Down in the Zero

"Wendy. Wendy something. She was only here a few times— I never really spoke to her."

"Would you have any of the poems?"

"No. The police took all that. They wouldn't even let me have her room cleaned until they were finished, can you imagine?"

"Yeah," I said, standing up to leave.

She got up too, standing very close to me. I could smell her overripe perfume, sweat running through baby powder. "If you need more information, you know where to find me."

"I appreciate that."

"My husband won't be back for a couple of weeks. It gets pretty tiresome, even with all this," she said softly, sweeping her hand to show me the water view through the picture window.

"I'm sure I'll have more questions."

"Then you come back. Call me first. But don't bring that nosy bitch with you."

I raised my eyebrows in a question.

"I like the way you handled her. I like a man who can take charge."

"She's paying the bills," I said.

"I can pay some bills too."

Fancy was sitting in the lush, paneled library, her face in an art book.

"Come on," I said to her.

She got up meekly and followed me. Marlene Robinelle didn't see us to the door.

"What did you find out?" Fancy asked me from the front seat of the Lexus.

"You first," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play games, bitch. I know you used that time to stick that perfect little nose of yours places."

"Do you really think my nose is perfect?" she smiled.

"Yeah. Cute as a button. Now what did you— ?"

"I never left the library. I was afraid you'd come back and catch me. I didn't know how long you'd be."

"And…?"

"She's a big phony. I found a list in a drawer. The last four, five weeks of the New York Times best–seller list, okay? And on the shelves, every single one of those books. Brand–new, never opened. You can tell, the spines were too tight. And inside each one, she had a photocopy of the review from the Times, see?"

"No."

"She doesn't read the books, just the reviews. So she can be with it at cocktail parties, see? What a tame cow she must be."

"Because she lets other people tell her what to do?"

"You can't be that stupid," she snapped at me. "I'm talking about your mind, not your body. Sex is different."

"Sex is only with your body?"

"What do you think it's with?"

"It's got to be with your mind. Otherwise, you could do a better job by yourself, right? Once your eyes are closed, once it's dark…how could you tell the difference?"

"Maybe there is no difference."

"Maybe not. But you have to throw the switch first."

She gave me a long look. "You scare me sometimes," she whispered.

"And you like that too, don't you?"

"Yes."

I piloted the Lexus back the way we came, not asking for directions, seeing if I could retrace my steps alone if I had to. Fancy wasn't talking, looking out her window, drumming her fingernails on the console between us.

"None of the books had been read?" I asked her. "In that whole huge library?"

"Oh sure, a lot of them. On a separate shelf. Like they were for separate people. Old books, you could tell somebody really loved them. And I'll bet my sweet ass it wasn't her."

"All that time alone, and that's what you found out?"

"Well, yes. It's a real clue to her character."

"Big fucking deal."

"Well, it could be. Did she offer you sex?"

"Kind of."

"That sow. If she ever climbed out of that girdle she calls an outfit, she'd flop around like a fish."

"Don't worry about it."

"I'd like to whip her fat ass. That'd be fun, but there's no market for it."

"What about— ?"

"Nobody wants to see fat people being disciplined. They have to look good. And young.

"I guess you'd know."

"I'm a pro," Fancy said, turning her head so she could watch me.

"What can I get you?" she asked over her shoulder, crossing the threshold to her house.

"A glass of water."

"That's all?"

"Yeah. I don't have much time."

She moved off. I closed my eyes, playing the tapes of my conversations with the parents, mentally engraving the notes I hadn't taken. My eyes were still closed when I heard the click of high heels on the hardwood floor, quick and close together, thinking: Either a short woman or a real tight skirt. It was both. Fancy, in a French maid's outfit right out of a porno movie. She had a glass of water on a wood serving board. She bent down, holding the serving board in both hands, just the trace of a smile on her lips.

"I always wanted to try this on," she said. "You like it?"

"It's very pretty."

"Pretty? I'm pretty— this is sexy.

"That's true."

"Wouldn't you like a maid of your own?"

"Sometimes…I guess I would."

"Here's your chance, mister."

"Not now," I told her. "I have to go.

Her gray eyes darkened. Sadness, not anger. "It's too good to rush–rush," I told her softly. "I'll be back."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

"What about tonight?"

"I'm meeting some people. Late."

"Going back to fuck that sow?"

"What if I was?"

"I could come too. Did you ever— ?"

"I'm not going there. It's business."

"Can't you come back? After?"

"It'd be way late. Three, four in the morning."

"That's okay."

"You sure?"

"Yes. I helped, didn't I?"

"You sure did."

"Well, if it's business, it's this business, right? Couldn't you come over, tell me about it?"

"All right."

She dropped to her knees, resting her chin on my knee. "Tell me to stay here," she whispered. "You know how to do it. Please."

I slapped her face, a short, sharp slap. It was louder than it was hard. "Stay here, bitch," I told her. "Don't leave. Right by the phone. I'll call you when I'm coming. And you better answer on the first ring."

"Yes sir," she said in a choky voice.

The kid was working on the Plymouth in the garage. He had the back end jacked up, the rear tires off. I wasn't worried about him finding the false bottom to the trunk— even the ATF had missed it once.

"What's going on?" I asked him, stepping out of the Lexus.

"I'm cleaning the tire treads," he said. "I tested it earlier. She corners better with forty–five pounds all around. You know you were only running thirty?"

"Yeah. Too much pressure and it rides like a truck."

"Sure, but for the race…"

"Okay. That's fine. However you want to do it."

The kid busied himself, intent. I lit a smoke, figuring out how to do what I had to do. First rule, get the other guy in a place where he's comfortable. Relaxed, so the knife goes in easier. I thought of taking him into the kitchen in the big house, where he couldn't hide his face. But when he had his hands on the car, he was a different kid, so maybe…

"Randy," I said, playing the long shot, "your girlfriend Wendy, how come you didn't tell me she was pals with Lana Robinelle?"

He dropped the tire pressure gauge, whirled to look at me, blood flooding his face.

"How did you…?"

"You haven't been leveling with me, kid. Maybe not from the very beginning."

"I was! I mean, I told you the truth. Just…"

"Just what?"

He stood up, walked over to where I was standing. His hands were shaking, but he met my eyes. "I knew Lana…tried to kill herself. Before. A couple of times, even. Everybody knew it, at school and all. I tried to talk to Wendy about it, but she thought I was an asshole. A tanker, you know?"

"So when you called me…"

"I was scared. That was the truth."

"But not scared for you, huh?"

"I guess I was, maybe. I don't know. The hospital. My mother told me once that she'd send me there if I didn't straighten up.

"But you're eighteen now. An adult, right? She couldn't make you go.

"Nineteen," he said. "But you don't know her."

"Never mind that now. Just give me the whole story."

"I was at a party a couple of months ago. She…Wendy was there. She doesn't do dope, but she drops acid sometimes— it's coming back in now, a lot of kids do it. She was out in the back, on the lawn. Tripping. She got real scared. The rest of them thought it was funny, her jumping around and all. I…held her. A long time. When she stopped, she was dreamy. Spaced out, I guess. She told me she saw Lana. She was happy. Lana, not Wendy. Happy where she was."

The kid took a breath, still on my eyes. I could feel him willing me to understand how bone–deep important this all was to him. "I got…terrified. You see it, don't you? She was going there. With Lana. But the more I told her it was crazy, the more she said I didn't understand. I stayed with her, that whole night. She has her own car, but I wouldn't let her drive. When I took her home, it was light out. Her father was there, waiting up. He blamed it on me. Told me if he ever saw me around her again, he'd kill me.

"I couldn't call her on the phone. And I don't see her in school anymore. She sent me a letter. A poem. It wasn't a sad poem, like I expected. It was…I don't know, gentle. I read it and read it. But when I got it, I got scared. It's about dying, Burke.

"I watched her house. At night. The police stopped me one time. They were gonna take me in, but then they found out who I was. Who my mother was, really. They called her and she came and got me.

"Wendy found out. She told me it was sweet, what I did. But it didn't matter. She wasn't going to go until she was ready.

"I saw her a lot, after that. Different places. She was the only one I ever told about racing. She said that was my poetry, driving.

"Then my mother went away. For the summer. Right after that, Wendy told me. Her parents were gonna put her in Crystal Cove, to get her some help. She promised to stop the acid–tripping, but they didn't believe her. That's when I got so scared. That's when I called you. I thought you could…save her. And I could…help, like."

I felt it. So deep I didn't know there was such a place in me. This rich, spoiled kid. This punk I thought was a herd animal. I never saw anyone so scared for someone else, reaching outside himself like that, trying to pull her in with him.

"Come on, kid," I told him. "We got work to do before it gets dark."

We took the Miata. The kid knew about Chalmer's Creek, got us there in a flash.

"What's here?" he asked.

I stood at an outcropping of rock, looking down at the blue–black water. "This is where Lana Robinelle went over," I said. "Drowned."

I picked up a heavy rock, held it in two hands. Dropped it over the side into the water. Watched it disappear, the circles spreading out from the center, wider and wider, reaching.

"What's it look like to you?" I asked him.

He looked down, eyes following my pointing finger. "A bull's–eye," he said.

"You're in it now," I told him on the drive back. 'That's what you wanted, right?"

"Yes."

"All right, kid. First rule— you don't talk. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Anybody you talk to, regular?"

"Just…Wendy."

"Nobody knows your secrets? Not your mother? Nobody?"

"Nobody."

"Okay. Keep it that way. Meet me at the garage tonight. Eleven o'clock. We're gonna do some work."

"I'll be there," he said, face set in harder lines than I thought it had.

Back in the apartment, I found the microphone and pulled it loose. Whoever set it up would have to come back. I checked the rest of the place. Couldn't find anything new.

Eight o'clock. I took a shower, wrapped a towel around my waist, lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. I didn't even try and sort things— I'd be talking to the Prof soon enough.

A tap on the front door glass woke me up. I flicked off the towel, slipped into a pair of pants, walked through the dark house. My watch said 10:05.

It was Randy, standing outside the door, hand poised to tap again. I opened the door. "What?"

He stepped past me, agitated, moving quick, words tumbling out of his mouth too fast for me to follow.

"Hey!" I said to him. "Hold it down. Get it together, all right? Something happened?"

"No. I mean, yes. I don't know. It didn't just happen. I have to tell you—

"Randy, sit down. Relax."

"I can't. I…"

"Breathe through your nose," I told him. "Close your mouth and breathe through your nose. Deep breaths. Slow."

He followed orders, working at it until he stopped gulping air, sat down on the couch. I sat across from him. The only light was a moon–spill through the windows, enough to see his shape, not his face.

"Now…what is it?"

"I…lied, Burke."

"About what?"

"When you asked me, about secrets. Did I talk to anyone…?"

"Yeah?"

"Charm. I talked to Charm. That time she was here. When she went into the house by herself."

"You already told me about that." He mumbled something, head down.

"Randy, work easy now. Speak so I can hear you. Come on."

"Charm asked me about you. What you were doing here."

"You told me that."

"I didn't tell you that I…told her about Crystal Cove."

"That's all right. It's not much of a secret now, with all the running around I've been doing."

"Charm said to…keep an eye on you. I'm supposed to call her, tell her what you do."

"And you said you'd do that?"

"I told her no. But she…took me inside the house."

"I don't get it."

He started to cry then. First a bubble, then a dry sob…then it all went loose. Shame radiated off him like heat. I let it go for a while, saw it wasn't going to stop. I got up, walked around behind him. Put my hands on his shoulders, working the piano–wire muscles with my thumbs the way you loosen up a fighter before he gets it on. "Let it go, kid. Nothing's gonna hurt you now. It's pus, like from a wound. Squeeze it out."

I kept working until the sobbing slowed down, stumbled to a stop. I stepped back away from the kid. He shook himself violently, trying to throw something off his back— sweat flew off his body, spraying fear. When that stopped, he trembled. Sat there trembling.

I went back to my chair. "Tell me," I finally said.

"Charm was like my…babysitter. When I was a kid. I really…admired her. She's so tough. One time, she was jumping horses and she fell off. Broke her leg. We were all there, watching. Charm didn't say a word. I mean, you could see it hurt…her face was all white and sweaty and her leg…it was bent all funny. But she didn't say a word."

"When…?"

"In the seventh grade, that's when it started."

"What did she do?"

"If I told my friends, they would have thought it was great. So great. Like a dream come true. That's what Charm says, the trick is to come true."

"You had sex with her?"

"I…guess it was sex. What she did. It made me…excited. But I was scared too. I didn't know what to do."

"I know."

"I wanted to do it. I mean, after a while, I wanted to do it. All the time. All she had to do was touch me. The handle, that's what she called it. Charm says everybody has a handle. I thought she meant my…cock. But that wasn't it. The handle, it's the way you twist people."

"How did it start?"

"I was in my room. In my bathroom, taking a shower. And she just came in there. I was…embarrassed. But she did something…with her mouth…and I got excited. Then she did it. With her hand. Then she…hit me. Hard. It hurt. I was…crying. And she kept hitting me. She told me I was a dirty little boy. I was scared of her, but she did it again, later. Then she told me I had to do what she said."

"Did you ever tell? Tell anyone?"

"I…couldn't. I was…guilty, like. Like it was my fault. Dirty. I started…fucking up. Everything. I used to get all A's— I really liked school, once. And I was…beating off. All the time, even in the Boys' Room at school. I had bad dreams. Then I got caught…"

"In school?"

"At the mall. Shoplifting. The security people, they made me sign something, then they called my mother. She came down, all mad. She went in their office with them. Alone. When she came out, she took me home. And she showed me the paper I signed. Tore it up right in front of me. It was okay, she said. All fixed. But she wanted me to see someone.

"A therapist?"

"Yeah. Dr. Barrymore."

"From Crystal Cove?"

"Yes. But I didn't have to go into the hospital. He has this house, right on the grounds. And he has an office in the back. That's where I saw him."

"You didn't tell him about Charm?"

"I kind of…did. But not for a long time. He's my mother's friend. I'd seen him in the house. A couple of times. I could tell from the way she talked to him…I thought he'd tell her."

"Why didn't you just tell her yourself?"

"Charm showed me…pictures. Pictures of her and my mother, naked. Together…you know?"

"Sure. You thought they were lovers?"

"They were! You could see…what they were doing. In the pictures. They were…disgusting."

"Because of what they were doing?"

"Because it was my mother!" He started crying again. "And Charm told me…Charm said my mother told her to do it. With me. So I'd know how to do it. With girls, like."

"And you believed her?"

"My mother always hired people to teach me things. To play the guitar, or ride horses. Dancing. She always paid people to teach me. Charm said I would be…a homosexual unless she helped me."

"That's got nothing to do with her," I told him.

"I know. I mean, I think I know. But I never…"

"With girls?"

"Yeah. Except with Charm."

"Still?"

He looked down, quiet for a minute. "Yes," he finally said. "That's what happened the last time she came over. I didn't want to do anything, but…"

"It's okay. It takes time, to get strong enough."

"I'll never be strong enough. I thought I was. She…hasn't come around for a long time."

"Yeah you will. And soon, too. She was conditioning you, understand?"

"No."

"She started with you early, so you got used to…certain things. After a while, you feel like that's the only way you can do it, see? But it's a trick…a cheap, dirty trick."

"How could I…?"

"You already are, kid. If her stuff was really working, you wouldn't feel anything for Wendy."

"What do you mean?"

"How do you feel about Wendy? Like she's your sister?"

"No. But I never tried to— "

"What? Have sex with her? Don't worry about it. You feel like you want to be with her. Close. To protect her, right?"

"Yes."

"The rest will come, kid. I promise you. You may have to talk to somebody…some pro who knows what they're doing— some places you can't get to all by yourself. But it's already happening. You got a good throw of the dice now— let it ride."

His head came up, eyes on me now. "What do I have to do?" he asked.

"For now, you have to drive— we got a meet to go to."

I showed the kid how to park so we could cover the whole lot with one eye–sweep while we waited. A couple of minutes before midnight, Clarence's Rover glided past the gas pumps. They spotted us, rolled over to where we were parked. I was already stepping out of the car. The Prof came over to where I was standing, leaving Clarence at the wheel. He was carrying a dark green canvas duffel in one hand. We naturally rolled into a prison–yard position, shoulder to shoulder at a slight V–angle so we narrowed the exposure of our backs and could watch the maximum vista. The way it's done, your mouth hardly moves but your eyes never stop.

"What you got that's hot, schoolboy?"

"A nest of snakes, Prof. I need to show you a few things. We'll take my car, okay?"

"You say, we play, bro," the little man said, waving Clarence over.

The Prof took the shotgun seat next to Randy, Clarence and I sat behind. Randy cruised through the quiet streets as I ran it down. The Prof gave me a quick glance over his shoulder, tilting his head toward Randy. I nodded— it was all right for the kid to hear.

"The Mole showed the printout to some other people. Israelis," I said. "They got somebody they want on that list."

"Don't be downing the Mole, man. Everybody's got a button, something to push."

"I know," I said. Thinking of Charm— and her handles. "That's not the thing. I saw the list too. Here's one of the names on it," I said, pausing to give it weight, "— Angelo Mondriano."

"Damn! He's been long gone, youngblood. Word is he's holding up a bridge somewhere, inside a slab of concrete."

"I don't think so."

"I remember it now," the Prof mused. "He went canary, then he jumped the cage, right? Didn't some of the wiseguys ask you about running him down?"

"Yeah. He must have dropped a couple of dozen heavy hitters when he testified. He was in the Witness Protection Program, then he went over the Wall. Six–figure bounty on his ass. Open contract— the money for his head."

"That's not like the new Italians. What about all the cash he was supposed to have swiped?"

"There's Italians, and there's Italians," I said. "The guys who came to see me, they were the old guys, you understand? Vindicata! The money wasn't the thing for them. It was blood. You know the rules."

"Yeah. You turn, you burn. You roll, you pay the toll. But I thought…"

"No. Couldn't be. They dropped him, they'd want to make it public. Put his head on a stake, send the message."

"That's right enough," the little man agreed. "So what we got, somebody in the ID business?"

"Sure. That's where the money's coming from. It was a long list, Prof."

"And the Israelis, they're going in?"

"Yeah." I gave Randy directions, told him to cruise by Rector's. "And that's ours," I pointed.

Without being told, the kid swept into a slow series of figure 8's, passing back and forth around Rector's from different angles.

"It don't look like much— a real soft touch," the Prof said, evaluating with his eyes.

"I got a way in. Front door," I told him. "That's not the work."

"Okay, bro. Take the point— let's eyeball the joint."

"Drive over to Crystal Cove," I translated for Randy.

The kid drove the way a pro diver hits the water…without a splash. Fingertips light on the wheel, taking the corners just the quiet side of tire squeal, braking so smooth he wouldn't have spilled a full cup of coffee.

"My man can drive, can't he, Prof?" I asked.

"Fine as wine," he replied, holding out his palm for me to slap.

Clarence never said a word.

"What can you tell me about the grounds?" I asked Randy, talking over his shoulder.

"I was never inside the hospital itself," he said, not turning around. "Just inside the doctor's house, near the front. There's a stone wall all around it. Not a high one— you could jump it with a good horse."

"Any guards?"

"I never saw any."

"Okay. When we get close, let me know."

We drove in silence for a bit. Then the Prof said, "We going in?"

"If it looks right. You got your works?"

"It's in the bag, and that's no gag."

"Righteous."

The road turned narrow, trees arching over the top of the car as we drove. No houses. The car started up a grade. "It's about a half–mile up the road," Randy said.

"Find a place to pull over. Where we won't be seen from the road."

He slowed the Plymouth, watching the landscape.

"No," I told him. "Someplace with a strong sight–line. Can you do it?"

"Sure." He slowed down again for a deep J–curve, still climbing. When he finally stopped the car, we were standing on a bluff. "Down there," Randy said, pointing.

We got out of the car, walked to the edge, looked down. I could see where the hospital got its name. The cove was landlocked, nestled in a natural triangle of hills and woods, with one side open to a road below. It was a series of low, interlocking buildings, all flat–topped except for a glass spire rising several stories from the part closest to the entrance.

I popped the trunk, found the night glasses, held them to my eyes. Most of the buildings were old stone, with small multi–paned windows. Along the back part of the triangle there was a long, narrow structure, built into the rest of the hospital but obviously constructed much more recently. Gray, smooth–finish granite, with seamless slits of dark glass. Probably one–way— I couldn't see any lights behind them like I could in the rest of the place.

The stone wall was in place, just like the kid said. It didn't completely circle the grounds. Instead, it ran in a sharp V from a meeting point at the front, where a wide opening was guarded by a black metal gate, hinged in the middle. I tracked the right–hand wall to its end— it seemed to merge into the underbrush at the base of the hills behind the hospital.

I handed the glasses to Randy. "Can you get the car close to the rear…where the wall comes against those hills?"

"I think so."

"Okay, let's get it ready," I said to the Prof, turning back to the trunk. I took out a pair of Connecticut plates, special–made for me at the Mole's. Handed them to Randy. "Put these on, front and rear," I told him. "It's just wing nuts— you can do it with your fingers." He held the plates in his hands, tracing the heavy seam on the reverse side of the embossed numbers, looking a question at me.

"You take two plates, cut them down the middle with a torch, then you weld the two halves together. It gives you a cold plate— won't bounce any of the Law's computers."

He nodded, went to work. I took a wide roll of tape, Day–Glo orange, peeled it open, and handed one end to the Prof. We taped a line across the back bumper— headlights would pick it up hundreds of yards away. We left a big piece loose and dangling. When we were done, I handed the Prof a big orange circle of plastic with a peel–off back, took one for myself. We pasted one on each of the back doors. The Prof took off his long duster— underneath he was wearing black jeans, a black sweatshirt, black sneakers on his feet. When my jacket came off, I looked the same. Added a navy watch cap for my head. We each slipped on a pair of thin black kid gloves. The Prof took a flat leather case from his duffel, slipped it into a side pocket.

Clarence got in the front seat— I took the back with the Prof. Randy started the car, then he motored slowly down the rise, nosing around until he found the right spot. We were maybe twenty yards from the end of the stone wall.

"You want to run the jungle?" the Prof asked.

"I don't think so. Don't know what's back there. Maybe a trip–wire…"

"So let's do the wall, Paul."

"Hold up a few minutes," I said. "See if there's a guard on the circuit."

Nobody spoke for a while.

We gave it fifteen minutes or so.

Nothing.

"You ready, Clarence?"

"You're covered, mahn," he said, pulling a long black tube from under the seat, holding it pointing down.

"Randy," I said quietly, leaning forward. "We're gonna commit a crime here. All of us. Prof and I are going in, Clarence's gonna hold our place, understand? Your job, you start the engine, leave it running. The back doors stay open. Don't worry, no light will show. If we come back walking, you move off slow, okay? But if we come back smoking, you have to go, understand?"

"Yes."

"You up for it?"

"Yes."

"Randy, you don't have to do this, okay? We can drop you off somewhere, pick you up when it's done. Reason we need you, it's for the driving."

"Count me in," he said, voice steady, looking me in the face.

The Prof and I walked off, Clarence right behind us. "No shooting," I told the young man. "No matter what."

Clarence ignored me, his handsome West Indian face totally trained on the Prof. The little man nodded. "Your play, your way," is all he said. Clarence walked back toward the car. The Prof and I strolled toward the wall, stepping carefully, eyes on full sweep.

"You strapped down, schoolboy?"

"I'm empty."

"So what's the game, son? This ain't no B&E we doing, is it?"

"No. What we're gonna do, we're gonna go over the wall, look around a little bit. Worst that happens, we get busted, it's a trespass, that's all."

"Say why, Sly."

"We wait a bit, okay? Then we come busting out, tell the kid to fly. I gotta see what he's made of…give him a chance to stand up without us taking a risk on a fall."

"He's a little tight, but he'll be all right."

The wall was not quite chest–high, but wide across the top. I couldn't see any sensors. Would they have cameras this far out?

I went over first. Waited on the ground, listening. The quiet was thick, like it had been around a long while, settling in.

The Prof came next. With our backs against the wall, it was more than a football field's run to the nearest building.

"Too easy," the Prof whispered.

He was right. I could feel the buildings standing across the broad expanse of neatly trimmed lawn, bristling with…what?

"This is enough," I whispered back. "Give it another five minutes and we're off."

We settled back against the wall, watching, nerve endings throbbing, fully extended.

It was quiet as a congressman's conscience.

I threw a hand signal at the Prof. We climbed over the wall, him first. When we got to the other side, we took off running.

The Plymouth was standing, ready to roll, the back doors open, Clarence down on one knee by the front wheel.

"Go!" I barked at Randy as the Prof and I piled into the back seat with Clarence a step ahead of us in front.

The kid came out of the chute like a rocket sled, straight and true, making the adjustment from grass to pavement perfectly. The Plymouth's monster motor was wound tight in seconds, holding in low gear with a baritone scream. Randy felt his way into the J–curve, running without lights, working the big car into a controlled skid, goosing it through with the throttle.

"They're coming," I said into his ear, leaning over the back seat. "Let it out."

The Plymouth gobbled the straightaway in humongous gulps, the engine singing a different harmonic as Randy upshifted. We came to a switchback— the kid braked and downshifted in one motion, staying on the gas with his other foot, keeping the spring coiled. He was a skater on black ice, leaning into the curves with the Plymouth, being the car. We hit another straight stretch and I looked over his shoulder— the tach was at five grand and climbing, way over a hundred miles an hour.

"You bought us some time, kid," I told him. "Quick— find a place to pull over."

He hit the brakes, snapped the Plymouth into a turnoff as neatly as a tongue–in–groove carpenter, stayed alert at the wheel as we all jumped out. The Prof and I each pulled one of the Day–Glo circles off the black doors, Clarence stripped the tape from the bumper. The license plates took only another minute…and we were legit.

"Speed limit now, Randy," I said, getting back into the car. "Lights on.

He drove the rest of the way like he was taking the final in Driver's Ed.

"Follow us," I told Clarence through the window. His Rover was standing next to the Plymouth, motors running, side by side, like getting set for a drag race.

"This is not no race car, mahn."

"We'll do it slow and easy," I assured him. "If we get stopped, just roll on home— I'll call."

He threw me a half–salute. I nodded to Randy and he dropped the Plymouth into gear.

The kid watched the rearview mirror for a minute, making sure Clarence was in position. I lit a smoke, leaned back.

"You did good," I told him. "Drove like a veteran."

"Thanks. I know about the plates…but how come you put those orange stickers on the car?"

"It changes the appearance. It's the one thing anyone chasing you remembers. Like when you do a stickup— a fake scar on your face or a phony tattoo on your hand, that's what the mark will fix on. If we had to, you could reach out and pull off the tape even with the car going, see?"

"Yeah. That's why the brake lights don't go on? And why there's no light when you open the door?"

"Sure. But I didn't expect you could drive that fast without headlights."

"Well, I knew the road pretty good. And I can see in the dark fine."

"Had a lot of practice, haven't you?"

He didn't answer. Concentrated on his driving, like he hadn't heard me.

Clarence was right on our rear bumper in the driveway. When the headlights went off, we were in darkness, the only light coming from the kitchen window of the big house.

"You leave the light on?" I asked the kid.

"Yes. I always do."

"Okay. Let's go someplace where we can talk."

"Can't we just go upstairs?" he asked, nodding his head in the direction of my apartment.

"Better not. Somebody's been playing with microphones."

"The…intercom. From my mother's— "

"I don't know. Somebody. Can't take chances," I told him, opening the trunk. I took out a couple of heavy army blankets.

"We going to have a picnic, mahn?" Clarence wanted to know.

"Close enough."

"Then I got some stuff too," he said, going into the Rover's trunk and pulling out something that looked like a small toolbox. The Prof stood in one spot, turning a full 360, smelling the ground.

I opened the garage, pointed. Clarence got behind the wheel of his Rover, drove it inside. I pulled the Plymouth in too.

"You know a decent spot?" I asked Randy.

"I…guess so. The back pasture, okay? I mean, there's no more horses there or anything."

"No bulls either, mahn?" Clarence said, looking around suspiciously.

"No."

We walked a short distance past the wood fence, found a spot on a grassy slope, spread out the blankets, sat down.

I lit a smoke. Clarence unsnapped the top of the box he was carrying, took out a dark bottle, offered it to Randy.

"You have a beer with us, mahn? To celebrate success. You sure earned it."

"I…"

"Go on, mahn. This is Red Stripe. Best beer in the world. From the Islands, where the air is sweet and the women are sweeter."

"Thanks."

Clarence took out a church key, popped the cap, handed the bottle to Randy.

"Long as it's free, how's about me?" the Prof piped up, reaching in to help himself.

Clarence took one too. "Got your poison right here too, Burke," he smiled, handing me a screw–top bottle of pineapple juice. It was cold. Clean and good.

"To Randy," the Prof said, holding his bottle high in a toast. "My man can drive, and that ain't no jive."

"Word!" Clarence acknowledged.

"You got my vote," I said, tapping my bottle against theirs.

Randy hung his head. I could feel the blush. But when his eyes came up, they were heavy with regret.

"What?" I asked him.

"It's…gonna sound stupid."

"Ain't no 'stupid' among friends, mahn," Clarence encouraged him.

"What's it about? Spit it out," said the Prof.

It was quiet for a minute. Then Randy looked somewhere into the open space between the Prof and me, blurted out, "I hate my name.

"Randy? Or…?"

"Randy. It's a kid's name. A baby name. Everybody always calls me that. Randy. I mean, nobody would say Randall. That's a name on a business card."

"You don't like the game, you turn up the flame," the Prof told him. "A man don't pick his mother. Don't pick his father neither. But a man can choose his family, right?"

I reached over, tapped bottles with him again. Underlining the bond.

"You a man, cuzz. You old enough to play, you old enough to say, okay?"

"I…suppose so."

"We give you a name, mahn," Clarence said, caught up in the idea. "Like a baptism."

"You came through tonight," I told the kid. "What do you want your name to be?"

"I don't know. I mean…I never thought about it."

"Ain't but two names for the outlaw game," the Prof said. "You a bad man behind the wheel. Drive like a hell–hawk tracking a mouse. Got to have a bad man's name."

"Like what?"

"Like I said: whatever you do, it's one of two. It's Junior. Or Sonny. Got to be either Junior or Sonny."

"Those don't sound like a bad man's names."

"What I gonna do with this rookie, schoolboy?" the Prof said to me. "True–clue him, all right?"

"It's the way things are," I said to Randy. "You meet a man named Junior or Sonny, you know you're dealing with serious stuff. Those are heavy–duty names."

"I knew a man named Junior Stackhouse back home," Clarence said. "Baddest man in town. Junior would get himself drunk, nothing he liked better than to fight the police, mahn. He was a terror."

"Junior…sounds like…I don't know. Like it should be Randall Cambridge the Second or something lame like that."

"Well, maybe Junior's too slow around all this dough," the Prof said. "Sonny it is."

"I never knew a man named Sonny that wasn't a stone dangerous stud," I put in. "Like the name was a brand so people could tell."

"Rhymes with honey, too," the Prof added. "That seals the deal."

Clarence held out his hand, palm up. Randy slapped him five. "Damn, cuzz," the Prof told him. "You look badder already."

The night didn't have a chance against the kid's smile.

"Here's what we got so far." I ran it down. "Somebody's doing ID switches— big money in that. And we got the suicides too. I can't see the connect, but there almost has to be one. If there is, Crystal Cove is the link."

"The link stinks, bro," the Prof replied. "Kids off themselves. Do it all the time. Don't take much, 'specially out here. The beds are soft, but the life could be hard. Out here, they whip their kids with words. Cuts just as deep."

"I know."

"I don't see going in, Jim. What we need, we need to talk to the boss. The list…that's the key to that lock."

"I may have another one," I said. "Few more days, I'll know for sure."

"Company," Clarence whispered, his hand going inside his jacket. I stubbed out my cigarette. Headlights cut the night, bluestone crunched under tires. A pearl white Rolls–Royce sedan pulled to a stop just past the garage.

"Charm," the kid whispered. "That's her car."

Minutes passed. A car door opened and a person stepped out. I couldn't see anything about them— whoever it was wore a long black coat with a hood covering their head. The hooded figure walked confidently over to the big house, unlocked the back door and went inside. Lights went on.

"She has a key?" I asked.

"I guess so," the kid replied, not sounding surprised.

She was inside maybe ten minutes. Then she went back to her car. There was nothing in her hands that I could see. The Rolls purred off, as unhurried as its driver.

We spent some more time out there, talking things through.

"Follow me back to the highway," I told Clarence. "I'll get you pointed toward home."

The kid got up, reaching in his pocket for the keys. "I'll drive," he said.

He pulled over just before the highway, Clarence right behind. We stood together in the dark.

"Be cool, Sonny," Clarence told him.

"I will."

The Prof gave him a light punch on the shoulder, waved at me, and climbed into the Rover.

In a minute, their taillights vanished.

"Burke?"

"What?"

"Is it okay…I mean, are you going to go to sleep?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"Well, I thought…if it was okay I'd go over and see Wendy."

"It's almost four in the morning, Sonny."

He blinked a few times at his new name, found his voice. "She doesn't sleep. At night, I mean. That's when I go over. Around the back. I toss some dirt against her window and she comes out."

"Go for it," I told him.

I took a quick shower, changed my clothes, and headed the Lexus toward Fancy's. Halfway there, I reached for the car phone— tossing some dirt against a girl's window, you can do that when you're young— when you still believe in things.

"Hello." Her voice was thick with sleep.

"It's me. I wanted to be sure you were awake."

"I…guess I wasn't. I didn't think you were coming."

"I said I was."

"I'm sorry.

"Don't be sorry for your thoughts. See you soon."

All three cottages were dark. Lights on in the main house, different dots of brightness in the blackness. Like a constellation.

Fancy's NSX was parked in the long driveway, carelessly sprawled, like it was abandoned. I didn't see a white Rolls–Royce anywhere. I walked past the fender of the Lexus, pulled the pistol free, slipped it into my jacket pocket.

Fancy opened the door, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, hair tousled. She was barefoot, dressed in a short blue nightie. The only light was a soft spill from somewhere in the back of the house…maybe the bathroom door standing open? I took off my jacket, draped it over the back of the couch. She walked over, reached for it.

"Don't touch that," I told her. "Just leave it where it is."

"Yes sir."

"Fancy…"

"Tell me what to do."

Christ. I was tired. In my body, in my heart. Tired of games. Guessing games. "Turn around," I said.

She did it, her back to me, head slightly bowed. I found an amber glass ashtray standing on one of the broad arms of the couch— it hadn't been there the last time. I picked it up, looked around. In one corner, a bright red steamer trunk with two heavy straps wrapped around it, a thick pillow on top, like a gym mat. In the opposite corner, a four–legged, round–top wooden stool.

All set up.

I put the ashtray on top of the stool, picked them both up and carried them over to the side of the only easy chair in the room. I took out my cigarettes and a box of wooden matches, put them next to the ashtray.

I sat down in the chair, stretched my legs out. So tired.

Fancy was still standing, back to me. "Come here, girl," I said.

She walked over slowly, head down, hands clasped in front of her. When she got close enough, I reached up, took her left hand and pulled her down. As she tumbled forward, I kept pulling, turning her around so she spun into my lap. She made a purring noise as I put both hands on her hips, shifting her weight so she was sideways, her face in my neck. I patted her hip with my right hand, settling her in.

"Should I— ?"

"Ssshh," I soothed her. "Just be still." I reached for the cigarette, got it lit, lay back, Fancy's springy girl–weight spread across me, sweetly balanced. I blew some tension out with the smoke.

Closed my eyes.

Fancy wiggled her bottom, just a mild tremor.

"Burke?"

"What?"

"Is this…yours?"

"What?"

"Is this the way you like to do it?"

"I'm too tired for word games, bitch," I said gently. "What are you talking about?"

She turned her face so she was speaking right into my ear, baby's–breath soft.

"Sitting down. Like in your car. I like that too. I'm all wet. See?" grabbing my hand, pulling it toward the triangle between her thighs.

"Fancy, I want to hold you on my lap. Understand?"

"Just hold me?"

"Just hold you, now."

"I thought— "

I lifted the hem of her nightie, slapped the side of one sleek cheek. "Shut up. I thought you were going to do as you were told."

"I am."

"Then sit still, bitch."

She snuggled into me obediently, a clean, moist smell rising off her tawny skin. The cigarette burned itself out in the ashtray as I closed my eyes.

I woke up, feeling the change of light in the room. Almost daybreak. Fancy was asleep in my lap, breathing through her mouth. I bounced her lightly on my knee to bring her around.

"Wha…?"

"Wake up, Fancy. It's morning."

"Morning?"

"Yes, girl. You had a good sleep, but if I leave you here much longer my leg's gonna be paralyzed."

"I'm sor— "

"Shut up, bitch. I'm tired of hearing that. Come on, get up. I'm going to get you into bed before I go."

"Go?"

"Ah, come on," I said, shifting my weight, boosting her up. She got to her feet, rubbed her eyes with her fists, as unselfconscious as a child. When I got to my feet, my right leg was asleep. I stomped it a few times on the carpet, feeling the pins and needles, getting the life back. Fancy stood in one spot, eyes heavy–lidded, still dopey from sleep.

I took her hand, led her back toward the bedroom. I half pushed her onto the bed. She lay on her side, looking up at me standing there. I bent over, kissed her next to her mouth.

"I'll see you tomorrow," I told her.

"You could sleep here," she said. "Stay with me."

"I've gotta…."

"Please. Just for a little bit. Till I fall back asleep."

I sat down on the bed, slipped off my boots and socks. I took everything else off except my shorts, dropped onto the bed on my back. Fancy rolled into my chest, licking gently, making little noises. She curled her legs at the knee, feet up, like a teenage girl talking on the phone. I stroked her back through the nightie, drifting.

Fancy put her hands flat on my chest, pushed herself up so she was facing me on her knees. Her hands dropped to the hem of the nightie, then she pulled it up and over her head, tossed it over the side of the bed. Her breasts stood out sharply from her body, unnaturally cantilevered, so heavy they almost met in the center, dark nipples standing out from the bronzed skin. She arched her back, emphasizing. Proud.

I reached for her, held the back of her neck as I pulled her down, rubbed my face against one of her nipples, feeling it grow hard as my light beard stubble scratched her. I moved my face, took the nipple in my mouth, bit down lightly.

"Yessss," she moaned.

I let go of the back of her neck. Still kneeling, she bent so deeply I could sight down her back to the separation of her buttocks, the twin peaks flaring out from her tiny waist into a perfect heart shape as she arched her back into a deep curve. Her glossy dark hair shone in the early light as she reached for the waistband of my shorts, tugging. I lay flat on the bed, not helping her, but she kept tugging until she got them down.

"Hah!" she grunted, her face up, grinning at me. She kept pulling, working her way backward toward the foot of the bed, finally pulling the shorts off, flinging them hard in the direction of the bureau. She lowered her head and came forward fast, head down, charging like a bull. I could feel her tongue licking my balls, then rooting deeper, a muffled grunting noise coming from somewhere past her throat.

I reached out, took hold of her hair and pulled. She didn't move, resisting. I pulled harder. She wiggled her hips, shifting the pitch of the noise she was making, staying where she was.

"Fancy!"

She looked up, a wicked grin on her face, gray eyes wide open now. Then she lowered her head again.

I felt swollen, like a blood vessel was going to go, every vein full. I sat up, put my hands under her armpits and hauled her up until her face was right against mine. She fitted herself over me, taking it deep, trying to sit up. I kept my hands on her, holding her against me, forcing her to straddle. Her hips bucked, thrusting almost to full lock with each stroke. I ran my hand down her smooth back, tracing her spine with my fingers until I found the little spur at the end, right between the dimples on her bottom. I pushed the spur like it was a trigger. She muttered something in my ear, something I couldn't make out.

Her hard breasts bounced against my chest, slick with sweat. I kept my finger at the base of her spine, forcing her hips into little spasms. She was still saying something, harsh short breaths separating the words.

"Tell …me…what…to…do!"

I put my hands on her hips, driving her toward me as I shoved upward. "Come, bitch," I told her. "Do it now."

She popped off so hard I could feel the temperature change inside her. Her teeth were closed at the side of my neck as I caught her rhythm, followed her home.

When I came around again, the sunlight was slanted across Fancy's back. She was still on top of me, propped up on her elbows, looking down into my eyes.

"You're awake?" she asked.

"I guess I am."

"I didn't want to move— didn't want to wake you up."

"Thanks."

"You want a shower?"

"In a minute."

"A cigarette?"

"Sure."

She slid off me, a faint crackle between her legs as we pulled apart. She stood up, stretched. Then she padded off to the living room. Came back with an ashtray and my cigarettes, sat on the bed, lit one for me. I took it from her, dragged deep.

"I never did that before," she said.

"That?"

"Sex. Like that. Before last night. I mean, before last, last night, in your car.

"Like what?"

"With a man. Inside me."

"I seemed to fit easy enough."

She took the cigarette from my hand, pulled on it, exhaled. I watched the smoke fire from only one nostril, feeling her eyes, not connecting with them.

"I…put things inside myself. To get off. After I was done playing dom. Or sometimes, just thinking about it. And a couple of times, she did it to me…with a vibrator."

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter," she said. "I'm going to take a shower. There's another one, down the hall, if you want."

"We can go. Sunday night," she said, standing at the door, her hand on my sleeve.

"Where?"

"Rector's. Sunday night, Monday's the next day. It doesn't open until late. Like you wanted. Okay?"

"Great."

"Do you have any tattoos?" she asked.

"What?"

"Tattoos. On your body. I…couldn't see in the dark."

"No."

"Nowhere?"

"Nowhere," I told her, remembering. I'd wanted one, all right. Not during the kiddie camp bits I served when I was a juvenile, but my first felony fall. There was a great tattoo artist in there, TKO Tony, a burly Irish prizefighter doing time for assault. He'd drunk himself out of the ring, but he was working himself up to number one contender status as a bar brawler when the Law took him down. He did beautiful work— panthers, dragons, snakes, anything you wanted. Going rate was four crates of cigarettes or a lid of grass. I wanted a hand of playing cards— Aces and Eights. I was a kid. The Prof pulled me up quick, crooning the truth.

"Skin art is for gangbangers and gunfighters, schoolboy. Not for professionals. You gonna work the stealing scene, you gotta stay clean."

He was right and I knew it. Tattoos were for those guys doing life on the installment plan.

"They're not for me," I told her.

"Could I get one?"

"A tattoo?"

"Yes."

"I…guess so. Why do you want one?"

"I want a brand. Your brand."

"Hold up, girl. It wouldn't look so sporty on the tennis court."

"Please!"

"Let me think about it, okay?"

"Okay. Where are you— ?" She caught my look, stopped in her tracks. "I'm sorry. I…"

"I'll call you," I said. "Stay here."

Sonny was working in the driveway as I pulled in. He had the Plymouth opened to the bright sun, airing it out, doors and windows all wide open, front end assembly and trunk standing up, a hose in one hand, big bucket of suds nearby.

"Good idea," I told him.

"I'm going to do the undercarriage later. I've got a pressure attachment for the hose— it'll be like steam cleaning."

"You're a natural," I said. "Some people, you have to tell them to clean their tools after they use them. You know what to say? If the cops ask you where you were last night?"

"I…guess I don't."

"Okay, listen up. You always want to tell the Law something as close to the truth as you can. Their game is to catch you in a lie, like a loose thread in a weave, see? They pull the thread, the whole thing starts to unravel. So always keep it as simple as you can. Last night? You were cruising all around the area, testing the car, working on your moves for the races Sunday, see?"

"Yeah. So even if we were spotted…"

"Sure. I was gonna do some work around here, if I needed a car, I wouldn't use this one."

"'Cause it doesn't blend in, right?"

"Right."

The kid nodded, looking at the Lexus. I could almost see the gears mesh in his head, but he didn't say anything.

I went upstairs, changed my clothes. When I came back down, the Plymouth was still open to the cleansing summer breeze, but the kid was gone. I found him at the house, at the kitchen table.

"You want some food?" he asked.

"I could sure use something."

"I got some rye bread. Fresh from the bakery. And some pineapple juice."

"You're on the job, Sonny."

He ducked his head. Put a couple of slices into the toaster as I pulled out my vitamins. We ate in peaceful silence. I could see he had something to say— decided to let him get to it in his own time.

He waited until I was done, watching out of the corner of his eye. Then he pulled a piece of pale blue paper from his pocket, neatly folded.

"Burke?"

"Yeah?"

"Wendy gave me this. Last night. It's a poem. About Lana. Do you want to see it?"

"Sure."

He handed it over. It was handwritten, the letters precise, small, unslanted…almost like printing.

Lana

Can I come over?

Not yet.

But I miss you.

There's time.

Are you still so sad?

A different sad.

But you're not lonely?

Not here.

Then why are you still sad?

Because I can't come back.

Do you want to?

Not to that.

Oh, Lana, why did you go?

I had to go. Why, you already know.

I have to go too.

Yes. But you don't have to go here.

Then where?

You'll see.

But I don't.

Then look! Look at tomorrow.

What's tomorrow?

Tomorrow is every day.

That's a cliché.

Not from here.

I looked over at Randy. "She gave you this…or you took it?"

"She gave it to me. Why?"

"You understand what she's telling you, then?"

"I…think so. She said Lana's mother was always beating on her. Not like…punching her or anything. Telling her she was a piece of garbage. Ugly. Stupid. Always in the way. Her mother, she used to leave stuff around where Lana could find it. If a girl killed herself in the newspapers, her mother would leave the article. She had real long hair, Wendy told me. Lana did. Real long. She never cut it from the time she was a little kid. One day her mother cut it off. While she was asleep. She thinks her mother put something in her food, knocked her out. When she woke up, it was all hacked off. Her mother had always been after her to be…fashionable. She wanted her to have short hair, but Lana never would. So she cut it all off. Then she took her to the beauty parlor so they could fix it."

"Fucking freak."

"She was, you know. I never met her, but Lana told Wendy stuff. The poem, it's like Lana saying maybe she should have run away instead. You can always do that."

"You think Wendy wants to run away?"

"Yeah. Not like…to the streets or anything. But out of…here. Around here, I mean. This is a dead place, Wendy says. I used to think she was…a little nuts, you know? But I can see it, see what she means."

"Me too," I told him.

"You don't think she's…I mean, that poem, you don't think it's crazy to be talking to a dead person?"

"It's just a poem, Sonny," I said. But it didn't feel like that. Maybe the channels were open. Maybe they were close enough, the emotionally abused girl and her pal who explored death with her soul. I hadn't spoken to Wesley in a long time. "I don't know where I'm going, but you better not send anyone after me." His suicide note. Just before he blew himself into the Zero. The ice–monster's voice is still in me when I hunt. Wesley, singing his killer's song in perfect pitch. The best, he was. Nobody could touch him until he got tired. So tired he touched himself. With a few sticks of dynamite. Even his name spreads terror from the grave.

And the last time I listened to his song, a baby died.

"It's time to crank this up," I told the kid. "And I need you for backup."

"To drive?"

"No. Not yet, anyway. I need to see this Dr. Barrymore. Talk to him a little bit. I'm gonna give him a call straight up, make an appointment if he'll see me. And I need you to cover me— tell him your mother hired me, you know the story."

"Okay. When are you going to do it?"

"Now," I told him, heading for the phones in the living room.

The Yellow Pages had two numbers listed for Crystal Cove, local and 8oo. I tried the local, asked for Barrymore.

"Hold please," a woman's voice, pleasant–efficient. Some sort of New Age Muzak kept me company. Then:

"Dr. Barrymore's office." Another woman, sounding like the pleasant–efficient balance was tipped a little toward efficient.

"Good morning. I wonder if I might speak to Dr. Barrymore."

"Who may I tell him is calling, please?"

"My name is Burke. I'm calling on behalf of Mrs. Lorna Cambridge."

"Let me see if he's available."

"Thank you."

No music–on–hold this time, just an expensive fiber–optic hum.

"This is Dr. Barrymore."

"Good morning, Doctor. My name is Burke. I'm a private investigator, retained by Mrs. Cambridge. She and some others have been concerned about some youth problems in the community, and I'm told you're the leading expert. I wonder if I could impose on you for a few minutes of your time, at your convenience."

"I'm not sure I understand the scope of your investigation, Mr. Burke."

"Well, it's a bit difficult to describe on the phone. If I could come and see you…"

"Let me check my calendar and have Lydia get back to you.

"I'd appreciate that. I'm staying at the Cambridge residence temporarily. The number is— "

"Oh, that's all right, Lydia will look it up. We'll be back to you in a day or so, will that be all right?"

"Absolutely, doctor. And, thank you for your time."

"No problem," he said, ringing off.

"You have an answering machine?" I asked the kid.

"Yeah. It's around here someplace. I never use it."

"Well, let's hook it up. I want to be sure to get the message if this Barrymore calls."

"I'll take care of it."

"Okay. You gonna be around for a while?"

"Yes. Wendy said she might…come over. Besides, I want to do some more work on the car."

"Yeah. Listen, Sonny, okay if I take the Miata?"

"Sure," he shrugged. "How come?"

"I was someplace last night, while you were at Wendy's. Looking around. I wouldn't want anyone who was watching to make the connection so quick."

"The keys are in the ignition," he said.

The Miata was nothing like my buddy's old Alfa. It didn't look so different, but it felt solid as a little ingot. I went through the gears a couple of times, getting the feel, but there was nothing special about it, no quirks to deal with. I thought the kid might have tricked it up a bit, but it drove like it was bone–stock.

I got Fancy on the pocket phone. "You up and around yet?"

"I've been up for hours. I feel wonderful."

"Yeah, you do. I'm on my way."

"I'll be outside. Around back. By the greenhouse. Just come around, okay? I might not hear the door."

The grounds looked as deserted as they always seemed to. Fancy's car was in the same place it was last night. I parked the Miata in front of her cottage, walked around to the back.

She was in the greenhouse, wearing a short yellow pleated skirt, with a white button–front blouse, barefoot.

"This is over a hundred years old," she greeted me, pointing to one of the bonsai trees. The tiny trunk was thick, gnarled with age. The branches all went in the same direction, as if in obedience to a strong wind.

"What kind is it?"

"Cypress. That's one of the standards."

"Where'd you learn about this?"

"I took a course. At the college. And I read some too. The thing about bonsai, you have to be in control. Ruthless. You have to keep cutting back, keep the wires tight, stay on it. If you don't watch them close, they grow too big."

"They're beautiful."

"Strong, that's what they are. They live much longer than we do. In Japan, they pass them on from generation to generation."

"What's that one?" I asked, pointing to a hanging pot with a fragile network of stems and leaves.

"That's a bromeliad. They're epiphytic…air plants. They grow without roots."

Something flashed on the screen in my mind. I changed channels quick— I'd already seen the movie.

I watched her for a while. She pruned branches with a tiny scissors, reset the wires she was using to train them to hold a position. She finished with a light mist of water, bending close, using her own breath to distribute the moisture once it settled. When she was finished, she made a little bow in the direction of the bonsai.

"You want to sit outside for a while?" she asked.

"Sure."

She led me over to a small, elaborate deck. The wood was a weathered white, like a beached sailing ship. Flowering plants were set into the corners, in tubs built into the structure. We each took a chair next to a round table with a pebbled glass top.

"I want you to do something for me," I said.

"What? I mean, yes."

I explained what I wanted.

"I'll have to make some calls," she said. "But I can get the perfect thing, I know."

"In time?"

"Oh sure. All that ever costs is money."

"How much?" I asked, sliding my hand toward my pocket.

"Oh, I'll take care of it."

"No you won't. You can front the cash if you want to, but I'll make it up soon as you tell me the toll."

"Is that like an ego thing?"

"Huh?"

"Because you're the man, you have to pay? That's what my tricks think too. The man pays."

"It's not that. I have to pay for this because it has to be from me, understand? And as for your tricks, that's not a man–thing either. When you do women, they pay too, right? That's what lets them call the shots."

"When I'm a domina, I call the shots."

"Do you? Then you'd be the first one I ever met who did. That's all bullshit, Fancy. just a game. Whatever you do, it's what they want…or they'd go someplace else. If money's in the game, you're the one dancing to their tune— they hold the key to their own handcuffs. It's more complicated than you think it is."

"Or less than you do— if you'd just close your eyes, you could see me better."

"Fancy— "

"I don't want to argue," she said, standing up and walking over to the railing, facing away from me. "I want a tattoo," she said, right–angling her body at the waist, standing on her toes so her elbows rested on the railing. She flicked up the yellow skirt in a sassy gesture. I first thought she was nude underneath, but then I saw the black thong barely covering her sex, the string buried deep in her buttocks. "Right here," she said, looking over her shoulder, patting her right cheek. "Can I?"

"Come over here," I told her. She padded over obediently, light dancing in her gray eyes. I pointed at the chair. She sat down, keeping her skirt up so her bare bottom was on the seat, a little pout on her face.

"A tattoo is permanent, Fancy."

"I want one," she said, a stubborn little girl, insisting.

"Okay, I got an idea. How about if…"

We both heard the tap of high heels, coming toward us from inside the house. I turned just as a woman stepped through the back door onto the deck. A willowy woman, in a skimpy pair of tight white shorts, long legs ending in a pair of red spikes worn over little white anklets with a border of red hearts on the cuff. She had on a white bippy top ending just below her breasts, exposing a flat stomach. Her hair was long, worn brushed straight back from her forehead, trailing past her shoulders, dark with reddish highlights from the sun. Her skin was a rose–flushed white. She looked about twenty–five.

"Oh, you've got company," she said to Fancy.

Fancy didn't move, didn't take her eyes off the other woman. "Burke," she said, "meet my sister. Charm."

I got up, held out my hand. She took it, looking straight at me, a knowledge–glint in her china blue eyes, like the glimpse of a shoulder holster under a coat. A slip? Or a warning?

I returned her look. My own eyes were flat, but I had some knowledge of my own— I'd seen this woman before.

Across Fancy's lap, with her skirt up.

It was a long minute before anyone said anything. "I just came over to see if you wanted to go shopping," Charm said to Fancy.

"I'm busy right now," Fancy told her, looking off into the distance.

"I see," Charm said, her eyes glancing down at her sister, taking in the yellow skirt bunched in Fancy's lap, the exposed hips. She stepped behind Fancy, stroked her sister's hair, bent over and gave her a kiss on her cheek. "Sure you won't change your mind?"

"I'm sure," Fancy said, still looking away.

"I thought you guys were twins," I said to Fancy, trying to break the spell.

"We're not monozygotic," Charm answered for her. "In fact, there were originally three of us. If our bitch of a mother had gone for an abortion, it would have been megacide. As it was, only two of us made it out alive."

"So you're fraternal twins?"

"It's not a fraternity," Charm said, her voice deeply veined with something flirting with contempt. "It's a sorority. Sisters, not brothers."

"I get it."

"Right," she said dismissively. "You know him long?" she asked Fancy.

"Long enough," Fancy told her, shifting her shoulders, turning away from Charm's touch.

"He been behaving himself?" Charm smiled. "Your Mr. Burke looks like a bad boy."

"You sure you know the look?" I asked her, holding her eyes.

"You're not from around here," she said, as if that was the answer.

"I work here, now."

"Oh yes? Doing what?"

"This and that."

"Oh, you have secrets, do you?"

"Lots of them."

"I'll just bet," she smiled again. "See you later, sis," she said, bending forward to give Fancy another kiss. She went out the way she came, swaying her hips, not wiggling. A threat, not a promise.

I reached over to the table for a cigarette, caught Fancy in the edge of my vision. She was nibbling at her lower lip, face bathed in sweat.

"What is it?" I asked her.

"She always…thinks she knows. You're very good. I didn't know things were going to be like this. I mean, I knew you'd meet her. That's why I showed you the video. I thought it would be a good trick. On her, for a change. But you didn't show a thing on your face. Didn't you recognize…?"

"Sure I did."

"Oh. Burke? Can we…go somewhere?"

"Where?"

"Anywhere. Away from here. Could we?"

"Let's go," I said.

She climbed into the front seat of the Miata, strapped herself in without a word. I started the engine, drove off. She held her silence, looking down at her lap. I headed toward town, found a place to park.

"Stay here," I told her. She didn't reply.

I was about a half hour putting together everything I wanted. Nice thing about rich towns— the deli displayed a massive selection, and the art supply shop had just what I needed. I carried it back in a couple of environmentally correct paper bags with store logos plastered on them, put it all in the trunk.

Fancy was just where I left her, still looking down at her lap, her seat belt still buckled. I opened her door, reached across her and unsnapped the belt. "Come on," I said, taking her hand, pulling her up. "Give me a hand with this," I told her, pointing at the canvas top to the Miata.

She dutifully unhooked her side of the top, helped me fold it back behind the seats. We climbed back inside and took off. Out of town, meandering until I found the back roads that led to Crystal Cove. I played with the Miata on the curves a little bit— the little car seemed happier higher up on the tach.

Fancy still hadn't said a word. We were on a smooth straight stretch of blacktop. "Unbutton your blouse," I told her.

"What?"

"Unbutton your blouse, bitch," I said again, smacking my hand lightly against the side of her thigh.

She undid a couple of buttons, not speaking. "Do another one," I said, reaching inside her blouse as she obeyed, feeling for the clasp. It was in the front, a solid notch between her heavy, thick breasts. I popped it open and they came free.

"Very nice," I said, reaching my hand under her loose skirt. She looked straight ahead. I found her plump sex under the cotton, pinched hard. She made a little squeal. I pinched harder, feeling the wetness come.

"You gonna behave yourself?" I asked her.

"Yes sir," she said, still looking down.

"You gonna do what I want?"

"Yes, sir. Oh!" she yelled as I pinched her harder.

"What I want, I want a bouncy, merry girl to go on a picnic with me, see?"

"Yes."

"Then act like you understand. Close up your top. And give me a kiss."

She closed the bra, buttoned the blouse, twisted in her seat and kissed me on the cheek. I patted her knee, kept driving until I found the same spot we'd watched the hospital from. I pulled the Miata off the road. If anyone ever asked me another time, I'd been there before, legit.

I opened the trunk and took out some of the stuff I'd bought. There was no blanket back there— I guess rich kids didn't use them.

We walked away from the car until I found a spot under a tree. I took off my jacket, spread it out on the ground. "Sit, bitch," I told her. "I hope this is big enough to keep your fat butt off the grass."

"Close enough," she giggled, some color back in her face.

I unpacked the big paper bag. Handed Fancy a thick, stuffed croissant.

"What is this?" she asked.

"Halibut salad. The guy at the deli assured me it's the latest craze."

"Ummm," she said, taking a deep bite. "It's delicious. What did you get for yourself?"

"Roast beef and chopped liver" I said, biting into my pumpernickel bread sandwich.

"Ugh. Cholesterol City!"

"Shut up— it's good for you."

"Oh sure," she said, her mouth full of sandwich, gray eyes alive again.

I handed her a small bottle of champagne, opened a bottle of Ginseng Up for myself.

"You don't ever drink?" she asked me.

"No."

"How come?"

"I was overseas. In Africa. During some stupid war, a long time ago. I got malaria and some other stuff. Damaged my liver. Booze feels like acid running through my guts."

"Oh, you poor man.

"Because I can't drink alcohol? Big deal."

"No, I mean…a war. And all those diseases. It must have been terrible."

"It's over," I told her. "That's what happens with things. You survive them, then they're over.

"Some things," she said.

I held up my bottle of soda, acknowledging the truth.

The sun was warm. We finished the meal. I lay on my back, head in Fancy's lap, smoking a cigarette, watching the clouds. Waiting.

"She always thinks she knows everything," Fancy said. "She always has to be on top. Charm…she's had a charmed life, all right."

"What was bothering you so much?"

"Did you see the way she looked at you? At me?"

"Yeah."

"That's what I hate about the scene so much— you can't ever have anything private. Anything to yourself. That's why the videos don't matter— they all know about you anyway. They say it's like a family…the hanky–spanky people say that, anyway. Us against Them, you know?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it isn't. It just isn't. It's a way of having…sex, I guess— it isn't all you are. But with them, that's all there is. That's the way Charm sees it— if she knows what you like, she knows you. She saw me, sitting there like that…I wanted to confuse her, just for once."

"Why couldn't I just be a friend of yours?"

"I wouldn't have a friend at my house. Not a man friend. I never had one, anyway.

"Not a boyfriend? Even in school?"

"Sometimes. But never for long."

"Why would it bother you so much if Charm thought I was a trick?"

"Because you're not, that's all. She always wants to find out about things. How they work. Keys, she calls them. She's a biochemist. She even has her own lab."

"Where?"

"In her cottage. She has one just like mine, but she doesn't live there. She lives in the house."

"All alone?"

"Except for the staff."

"Your parents are…?"

"Dead. My mother had a stroke of some kind. A blood vessel broke in her head. It was a long time ago."

"What happened to your father?"

"He killed himself," Fancy said, fingers playing idly in my hair. "He left a note. On the computer. Then he took sleeping pills. A lot of them."

"I'm…sorry."

"Don't be," she said.

She had her door open almost before I brought the Miata to a stop in her driveway.

"Where's the fire?" I asked her.

"I forgot," she said, sounding forlorn. "Remember what you asked me to do? I have to get going, make some calls, find out— "

"Slow down, little girl. It's not a matter of life and death."

"It is to me. I said I'd do it. I told you I'd do it. I want you to trust me."

"I do trust you," I said, grabbed the front of her blouse, pulling her close for a kiss. Thinking about other videotapes she'd starred in— ones she'd never showed me. I handed her the other paper bag I'd picked up. "Put this in your front room. And don't open it, bitch."

"What's in there?"

"You'll see."

"When?"

"Tonight. After dark."

The Plymouth was missing. I went upstairs. Found a note neatly taped to the outside of the door.

"Be back by 5," it said. Signed: "Sonny."

I changed my clothes, glad I hadn't been wearing anything Michelle bought— I wouldn't want to face her with grass stains on the fancy duds. I took the Lexus, drove till I found a pay phone. Dialed the Mole. He answered the way he always does, with silence.

"It's me," I said. "Best time to go in is this Sunday. Anytime between eleven in the morning and four in the afternoon. I'm going to leave a car in the parking lot of the Three Trees Mall, right outside of town. Terry's seen it— he's got the key."

The Mole grunted— I couldn't tell if he was surprised.

"Tell them to take that car when they go in. Return it to the same spot when they're done. Anyone sees it in the driveway, they won't get excited."

"Okay."

"I'll come back, late Sunday, all right?"

"Yes."

"I've had it with take–out," I told the kid. "How about if we go someplace, have a meal for dinner?"

"Okay, sure. Where do you want to go?"

"Anyplace someone else does the cooking, preferably right on the premises."

He flashed me a grin. We took the Lexus. "It's only a couple of days until the races," he said by way of explanation.

"You giving the beast a rest?"

"It's not that. I just don't want anybody to see her until…"

"I got it."

The place he took us to looked like a giant diner from the '50s, all glass and chrome, every seat near the windows. The parking lot was half–full, mostly with the kind of sports cars rich people buy their kids. We found a booth near the back. The joint was packed with twenty–something children, all working hard to be too hip for the room.

"Did you see Gaby? She's all glam'ed out. That cat's–eye makeup, it's so razor," one girl twittered at another. "I just skeeve her, the bitch!"

"Yeah, that's wicked cute, all right. But, that makes me, like…what?" her pal replied.

I sure as hell didn't have the answer.

The menu promised Steak in Twelve International Styles as well as a Complete Selection of Gourmet Beers. The kid wanted hamburgers. I opted for the meat loaf, prepared for the worst.

The waitress was a skinny dishwater blonde with heavy black makeup around her eyes, giving her the much–coveted raccoon look. She took our order smoothly and moved off, not wasting a motion. The food came on heavy white plates. Big portions. The meat loaf was a deep rich slab, with a fine thick crust. The mashed potatoes tasted like they came right out of the skin. Even the mixed vegetables looked fresh, but I didn't taste them to find out. The kid wolfed his food, holding the burgers in both hands, juice running down his chin.

The waitress cleared our plates, asked if there'd be anything else.

"Is the lemon pie good?" I asked her.

"You like the meat loaf?" she replied.

"Sure did."

"The pie's better. They bake it fresh every day."

"That's for me," I told her. "Sonny?"

"A hot fudge sundae," the kid responded, showing impeccable taste.

I was working on an after–dinner cigarette when I saw the kid look up, watching something behind my back. I didn't turn around.

"Hey, there's my boy! What's shaking, Randy?" Brewster. With a flunkie on each side. Expanding his chest, grinning. He stepped forward, so he was standing between us, looking down.

"Brew," the kid acknowledged him.

"Heard you were gonna be running on Sunday. Why don't you dump that little kiddie car of yours so you and me can hook up?"

"I'll be running the Open Class," the kid said, level–voiced.

"Is that right? What're you gonna bring?"

"I'm still working on it," the kid replied.

"Still got your bodyguard, I see," Brewster sneered.

The kid ignored him.

"How's the caretaker business?" the big dummy asked me, leaning over.

"Interesting," I told him, holding his eyes until they dropped.

"Hey," he said. "No hard feelings, right? How about I buy you guys a beer? Waitress!" he shouted. "Come on over here!"

The blonde made her way over, pad in hand. "Where's your table?" she asked.

"Right here," Brewster said, sliding in next to the kid. One of his flunkies pushed against my shoulder, telling me to move over. I looked him over, not budging. Then I stood up, pointed to the inside. The flunkie moved in, sitting across from Sonny. The other one faded.

"Well?" the blonde asked.

"Coors," Brewster said. "Draft. For me and him," pointing over at his flunkie. "What about you?" he asked the kid.

"Do you have any Red Stripe?" he asked the waitress politely.

A quick grin lit up her face. "We don't get much call for that here, but I think there's some in the cooler." She looked at me— I shook my head.

She came back with a tray. Gave Brewster and his flunkie each a bottle and a clean glass. "I told you draft," Brewster glowered at her.

"All out," she said, unimpressed. She handed Sonny a big mug, frosted. The waitress poured the Red Stripe into the mug, taking her time, watching the head.

"Okay?" she asked Sonny.

"Perfect," he said, throwing her a smile.

"Hey! How come he gets the special treatment?" Brewster asked her.

"He's a special guy," the waitress said, winking at Sonny. She moved away with an extra twitch to her hips.

Brewster had a confused look on his slabby face, puzzling it out. "I gotta order that stuff next time," he muttered.

Sonny worked on his beer right, not sipping it, not chugging it either. Enjoying it. Brewster was talking a blue streak…something about new tires he got for his Corvette, whether it was going to be good weather for the races, yak–yak. The kid listened, responding in monosyllables. "We gotta go," he finally told Brewster. "Got a lot of work to do."

He got up to leave. I was right behind him. I carried the check over to the register, not wanting to leave cash on the table and deal with Brewster's sense of humor. The check came to a little over thirty bucks. I pulled on the kid's sleeve, handed him a pair of twenties. "No change," I told him.

I watched as he handed the check and the bills to the waitress. Saw the grin split her face at something he said. He walked out tall.

"Could I use the Plymouth tonight?" he asked on the drive back.

"Sure. You gonna burn it in?"

"No. I think it's okay, except for the tire pressures. I can't fix that until I see the track. I'm taking Wendy out. To a drive–in," he said, ducking his head. "She loves monster movies, and there's a couple of good ones playing near Bridgeport. I thought it'd be more comfortable, the seats and all."

"Works for me," I told him.

I took a nap. It was almost ten when I woke up. I called Fancy from the phone in the apartment— anybody listening wouldn't get anything they didn't already know. I told her I'd be there soon.

I took the Lexus. When I got to a straightaway, I punched up the kid on the car phone. He answered on the first ring.

"It's me," I said. "I forgot to ask you…you set up the answering machine?"

"Sure. Tested it too."

"Any calls?"

"Just some junk. Not the…guy you were expecting."

"Thanks. Keep the channel open, okay?"

"You got it."

I tapped lightly on Fancy's door. She was right there, snatching it open.

"Hi!" she greeted me, bouncy.

"You look sweet," I told her.

"Sweet?" she challenged. "Maybe you'd better take another look," she said, turning to walk away. She was wearing a pair of electric blue spandex bicycle pants, molded to her tighter than most people have skin. "It took me half an hour…and a whole bottle of talcum powder to get into these. You ever see anything so tight?"

Sure I had. When I was a kid, there was this girl who used to run with us, Brandi. She was famous for her tight pants. She told me how she did it— she'd buy a pair of jeans a couple of sizes too small and cram herself into them. Then she'd stand in the shower until she got them soaked all the way through, and let them dry right on her. Brandi always carried a razor. Not because she was a gang girl— because it was the only way to get the pants off. Money was tight then, for all of us. Buying a pair of pants you could only wear once, making that kind of commitment…it was worth what it cost. I looked over at Fancy, posing in her spandex. For the privileged, life is a karaoke machine— even if they can't sing, the background's always there for support.

"No," I told her. "Not for a long time."

I put my jacket over the back of the couch. "Where's the package I left?" I asked her.

"Right there," she said, pointing to the wooden stool.

"You didn't open it?"

"I swear I didn't. I didn't touch it."

"Good," I told her, tearing open the top. "Do you have a strong light? One that's portable?"

"I think so," she said. "Just a minute."

She came back with the black floor lamp, the one with the gooseneck top.

"Perfect," I told her, kneeling to plug it in. I bent the head down, stepped on the button in the base to turn it on. A narrow cone of bright white light shone on the top of the stool. I took things out of the paper bag, lining them up neatly.

"What is all that?" Fancy asked.

"This," I told her, holding up a pen with a point that looked like a hypodermic needle, "is a Tombow. With a two–X nylon point. Kind of a drafting pen. And this is black dye— that's what it uses instead of ink."

I unscrewed the pen, put one end in the long narrow bottle of dye, and let capillary action do the rest. I smoked a cigarette through while I was waiting. Then I adjusted the point. "Have you got a piece of paper?"

She brought me a pad of pink squares with a little butterfly design around the top. I ran the pen over the paper— the line was thin, but so dark you could see it easily. I took out some more stuff: sharp–pointed #2 pencils, a calligraphy–point felt–tip pen, a package of premoistened towelettes, individually wrapped in foil.

I carried the stool over next to the couch, setting it up so it was readily to hand when I sat down. Then I unplugged the lamp and moved it over to the couch, adjusting the cone until it fell on just the right spot. Fancy watched me, fascinated, not saying a word.

When I had it all arranged, I sat down on the couch.

"Come over here," I told her.

She walked over slowly, uncertain. I took her hand, pulled gently. She came willingly enough. I kept pulling until she was sprawled across my lap. I yanked the spandex pants down over her rump, almost down to the back of her knees. Her panties were black silk, matching the patent leather pumps on her feet. I slid the panties down to her thighs, moved her bottom slightly toward me with my hand.

"Hold still," I told her.

"What did I do?" she wanted to know, a pouty tone to her voice.

"You opened your big mouth," I said. "Now don't do it again."

She lay still, her face in the couch. I rubbed the residue of baby powder off her bottom with my hand. Then I took the #2 pencil and lightly traced what I wanted on her right cheek. I took a close look— no good. I rubbed it off, tried again. Finally, I got it right.

"What are you doing?" she asked, voice muffled.

"I told you to shut up," I said, smacking her hard on the rump. A red spot the size of my palm flared in the intense light from the lamp. "Don't move," I told her.

I traced the penciled design with the Tombow, working carefully so I didn't puncture her skin with the sharp point. My hands are surgeon–steady, but I'm no artist. It took me a long time before I was satisfied.

I held her there, one hand resting on her thigh, waiting for it to dry.

"Okay," I said. "Get up."

She struggled to her feet, red–faced, adjusting her panties, hauling the reluctant spandex into place.

"You have a good mirror?" I asked her.

"Yes. In the dressing room."

"Show me."

She stalked away from me, moving quickly. The dressing room had a full–length mirror, but the lighting was all overhead— I wasn't sure if it would work.

"Take those pants off," I told her. She practically ripped them down, kicking off her shoes, dropping the pants sullenly at her feet. I walked her over to the mirror, holding her by the shoulders. Then I turned her around so her back was to it.

"Pull down your underpants," I told her. "Take a look."

She did, craning her neck to see over her shoulder. She touched the black dot on her rump wonderingly. "What is it? I can't see it good."

"It's a tattoo, Fancy. Like you wanted. Only it's not permanent. This way, you get to see what it looks like. Feels like."

"Oh, I want to see it," she squealed, pulling up her panties and running from the room.

I followed her down the hall into her bedroom. She was standing in front of a makeup mirror on her bureau. The mirror was bordered by a string of tiny light bulbs, glowing a soft, rich yellow.

"It reverses, see?" she said, flipping the mirror to its back side. The new mirror was magnified, distorting the image unless you were real close. She pulled the panties all the way down to her ankles, stood on one leg as she kicked them off. Then she turned around so her back was to the mirror, bent over and thrust her bottom at the magnifying glass, looking over her shoulder.

"It's a little bomb!" she said.

I took a look for myself. Not bad, I thought. A little round bomb, complete with fuse, sparks coming off the end like it was going to go off any minute.

"You like it?" I asked her.

"Oh, I love it. But shouldn't it be…bigger?"

"No. Anyone getting near enough to see it, it should be something just between you and them, right?"

"I guess so."

"This way, it's like a beauty mark, unless you look real close."

"It's great," she said, wiggling her bottom hard. "Does it mean something?"

"Sure. It means you're an explosive girl. Tick…tick…tick…"

"You want to…take a closer look?" she asked softly, walking over to the bed, bending over.

"I love my tattoo," she said later, lying on her side, touching it with one finger.

"You get to decide this way," I told her. "For now, it'll be a secret."

"I have lots of secrets," she whispered. Sad, not teasing.

"We all do."

"Charm does too. Charm has more secrets than anyone."

"You seem to know some of them."

"You mean the video? That's not a secret. She doesn't care what she does."

"It wasn't her idea?"

"It was…a long time ago. When it started." Fancy shifted her hips, throwing one leg over mine, warm wetness against my upper thigh. "She got to watch. When we were kids. I never did."

"Watch what?"

"Spanking. My father would spank me. All the time. For anything. For nothing. He'd call me and Charm into his den. He had a special chair for it. A chair with no arms. He would tell Charm to stand still. Then he'd put me over his knee and spank me. Hard. He always made me tell him why I was getting it. If I didn't tell him, I'd get it harder. It hurt. And it was…embarrassing. With Charm watching me and all. If I cried, I'd just get it more. Then he'd tell me to pull up my pants and go to my room, think about what I did. When I went out, he'd close the door behind me."

"He never spanked Charm in front of you?"

"No. I guess he always waited until I was gone. I hated her for that— it wasn't fair."

"How old were you?"

"When it started? I don't know. I was real little. Maybe first grade? I'm not sure. But it didn't stop until I was a senior in high school."

"How did you get him to stop?"

"I didn't. That's when he committed suicide."

"Did you ever tell anyone?"

"My mother. I told my mother. She tied me up. In a chair. She slapped me and slapped me, screaming. She told me I was a little slut. I didn't even know what it meant, then. She said if I ever told her filthy stories again, she'd burn me. She held a candle right up to my face. I was so scared I wet myself. She just left me there like that. For a long, long time. I never told her anything again."

"Christ."

"When I was about thirteen, Charm came into my room. When they were out for the evening. I was still sore. From what he did. She said she was sorry, asked me if I wanted her to rub some witch hazel on it, to take out the sting. I told her to get away from me— I hated her so.

"Did you think she was— ?"

"She went away," Fancy continued like I hadn't said anything, "but she came back in a little while. She had her nightgown on. She laid down on my bed and pulled it up. She asked me, did I want to spank her? To make up for what happened?" She took a deep breath— it caught somewhere in her throat. "I did it. Harder and harder, but she never made a sound. When I was done, I was so tired I couldn't move my arm. My hand was sore from doing it. She turned over, said she was sorry. About what happened. I was crying by then, but she wasn't. She kissed me. I was all…excited, but I didn't know what it was. Charm knew. She…kissed me there too. Until I came.

"And now she— "

"She still does it. I still…hit her. And she makes me come. She was the one…with the vibrator. She put it inside me, held it there. She taught me to do it."

"Why did she make the video with you?"

"For my business. It was Charm who got me into it. Right after my father died. She knew people, she said. Men mostly. I could do what I liked, and they'd pay for it."

"You didn't need the money…?"

"No. We have lots of money. In a trust. Just the income, not the principal. But it's a lot. Enough for anything. I just…got into it. I always liked doing the men…Charm said we should do the video together because men like to see stuff like that. Two women. It's a real turn–on, she said. Besides, I had to have a thing."

"A thing?"

"Yes. Like, 'it's your thing,' see? Some people's thing is painting. Or riding horses, or whatever. Charm said, if you don't have a thing, you have no thing. Get it? No thing…nothing?"

"So what's her thing?"

"Charm is a scientist," Fancy said, a hint of pride in her voice. "Everything is building blocks to her. Like DNA. Little blocks. You take them apart, see how they work. That's her thing."

She reached one hand toward my face. I stroked her right arm, feeling the hard biceps muscle.

"Pretty powerful, isn't it?" she whispered.

"Sure is. From all that tennis?"

"From all that whipping," she said. Then she started to cry.

"I shouldn't have done it," she said, much later, cuddled against me so close I could hardly hear her.

"Done what?"

"Hit Charm. She was just trying to make up for something that wasn't her fault. She couldn't do anything about my father. He was too powerful. Everybody knew him. Everybody respected him. I could understand why he loved Charm— she always kept his image. Made him proud. In school, she got the top grades. And she was beautiful, not like me."

"You're a beautiful girl, Fancy"

"Charm fixed that too. I…wasn't. I was chubby as a kid. Fat, even. Charm looked like a model— me, I looked like a butterball. But she told me that I could be in control. Started me exercising. And she watched everything I ate. But I was still…I don't know. Not ugly or anything, but…"

"That was in your head, girl."

"No it wasn't. It was in my mirror. Every night. In my mirror, I could see what I was. My nose was too big. And my chin was, like, pushed in. When I was nineteen, on my birthday. I remember it like it was yesterday. I wanted to get Charm something special. To show her how much I loved her. You can't buy anything for Charm— we all have money, it wouldn't mean anything. I got her a cat. A special, special cat. An odd–eyed white, it's called. He had one blue eye and one orange— he's so magnificent. When I gave him to Charm, she broke down and cried, she said he was so beautiful. She loved the idea that he was special— nobody knows exactly how you get one, they just show up in a litter. Most of the time they're born deaf, but Rascal wasn't. He's a stud, Rascal. Charm always breeds him."

"Did she ever get any more?"

"No. Not yet. And you know what she got me? For my birthday gift? Plastic surgery. They fixed my nose and my chin. They even pinned my ears back a little bit…so they wouldn't stick out. When the bandages came off, I was different."

"You just looked different."

"No, I was different, Burke. A different person.

"Where did you get the plastic surgery done? In Europe?"

"No," she said. Something in her voice, something I couldn't figure out. I left it there.

"I thought you said you hated her, Fancy."

"I do. I mean, I did. Before I understood. We're sisters. Twins. There's nothing closer than that. I'm not stupid— I know she's a manipulator. But if it wasn't for Charm, I'd be a basket case. She stopped me once…from killing him."

"Your father?"

"Yes. You could never understand how he made me feel. Like I was nothing. It wasn't just the spanking. Not even in front of Charm. He was always…teasing me, he called it. I was fat. I was stupid. I was lazy. I made him ashamed of me— that's what he always said. 'You never make me happy.' He said that all the time."

"You were really going to kill him?"

"I came back once. After he was finished with me. The door was closed. Charm was in there with him. I…wanted to hear her getting it too. I know it was wrong, but I just wanted to know…"

"What happened?"

"Nothing happened. I waited and waited. Finally, Charm came out. She snuck down the hall, to her room. I opened the door and I peeked in. He was asleep. On the leather couch he had in the den. Sleeping like he was dead. I wished he was dead.

"I told Charm what I did, how I tried to spy on her. I always told her everything. She said it always happened the same way— after he was finished, after she left, he would go to sleep. We had some men working out back. Building an extension on the pool. They always left their tools outside. One of them, he liked me a little, I think. He was always talking to me. He had a hammer. A sledgehammer, with a short handle. I stole it. Kept it in my room. They never found it— I could hear them shouting out back, looking for it. I showed it to Charm. I told her, the next time it happened, I was going to go into his den and smash his skull until he was dead."

"Wouldn't they figure…?"

"That's what Charm said. That I'd get caught. I didn't care about being caught. You know what Charm told me? She said he had a fatal disease— she saw a doctor's report. In his desk. Cancer. He was going to die in a year or so, that's what she said. So, if we could wait, we'd have everything. And he'd be gone. Later, I figured out she must have been making it all up. When he…killed himself, the note he left, the one on the computer, it just said he was depressed. Sick of everything. The lawyer who read us the will, he said they had done an autopsy— there was nothing wrong with him.

"Not with his body, anyway."

"He wasn't sick— he was mean. Pure mean. If he was sick, he would have treated Charm the same way he did me. Now the only way I can feel like I'm somebody is when I'm role–playing."

"With the whips?"

"Yes, with the whips. Men pay me to do it. They wouldn't pay if they didn't want it. Want me. Money, that's the proof."

I lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the ceiling. Every little street hooker I'd ever known had a name for their pimp. Daddy.

"Charm was the one who taught me," Fancy said. "The power of a fetish. Do you know how strong that can be?"

"Yeah," I said, thinking of another kind of fetish— the kind they use in voodoo.

"You don't," she said fiercely. "It controls everything. Charm showed me. A man who needs to beat a woman to become aroused…that controls him. If you offered him a night with the most beautiful woman in the world…straight stuff, plain vanilla…he'd pass it up for the chance to whip any old ugly beast."

"But when it's over…"

"It's never over. It just comes and goes, see? That's the power. It's inside them, not me. I just learned how to see it. How to be it."

"So what do you get? You don't need the money."

"I get…wanted. I'm a star. In the scene, everybody knows me. I have slaves— they do whatever I tell them."

"So why…?"

"Why you? I listened to Charm. Better than even she thinks. The power of a fetish, like I told you. It had a power over me too. I wanted to…see the other side."

"What do you mean?"

"S&M, it's different from hanky–spanky. S&M, it's about pain. You take enough of it, the endorphins just start flying around inside you. It opens up the nerve endings, changes your temperature…everything. That's what they tell me."

"Who?"

"My…clients. It's more than just a turn–on, it sets you free. But hanky–spanky, that's a scene, you understand? What you feel, it's all inside you. Everything's important— the way you dress, the words you use…everything. It's not about pain. Not real pain. When it works, you get out…I don't mean you come, I mean you…get to what the real you is. The doms, they never really get it. I never got it— I just heard about it. They say it's a search for the truth. A line you step over. I wanted to see. To be free."

"Did you?"

"Not enough. You don't play hard enough."

"I'm not a trick, girl."

"But you like it, right?"

"I like you."

"But you wouldn't let me…discipline you?"

"No."

"Why not? I know how it works. I studied it. Guilt, that's what it is. They feel guilty about something. I punish them. It works out. Balance. Haven't you ever done something you feel guilty about?"

I got up from the bed. She said something— white noise. I didn't listen. Couldn't listen. I walked out of the house. Onto the deck in back. I looked down, but it wasn't high enough. I couldn't find the Zero.

The next thing I remember was Fancy, wrapping me in a blanket, walking me back toward the bed. I was shaking so bad my legs didn't work right. She pushed me down on the bed, piled covers on top of me. I was so cold.

When I came around, I was drenched in sweat. Fancy was sitting next to me, legs in the lotus position, watching, her gray eyes alive in the candlelight.

"Burke…Burke, are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"You stood out there forever. With no clothes on. Like one of those statues in a museum. Just standing out there. What happened?"

"I don't know," I lied. "I need to take a shower."

"No you don't," she whispered, lifting the sodden covers, sliding in next to me. She wrapped her arms around me, hugged me close, pushing my head toward her breasts, nestling me against a chill she couldn't warm.

"What am I?" Fancy asked later, still holding me. "Remember I asked before? If…playing that way, if that was yours? I don't know what's mine anymore. What am I, anyway?"

"You're a plum," I told her. "A ripe plum."

"What does that mean?"

"A plum, little girl. A rich, dark plum. You squeeze it right, you get sweet juice. You tear it apart, all you get is the pit."

"Tell me what to do," she said.

I leaned over, kissed her. Hard. Her mouth blossomed under mine, yielding, finally opening to me.

I left at first light. Fancy was still asleep. A lush deep sleep, a woman sleep. Soaking in her own sweet juices.

I stood in the dawn, looking across at the big house standing like a fog–shrouded fighter plane, locked in by enemy radar.

The light was on in the kitchen as I pulled up. I went over. The kid was working on some concoction in a blender, pouring in ingredients.

"What's that?" I asked him.

"I'm not exactly sure. Wendy gave me the stuff. It's supposed to…clean you out or something."

"Clean you out from what?"

"Drugs, booze…anything that's toxic."

"So how come you…?"

"From the tanking. I don't do it anymore. Wendy says, there's no point taking this stuff unless you really stopped. It flushes everything out, but you can't be doing it every day."

"Sounds good to me."

"You want some?"

"For what?"

"Uh…cigarettes?"

"I think I'll pass."

He flashed me a grin, one with some strength in it. "Guess what? We got a call. From Dr. Barrymore. He said you could see him…looking at his wristwatch, "today. He said he had a cancellation at eleven, and you could have the time he was gonna use."

"You spoke to him?"

"No, it was a message. On the machine."

"Good." I looked over at the kid. He wasn't asking to come along.

I dressed carefully, went downstairs. Then I pulled the pistol loose from its housing under the fender of the Lexus, stashed it back in the Plymouth.

By a quarter of eleven, I was at the gate. The guard was casually dressed in a dark maroon blazer over steel gray slacks. He didn't look like a rent–a–cop, something ex–military about the way he strolled over to the driver's window.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"I have an appointment. With Dr. Barrymore."

"Yes sir. Your name, please?"

I told him. He walked back to the guard shack standing to the side of the gate. There was a window, but I couldn't see inside. One–way glass? He was back in a couple of minutes.

"If you'll just go straight up the driveway and turn right at the stanchion, you'll see Dr. Barrymore's residence about a hundred yards away," he said, pointing. It was an old house, dark wood with shuttered windows.

"I got it," I told him. "Thanks."

His eyes were unreadable behind tinted lenses. I had a hunch they wouldn't be any more open if he took them off.

I drove slowly, watching for speed bumps, checking the manicured grounds. The house looked as if it had been airlifted from some other location and plopped down— nothing about it synced with the austere, clean hospital corners of the surrounding lawn. I walked up three wooden steps onto a wide porch, rang the bell. The door was opened by a young woman in a burnt orange business suit, chestnut hair piled on top of her head in something a stylist had worked on to look careless. A diamond glittered on her left lapel— some kind of stickpin.

"Hi! Can I help you?"

I told her my name, said I had an appointment.

"Oh! You're just a bit early. Can I ask you to sit in the waiting room while Dr. Barrymore finishes his session?"

"Sure."

"Just follow me." When she turned around, I could see her dark stockings had black seams. It didn't fit, somehow, didn't match the tightly controlled sway of her hips. She ushered me into a small, comfortable–looking room, offered me coffee. I passed.

"I'll be back as soon as he's ready," she said, stepping out of the room. I looked around, didn't see any ashtrays, took the hint.

Before I could really check out the room, she was back, her hand full of papers. "Will you come with me?"

I followed her down a corridor, around a right–hand turn, all the way to the end of the building. She stepped aside, making a graceful sweeping gesture with her hand. A man stepped from behind an antique desk to greet me, holding out his hand. I shook it— his grip was firm and dry. "Have a seat," he said, nodding toward a mahogany rocking chair canted at an angle in front of the desk. We sat down simultaneously and watched each other for a minute.

He was tall, slender, with a neat haircut of tight golden brown curls. His skin was almost the same color, eyes a pale blue. His features were fine, sharp–cut, a cross between handsome and exotic.

"Trying to figure it out?" he asked with a smile, showing perfect white teeth, leaning forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped.

"Genetics is too complicated a subject for me," I said.

Another smile. "I'll help you out," he said. "My mother was half Norwegian, half British. My dad was Samoan. They met during World War Two, on the island."

"Looks like the meeting was successful."

"They surely thought so. They celebrated their fortieth anniversary last year. What about you?"

"Me?"

"Well, Burke, that's an English name, isn't it? Or Irish? But your features are more…Mediterranean. Perhaps you have some Latin blood?"

"I don't know."

"You were never curious?"

"There's never been anyone to ask," I told him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"It's okay— I didn't come here to search for my roots."

"I understand." Therapist–speak, acknowledging aggression, mollifying it when it surfaces.

I let him stay uncomfortable for a minute, using the opportunity to look around the office. It was something out of the last century, all heavy dark furniture and paneling. The ultra–modern clock was the only discordant note, a duplicate of the one in Cherry's bedroom.

"Your message was a little unclear," he finally said. "If you'll tell me how…"

"I guess I'm a little unclear myself, Doctor. Mrs. Cambridge…you know her?"

"Yes. Quite well. She's been a patron of the hospital for years, serves on the board as well."

"Well, she was concerned about the suicides. Some of them were peers of her son. I'm not sure what I could do— this isn't exactly my usual line of work. But I thought, the least I could do was get an expert opinion."

"I see. About suicide, then?"

"About youth suicide in particular. What would make them do it? How come they seem to do it in clusters? Like that."

He leaned back in his chair, flicking one hand against the white turtleneck he wore under a camel's hair sport coat. "Tell me what your take on it is," he said. "It might be more helpful if I tried to fill in the blanks."

"Seems to me it's real hard being a kid. Not a baby, like a teenager, young adult, whatever. Hormones, peer pressure, uncertainty about the future, all kinds of messages about the environment, war, religion, society…tough to process. Kids are impatient, that's part of being one. They work hard at being cool, but they feel things real strong. And they don't get it… that death is forever."

"What do you mean?"

"It's like…they can experiment with dying. See if they like it. Try it on the way they do clothes. Kids don't see the future real well…mostly because they don't look. It's all right now for them."

"That's true enough. But most suicides have their root in depression."

"Lots of people get depressed."

"There are different forms of depression, Mr. Burke. Reactive depression … like being sad over some personal tragedy…cancer, flunking out of school, a death in the family. And there's a depression of the spirit too. A profound sadness, very deep. But some youth suicide is anomic."

"Anomic?"

"Simply put, it means having no special reason to live. Anomic suicides don't feel the same sense of loss the others do. It's more like an emptiness at the core. You see it a lot in borderline personality disorder…a sense of a void within yourself."

"Don't some of them just want to check out of the hotel?"

"I'm not sure I understand you."

"Life can be intolerable, all by itself. It's not so much that there's a better place, just that this one's no good. You see it in prison, sometimes."

"You worked in a prison?"

"I was in one. More than one."

"Oh. Did you ever think about suicide?"

"Not then. Not for those reasons. But there's a…Zero, you know what I mean? A deep black hole you can dive into. Where people all go when they die."

"People don't go anywhere when they die. A person's spirit lives past death. That's as close to them as you can get…you can't join them."

"I know."

"But you've…thought about it."

"Yeah."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

I felt a twig snap in the jungle of my mind— the enemy flirting with the perimeter, closing in. "No," I said. "I'll deal with it— it'll pass."

"It always does?" he asked, leaning forward.

I nodded, holding his eyes, wondering how he knew. I moved to deflect the probe, going on the oblique offensive. "The kids who killed themselves, they were all treated here?"

"I guess it's no secret," he said. "But literally hundreds of young people have been treated here. We've already pulled their records and I can assure you of this much…there is no common denominator among them psychiatrically, none. They presented with different behaviors, their diagnoses were not similar… although depression was a factor in most. Therapeutic modalities varied according to their individual needs. Some were drug or alcohol abusers, others abstained. Some had gender identity problems, sexual or romantic issues. Others did not. Some were discharged to individual treatment, some to a group, some with a pharmacological regimen. Some had supportive, caring parents. Some had parents I would characterize as downright abusive. Emotionally abusive, certainly. There was no similarity in EEG …" He paused, looking to see if I was following him. I nodded, encouragingly.

"Some had apparently good peer relationships," he continued. "Some were quite isolated. And there's no question but that patients with almost precisely similar profiles were discharged without incident."

It had the air of a prepared speech, but he delivered it as though he was doing the work as he went along. "I guess you're way ahead of me, Doctor," I said.

"I don't think it's a question of that, Mr. Burke. Suicide prevention is like all other forms of viable therapy— it requires participation for its success. The patient has to engage in treatment, not just passively accept it. Mechanical compliance never works. The problem is, unlike any other form of mental illness, we don't have the opportunity to interview the patient once they've made their decision."

"Don't some make suicidal gestures?"

"Yes, and some have suicidal ideation we can pick up early. But the truth is, if they decide to kill themselves, there is literally no way to stop them."

"I know," I said, thinking of all the dead prisoners who defeated a suicide watch, how easy it was. "How long did it take?"

"Take?"

"From the time they were discharged."

He nodded thoughtfully, tapping his long, slender fingers on the desk top. "That's the wild card," he said. "They all killed themselves within ninety days of being discharged."

"Every one?"

"Yes. Every one. I've gone back over our screening mechanisms, especially our pre–discharge summaries. If they were carrying that virus, it seems we should have seen it. I'm telling you this in confidence. It disturbs me, but we're no closer to an answer."

"Maybe there isn't any," I said.

"Maybe not," he replied. "But we're not going to stop looking."