Andrew Vachss - Dead and Gone

Clancy finished strong, telling them one truth after another. Some of them were going to drink. This wasn’t about preaching abstinence—this was about survival. When he stopped talking, the class was dead silent. “Scared Sober,” I thought, sarcastically. But then they broke out into spontaneous applause, their faces serious, some teary.

The teacher’s face was a study in surprise—these kids were way too cool to clap, especially for a cop.

The bell rang for the next class. Clancy was surrounded by students, all trying to tell him something. Or ask him something.

The teacher just watched, his mouth gaping.

“Does it always go like that?” I asked Clancy, watching as we drove through a neighborhood so lush it seemed to bloom in the dead of winter.

“Pretty much,” he said, smiling. “It’s more art than science, and there’s horses for courses. Some of the guys, they can work anywhere. Others, you have to pick their spots. But I’ve never done a class where I didn’t get some response. Some … engagement.”

“You really believe in this, don’t you?”

“It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done in my life,” he said, conviction braided through his words. “I took out a second on my house to keep the program going while we wait on the foundations.”

Wolfe had set this whole thing up like a blind date. I didn’t know what she’d told Clancy about me, but she’d told me a lot about him. A karate expert, he’d once taken down two armed robbers without drawing his gun. He was the man when it came to coaxing confessions, practicing a different martial art there, combining his Irish charm with a cobra’s interior coldness. He’d broken dozens of major cases, earned enough commendations to fill a file cabinet, graduated from the FBI National Academy. Gold medalist at the World Law Enforcement Olympics four straight times. Three kids, all top students.

“I get it,” I told him. Telling him the truth.

He gave me a look. Held it. Then nodded as if he was agreeing with a diagnosis. “What do you feel comfortable telling me?” he asked.

I knew we were done talking about his dreams. “I’m looking for a couple, man and wife. I’ve got an address.”

“You came all the way here to see if they’d be home?”

“No. They know something I need to know.”

“You carrying?” he asked abruptly.

“No,” I said, limiting my truth to handguns, not mentioning the Scottish sgian dubh—Gaelic for “black knife,” a weapon of last resort—in my boot. The knife was a thing of special beauty; a gift from a brother of mine, a nonviolent aikidoist who knows there are situations where a man needs an edge.

“What’s your cover?”

“I’m going to tell them I’m the law,” I said. “Federal. You know their kid was—”

“Yeah. It’s cold-cased now. But it’s not closed.”

“Right. Supposedly , the kidnapper made contact with them, told them he’d sell the kid back. They went to this guy in New York—”

“Why New York, if they live here?” he interrupted.

“Supposedly,” I said, emphasizing the word again, making it clear that I wasn’t buying any of the story—not anymore, “it was because they’re Russians, and the guy they contacted, he’s a big player in the Russian mob. They wanted a transfer-man.”

“We’ve got no shortage of Russian gangsters here.”

“I know. And it gets worse. What I found out —after the wheels came off—is that they came to the guy in New York insisting on me. That was part of the deal—I had to be the transfer-man.”

“And the guy in New York, he told you …?”

“Nothing. Made it seem like a regular handover situation, me getting paid to be in the middle. I’ve done it before.”

“I know,” he said, surprising me a little. I hadn’t put any restrictions on what Wolfe could tell him, but she’s usually real clingy about information.

“I didn’t know they were from Chicago. The way it was rolled out to me, I figured they were local.”

“So why not ask the local guy?”

“He’s dead,” I told him.

“Natural causes?”

“Considering his business, I’d say yeah.”

He didn’t blink. “Why is it so important? I mean, something was fishy, sure. But you’re out of it, whatever it was.”

“The transfer-money was half a million dollars. Plus another hundred for me to handle it. And whatever else they had to spread around.”

“And …?”

“And there was no kid. It wasn’t a handover. I met them where they wanted, and they came out shooting.”

“Is that where …?” he asked, touching a spot on his own cheek.

“Yeah. Just a fluke they didn’t total me.”

“So it was all about you.”

“Only about me. Whoever wanted me spent heavy cash, took some risks.”

“But they missed.”

“So?”

“Yeah. You figure they’ll just try again, right?”

“I don’t know how deep their connect runs. They can’t be sure I’m not dead. I was down when the hit men took off. And they’d put one in my head before they left. I was on the hospital computer as a John Doe, but the cops knew who I was—they visited me a few times.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That I lost my memory. From the head trauma. I had no idea who I was, much less what happened.”

“They must have loved that.”

“No. But the hospital backed me up—the story was plausible. They had nothing to hold me on, anyway. One night, I just walked away.”

“So there’s no way of knowing what they know.”

“I guess that’s right. This is a new face for me. And I’ve been underground, even deeper than usual, for months. This happened back in August.”

“Tell me again why you need to talk to these people out here.”

“They wanted me done. Or they work for someone who does. Whoever that is, they may not know if I’m dead or alive, but sooner or later, they’ll find out. I want to find them first.”

“You’re not here to take them out?” he asked, the warning clear in his tone.

“No. No way. Whoever went to all that trouble, it couldn’t be people I don’t know. I figure the ones out here for branches, not roots. Anything happened to them, my last door would be closed. You want to go back, get your own car? I can find the address myself, no problem.”

“We’re already here,” Clancy said, pulling into a long driveway between stone columns.

“How much would a house like this go for around here?” I asked Clancy.

“Somewhere between three-quarters of a million and one-point-five, depending on the grounds, what they got inside, like that. It’s high-end, but not cream-of-the-crop. Not for this area.”

“It doesn’t look deserted.”

“Let’s see,” he said, opening his door.

The driveway had been shoveled. Professionally, it looked like, the edges squared. The double doors set into the front of the house were massive, bracketed by tall, narrow panels of stained glass. A faint light glowed behind the glass.

“No bell,” I said.

“There’s got to be a tradesman’s entrance around the side. This one, it’d only be for guests. And they’d use this,” he replied, lifting a heavy brass knocker and rapping three times against the strike plate.

We waited a couple of minutes. If the cold bothered Clancy, he gave no sign. Me, I wasn’t so sure.

“Come on,” he finally said.

He strolled around to the side of the house as if he belonged there. I followed, keeping my mouth shut. Sure enough, there was a sort of outcropping off the house, with a single door set into it. And there was a bell. Clancy pushed it. We could hear its two-tone chimes from where we stood. Clancy moved so that he was taking up all the optic room the peephole offered. A metallic voice asked, “Who is there?” and I spotted the tiny speaker set into the door frame.