Andrew Vachss - Sacrifice

Showed the mug shots around, asked everyone. Drew blanks at every turn. I rattled every cage I could think of, but all I got back was the snarl of beasts.

173

It was eight days before he called. Mama answered, told him I wasn't around. He wouldn't leave a message, just said to make sure I was there, same time tomorrow. Said to have her tell me it was my friend calling.

He called the next day. Heard my voice, said an address into the phone, hung up.

174

That should have wrapped it.

I waited for Max to show up, got in the car, went over to Lily's. I was going to give her the address, let her deal with Wolfe, stand back.

But when I got to SAFE, Lily took me into a back room without me saying a word.

"I got it," I started to tell her.

"It doesn't matter. Not now."

"Why?"

"There's parts I don't know. Wolfe said to meet her. She wants to tell you herself."

175

I called Wolfe. Followed instructions. Almost daylight when I pulled into her driveway. She opened the door, already dressed for work, makeup in place.

"You want coffee?"

"No, thanks."

"I'll just finish mine, then, okay?"

"Sure."

She sat at a round wood table, sipping from a white china mug. The ashtray next to her had a couple of lipsticked butts in it already, scraps of phone messages at her elbow. The Rottweiler curled at her feet, face on the floor between his paws, looking like a fatalist.

"I got their address," I told her.

"I know. I knew you would. It's no go."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I got sold out," she said. "There's no way to prosecute them for what they did to Luke— we try and put him on the stand before he's fused, he's going to split wide open. And if we wait, his story won't fly. What jury is going to go for devil-worship? That's why they use all that…all the trappings."

"We don't have any of the tapes. They know what they're doing— the camera angles won't have his face. Or theirs. Not theirs, for damn sure. Buyers only care what the victim looks like."

"You knew this going in. What about the…?"

"Prosecuting for homicide? Yes, that was the trump card. I could get a grand jury to go for it, I'm sure. It makes logical sense. We could get in all the psychiatric testimony that way too. Then we'd have a club over their heads…split them up, get one to roll over, talk to us, make a statement. At least we'd have a chance."

"So? What's wrong with…?"

"What's wrong is that the office won't let me go after the indictment. I heard more crap these past few days about defendants' rights than I hear from Legal Aid in a year."

"You think somebody's bent?"

"No, I think they're cowards. An indictment like we'd want, it's not a sure thing. It'd go up and down on appeal for years. They're scared…they're scared of all those 'false allegations' freaks…you know, the ones who talk about the 'myth' of ritual abuse." She lit another smoke, blew out a puff angrily, sipped at her coffee. "You want to know what's funny? They may be right, those people. I'm not sure Satanists are doing anything to children…you know how they say the devil can quote the Scriptures? Well, anyone can quote the devil. This stuff is the flip side…child molesters can put on the costumes, and all of a sudden, it's 'Satanic.' It's like a scam inside a scam…we find the kids, they tell us what happened, and we get lost in prosecuting the devil. The office doesn't want any part of it— they won't authorize the presentation. And even if I snuck in the indictment, they'd move to dismiss it themselves. They've done it to me before."

I lit a smoke of my own, buying time. "Did that guy ever send his lawyer around?"

Her smile showed up, low wattage. "Oh yes. His lawyer is a partner in one of our most respected Wall Street firms. Doesn't know a lot about criminal law, though. We made our deal."

"You gonna keep it?"

"Sure. He gets flat immunity for anything we drop him for. Limited to nonviolent offenses, of course. That's the way he presented his client— we just went along. And he throws in truthful testimony about any others involved."

"That'd get him dead."

"Yes." She made a clicking sound with her tongue. The Rottweiler sat up. Wolfe held the coffee mug steady as he lowered his snout and slurped. "It's decaf," she said, like I was accusing her of dog abuse.

"We'll take them in. Throw a bunch of charges at them, see if one'll crack even without the homicide hammer. It depends how many of them there are, how well organized, who's representing them. You know how it works."

"Yeah. Discovery motions'll get them Luke's statements. He ends up hospitalized too. And they walk away."

"Maybe next time," she said, looking right into my face. "What's the address?"

I ground out my cigarette, getting up to leave. "I didn't bring it with me," I said.

She didn't say another word. I let myself out.

176

I spent that day drifting. The building where they were holed up was freestanding, but it hadn't been designed that way— rubble from the wrecker's ball still on either side. In the South Bronx, just over the Willis Avenue Bridge. Pioneer-yuppie territory. When real estate prices went out of control in Manhattan, every square inch of land turned gold. Yuppies charged out of the center like maggots exposed to light:

Long Island City, Flatbush, Harlem, anywhere you could find dwelling space. If you could get in first, you could get in cheap. Staking out the frontier. You held the land against the natives, you could turn it over for cash, big time. The people who'd been living there first, they got the '8os equivalent of smallpox-treated blankets. Then God died on October 19 and the real estate market crashed. Some of the pioneers were cut off from the supply lines. Too late for the natives to make a comeback, though— they got tickets in the Projects lottery, sleeping on the streets while they waited their turn.

The next-nearest building was maybe twenty-five feet to the right. Six stories, abandoned. No windows in its eyeless corpse. Chain link fence all around the occupied property, glimpse of cars parked around the side. Satellite dish on the roof, all the ground-floor windows barred. A meter-reading scam wouldn't get me inside.

It was just an address— still couldn't be sure it was them. The vampire may have gotten it wrong. Or gotten me right.

177

I was still drifting when it got dark. I let it happen. Found myself on the BQE to Queens. Thought I was heading to Wolfe's when I felt the amulet around my neck. A hot spot— the kind you get from fever.

Pulled up outside the house. Turned off the engine, giving them plenty of time to notice me. Started it up again, pulled into the driveway, around to the back.

The messenger didn't seem surprised to see me.

She was downstairs, two young women with her. They stepped aside as I approached, bowed to her, and moved away. It was so dark, I couldn't tell if they were still in the room with us.

"You are troubled," she said.

"Yes."

"Ask your questions."

"I found the people I was looking for. But they're beyond the law."

"As you are."

A soft light glowed to my left— looked like flame floating in water.

"I'm not beyond the law," I told her. "They could bring me down like swatting a fly."

"Do you seek justice?"

"No."

"What, then?"

"Revenge."

"Yes, truth does not change with names. You are afraid?"

"Not of them. Not now."

"But once, yes?"

"Yes. When I was a kid."

"These are not the same people who hurt you."

"Yes, they are. You said it yourself. Only their names have changed."

"So it is not for the child you seek them?"