Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

"Did you?"

"Not enough. You don't play hard enough."

"I'm not a trick, girl."

"But you like it, right?"

"I like you."

"But you wouldn't let me…discipline you?"

"No."

"Why not? I know how it works. I studied it. Guilt, that's what it is. They feel guilty about something. I punish them. It works out. Balance. Haven't you ever done something you feel guilty about?"

I got up from the bed. She said something— white noise. I didn't listen. Couldn't listen. I walked out of the house. Onto the deck in back. I looked down, but it wasn't high enough. I couldn't find the Zero.

The next thing I remember was Fancy, wrapping me in a blanket, walking me back toward the bed. I was shaking so bad my legs didn't work right. She pushed me down on the bed, piled covers on top of me. I was so cold.

When I came around, I was drenched in sweat. Fancy was sitting next to me, legs in the lotus position, watching, her gray eyes alive in the candlelight.

"Burke…Burke, are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"You stood out there forever. With no clothes on. Like one of those statues in a museum. Just standing out there. What happened?"

"I don't know," I lied. "I need to take a shower."

"No you don't," she whispered, lifting the sodden covers, sliding in next to me. She wrapped her arms around me, hugged me close, pushing my head toward her breasts, nestling me against a chill she couldn't warm.

"What am I?" Fancy asked later, still holding me. "Remember I asked before? If…playing that way, if that was yours? I don't know what's mine anymore. What am I, anyway?"

"You're a plum," I told her. "A ripe plum."

"What does that mean?"

"A plum, little girl. A rich, dark plum. You squeeze it right, you get sweet juice. You tear it apart, all you get is the pit."

"Tell me what to do," she said.

I leaned over, kissed her. Hard. Her mouth blossomed under mine, yielding, finally opening to me.

I left at first light. Fancy was still asleep. A lush deep sleep, a woman sleep. Soaking in her own sweet juices.

I stood in the dawn, looking across at the big house standing like a fog–shrouded fighter plane, locked in by enemy radar.

The light was on in the kitchen as I pulled up. I went over. The kid was working on some concoction in a blender, pouring in ingredients.

"What's that?" I asked him.

"I'm not exactly sure. Wendy gave me the stuff. It's supposed to…clean you out or something."

"Clean you out from what?"

"Drugs, booze…anything that's toxic."

"So how come you…?"

"From the tanking. I don't do it anymore. Wendy says, there's no point taking this stuff unless you really stopped. It flushes everything out, but you can't be doing it every day."

"Sounds good to me."

"You want some?"

"For what?"

"Uh…cigarettes?"

"I think I'll pass."

He flashed me a grin, one with some strength in it. "Guess what? We got a call. From Dr. Barrymore. He said you could see him…looking at his wristwatch, "today. He said he had a cancellation at eleven, and you could have the time he was gonna use."

"You spoke to him?"

"No, it was a message. On the machine."

"Good." I looked over at the kid. He wasn't asking to come along.

I dressed carefully, went downstairs. Then I pulled the pistol loose from its housing under the fender of the Lexus, stashed it back in the Plymouth.

By a quarter of eleven, I was at the gate. The guard was casually dressed in a dark maroon blazer over steel gray slacks. He didn't look like a rent–a–cop, something ex–military about the way he strolled over to the driver's window.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"I have an appointment. With Dr. Barrymore."

"Yes sir. Your name, please?"

I told him. He walked back to the guard shack standing to the side of the gate. There was a window, but I couldn't see inside. One–way glass? He was back in a couple of minutes.

"If you'll just go straight up the driveway and turn right at the stanchion, you'll see Dr. Barrymore's residence about a hundred yards away," he said, pointing. It was an old house, dark wood with shuttered windows.

"I got it," I told him. "Thanks."

His eyes were unreadable behind tinted lenses. I had a hunch they wouldn't be any more open if he took them off.

I drove slowly, watching for speed bumps, checking the manicured grounds. The house looked as if it had been airlifted from some other location and plopped down— nothing about it synced with the austere, clean hospital corners of the surrounding lawn. I walked up three wooden steps onto a wide porch, rang the bell. The door was opened by a young woman in a burnt orange business suit, chestnut hair piled on top of her head in something a stylist had worked on to look careless. A diamond glittered on her left lapel— some kind of stickpin.

"Hi! Can I help you?"

I told her my name, said I had an appointment.

"Oh! You're just a bit early. Can I ask you to sit in the waiting room while Dr. Barrymore finishes his session?"

"Sure."

"Just follow me." When she turned around, I could see her dark stockings had black seams. It didn't fit, somehow, didn't match the tightly controlled sway of her hips. She ushered me into a small, comfortable–looking room, offered me coffee. I passed.

"I'll be back as soon as he's ready," she said, stepping out of the room. I looked around, didn't see any ashtrays, took the hint.

Before I could really check out the room, she was back, her hand full of papers. "Will you come with me?"

I followed her down a corridor, around a right–hand turn, all the way to the end of the building. She stepped aside, making a graceful sweeping gesture with her hand. A man stepped from behind an antique desk to greet me, holding out his hand. I shook it— his grip was firm and dry. "Have a seat," he said, nodding toward a mahogany rocking chair canted at an angle in front of the desk. We sat down simultaneously and watched each other for a minute.

He was tall, slender, with a neat haircut of tight golden brown curls. His skin was almost the same color, eyes a pale blue. His features were fine, sharp–cut, a cross between handsome and exotic.

"Trying to figure it out?" he asked with a smile, showing perfect white teeth, leaning forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped.

"Genetics is too complicated a subject for me," I said.

Another smile. "I'll help you out," he said. "My mother was half Norwegian, half British. My dad was Samoan. They met during World War Two, on the island."

"Looks like the meeting was successful."

"They surely thought so. They celebrated their fortieth anniversary last year. What about you?"

"Me?"

"Well, Burke, that's an English name, isn't it? Or Irish? But your features are more…Mediterranean. Perhaps you have some Latin blood?"

"I don't know."

"You were never curious?"

"There's never been anyone to ask," I told him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"It's okay— I didn't come here to search for my roots."

"I understand." Therapist–speak, acknowledging aggression, mollifying it when it surfaces.

I let him stay uncomfortable for a minute, using the opportunity to look around the office. It was something out of the last century, all heavy dark furniture and paneling. The ultra–modern clock was the only discordant note, a duplicate of the one in Cherry's bedroom.

"Your message was a little unclear," he finally said. "If you'll tell me how…"

"I guess I'm a little unclear myself, Doctor. Mrs. Cambridge…you know her?"

"Yes. Quite well. She's been a patron of the hospital for years, serves on the board as well."

"Well, she was concerned about the suicides. Some of them were peers of her son. I'm not sure what I could do— this isn't exactly my usual line of work. But I thought, the least I could do was get an expert opinion."