Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

"That's one of Mother's phones," he said, recognizing it.

"One of them?"

"Yeah, she has a whole bunch. She gives them to people who work for her on jobs. So she can reach out for them anytime she wants. They have special batteries and all."

"Does Charm work for your mother?"

"Charm? No. What would she do for her?"

"I don't know. What about Fancy?"

"Her either. I mean, they don't really work, either of them. Charm rides, and Fancy has her plants."

"Rides?"

"Horses. Like in shows. She jumps them too. I think she was supposed to be in the Olympics, but she hurt herself last year."

I opened the cellular phone— there was no number on it. "Do you know the number for this phone?" I asked him.

"Let me see it."

I handed it over. He turned it so he could see the back. "Yeah, this is hers, for sure. See?"

On the back was the number 4, stenciled on in white paint. "She left a list somewhere around here," he said. "Let me think for a minute."

He got up, went into the living room. I could hear him opening drawers in the antique desk, rummaging around. He came back with a piece of paper in his hand, gave it to me. It was a list. Next to number 4 there was a local phone number. "Let's try it," I told the kid, handing the phone to him. I walked over to the wall phone, punched in the number from the list. The cellular phone buzzed. The kid opened it up, said "Hello." I could hear him through the receiver.

"Bingo," I told him. "Do you know where she keeps any of the others ?"

"Well, I guess some people have them with them. But maybe there's another one or two around. How come?"

"Well, if we each had one, we could keep in touch while we're working."

"Working?"

"Yeah, Randy, working. You and me."

The kid flashed me a shy smile, as if he liked the idea.

While the kid was getting dressed, I walked out to the mailboxes again. This time, the newspaper was there. I carried it back inside to the kitchen table. Some local rag, a real good–news special. The local Little Theatre was doing Guys and Dolls , there was a big dressage event— whatever that was— coming next weekend. Somebody's kid won a scholarship. Another was spending the summer in Europe on a museum tour. Mr. and Mrs. Whoever announced the engagement of their daughter to Somebody's Son. A section of some road was going to be regraded. A bunch of ads for car restorers and restaurants— no personals. Most of the paper was about real estate, some of it with pictures. Not a word about suicide.

The kid came downstairs, wearing jeans and an oversized Rugby shirt. He was holding another one of the cellular phones in his hand.

"I found this upstairs. It's number seven— we can check the list."

"Okay," I told him. "Now here's the deal. The phone rings, you answer it. If it's me, fine. Anyone else, just tell them it's a wrong number. You get an immediate callback, just let it ring. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Okay. Now you said the other suicides were in the paper, right? This paper?" I asked, holding up the one I'd taken from the mailbox.

"No," he laughed. "Fat chance. The Bridgeport papers, I meant."

"They deliver here?"

"No, but we can buy one in town. They sell all the papers there."

We took the Lexus— it was as anonymous there as my Plymouth was in the city. It drove so silky I couldn't tell how smooth the roads were.

"What happened after the first time?" I asked him. "When the first kids died, didn't the town put something together? Counseling, whatever?"

"Yeah, down at the high school. They got everyone together. And they had counselors come in from someplace. You could talk to them if you wanted."

"Did you do that?"

"No, I was out of school by then. I know they had a big meeting, the parents. With a psychologist. He, like, answered their questions and all."

"A psychologist from the school?"

"No, from Crystal Cove. They have a lot of experience with that stuff."

"You go to that one?"

"No, I told you, it was really for the parents."

"Did your mother go?"

"I guess so. She told me it happens a lot, suicide. She said the important thing was, if I had anything I ever wanted to tell her, I could do it. Not to keep secrets, they eat at you."

"You think those kids had secrets?"

"Everybody has secrets," he said.

The paper we bought in town had the girl's name. Her parents names too. They played it like tragedy, not crime. Apparently they held back the news a couple of days…maybe the cops didn't want it released? The paper interviewed this Dr. Jubal Barrymore, from Crystal Cove. Gave a phone number for him, in case anyone wanted to know more about the subject of teen suicide.

"Was this the guy?" I asked the kid, pointing at the doctor's name in the paper.

"I don't remember," he shrugged. But his face was guilty.

"Is the library open in the summer?" I asked the kid.

"Library?"

"The town library…I want to see if they have back issues of this paper on file."

"I guess so," he replied.

At least he knew where to find it. We parked and went inside. It was fuller than I expected, mostly women jockeying for position in front of the shelves that held the Seven Day books. The librarian was a woman in her late forties, with graying hair and a prominent nose. She got up as we approached her desk, standing over me by a good four inches.

"Do you keep back issues of the Bulletin on file?" I asked her politely.

"We have eighteen months only. We rotate the stock. There's no microfiche. But we do have the Times all the way back," she added hopefully.

"It's the Bulletin we need," I told her.

"Is there something you're looking for in particular?" she asked.

"It's a research project," I told her. "Real estate."

"Oh I see." She led us over to the reference room, showed us a few dozen issues suspended on wooden racks. "The rest are in the back. Do you know which dates?"

"We need to go back about seven months," I told her.

"Well, that would be a pretty heavy stack," she said doubtfully.

"I'll carry them out," the kid said.

She flashed him a smile as I nodded approval. They went into the back room as I sat down and started to work.

The kid was a help. He knew the names, cruised through the back issues looking for the suicide stories. It took less than two hours and we had everything the papers had printed. With the parents' names, it was easy enough to get the addresses from the bank of local phone books the library had.

"Did you find what you wanted?" the librarian asked.

"Pretty much," I told her.

"You can just leave the papers on the table," she said. "I'll have one of the— "

"I'll put them back," the kid said, earning another smile.

Driving back, I heard the chirp of a phone. I pulled the cellular out of my pocket. Nothing. The phone sounded again. The kid laughed, reached over and popped the console open, pulling out a car phone.

"Hello?" he said into the receiver. I couldn't hear the person on the other end.

"It's Randy."

…

"I just felt like driving her car," he said, an edge to his voice. "What's it to you?"

…

"He's around somewhere," the kid said, glancing over at me. "I don't know. How come you— ?"

…

"Okay, I'll tell him. So long."

He replaced the car phone, looked over at me.

"That was Fancy," he said. "She wanted to know if you were still working…being the caretaker."

"How come you didn't tell her I was right here?"

"I don't know. I just thought…"

"You thought right," I said.

The kid nodded gravely, a slight flush on his face. Embarrassed that he'd done something right. "She said to tell you to call her."

"Exactly that?"