your mother.”

“Maybe I changed my mind.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Yes.”

“Haven’t you already stolen enough? From me, I mean.”

“You already played that card.”

“I always thought my so-called father was the most pathetic man on earth,” the beautiful viper said. “Thanks for showing me otherwise.”

“Sign
both,
” I reminded her, pointing at a line on the papers below which her name and Social Security number had been typed. An embossed notary’s seal was already on the page.

“What do you want that baby for?”

“What do you care?”

“I don’t,” she said. I believed her.

Her silver Porsche pulled away, leaving me on the downtown sidewalk with a baby girl in my arms.

Toni’s Corvette came around the corner.

I
punched in a twelve-digit number. When Yitzhak answered, I said, “I have something for you.”

“S
he has
all
of it?” he asked me later that night, out on the prairie.

“I don’t know how much ‘all’ is,” I said, reasonably. “But she has out-front assets of something like thirty mil. On paper, it was all supposed to have come from her father’s business, but all that paper’s bogus…just a screen.”

“How do you know this?”

“Daniel Parks wasn’t just stealing from you,” I said. “He had a whole long sucker-list. But he had to find a place to stash the money. Spend some money yourself, check out the divorce papers his wife had filed. Parks had a mistress. Her name, her real name, is Beryl Summerdale.”

“Beryl Summerdale,” the Russian repeated carefully, committing the name I’d given him to memory.

“That’s right. And I’ve got something else for you, too. She’s got access to her money online. Right over a modem. If you could get her to tell you the right numbers…”

T
he AP wire said, “Luxury Home Firebombed!”

Beryl Summerdale’s neighbors hadn’t heard a thing until the house on Castle Crescent suddenly burst into flames at approximately three in the morning.

It took the local Fire Department only minutes to respond to their frantic calls, but the house was already incinerated.

The Arson Squad said a highly sophisticated series of incendiary devices had been used, but no more information could be released at this time.

The crime-scene investigators said “human bone fragments” had been located.

The lead detective on the case said that the house was known to have been owned and occupied by Ms. Summerdale and her infant daughter. Both were presumed to have perished in the explosion.

The Special Agent in Charge of the local FBI office said that speculation about terrorists targeting the wrong house “has, to the best of our knowledge, no basis in fact at this time,” although he acknowledged that the neighborhood was home to several prominent D.C. insiders.

Beryl Summerdale had no known enemies. Her ex-husband had been ruled out. The police had no suspects.

L
oyal stood on the sidewalk outside her building. A white Cadillac sedan was at the curb. The trunk was full of luggage. The back seat was full of baby stuff.

“Her name is Charisse, after my mother,” Loyal said. “Of all the things you did for me, she was the best. I never even knew how much I wanted—”

“It’s what I wanted, too,” I said. Pure truth.

“You know where I’ll be, Lew.”

“You’ll be home.”

“Home with my little girl,” Loyal said. She stood close, her heart in her eyes. “Your home, too, if you ever want one,” she said, very softly.

“I just might,” I said, lying to her for what I knew was the last time.

A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR

Andrew Vachss has been a federal investigator of sexually transmitted diseases, a social-services caseworker, and a labor organizer, and has directed a maximum-security prison for “aggressive-violent” youth. 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, among them song lyrics, graphic novels, essays, and a “children’s book for adults.” His books have been translated into twenty languages, and his work has appeared in
Parade, Antaeus, Esquire, Playboy,
the
New York Times,
and numerous other forums. A native New Yorker, he now divides his time between the city of his birth and the Pacific Northwest.

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

ALSO 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

Only Child

The Getaway Man

Down Here

Two Trains Running

Copyright © 2006 by Andrew Vachss

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pantheon Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Pantheon Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Vachss, Andrew H.

Mask market / Andrew Vachss.

p. cm.

eISBN-13: 978-0-375-42441-0

eISBN-10: 0-375-42441-5

1. Burke (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 3. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. 4. Missing persons—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3572.A33M37 2006

813'.54—dc22            2005048285

www.pantheonbooks.com

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

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