Andrew Vachss: Down in the Zero

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Andrew Vachss

"Andrew Vachss bursts forth with more of the slashing prose that has earned him a reputation as one who gives no quarter in his exposure of the evils of the human mind. The man knows whereof he speaks."

— Newsday

"There's no way to put a [Vachss book] down once you've begun…The plot hooks are engaging and the one–liners pierce like bullets."

— Detroit Free Press

"The New York Burke inhabits is not borrowed from anybody and shimmers on the page as gaudily and scarily as it does on the street."

— New York magazine

"Vachss seems bottomlessly knowledgeable about the depth and variety of human twistedness."

— The New York Times

"Staccato prose, a mixed bag of Raymond Chandler style, James Cain sleaze and a voice that's pure Vachss— strident, sharp, a muscular rage raining down on a society in need of cleansing."

— People

"A compelling read…in this literary realm, bad things almost always happen to bad people… very bad people."

— Creative Loafing (Atlanta)

Andrew Vachss

Andrew Vachss has been a federal investigator in sexually transmitted diseases, a social caseworker, a labor organizer, and has directed a maximum-security prison for youthful offenders. 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 including song lyrics, poetry, graphic novels, and a "children's book for adults." His books have been translated into twenty different languages and his work has appeared in Parade, Antaeus, Esquire, The New York Times, and numerous other forums. He lives and works in New York City and the Pacific Northwest.

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

BOOKS 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

DOWN IN THE ZERO

Andrew Vachss

When winter vanished

I searched, only to find you

Missing and presumed

DOWN IN THE ZERO

The first two kids stepped off together, holding hands.

By the time I got mixed in it, they had company down there.

I'd been quiet a long time. Since I went into that house and killed a child.

Killed a child. I can say it now. Every word.

I took out each word and played with it. Over and over again, the way I used to do in prison. The way you try and take something apart, see what makes it work. Words. Like … in war, they call the bodies "casualties." I was in a war. Casualties. Casual. You think about it, it makes sense. No, that's wrong. It doesn't make sense. But it fits.

Each word. One at a time. Over and over again.

Facing it.

I went into that house. Me. I knew what I was going to do in there.

In Africa, I served with this Aussie. Malcolm, his name was. A cheerful guy, I once saw him greet a man in a bar by butting heads with him. An old mate, he told me, from Rugby days. I didn't know what he was doing in the middle of that miserable war— one of the rules was that you didn't ask. Malcolm was telling a story once, about someone who had done something to him. When he was just a kid, in Sydney. "I got my own back," he said. I finally figured out what he meant. Revenge. Get your own back.

I went into that house to get my own back. When I was done, I left a dead kid as a monument to my hate.

I told myself all the stories. Ever since. Every damn dead day. They were going to kill the kid anyway…had him all trussed up for the film they were getting ready to shoot. Shoot…a funny word for making a film. Not the films they were making, though. The right word, for them, what they were doing.

Words. More bullshit, cold–comfort words.

It was a gunfight, a shooting war— I told myself that too. But I went into that house to kill every last one of them. Whatever, whoever I found there, it was going down.

I did it to defoliate the jungle of my childhood. To rip out the roots.

I went in shooting.

I wasn't trying to rescue the kid— I didn't know he was there. They were going to sacrifice him. Kill him and film it. Sell the films.

Killing them, I sacrificed the kid myself.

I got shot, getting out, took one in the shoulder. It didn't seem like enough.

The kid was a casualty of war. Very casual. Gone.

He didn't have a life to live anyway— I told myself that. Probably would have killed himself if he had the chance. Committed suicide. Gone over.

That's how this last business started. With kids killing themselves.

The old street dog shook himself and snarled at Spring, knowing he'd beat the odds for another year. In a wild pack, Winter takes them. He looked like his ancestors had been German shepherds, but a dozen generations later, he was a City Dog: lean, dirt–colored and sharp–eyed.

I was his brother, hunting. I was watching the tall redhead— covered to her ankles with a long, quilted coat, but moving with the confidence that said she was packing something potent under it. Her hips, probably, from the brassy–sassy look on her face. On the other side of the street, a black kid, with a geometric design cut into the side of his fade. Wearing a white leather jacket with a big red STOP sign on the back. He was walking just behind her, tapping his heart, making sure the pistol was still there.

A dead giveaway, no matter how it played out.

He wasn't my problem— I was there for the redhead.

"I want to see if she's cheating on me," the client had said, looking me dead in the eye. "I'm a hard–core bottom, but whoever owns me, I own that , understand?"

She was a short, delicate little brunette with improbable–violet eyes. Probably contacts.

"Rena disciplined me with this," she said, brushing her close–cropped hair back from her forehead. "It used to be shoulder–length. You understand?"

I nodded, holding her eyes.

"I'm pierced too. Down there." Looking at her leather–wrapped lap.

I didn't follow her eyes, waiting.

"I want to know where she goes, who she meets, what she does. And I want to know soon."

"Okay."

"I don't need pictures, tapes, anything like that. Not legal proof. This is a lot of money for just watching— I expect you to watch close , agreed?"

"Yeah."

"I don't like dealing with men," the brunette said. "But Michelle said you were all right."

"Michelle tell you I get paid for what I do?"

"Yes, she told me everything."

If I had a sense of humor left, I would have laughed at that.

She slid an envelope across the tabletop. "There's five thousand dollars in there," she said. "What am I buying for that?"

"What you said you wanted," I told her.

Michelle came back a few months after I killed the kid. I don't know how she knew, but she did. She stayed with me for a couple of weeks. Pansy was still up at Elroy's, trying to get pregnant, so it was safe for Michelle to live in my office. Days, she visited Terry and the Mole in the junkyard bunker— nights, with me.

I was up on the roof, looking into the Zero. She came up behind me, one red–taloned hand on my forearm, tracer–bullet perfume all around her. I had forgotten how pure–beautiful she was. I'd never asked her if she'd gone through with the surgery when she came back— never asked her why she came back at all.