Down Here

by Andrew Vachss

  “It’s Molly who doesn’t trust you,” she said, not denying anything. “He said he was willing to take the chance of you shopping him, but he wasn’t going to give you the chance to do it to me.”

  “Very protective of you, is he?”

  “You have a problem with that?”

  “No,” I said. “None of my business.”

  “This whole thing is none of your business now,” Wolfe said, quietly. “It’s done. Maybe not wrapped up with a red ribbon and tied with a bow, but it’s done. I appreciate what you did, but . . . but I want you to stop now. Just stop.”

  I got to my feet. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought I was helping.”

  “Come on, Burke. Be yourself.”

  “You got it,” I promised.

  The next day, I kept my promise. I sat down with my family, and we made our plans.

  If you think a “perfect crime” is some kind of rare event, you probably think all sociopaths are handsome, intelligent, and charming, too. Truth is, thousands of perfect crimes take place every day. Nobody ever gets arrested for them, much less convicted.

  And if you think it takes a criminal genius to commit the perfect crime in America, you don’t know anything about incest.

  “There’s other players, remember,” I warned my family. “Whoever shot him has to know by now that they didn’t get the job done.”

  “He’s a piece of dry wood, Schoolboy,” the Prof said. “Lying on the ground, waiting for the forest fire to catch up to him. Why don’t we let the flame take the blame?”

  “Nobody needs him dead now,” I said. “Nobody on our side, anyway. Wolfe doesn’t think she’ll even go to trial. Neither does Davidson. If whoever wanted him finds him before we do, there’s no loss, sure. But we can’t make that happen. Even if we could stake him out, how would we get the shooter to show up? Besides, it’s not about him anymore. It’s about the money.”

  “You think there’s cash in his stash?”

  “I don’t know, Prof. But there’s cash somewhere. Heavy cash. This whole thing reeks of it.”

  “You mean, because he had protection when he was Inside?” Michelle said. “His little sister’s got money . . . and she was the one coming to see him the time he got shot.”

  “The sister has some money,” I conceded. “And it doesn’t take a fortune to buy protection Inside. But Silver said the order came from the top, and there’s no way she’d even know how to make a contact like that.”

  “He has not called,” the Mole said.

  “What? You mean you—?”

  “The card opened the garage,” he said, shrugging. “The basement has all the lines. We already had her numbers. It’s a simple relay unit—we record the calls at our end.”

  “I didn’t know you were even going to . . .”

  “I was in a Con Ed van,” the Mole said. “In and out in under fifteen minutes.”

  “You leave any paint behind?” the Prof asked.

  The Mole ignored him.

  “He could use a lot of other ways to get in touch,” I said. “Or maybe he hasn’t reached out for her at all. I’ve spent a lot of time with her. Consecutive hours. She didn’t get any calls. So either her phones were turned off—and that doesn’t seem likely—or he’s not coming through that way.”

  “Maybe he only has her work number, or her e-mail address,” Michelle said. “If I was his sister, Satan forbid, I wouldn’t want him to know where I lived.”

  “Could be. I don’t know. And she never said.”

  “So how would we be able to have a strategy, mahn?” Clarence asked. “Either he calls her at home—and he has not done that—or she convinces him to give you that ‘interview.’”

  “We’re holding garbage,” I agreed. “But we already anted heavy, so it’s worth staying to see the last card.”

  The tenants in the Lower East Side building were so old, I got called “boychick” more than once. Four of them stopped their canasta game long enough to tell me that the two girls who had lived in the second-floor apartment had been very nice, but kind of standoffish.

  “You would think, coming from such a big family, that Hannah would have been a little more friendly,” an elderly lady with heavily rouged cheeks and an elaborate hairdo told me.

  “She had a big family?”

  “Well, either her or Jane—that was the roommate—must have. I never saw so many boys. Brothers or cousins. I could tell by the way they were acting, all together.”

  “And they came after the . . . after it happened, too?”

  “Oh yes,” another lady said. “But not right away, a few days later. Maybe they were from out of town.”

  “Who can tell anymore?” a third lady said.

  “Did Hannah and Jane leave with them?” I asked.

  “Who pays attention, a time like that?” the rouged-cheeked lady said.

  “And who should be surprised, her moving out, after such a thing?” a different lady said.

  “You saw Hannah move out?” I asked.

  “Hannah? Hannah never moved out, young man. She was murdered. Didn’t you know that? It was in the papers. Horrible! That’s when Jane moved out.”

  “Like the Devil was chasing her,” the rouged-cheeked lady said. “In the middle of the night. Manny, the super, he said she hardly took any of her clothes, she was in such a hurry. Who could blame her? To have such a thing happen to your own roommate. It would be . . . I don’t have the words for it.”

  As I exited the apartment building, I had to step back to avoid a pair of skinheads strutting down the sidewalk. As they passed, I saw they had bar-code tattoos on the back of their necks. Couldn’t tell if they were identical.

  I drove over to the building in Williamsburg where Hannah had been found hanging. The rehab was long since completed, and I calculated my chances of getting inside about as good as a counterman at Taco Bell buying a condo off his tip money.

  Walking away, I felt a tremor in my wake. Just a slight pattern-shift in my visuals, maybe. Afterimages that didn’t match up with my expectations.

  That was enough to send me Queens-bound on the subway instead of driving back to Manhattan. I changed trains three times, careful not to box myself, working my way back to Canal Street. When I got to the network of back alleys that leads to Mama’s, I found a place to wait.

  And that’s what I did, for over an hour.

  Nothing.

  Spiders have it easy. When they need a web, they make their own threads. I had to work with the ones they gave me.

  Something about those bar-code tattoos . . .

  I knew a stripper who had a tiny bar code tattooed on one cheek of her bottom. “It’s a trick,” she said, smiling at the double meaning. “Supposed to mean my ass is merchandise, see? But if anyone gets close enough to read it, they’re mine.”

  I opened one of my notebooks, found what I had drawn from my memory after I’d left Silver.

  V71.01

  What had he told Silver? “A message, written in the code of Nietzsche.”

  I’d seen the “Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” tattoos in prison. Sometimes with swastikas where the quote marks would go. Not exactly a secret code.

  So?

  In the room I use for sleeping, I took a polished piece of steel with a hole drilled at the top out of one of the standing lockers. In the middle of the steel, I used a Sharpie to draw a red dot. Then I hung it on a nail on the wall. When I settled into position, the red dot was exactly at eye level.

  I focused on the red dot until I went into it.

  When I came back, the room was dark. A sliver of moonlight glinted on the steel. I couldn’t see the dot.

  “He’s guilty,” I said.

  “That view ain’t new, son.”

  “I’m not talking about the evidence, Prof.”

  “Then how you know, bro?”

  “He said it.”

  “Confessed?”

  “No, sis,” I said to Michelle. “I’ve ne
ver spoken to him. But in prison, Silver saw this on his forearm. . . .” I drew it on a paper napkin, showed it to everyone.

  Max shook his head.

  Mama shrugged the same message.

  “What is it, then, mahn?” Clarence asked, for all of them.

  I took out the two pages I had Xeroxed. “This is from the DSM-IV. The manual the shrinks use to put labels on people. Listen.”

  They all turned toward me.

  “V71.01 is a code number. All the disorders have one. Like schizophrenics or pyromaniacs or whatever. That ‘V’ prefix is kind of a catchall. They say it’s for ‘other conditions that may be a focus of clinical attention.’ I remembered it, finally, because it goes in front of malingering.”

  “What is that, mahn?”

  “Bottom line, it’s when you fake being sick to get out of something, Clarence.”

  “Like when you plead insanity?”

  “Like when you fake insanity.”

  “How do you know all this stuff, mahn?”

  “Schoolboy was the shrink’s clerk, Inside,” the Prof said, proudly. “One of the cushiest jobs in the entire joint. Once Burke got that deal working, we made bank in the tank, son. Bank in the tank.”

  “From meds?” Michelle asked.

  “No, honey,” the Prof told her. “From reports. That’s where you tap the vein. You know what it’s worth to a man going before the Parole Board to have a few little changes made to his jacket? Or a guy trying to get into a work-release program? Or—?”

  “I get it,” Michelle said, grinning.

  “Let me read it to you,” I said, clearing my throat. “‘V71.01. Adult Antisocial Behavior. This category can be used when the focus of clinical attention is adult antisocial behavior that is not due to a mental disorder, for example, Conduct Disorder, Antisocial Personality Disorder, or an Impulse-Control Disorder. Examples include the behavior of some professional thieves, racketeers, or dealers in illegal substances.’”

  “What does that—?”

  “Means us,” the Prof cut Michelle’s question off. “Our kind of people.”

  “That filthy little maggot isn’t—”

  “No,” I said. “He’s not us. He’s not even like us. That code isn’t some diagnosis a psychiatrist put on him—that’s what he’s saying about himself. What he’s telling the world. He didn’t do the . . . things he did because he was nuts; he did them because he wanted to.

  “That Nietzsche thing he told Silver? He did those rapes, hurt those women, took those trophies because he could. In his mind, he’s not some sicko; he’s a superman. And the tattoo is his little private joke.”

  I handed the photocopied sheets of paper to Max.

  “Where he find that book?” Mama asked, pointing at the pages I was holding.

  “What I think is, he had a lot of therapy, probably when he was very young,” I said. “I’m guessing here; the sister didn’t say anything about it. But a freak like him doesn’t spring into full bloom overnight.

  “First, he experiments. I’ll bet he hurt a lot of small animals, set some fires. . . . And when he finds out what certain things do for him, how they make his blood get hot with power . . . he escalates. Until he gets caught.

  “His family had money. Not enough money to quash a major felony, but enough to get him sent for ‘treatment’ instead of the juvie joints when he was a kid.”

  “So tattoo is big insult?” Mama said.

  “Yeah, exactly,” I agreed. “A joke nobody’s supposed to get but him. I don’t know when he got the idea for it, but it’s his way of sneering at the whole idea of him being a sick man. He’s the opposite. In his mind, he’s a god.”

  Max picked up a pair of chopsticks, held them together in his two fists. He twisted his hands, and the chopsticks splintered like matchsticks.

  “You do have a backup plan?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you wanted to interview him. But if you can’t . . .”

  “I already told you. I was working on the book way before this whole business with him came to light. His case wasn’t even part of the proposal.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “But what, Laura? What difference does it make now?”

  “I guess I’m just . . . insecure.”

  “About what?”

  “About . . . us. In my world, people are always plotting. You have no idea of all the crimes people in business commit every day. Like it was nothing. Or there’s a set of special rules for them. Remember when Bush made that whole speech about ‘corporate ethics’ last year? What a fraud. You think stuff like Enron or WorldCom is an aberration? It’s only the tip. Business is a religion. Probably the only one practiced all over the world.”

  “What does that have to do with—?”

  “If you want to succeed, you have to plan very long-term,” she went on, talking over me. “Tools and research. Research and tools,” she said softly, stroking the rock of her faith for comfort. “You have to be very patient. There’s no forgiveness in my world. You only get one chance.”

  “Laura . . .”

  “You and I met because you wanted something. That part is real, I know. What happened, with us, I mean, I don’t know how real that is. And now that you’re not going to get to meet my—”

  “I’m still here,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s never any more than that.”

  “Yes there is,” she said, fiercely. “There’s . . . promises.”

  “I never made any—”

  “That’s exactly it,” she said, taking the handcuffs out from under her pillow.

  “Oh no,” she said softly, as she climaxed. “Oh no. Oh no. Oh no!”

  In the silence after she let go, I thought I heard the bottle tree whisper. But I couldn’t be sure.

  “Sorry, chief. She doesn’t want you.” Pepper caught herself, quickly added, “Working the case, I mean. There is no case, far as we’re concerned. You understand, right?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “It’s done,” she said, gently. “Let it go.”

  “I don’t know who the hell you are, or what you’re talking about, pal. But I can tell you this: don’t ever fucking call me again. Understand?”

  Molly, at the other end of a phone call. The dead end.

  “Well, sure, it’s still theoretically open,” Davidson said. “But I’ve got my deal in place with Toby, and my client and I are both certain the result will be as agreed.”

  “What about the other rapes he did?”

  “You know the statute of limitations on a felony as well as I do,” he said. “Better, I’m sure, given your . . . profession. He could call a press conference, confess to everything, and walk away giggling.”

  “He’s already done that,” I said.

  “What do you want from me, Burke? Some bullshit about bad karma? We both know how it is. Real life isn’t on Oprah. What goes around sometimes doesn’t come around. Chalk it up.”

  “We already had this conversation.”

  “I found some new—”

  “No,” Wolfe said, drawing the line all the way down to the exit wound. “You found something new that proves what we already know, so what? We already know Wychek did those rapes. We already know I didn’t shoot him. With what Toby Ringer told Davidson—and I trust him, even if you don’t—we’re never going to have to prove either one.”

  She tapped a cigarette out of her pack. Didn’t offer me one. Snapped her lighter into life before I could move.

  “And if Toby’s gone in the tank, double so what?” she said, not looking at me. “If they force us anywhere near a trial, we’ll prove both. Steamroll those punks in the DA’s Office like fresh asphalt in August.”

  I just sat there, silent.

  “I’m not going to prison, Burke. It’s over. Everything’s over.”

  She blew a harsh jet of smoke into the night air. “I appreciate all you did,” she said, looking away. “But there’s
no more for you now.”

  “Didn’t that prove anything to you?” Laura said. She was lying on her stomach, both hands around the big tube of KY she had taken from under the pillow. Before the handcuffs.

  “Is that why you did it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “To prove what, exactly?”

  “That I would do things for you. Things I wouldn’t do for anyone else.”

  “I think you know,” I said.

  “Know what?”

  “You know I’d never hurt you. What you said, a while ago, about trust? If you didn’t trust me, you wouldn’t use those—”

  “I trust you now,” she said, softly. “That first time, I couldn’t know. Not for sure. It was a risk. A chance. I was frightened. But it was time, and I knew it.”

  “Time?”

  “I always know when it’s time to do something, to make the move,” she said. “That’s my gift. That’s what I do. So that’s me.”

  “I’m going to be gone for a couple of weeks or so,” I said, much later that night. Setting the stage for my fadeout.

  “Really? To where?”

  “Out to the coast. There’s a couple of interviews I need to do for the book. And my so-called agent claims he’s got a couple of meetings set up, with a production company that specializes in TV pilots.”

  “You don’t sound very excited about it.”

  “I’m not. I’ve had those kind of meetings before. But since I have to be out there anyway . . .”

  “You’re here now,” she said, tongue flicking against my chest.

  “When are you leaving, exactly?” she asked, looking up from a bowl of grains and nuts she was breakfasting on. The sun slanted against the far wall of the kitchen, but it didn’t reach where we were sitting.

  “I don’t have a flight yet. Next couple of days or so. I have to pack, make arrangements for coverage at the paper. . . . A trip like this, you never know how it’s going to play out. If I come up with something dynamite, I may just—”