Andrew Vachss - Dead and Gone

“Could you show me?” I asked .

“Very well.” He sighed. He got up from behind the desk, bringing his wineglass with him, and seated himself before the computer. He took the phone off the hook and placed it facedown into a plastic bed. He punched some numbers into a keypad and waited impatiently, tapping his long fingers on the console. When the screen cleared, he rapidly tapped something on the keyboard—his password, I guessed. “Greetings from Santa” came up on the screen in response, black letters against a white background now .

“Santa is one of us,” the man said, by way of explanation. He typed in: “Have you any new presents for us?” The man hit another key and his message disappeared .

In another minute, the screen blinked and a message from Santa came up .

“Seven bags full,” said the screen .

“His new boy is seven years old,” said the man. “Are you following this?”

“Yes,” I told him. Santa Claus .

The man went back to the screen. “This is Tutor. Do you think it’s too early in the year to think about exchanging gifts?”

“Not gifts of love,” came back the answer .

The man looked over his shoulder at me. I nodded again. Clear enough .

He pushed a button and the screen cleared once more. He returned to his seat behind the desk, glanced at the Mole, then back to me. “Anything else?” he asked .

“If the boy’s picture, the one I want , was taken for sale, not by a boy-lover—I couldn’t find it?”

“The original? Not in a million years,” the man said. “The commercial producers will sell to anybody. Besides, those pictures are not true originals, you see? They make hundreds and hundreds of copies. The only way to find an original is if it was in a private collection.”

“Say I didn’t give a damn if the picture was an original, okay? If I showed you a picture of the boy, would you ask around, see if you could find the picture I’m looking for?”

“No,” he said. “I would never betray the trust of my friends.” He looked at the Mole for reassurance. The Mole looked back, giving nothing away .

“And you don’t deal with any of the commercial outlets?”

“Certainly not,” he sniffed .

This freak couldn’t help me. “I understand,” I said, getting up to leave .

The man looked at me levelly. “You may show yourselves out.”

The Mole lumbered to his feet, standing in the doorway to make sure I went out first .

“One more thing,” the man said to me. “I sincerely hope you learned something here. I hope you learned some tolerance for our reality. Some respect for our love. I trust we can find some basis for agreement.”

I didn’t move, willing my hands not to clench into fists .

“I am a believer,” the man said, “and I am ready to die for my beliefs.”

There’s our basis for agreement, I thought, and turned my back to follow the Mole down the stairs .

It all came back, in thick blocks of memory, exploding silently, like mortar rounds hitting near you when your ears are already so clogged with fear-blood that you’re deaf. And when I replayed the tapes in my head, I understood why it had to be him. Because I’d gone back to see him years later. Not to kill him, to try and play him into doing something. And he’d gone for the bait.

“You!” he said, a whisper-hiss of surprise .

“Can I talk with you?”

“We’ve already talked.”

“I need your help.”

“Surely you know better than that.”

“If you’ll hear me out … it’s something you’ll want to do. And I have something to trade.”

“You’re alone?”

“Yes.”

He touched one finger to the tip of his nose, deciding. Then a twisting gesture with his other hand. I heard a heavy deadbolt slide back, tugged gently on the wrought iron, and the gate came toward me. I stepped inside .

“After you,” he said, gesturing toward the staircase .

The room hadn’t changed. Old-money heavy, thick, and dark. Only the computer marred the antique atmosphere—a different one from last time, with a much bigger screen that blinked into darkness as I glanced at it, defying my stare .

“Notice anything new?” he asked, pointing to the chair I’d used last time .

I sat down and eye-swept the room, playing the game. In one corner, a rectangular fish tank, much longer than it was high. I got up to look closer, feeling him behind me. The fish were all some shade of red or orange, with wide white stripes outlined in black .

“This is different,” I said. “What are they?”

“Clowns. The family name is Pomacentridae. They come in many varieties. The dark orange ones are perculas,” pointing at a fat little fish near the top. “And we have tomatoes, maroons, even some flame clowns—my favorites.”

The flames had red heads with a white band just behind the eyes—the bodies were jet black. They stayed toward the bottom of the tank .

“Saltwater fish?” I asked him .

“Oh yes. Quite delicate, actually.”

“They’re beautiful. Are they rare?”

“More unusual than they are rare. Clowns get along wonderfully with other fish. That is, they never interact—they stay with their own kind, even in a tank.”

“They don’t fight for territory?”

“No, they don’t fight at all. Occasionally, a small spat among themselves, but never with another species.”

I watched the aquarium. Each tribe of clowns stayed in its own section, not swimming so much as hovering. I saw his reflection in the glass fade as he went over to a leather armchair and sat down. I took the chair he’d first indicated, faced him .

He regarded me with mild interest, well within himself, safe where he was .

“You said you had something …?”

“Yeah. The last time we talked, when you told me your … philosophy. About kids.”

“I remember,” he said stiffly. “Nothing has changed.”

“I know. I listened. You told me you loved little boys then. I came because I need to see how deep that love goes.”

“Which means …?”

“What you do, what others like you do, it’s all about love, right?”

He nodded, wary .

“You don’t force kids. Don’t hurt them … anything like that.”

“As I told you. What is wrong with our behavior —all that is wrong with our behavior—is that it is against some antiquated laws. We are hounded, persecuted. Some of us have been imprisoned, ruined by the witch-hunters. Yet we have always been here and we always will be. But you didn’t come here to engage in philosophical discourse.”

“No. Just to get things straight.”

He got to his feet, turned his back on me. Tapped some keys rapidly on the computer, too fast for me to follow. He hit a final key with a concert pianist’s flourish. The machine beeped .

He got up, went back to his easy chair .

“You’ve been logged in. Physical description, time of arrival, your code name, everything. It’s all been transmitted. And the modem is still open.”

“I didn’t come here to do anything to you.”

“I’m sure.”

“Listen to me,” I said, leaning forward, keeping my voice low. “Can we not be stupid? I said I didn’t come here to do anything to you, and I meant it. But don’t fool yourself—the Israelis aren’t your pals. I don’t know what you did for them, what you do for them … and I don’t care. But all they are is a barrier. A deterrent, like a minefield. Somebody wastes you, they aren’t going to get even. Understand what I’m saying?”