Doc had a dark blue Lands' End canvas bag slung over one shoulder, nothing else. He wasn't planning to stay. We shook hands.
"Doc, this is my friend Luke. Luke, this is Doc."
The boy stuck out his hand, clasped his left hand over Doc's right as they shook. The way I'd done.
The Bronx Zoo is nice and quiet during the weekday. Luke loved it all: the bears, the monorail that ran through a replica of an Asian forest, the jungle cats. I filled Doc in while the kid happily took a camel ride.
"Luke's video–phobic, went rigid when he saw a camera. Don't know much about his parents—a black–market adoption. He killed his baby brother, stabbed him to death. His eyes roll up sometimes. He loses time. In a foster home, he strangled a baby. Doesn't know anything about it. Or the stabbing, either. Genius IQ. Yesterday, he was a baby girl for a while. Doesn't remember that either. The DA knows, wants him to come in. We've only got a little time."
"Who's the DA? Maybe I can talk to him."
"Wolfe. From City–Wide."
"Forget it. Her crew accounts for half the rapist population in my joints."
"I know. I'm not looking for a play from her."
"What do you need me for? You know what's wrong with the kid as well as I do."
"I told you, Doc. The girasol."
Luke climbed off the camel, beaming. We took him to the reptile house. "Think he'll like the chameleons?" Doc asked.
"He doesn't know," I said.
"Don't be so sure," Doc said, watching the boy.
65
The Plymouth poked its way through Hunts Point, heading for the Mole's junkyard.
"Remember Elroy?" I asked Doc.
"Sure. Who could forget him? A rich fantasy life don't make you crazy, but Elroy flirted with it pretty good."
"He's writing a book."
"Why not, hoss? Probably make him rich."
Luke sat between us on the front seat, his hands on the padded dashboard. "You like dogs?" I asked him.
"Some dogs," he said, wary.
"These are wonderful dogs," I promised him. "You'll see."
I stopped the Plymouth at the gate. Waited while Terry came to open it. Pulled inside. The pack swirled around the car. Simba leaped lightly onto the hood, peering in at us through the windshield.
"Is he a wolf?" Luke asked.
"I don't know what he is. But he's the best at it."
Terry came around to the window. He'd been pulled loose from a kiddie pimp in Times Square by Michelle. A war–zone adoption, and Terry was her child. Hers and the Mole's.
"The Mole says to take you back in the shuttle," he said, pointing to an old Jeep, cut down so it had a flatbed rear. We climbed out. Followed Terry through the pack, climbed aboard.
He drove expertly, negotiating the minefield like it was a post–apocalypse gymkhana. Luke's eyes widened—this was wilder than the safari ride at the zoo. We pulled up in a clearing next to the Mole's bunker. The resident lunatic was nowhere in sight. I looked a question at Terry. "Mole won't be around unless you need him, okay?" he answered. "You can work downstairs."
66
Luke's eyes swept the area. The dog pack had reassembled, sitting patiently. Abandoned cars, interwoven with huge pieces of machinery, had rusted into a permanent necklace, blocking any view of the outside. Behind the necklace, a chain link fence topped with razor wire. Dots of firelight on the surrounding flatlands, sounds of diesels chugging past, a siren cut through, faded. The tip of the world. Junkyard or graveyard. The boy took it all in, observing and calm. Interested, not curious.
I started toward the bunker. "Come on, Luke. Let's go downstairs, so we can talk."
The boy stiffened. His little face went rigid, skull showing under the soft skin.
"Basement?" he said, like he didn't have enough air. "Basement?"
"Oh shit," Doc said, moving back to give the boy room.
Terry stepped forward. "It's not a basement, pal. Who said that? We don't have basements here. It's safe here, Luke. Burke's going to. the cave. A real cave, like in the jungle. It's where we go when there's trouble. They can never find you there."
"Cave?"
"Sure. It's fun. We have all kinds of neat stuff there. Want me to show you?"
"I…don't know."
"Well, you don't have to go. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. Not here. This is my house, see? And you're my friend."
"Friend?"
"Sure, my friend. Like I said. I protect my friends, and they protect me. We protect each other. If bad people come around here, we know how to fix them. Fix them real good, I promise."
"Fix them?"
"Sure," Terry said, kneeling next to the boy, not touching him. "Simba!" he called.
The tawny monster bounded into the clearing, ears tipped forward, bushy tail curling up over his back. Terry made a circle gesture with his hand, and the beast whirled in his tracks, facing me and Doc, standing between Terry and Luke.
"Who's in charge here?" he asked Luke. "Me or Burke?"
"Burke is the man," Luke said, more life in his voice now, reasonable.
"And I'm the kid, right?"
Luke nodded.
"Simba, watch!" Terry snapped.
A low warning growl from the beast. He backed up until his tail was brushing Terry, magnificent head swiveling on a narrow arc. Me to Doc, Doc to me.
I took a tentative step forward. Simba lunged at me, blood–ugly snarl from deep inside him. I stepped back. The other dogs made pack–noises behind me—I didn't turn around.
"Simba's my dog. Mine and the Mole's. He loves us. Nobody hurts us here. Nobody."
"Would he hurt Burke?"
"He'd kill him," Terry said, matter–of–fact, patting the dog on his shoulder. "Or anybody else."
Luke's little hand reached out, touched the dog. Simba watched us.
I knew better than to say anything.
67
"Come on, Simba," Terry said. He walked to the bunker, Luke right next to him. All three of them disappeared inside.
I walked over to where they'd been standing. Sat on one of the cut–down oil drums the Mole uses for outdoor furniture. Doc took a seat next to me. I lit a smoke.
"Got another one of those?"
"I thought you quit."
"This is one of those times, hoss."
I handed over my pack, cracked a wooden match for him.
"We almost blew it, partner."
"I know."
"Damn! How'd that kid…Terry…how'd he know what to say?"
"It's what his mother said to him—when she brought him here. His real mother, not the bitch who birthed him. He was a sex rental when he was younger. They can smell it on each other."
"Yeah. They're brothers…"
I dragged deep on my cigarette, watching the dog pack. "You got any doubts?" I asked him.
"No. Neither do you. So what am I doing here?"
"Diagnosis."
"Bullshit. You do diagnosis as well as I do. Probably better. Never met anyone who could spot a freak like you—you got a built–in detector. And I can't treat him in one session."
"There's a piece missing, between diagnosis and treatment. We know what he is—we don't know why."
"You don't mean why, hoss…you mean who."
"Yeah. That's your piece."
"And then…"
"That's mine."
68
Simba came out of the bunker first, Luke right behind him. Then Terry.
"Burke, it's great down there!" Luke greeted me.
"Yeah? What'd you see?"
"A laser. A real laser! It cuts right through steel. And an earthquake machine…wow!"
I didn't ask him whether he was talking about the Mole's seismograph or the panel of buttons that would launch big pieces of the junkyard like NASA.
"You ready to go to work now, kid? In the cave?"
"Sure! Can Simba come too?"
I caught Terry's eye. He stepped in next to Luke. "
Simba can't come, pal. He's got to go on patrol. Make sure everything's safe. But I'll come with you," his eyes daring me to refuse.
"Okay," Luke said.
Simba trotted off. I led the way downstairs. I sat down on a stool next to the Mole's workbench. Doc pulled up the ottoman to the old leather chair, made himself comfortable. Luke took the armchair, Terry standing next to him, his hand on the smaller boy's shoulder.
Underground. Diffused, natural–sunlight quartz lighting. The industrial ionizer gave the air a fresh, just–after–the–rain smell. Faint hum of machinery. A panel of LEDs blinked a message only Terry and the Mole could understand. Luke gripped the arms of the chair.
Doc started talking, low, soft tones. Just about anything, engaging, drawing Luke along. The kid grew less and less guarded…flashing, showing his brilliance, giggling happily when he solved math problems in his head. "You know what this is?" Doc asked, taking a vitreous stone out of his pocket. It was attached to a thin platinum chain.
"A gem?"
"It's a girasol, Luke. A fire opal. Look closely, see the fire, see all the colors?"
The girasol moved in a gentle arc, back and forth. A liquid light show, soft, infinity–depthed. Fire in a teardrop.
The boy's eyes tracked the gem, like he knew what was coming. I breathed through my nose, shallow, measured breaths. Luke slumped in his chair, eyelids fluttering. Doc talked him to it, no pressure, telling the boy how sleepy he was getting.
"Sleepy…" Luke agreed, baby–voiced.
"Can I talk to the others?" Doc asked. "Can you let them come out for a minute?"
Luke's eyes rolled straight up into his head, only the whites showing. He blinked rapidly. "Baby, baby, baby." A toddler's voice, maybe two years old. Happy–babble. "Baby, baby, baby."
"What's the baby's name?" Doc.
"Baby. Baby Doll. Doll Baby. Sweet Baby." The boy's features softened, bloblike, drool in one corner of his mouth.
"Hello, Doll Baby. My name is Doc. Want to be friends?"
"Baby, baby, baby…"
"Yes, you're a good baby. A handsome little boy…"
"She's a girl, stupid." My eyes flicked up to Terry, but he hadn't spoken—standing there, mouth wide open, the color leached from his face.
"What's your name?" Doc asked Luke.
"Toby. Don't you recognize me? What's wrong with you?" Smartass kid's voice, maybe eleven, twelve years old.
"Hello, Toby."
"Yeah, hello. What do you want?"
"I want to talk to you…to talk to the others."
"One at a time, pal. That's the way it works. It's my time now."
"Do you come out often?"
"Whenever he's getting tricked. Luke's school–smart, but he don't know people. Not like me."
"And the baby?"
"That's Susie—she's a runaway. When they hurt us, she comes. Runaway. You can't hurt the baby—she doesn't feel things."
"Does that make you mad? When they hurt you?"
"I don't feel it. But when they do things, we remember. We remember. And…"
I was ready for it this time, saw the eye movement. The boy's face hardened, bone structure prominent, stretching the skin. "Blood," the skull said. It wasn't a human voice.
Doc didn't miss a beat. "Blood?" he asked.
"Baby blood. Clean new blood. Mine. I need it."
"Who are you?"
"Satan's Child. I am Satan's Child."
"What do you do?"
"I kill," the voice coming from Luke said.
"Who do you kill?"
"I kill babies. Little stupid babies."
"Why do you kill babies?"
"For their hearts. To eat their hearts."
"Why do…?"
Luke launched himself at Doc, humming a baby tune, his eyes screaming. One little hand in a fist, the other pushing against Doc's chest, steadying the target. Stabbing motions, the blows so powerful Doc grunted in pain. I grabbed Luke from behind, pulling—his muscles coiled like steel snakes. I twisted his left hand behind his back. It took all my strength to bend it up toward his neck, right to the breaking point. He kept humming his baby tune, stabbing. Doc fell to the floor, Luke still on top. Terry yelled something. Luke went rigid in my hands, a piece of iron. I put him back in the easy chair. He lay like a board, spine not touching the chair back.
We watched. Luke was drenched in sweat, red and white splattering his face from inside. He went limp. More time passed. Luke squirmed, shrugged his shoulders. Rubbed his eyes like he just woke up.
"Hello, Luke," Doc said.
"Hi. It's a great cave, isn't it? Terry was showing me just before you came down."
"Yes, it's a great cave. How do you feel?"
"I feel good. Can we go to the zoo again someday?"
Doc didn't answer him, watching.
"Can we, Burke?"
"Sure," I told him. Hands in my pocket so he wouldn't see them shake.
69
Outside, in the air. Luke had gone off with Terry Happy kid, fascinated with the secrets the older boy was going to show him. I handed Doc my pack of smokes without him asking.
"You ever see it before?" I asked him.
"Multiple Personality Disorder? Sure. I did a stint in a mental hospital while I was interning. You see it in women much more than men. Never saw a kid before, but it's supposed to always start in childhood…we're just not around to pick it up."
"You're sure?"
"The personalities have names. Different voices. The last one…you felt his strength?"
"Yeah. I could barely hold him."
"The big thing…he's amnesic. He loses time. You ask him what happened down there, he won't know. Push him hard enough, and he'll make it up…fill in the gaps."
"Lily says he does that. Fakes it."
"He's not faking, Burke. What he does, it's called confabulation. He can't account for the lost time, doesn't know what happened. But he knows something did. He's not ready to let anybody see his secret."
"Does he know we know?"
"No…I don't think so. Maybe some small part of him, some observer–personality. Sometimes, one of the personalities can listen in on what the others are doing. I don't know how distinct the splits are…there may be more of them inside."
A dog howled in the distance.
"He killed those babies," I said.
"Luke didn't…it was the other one. They're as separate and distinct as you and me."
"Tell it to the judge."
"I know."
"How'd he…?"
"Get like that? Take a highly intelligent, sensitive child, subject him to intense, inescapable trauma …and he learns to dissociate. Escape inside his head. Splitting, it starts as. Some kids, it gets real. Child abuse, especially sexual abuse, that's the key predisposing factor."
"It's not genetic?"
"Not a chance. Two multiples could mate, and you wouldn't get another one from the union. Unless…"
I looked across at him, waiting. "Unless they did the same things to him."
"You think…?"
"I don't know what I think. This much you can take to the bank: you don't get a multiple personality without some severe, chronic trauma. Intense deprivation, torture…you know the game, how they play it. It'll take a while to sort it out. Lots of sessions. He's a good hypnotic subject…but he's got to feel safe before we can do anything."
"Is there a program?"
"The way you treat multiples is with individual psychotherapy. Outpatient, generally. They save the closed facilities for the dangerous ones. When one of the personalities is homicidal. Or an arsonist, a rapist, whatever."
"You know a place?" I asked him.
"None that would take a kid."
70
I knew places that would take Luke. The same places that took me when I was a kid. They got different names for them, but they're all the same.
When I got my growth, I found other places. Places where Luke had already paid the price of adm
ission. Places where they'd never look for him.
71
"You can never leave him alone," I told Immaculata. "Never, you understand?"
Luke was in the armchair across from us, the baby Flower balanced carefully on one small knee, a picture book opened flat on the other. Talking quietly to the baby, his spindly arm around her back, pointing at the pictures. He felt our eyes.
"I'm teaching her to read," he said. Luke's voice.
"That's very sweet, Luke," Immaculata said. "Could you read when you were so little?"
"Oh yes."
"And who taught you?"
"They did. They taught me…" Rapid eye blinks, bead of sweat on the bridge of his nose.
"You love the baby, Luke?" I asked, moving close to him like I wanted to talk, hands ready. "She's a beautiful baby, isn't she, Luke?" Saying his name, anchoring the peg in the slot.
"Everyone loves Flower," he said, himself.
"It's time for her nap," Immaculata said.
"I'll put her to bed."
Max stepped into the room. Bowed to Luke, then to me, then to Mac. He reached down, took the baby from Luke, his scarred hands armor plate around the delicate skin. Flower gurgled happily, safe.
"Go with Max, see if he needs help," Immaculata told Luke. "Make sure he's careful."
"I'll watch him," Luke said.
I lit a smoke. "You have it worked out?" I asked her.
"Yes. Teresa, the psychiatrist…do you know her?"
I shook my head no.
"Well, she says Luke has to have a routine, something he can trust. So she's going to see him every day, six days a week, one day off. Some days we'll take him to her office, some days she'll come to him. Mornings, I'll drop him off at Mama's—if somebody comes in there, there's a dozen places he can hide."
"After dark?"
"Luke will sleep here. With us. Flower's crib is in our room, between the window and the bed."
"He may try anyway…Max understands?"
Her sculptured face turned up to mine. "Better than I do," she said.
72
I went back to earning my living. Pulled the Plymouth into a spot on Central Park West, got out, sniffed the air. A large, frizzy–haired woman in an orange muumuu was trying to wedge her old Toyota into a spot between a white Honda Prelude and a beige Mercedes sedan using the park–by–Braille technique. She left them both worse for wear, stepped out, patted her hands together in satisfaction. I snapped the lead on Pansy. The woman noted the lack of a pooper–scooper in my hand, made a face like she smelled something bad. I stepped into the park.
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