Andrew Vachss - Strega

"Home, baby."

I drove the Plymouth into the warehouse. Immaculata appeared while I was opening the trunk for Max to get out.

"It's done," I told her.

Immaculata examined Max like he was a piece of jewelry she was going to buy someday-her eyes going over every inch. She touched his chest, feeling his body, making sure. Max suffered in silence, his face stony. But his eyes were soft.

I bowed to them both. As I backed out of the warehouse, I could see Immaculata patting her stomach, gesturing to Max-the life-taker was a life-maker too.

IWAS all over the midday papers. I liked the Post 's version best.

FIRE REVEALS KIDDIE PORN RING!

A fire late last night that killed a Queens man and hospitalized his wife led startled firefighters to discover the couple was operating a "major kiddie-porn ring" from the comfort of their Little Neck mansion, police said.

Killed in the blaze was George Browne, 44, who lived in the house at 71 Cheshire Drive with his wife Bonnie. Mrs. Browne, 41, was taken to nearby Deepdale General Hospital suffering from smoke inhalation.

Firemen, alerted by a telephone call to the emergency 911 number, arrived shortly after the fire ignited at about 10:00 p.m., and had the blaze under control by 10:45.

It was while they were examining the damage, which a Fire Department spokesman called "moderate," that firemen made the shocking discovery of "literally hundreds of kiddie-porn photographs," the spokesman said. The firemen immediately notified the police, she added.

Captain Louis DeStefano of the 11th Precinct said that in addition to the Polaroid photographs, a "substantial amount" of undeveloped film and "several videotape cassettes" were also seized.

"I'm shocked. I'm absolutely shocked," a stunned neighbor, Elsie Lipschitz, told the Post. "They kept to themselves a lot, but they were always very polite when you saw them on the street. I can't believe it," she said.

Although the Fire Department and the couple's neighbors were caught off guard, the Post has learned that the $450,000 house at the end of the quiet cul-de-sac has been under police surveillance and that George Browne was arrested twice for child molesting in recent years.

In 1978 Browne, who listed his occupation as "entertainer," was arrested on felony molestation charges that were eventually dropped. Two years later, he was arrested again, and ultimately pleaded guilty to endangering the welfare of a minor-a five-year-old boy from upstate, according to police sources.

Browne's charred body was discovered at the bottom of the basement stairway. An apparent broken neck has led cops to theorize he was trying to escape the fire-which may have begun with an explosion in the boiler, according to firemen-when he was overcome by smoke and fell down the stairway. An autopsy is pending.

Among the first cops to arrive on the scene were detectives conducting round-the-clock surveillance for the City-Wide Special Victims Bureau. Assistant District Attorney Eva Wolfe, who heads the bureau, would only say that the surveillance was "part of an ongoing investigation." She declined to say when the investigation began.

Mrs. Browne has not yet been arrested, ADA Wolfe said, adding that charges are expected to be filed "soon."

A hospital spokesman said the woman's condition is satisfactory.

The Prof was reading over my shoulder. "When people can't learn, they're bound to burn," he said.

The blues are the truth.

IMADE the call the next morning. "You have my money?" I asked her when she answered the phone.

"Was that you…?"

"You have my money?" I asked her again, cutting her short. "I'll have it tonight. Do you have…?"

"Tonight. Midnight, right?"

"Yes. I'll…"

I hung up on her. A dry run.

IWAS THERE on time. Fear was strong in me; I couldn't put a name to it. Nobody wants surgery, but when the disease is fatal, even the knife looks good.

The back of the house was soft, sly darkness. Shadows played their games. There was no music.

"I have you in me now," Strega said once. I called to Flood in my mind, telling her Strega had lied. Telling myself.

I had Scotty's picture in my pocket. It was enough to get me into the house-I wasn't sure it was enough to get me out. The garage was standing open, a space ready for my Plymouth. I left it outside, nose pointing toward the drive.

I walked up the stairs to the living room. It was empty. I fired a wooden match, looking for a light switch. I couldn't find one-settled for a lamp that flowed gracefully over the couch. I bit into a cigarette, watching the match flare with the first drag, waving my hand to put it out. I put the match in my pocket, waiting.

She came into the room wearing a red slip, her feet bare. Her face was scrubbed and clean. Sat down next to me on the couch, tucking her feet underneath her. She looked like a young girl.

I took the picture from my pocket, gave it one last look, and put it in her lap. An offering-take this from me and go haunt someone else. She ran her finger lightly over the surface of the picture. "This is the one," she whispered.

I didn't want a ceremony. "You have my money?" I asked her.

"I'm going to burn this in front of Scotty," she said like she hadn't heard me. "And it will all be gone."

"It won't be gone-only the people at SAFE can do that," I told her.

"You know what I mean," she said.

She had her magic words-I had mine. "Where's the money?" I asked her again.

"It's upstairs," she said, flowing to her feet. "Come on."

A woman's hatbox was in the middle of her bed. I could see it through the canopy. A diamond floating on quicksand. She pointed to it, one hand on her hip.

I reached through the lacy fabric and pulled it out. The top came off-inside was the money, all neatly stacked. And the thick gold chain on top of the pile.

"Touch it," she whispered against me. "It's warm. Just before you came, I took a nap. I slept with it inside my body-it's warm from me."

"I don't want it," I said.

"Don't be afraidtake it."

"I don't want it," I said again, hearing my voice go hollow, holding on.

She pushed me to the chair in the corner. I stood hard against her, not moving. "It has to be in a chair," she whispered. "It's the only place I can do it. You have to be sitting down."

"I just want the money," I told her.

She grabbed the front of my coat with both hands, pulling at it with all her weight, her devil eyes firing both barrels at me. "You're mine," she said.

I met her eyes-something danced in there-something that would never have a partner. 'I did my work," I told her, staying where I was safe. "I'm done."

"You can't walk away from me," she whispered, holding on.

"Forget it, Strega."

"You call my name-you think you know me. You don't know me."

"I know you. And don't waste your time running to Julio-there's nothing he can do."

Strega knew an exit line when she heard one. She let go of my coat, turned her back to me, one hand holding a bedpost.

"Yes, Julio," she said. "My precious uncle Julio-the great and good friend of my father."

She turned to face me. "Who do you think taught me to make nice while he sat in a chair-be a good little girl?"

"What?" I said. I've had a lifetime of keeping my thoughts off my face, but it didn't work with Strega. She answered the question I never asked.

"Julio. I was Peppina then. I loved everybody. Especially Julio-he was so good to me. When he started with me, I told my father on him," she said, her voice that of a little child.

"What did he do?"

"What did he do? He beat me with a strap for telling evil tales about Julio. Julio the Saint. He was a saint to my father…because of the money and the fear. And I went back to Julio."