Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

"Good idea," I told him.

"I'm going to do the undercarriage later. I've got a pressure attachment for the hose— it'll be like steam cleaning."

"You're a natural," I said. "Some people, you have to tell them to clean their tools after they use them. You know what to say? If the cops ask you where you were last night?"

"I…guess I don't."

"Okay, listen up. You always want to tell the Law something as close to the truth as you can. Their game is to catch you in a lie, like a loose thread in a weave, see? They pull the thread, the whole thing starts to unravel. So always keep it as simple as you can. Last night? You were cruising all around the area, testing the car, working on your moves for the races Sunday, see?"

"Yeah. So even if we were spotted…"

"Sure. I was gonna do some work around here, if I needed a car, I wouldn't use this one."

"'Cause it doesn't blend in, right?"

"Right."

The kid nodded, looking at the Lexus. I could almost see the gears mesh in his head, but he didn't say anything.

I went upstairs, changed my clothes. When I came back down, the Plymouth was still open to the cleansing summer breeze, but the kid was gone. I found him at the house, at the kitchen table.

"You want some food?" he asked.

"I could sure use something."

"I got some rye bread. Fresh from the bakery. And some pineapple juice."

"You're on the job, Sonny."

He ducked his head. Put a couple of slices into the toaster as I pulled out my vitamins. We ate in peaceful silence. I could see he had something to say— decided to let him get to it in his own time.

He waited until I was done, watching out of the corner of his eye. Then he pulled a piece of pale blue paper from his pocket, neatly folded.

"Burke?"

"Yeah?"

"Wendy gave me this. Last night. It's a poem. About Lana. Do you want to see it?"

"Sure."

He handed it over. It was handwritten, the letters precise, small, unslanted…almost like printing.

Lana

Can I come over?

Not yet.

But I miss you.

There's time.

Are you still so sad?

A different sad.

But you're not lonely?

Not here.

Then why are you still sad?

Because I can't come back.

Do you want to?

Not to that.

Oh, Lana, why did you go?

I had to go. Why, you already know.

I have to go too.

Yes. But you don't have to go here.

Then where?

You'll see.

But I don't.

Then look! Look at tomorrow.

What's tomorrow?

Tomorrow is every day.

That's a cliché.

Not from here.

I looked over at Randy. "She gave you this…or you took it?"

"She gave it to me. Why?"

"You understand what she's telling you, then?"

"I…think so. She said Lana's mother was always beating on her. Not like…punching her or anything. Telling her she was a piece of garbage. Ugly. Stupid. Always in the way. Her mother, she used to leave stuff around where Lana could find it. If a girl killed herself in the newspapers, her mother would leave the article. She had real long hair, Wendy told me. Lana did. Real long. She never cut it from the time she was a little kid. One day her mother cut it off. While she was asleep. She thinks her mother put something in her food, knocked her out. When she woke up, it was all hacked off. Her mother had always been after her to be…fashionable. She wanted her to have short hair, but Lana never would. So she cut it all off. Then she took her to the beauty parlor so they could fix it."

"Fucking freak."

"She was, you know. I never met her, but Lana told Wendy stuff. The poem, it's like Lana saying maybe she should have run away instead. You can always do that."

"You think Wendy wants to run away?"

"Yeah. Not like…to the streets or anything. But out of…here. Around here, I mean. This is a dead place, Wendy says. I used to think she was…a little nuts, you know? But I can see it, see what she means."

"Me too," I told him.

"You don't think she's…I mean, that poem, you don't think it's crazy to be talking to a dead person?"

"It's just a poem, Sonny," I said. But it didn't feel like that. Maybe the channels were open. Maybe they were close enough, the emotionally abused girl and her pal who explored death with her soul. I hadn't spoken to Wesley in a long time. "I don't know where I'm going, but you better not send anyone after me." His suicide note. Just before he blew himself into the Zero. The ice–monster's voice is still in me when I hunt. Wesley, singing his killer's song in perfect pitch. The best, he was. Nobody could touch him until he got tired. So tired he touched himself. With a few sticks of dynamite. Even his name spreads terror from the grave.

And the last time I listened to his song, a baby died.

"It's time to crank this up," I told the kid. "And I need you for backup."

"To drive?"

"No. Not yet, anyway. I need to see this Dr. Barrymore. Talk to him a little bit. I'm gonna give him a call straight up, make an appointment if he'll see me. And I need you to cover me— tell him your mother hired me, you know the story."

"Okay. When are you going to do it?"

"Now," I told him, heading for the phones in the living room.

The Yellow Pages had two numbers listed for Crystal Cove, local and 8oo. I tried the local, asked for Barrymore.

"Hold please," a woman's voice, pleasant–efficient. Some sort of New Age Muzak kept me company. Then:

"Dr. Barrymore's office." Another woman, sounding like the pleasant–efficient balance was tipped a little toward efficient.

"Good morning. I wonder if I might speak to Dr. Barrymore."

"Who may I tell him is calling, please?"

"My name is Burke. I'm calling on behalf of Mrs. Lorna Cambridge."

"Let me see if he's available."

"Thank you."

No music–on–hold this time, just an expensive fiber–optic hum.

"This is Dr. Barrymore."

"Good morning, Doctor. My name is Burke. I'm a private investigator, retained by Mrs. Cambridge. She and some others have been concerned about some youth problems in the community, and I'm told you're the leading expert. I wonder if I could impose on you for a few minutes of your time, at your convenience."

"I'm not sure I understand the scope of your investigation, Mr. Burke."

"Well, it's a bit difficult to describe on the phone. If I could come and see you…"

"Let me check my calendar and have Lydia get back to you.

"I'd appreciate that. I'm staying at the Cambridge residence temporarily. The number is— "

"Oh, that's all right, Lydia will look it up. We'll be back to you in a day or so, will that be all right?"

"Absolutely, doctor. And, thank you for your time."

"No problem," he said, ringing off.

"You have an answering machine?" I asked the kid.

"Yeah. It's around here someplace. I never use it."

"Well, let's hook it up. I want to be sure to get the message if this Barrymore calls."

"I'll take care of it."

"Okay. You gonna be around for a while?"

"Yes. Wendy said she might…come over. Besides, I want to do some more work on the car."

"Yeah. Listen, Sonny, okay if I take the Miata?"

"Sure," he shrugged. "How come?"

"I was someplace last night, while you were at Wendy's. Looking around. I wouldn't want anyone who was watching to make the connection so quick."

"The keys are in the ignition," he said.

The Miata was nothing like my buddy's old Alfa. It didn't look so different, but it felt solid as a little ingot. I went through the gears a couple of times, getting the feel, but there was nothing special about it, no quirks to deal with. I thought the kid might have tricked it up a bit, but it drove like it was bone–stock.

I got Fancy on the pocket phone. "You up and around yet?"