Andrew Vachss - Blossom

"Can you use a needle?"

"No. Unless you got a tranquilizer gun lying around."

"Let me look."

She came back with a black medical bag. Opened it on the countertop, starting stacking little vials and bottles in a row. I leaned over her shoulder to watch. Opened a bottle, spilled out some tiny round orange pills. Cupped a handful. Stared down at them. SKF T76 in black letters.

"You know what those are?" she asked.

"Yeah. Thorazine. Fifty milligrams."

"How come…?"

"When I was a kid…before I learned to keep inside myself…they used to give it to me."

"You were in a psychiatric hospital?"

I didn't like the sound of my own laugh. "I was in what they called a training school."

"You still remember…?"

I nodded, remembering it all, saying nothing. It was always dark in there. The gym was fear, the shower room was terror. Nothing clean, nothing private, nothing safe. Some kids ran. They brought them back. Some found another way to go— a swan dive to the concrete, a belt tied around a light fixture. Viciousness was worshiped, icy violence was God. When the rage-dam broke inside me, I didn't know when to stop. Stabbing inmates was okay, but not fighting a guard. So they went to the Thorazine. Chemical handcuffs. They didn't work the same on everyone. This one boy in there with me, the stuff worked on him like an anabolic steroid— he raged against the chemicals inside his body so his life was an isometric exercise. It got so he could crush a man's life with his hands. And that's what he did. Me, all I wanted was to learn to ride the storm.

The prisons were full of men they trained in those training schools. By the time I went down, I was ready.

Blossom was quiet, pawing through her supplies. Then: "Here it is." Holding up a stainless-steel needle, encased in plastic.

"Here's what?"

"Secobarbital sodium. Like Seconal, you know what that is?"

"Sleeping pills."

"Like that, but this is damn near an anesthetic dose. It's in Tubex. One-shot needles, preloaded. Just inject them right into whatever the dog's going to eat."

"Is that enough?"

"There's a grain and a half in each cartridge. I've got four here. Enough for a whole kennel."

"How long would it take to work?"

"Depends. It has to go through the GI tract. He laps it right up, runs around some to get his blood pumping, maybe five, ten minutes."

"Okay. You got any chopped liver around?"

"Chopped liver?"

"Like you get in a deli. Never mind. I'll be back in a little while."

134

TWO MORE DAYS of working with the clips, trying to match an address for any of the "Family Reunified— Closed" cases with something close to one of the shootings.

Nothing.

135

TWO A.M., at the end of Matson's block. Lloyd at the wheel, Virgil and I in the back seat, me on the passenger's side.

"Tell me again," I said to the kid.

"I drove by last night. Like you said. The dog didn't do nothing. So I got out of the car, walked up to the fence. He started barking like all holy hell, snapping at me. I get in, drive away. Wait ten minutes. On my watch. I drive back, he's quiet again. Simmered right down."

"Okay. Put it in gear, cruise by slow. You see anyone, see another car, just keep on going."

Virgil gave him a couple of hard pats on the shoulder and the Chevy rolled forward.

No lights on in the house. The dog's sleek shape loomed in the shadowed front yard. Lloyd slowed to a stop. I got out, the softball-sized glob of hamburger with its chopped-liver core in my gloved hand. The dog hit the fence, snarling. I slapped the meat against the chain link with an open palm, feeling his frenzied gnawing against my glove as I stuffed it through. The dog grunted his rage, clawing at the fence.

I backed away, jumped in the car. No lights went on in the neighboring houses— they'd probably heard all this before.

136

WE GAVE IT fifteen minutes. The dog was lying in the front yard. He didn't stir as we approached. Virgil worked the bolt cutters and the padlocked chain gave way. We were inside. I watched the dog with my pistol. He didn't watch back.

The Nazi had a lock on his back door even I could open. Door chain lasted one snip of the bolt cutters.

We reached inside our navy watch caps, pulled down the pantyhose masks, adjusted our eyes to the gloom. No carpet on the floor, but our rubber-soled shoes didn't send a warning.

Downstairs: a kitchen, dirty dishes in the sink; a living room with a console TV, staircase.

No basement.

Up the stairs, linoleum runner down the middle. Bathroom at the top, door standing open. Another room with file cabinets, desk, telephone with an answering machine next to it.

He was sleeping on his side in the other room, snoring softly. We stepped inside, Virgil across from his face, covering him with my pistol. I took the heavy gym sock filled with hard-packed sand from my jacket pocket, wrapped my fist around the knotted end, swung it back and forth for balance, nodded to Virgil.

Virgil prodded Matson in the chest with the pistol. The Nazi stirred, said "Wha…" and propped himself on one elbow just as I slammed the sock into the top of his head. I spun back for another shot, but he was down.

I handed Virgil the sock, pulled out my flashlight, and went into his office.

It didn't take long. There wasn't much. Stacks of magazines. Guns and girls. Loose piles of hate sheets on cheap newsprint: swastikas, drawings of blacks, Negroid features exaggerated to make them apelike, Christian crosses and devil-lyrics to racist songs. Three rifles on wood pegs stood ready on the wall.

The file cabinets were mostly empty. Except for some personnel folders he must have brought home from his job. One for each freak. Writing on the front in thick black Magic Marker. One folder had two stars. I popped a green plastic garbage bag from my jacket, snapped it open, threw in the files.

One look around before I left. Nothing else worth taking. I found his Magic Marker. Picked a clean piece of wall. Wrote: We Know Where You Live.

I threw the bag over my shoulder, checked on Virgil. He was still holding the gun on Matson's body.

We went past the dog, closed the gate gently. Stepped into the Chevy and Lloyd motored away.

Virgil looked back over his shoulder. "I hope that dog's gonna be all right," he said.

137

IT WAS ON the news in the morning. He hit again. Just on the other side of the dunes. Three couples were parked, a little past midnight. Shots zipped out of the night, puncturing the last car in the row. The girl was dead, the boy wounded, on the critical list.

Nothing about Matson.

138

I CALLED SHERWOOD from the Lincoln. Met him in the Illiana Raceway parking lot. The place was quiet— they only run on Saturdays. If he was wasted from working all night, he didn't show it.

"We're going to shut him down, put him in a box," the big detective said.

"You want to talk to Lloyd? About the shootings last night?" I asked the big man, watching his face.

"No. He's got an alibi for last night, doesn't he?"

I met his eyes. "Probably does. How you gonna shut this freak down?"

"We close the parks. Should of done it before, after the first ones. Have squad cars cruise the lovers' lanes, all the parking spots. Chase the kids away. No parking after dark, period. Stupid fucking kids, you think we wouldn't need to be telling them."

"Hormones."

"Yeah. I ain't that old. But they don't get it, these kids. You ever been in combat?"

"Yeah."

"You think about sex while you were getting shot at?"

"Okay, I get it."

"We got nothing else to do. We must of rousted every ex-con with a sex sheet in the county. Blank. I'm beginning to think, maybe your idea wasn't so fucked up."