Down in the Zero

I checked all the directories— they were all legit, no subdirectories, hidden or otherwise. The thing was empty— probably vacuumed before Cherry took off. I tried the other menu items in order, but they just performed as advertised. I finally hit Park, heard a couple of electronic beeps. The screen said: HEADS PARKED ON ALL DRIVES. POWER OFF THE SYSTEM NOW. I turned it off.

"Are you done yet?" Fancy asked from outside the door, tapping her foot.

"I'll tell you when I'm done— just keep quiet."

The fax machine was empty of incoming. There was a row of direct–dial buttons on its face, sixteen of them. I took out a piece of paper, tapped the keys one at a time, writing down the numbers as they appeared in the liquid crystal display, then hitting the Stop button before the call could go through. They all started with 011— international calls.

The phone didn't have a display— I left it alone. Nothing taped under the butcher block. No loose tiles. The carpet was all of a piece, tacked down tight at the corners.

"Is there another place?" I asked Fancy. "What do you mean?"

"Another private place. Like this one."

"No."

I walked through again anyway, Fancy trailing behind, more at ease now that I wasn't looking anyplace she hadn't been. In a back corner, I spotted a circular staircase, black wrought iron.

"Where does that go?"

"It's just a room I…use sometimes."

"Lets see."

"It's just a room, Burke. A trick room, okay?"

"Get up there!" I said, pushing her toward the staircase, punctuating the order with a smack on her butt. I followed close behind. The room stood on a small landing, built–out walls along the sides, nothing else there. She opened the door without a key, and stepped over the threshold.

It was the white room— the room I'd seen in the video I took from Cherry's safe.

I stood in the doorway, sweeping with my eyes. The foot of the bed was a few feet from a pure white wall, the seamlessness broken only by a shadow box, black glass in a white wood frame.

"How does this work?" I asked her.

"It's like a light show," she said, flicking a toggle switch at the side of the box. The black screen sparkled at the center, a burst of red–centered yellow. Then the colors flowed into a series of comet trails, mostly shades of blue and purple. Soundless explosions burst new colors into the box, waves of different colors swept them away.

"I don't get it."

"I…make them watch it, sometimes. It helps them get out. Let go."

"You always turn it on? When you…?"

"No. Some of them like it, some don't."

So the camera worked right through it. It wouldn't matter if she turned it on or not— if she was telling the truth.

Time to find out.

"Turn that off," I said. "And come over here."

She did it. Walked over obediently enough. I slapped her hard enough to make her sway on her high heels. Her hands flew to her face. "What…?"

"Shut up, bitch. Put your hands down. Put them behind your back."

Her gray eyes widened. I slapped her again, harder. "It's about time you learned the truth about yourself," I told her, my voice flat and hard. "Are you going to do as you're told?"

"Yes."

I slapped her again.

"Yes sir," she said that time, in the zone where she wanted to be— somewhere between turned on and scared— but maybe just a little too close to the far edge.

I grabbed her shoulders, spun her around, pushed her forward until she was bent over the bed. I pulled her skirt up roughly. "Don't you move," I warned her, unthreading the belt from my slacks, doubling it up in my hand.

It took a long time before I was through. Then I stood in the corner, my shoulders past the shadow box's camera–eye, watching Fancy, her wrists lashed to each corner of the bed, her bottom elevated by a couple of pillows stuffed under her pelvis, harsh red stripes from the belt standing in bold relief for the camera's eye.

I smoked a cigarette all the way through. Then I untied her. I opened her purse, stuffed her bra and panties inside, told her to put her dress on. Then I walked her out of the room holding the back of her neck.

Outside, I waited till she locked the back door.

"Follow me in your car. Don't say another word. Don't get out of your car, understand?"

"Yes sir."

I found a pay phone on the highway, dialed the Mole.

"It's me. Was it there?"

"Yes."

"Everything worked?"

"Yes."

"They're still around?"

"Yes."

"I did them a favor. A big one. There's something they could do for me. That's fair, right?"

He didn't answer. I told him what I needed. "Can you get them in now?"

"Soon," he said.

I told him where to leave the package.

We drove back to the apartment in a two–car caravan. Fancy pulled in behind me. I got out, gestured for her to come to me. I held the door to the Lexus open for her, watched while she fastened her seat belt. Then I pulled off again.

She didn't say a word on the drive, but her face registered surprise when I turned off into the grove by the creek. I hit the power window switch, watched the glass whisper its way down the track into the door. I pushed another button and the seat slid back. Satisfied, I got out, went around to her door and opened it. I held out my hand. She took it, hesitating, still not meeting my eyes. I led her gently around the back of the car down to a soft patch of grass. I took off my jacket, spread it on the ground for her. "Sit, honey," I said. "It's okay now."

She sat down placidly. I sat next to her, my arm around her waist. We didn't say anything for a while, looking out at the gently moving water, taking the calm.

She slumped against me. I kissed the top of her head. "Lie down, baby," I told her.

She rolled across my lap, face down, pulling at her skirt. I grabbed her hand, pulled the skirt back down. I reached up to her shoulders, held her in place as I slid along the grass so her face was in my lap. I stroked her back until she relaxed.

"Close your eyes, girl. Just let it go…it's over, now."

It took a while, but finally I felt the muscles in her back unclench, heard her breathing smooth out. She nuzzled at the base of my cock through my pants, then turned her head. "Can I…?"

"Turn over," I told her.

She did it, lying on her back, face up, gray eyes open and alert in the shade my upper body cast.

"Why did you…do it like that?" she finally asked.

"Like what?"

"Just…whip me. No sex. I thought you…didn't like that."

"There was a good reason, little girl. I promise you."

"What reason?"

"Ssshh, baby. You'll see."

"What reason, honey? Please tell me. I mean, I didn't…mind. But I thought…"

"Fancy, remember what you asked me before? About your mystery?"

"Yes."

"That was part of it. I can't tell you any more now, but real soon, okay? Will you trust me that far?"

"I'd trust you with anything, Burke."

"Close your eyes," I told her.

I watched the brook's current as she slept, watched as it broke over the rocks into a white froth, smoothed out again. Fancy went down deep, the heavy muscles at the backs of her calves relaxing. She turned her head to the side, snuggled into a better position, breath rattling sweetly through her one open nostril. My fingers played with her hair. She made a high–pitched sound I couldn't place, put her thumb into her mouth, sucked deeply, content.

It was just starting to get dark when she stirred.

"Wha…Burke?"

"I'm right here, girl."

"I must have fallen out."

"It's okay."

She shivered, rolled into a sitting position, hugging herself. "I'm cold."

"Okay. Come on." I helped her to her feet, walked her back to the car, my arm around her.

"Where are we going?"

"Just come on, Miss Motormouth. That's enough questions for one day."

I found a good spot in the parking lot of the mall. Told Fancy to get us some take–out. Instead of waiting in the car, I walked over to an outside phone.

"It's me. They do it?"

"Yes."

"Would anyone know they'd been there?"

"No."

"They left it where I said."

"Yes. They said to tell you— it triggers off a sensor when anyone goes in there."

I rung off. Pulled out the cellular, dialed.

"Hello?" Sonny answered.

"It's me," I said. "Where are you?"

"At the diner. Remember where— "

I could hear the noise in the background. "Yeah. You headed back to the house?"

"No, not for a while. We were gonna— "

"Do that. Whatever. Understand? Can you stay past midnight, stay away from the house?"

"Sure."

"Okay, champ. See you tomorrow morning."

By the time Fancy came back with her arms full of take–out, I was watching her through the windshield of the Lexus.

It was dark when we got back. I sent Fancy over to the big house, told her what to do. I went upstairs to the apartment, turned on the radio and a couple of lights. Then I came back out, walked over to the house. No lights on in the kitchen. I kept going through to the living room. Fancy had the floor set up like a picnic, the glow from some candles casting murky shadows.

"It looks great," I said, sitting down on the floor.

"How come you didn't want any lights, honey?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full," I told her.

"But my mouth isn't full. I didn't start to eat— I waited for you."

"Now I'm here," I said, helping myself to what looked like a deli plate: chunky tuna, potato salad, cole slaw.

We ate quietly, in companionable silence. I complimented Fancy on her choice of food, listened with half an ear as she ran through all the mall choices she'd had to make, why she settled on deli instead of Chinese, how it wasn't good to eat a heavy meal so late, something about cholesterol…

It was nearing ten o'clock by the time we finished the meal and cleaned it up. Fancy insisted on wrapping whatever we didn't eat, putting it away in the refrigerator. "Maybe Sonny'll want a snack when he comes home," she said.

While she was bustling around, I looked under the pillows in the living room couch. I found the videocassette, turned on the VCR, shoved in the cassette, started it running and hit the Pause button. The screen was all visual static, like dirty snow.

Fancy came back in. "Blow out the candles and come over here, girl."

She did it quick enough, sitting next to me expectantly.

"What, honey?"

"Watch," I said.

I hit the Play button on the remote. A brief flicker and it snapped into life. Fancy walking across the threshold of the white room.

"Burke! What is this? Where— ?"

"Just watch for a minute," I said, holding her hand tight.

The whole scene played out from a few hours ago. Now that I knew how it worked, I could see the camera shots were mechanical, the zooms unplanned. The tape ran back into gray trailer right after we exited the room. Fancy burst into sobs, trying to pull away from me.

"Oh God! Why did you do that? You…who was there? How could you? I would have…if you'd just asked…"

"Come here, girl. Listen to me."

"No! You filthy bastard!"

"Fancy, it's all on tape. It's got nothing to do with me."

"I don't believe you. If you didn't set it up— "

"Stay here," I told her. "Don't move." I walked over to the VCR, popped out the cassette, shoved in the copy I'd had made from the video I'd lifted from Cherry's safe. I hit the Play button again, walked back over to the couch. As soon as Fancy saw herself facing the camera, unzipping her skirt as the man on the bed behind her watched, she broke.

"That was over a year ago, that tape," she said, later. She was sitting on the floor in front of the couch, her back between my legs, my hands on her shoulders.

"There'll be a whole lot of them, Fancy. Every time you went into that room. The camera setup works automatically— it doesn't need an operator."

"I'll kill her."

"Who?"

"Cherry."

"It wasn't her, baby."

"Who else could it be?"

"Can I tell you a story?"

"I've heard enough stories. Especially from you."

"You'll appreciate this one, honey. I promise you. In the city, we got three different police departments. The regular cops, NYPD. Then there's Transit, they mostly work the subways. And Housing, they cover the Projects. They're really the only ones who still walk a beat— Vertical Patrol, they call it. The Projects, they're like a neighborhood. Everybody knows everybody else. It's bad out there. Not as bad as Chicago, where the gangbangers take over whole buildings, but dangerous, you know? More for the people who live there than the cops. The kids go elevator surfing, people fuck in the hallways, the rooftops are a good place to get raped. Or die. It's a strange mix— you got old people trying to make it on some lousy Social Security, you got Welfare scammers, you got decent, hardworking folks…everybody. Anyway, this old Housing cop I know, he was working a string of push–in muggings…where the skell follows an old lady up in the elevator, gets off on the floor below, runs up the stairs and shoves her into her own apartment. Then he works her over, loots the place, and disappears. So this cop, he watches. Real close. He finally bags this mugger, snatches him right on the stairwell. Takes him into custody. And the dirtbag can't wait to talk— admits to maybe a dozen of his 'jobs.' The cop's all excited, naturally. He brings the old people down to the precinct, but not a single one of them can ID the mugger. Not one. It was too dark, it happened too fast, he hit too hard, they were scared…whatever. So now he's stuck. Without an ID, the DA won't even consider the case. He's thinking about it and thinking about it and he comes up with this dynamite idea…a Reverse Lineup. Now listen to this. He rounds up a whole bunch of old people from the Projects, okay? Then he puts them up on the stage, under the lights. And he puts the skell behind the one–way glass, like he was the victim. Guess what? The skell loves it. He stands there, picks out his victims. 'Yeah, I did her. No, not that one.' And he's on the money every single time! He knows which one had jewelry in a dresser, which one had some cash hidden in the refrigerator, which one he punched in the face. All they had to do is match up the original police reports with what the skell said, and they had it all. Nobody else could have done it. Pretty slick, huh?"

"Oh, it's just a wonderful story. So what?"

"So this— the tape you just looked at, I picked it up from a hideout, where it was stashed. I made a copy, and I put it back. I wasn't around when that tape was made— you said so yourself. Now listen— when I went back to the hideout, the tape was gone. And the only person who was anywhere around it was Charm. Charm, you understand? Cherry isn't even in this country. Hasn't been for quite a while. You said it yourself— Charm always wants the handle. She needs to know how things work…and how to work people. You didn't want her to think she knew about me, right? Well now, if I'm right, she thinks she does."

"You mean you…knew?"

"Yeah. At least I thought I did. That tape…the one with you and me we just saw…that's a copy too. The original is right back where it came from."

"At Rector's?"

"Sure. You think Cherry's gonna stop by, pick it up?"

"Maybe Charm just…works for her."

"Sure, girl. Maybe she does. But what would Cherry want with a tape of me and you? Who's she gonna blackmail? Especially behind that fairy story she told you— about me being a hitman and all. That's why I stood where I did… when you were tied on the bed. I was out of camera range— it's behind that shadow box on the wall. It's that super–safe sex you talked about…Charm'll read it that I was masturbating, watching you. And sooner or later, she'll drop it on me.

"It doesn't make sense," she said, turning to look up at me.

"How much truth do you want, little girl?"

"All of it," she said, taking a breath. "Just do it."

I slid off the couch, lying down on the carpet next to her. I lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, offered it over. She took it the way I saw a woman take a wet rag in her teeth in the jungle a lifetime ago…biting down so the sounds of childbirth wouldn't alert the enemy soldiers nearby.

"You and Charm have the same room? When you were kids?" I asked.

"No. I mean, just when we were real little…"

"But you were real close to her, right? You didn't keep secrets from each other?"

"I never did. Charm wouldn't let me. She hated secrets— she had to know everything. We had a bathroom, for the two of us, between our rooms. She would just walk in there and start talking to me, even when I was sitting on the toilet."

"Why didn't you lock the door when you were in there?"

"We didn't have any locks on the doors. Not in the whole house, except for— "

"The room where your father took you."

"Yes. But— "

"When you were growing up, did you get your period first, or did Charm?"

"What?"

"Your period…who had it first?"

"Me. I was way ahead of her."

"And you didn't have it at the same time after that, right? Not the same time of the month?"

"I…don't know. I don't know when she had hers, but— "

"She knew when you had yours."

"How could you know that?"

"When your father took you in that room, it was never when you were having your period, was it?"

"Burke!"

"And he always did it the same way, right? Said the same words, made you do the same thing. Did he have something special he hit you with?"

"His hand. And a…paddle. A black one. With holes in it."

"Yeah, he's perfect. A ritualistic scumbag."

"No. He never…you mean, like Satanism and that stuff?"

"It's all ritual abuse, girl. Got nothing to do with Satan. Child molesters love their rituals, their secret ceremonies. You remember how you told me Charm never got punished in front of you? That's because it wasn't punishment that was going to happen once the door closed. Not like you got, anyway. Your father was having sex with her. For years and years. You were just the appetizer."

"Stop it!"

"Where do you think she learned it, child? You weren't getting punished, you were being used. Spanking kids…the way he did…it's erotic for them. Foreplay, that's all. That's why you hate people who do it— you've always known the truth."

"Noooo…"

"Yes. Trauma is scar tissue over memory, but nobody ever really forgets. Charm showed you how to flip things over. Get powerful yourself…at least that's what you thought. You see it in the kiddie joints all the time. The weaker ones get taken off. Raped. You do it to somebody else, you're not the target, see? Sex in prison, it's not really sex. Any more than rape is. You get to beat on somebody else, it doesn't happen to you. Remember how you said it made you feel? Strong?"

"She was just— "

"Playing. Sure. Playing you. For your father. With him. He picked her out from the beginning, Fancy— she never had a chance. She's doing the same thing. Getting powerful. Drinking blood."

"I don't believe you."

"Yeah you do. Charm set you up in business. So you'd have a 'thing' of your own, isn't that what you said? Instead, you've been a Judas goat, staked out so the prey comes sniffing around. And Charm's always there. With her cameras.

She made a moaning sound, dropped her shoulders. I reached over, held her hand. It was damp.

"There's more," I told her. "Charm used Sonny too. When he was just a kid. Got him involved in sex way before he was ready, and it really fucked with his head. She may have been with his mother too…Cherry's gay, right? There's a wire on my phone, in the caretaker's apartment. That's her work too. I thought it was you at first, when I saw the tape. But there's money floating around here. Big money. More than Charm could score from some lousy little blackmail scheme."

"But why…?"

"Your mother knew it too, Fancy. Remember when you told her, what she did? She gave her daughter away. Handed her over like a present."

"I saw that once…what you said. On 'Oprah.' How people get abused when they're kids and they remember it all of a sudden, years later."

"I know."

"But there's like nothing they can do, right? I heard it on the show, the Statute of Limitations. It's too late to make them go to jail…"

"Yeah. They need to call it the Statute of Liberty instead. The freak does his work good enough, he makes the kid block it right out…and then he walks away giggling."

"You think Charm…doesn't remember?"

"I don't think she ever forgot. That's what turned her. Into whatever she is, now."

She was quiet a long time, all inside herself. Then she looked over at me, gray eyes in the dark. "My own sister," she said. "My twin. Now I don't have anybody."

I made her come back to the caretaker's apartment with me. Showed her the tiny microphone that had sat inside the phone until I pulled it loose.

I took her to the bedroom. Undressed her slowly. We made love. A deep, rich vanilla.

"I want you to stay with Sonny," I told her the next morning. "All day, no matter what, wherever he goes. Whether he likes it or not."

"Okay."

"Don't 'okay' me, Fancy. It's important. Make a promise."

"I swear," she said, her hand over her heart.

I puffed on my smoke, absently, wondering if she knew. "Fancy, what happened to your other sister?"

"My other sister?"

"Charm said you were originally triplets, remember?"

"Charm tells stories," she answered, looking somewhere else.

I walked over to the big house. Sonny was awake, at the kitchen table.

"I think I'm close now," I told him. "I need you to do something."

"You got it."

"Fancy's upstairs. Over in the garage apartment. I want you to stay with her. No matter what she does. Don't let her out of your sight. Don't take no for an answer. Stay with her until I get back."

"I'll take care of it," he said. In a man's voice.

The junkyard was shrouded in what passes for morning mist in Hunts Point— a nasty mix of industrial pollution and half–burnt garbage no converter could ever recycle. Terry was right near the gate, as if he was expecting me.

"Mole had a fight," he said.

"A fight? Is he okay?"

"Oh sure. It was, like, not a physical thing. With Zvi."

"The Israeli?" I asked, climbing aboard the shuttle.

"Yes. He didn't want you to know anything about…whatever they took. I couldn't follow it all. He said you weren't one of them. But Mole said, you were one of him, and he was going to show it to you. They had this big argument. Then this Zvi guy, he offered Mole money. For the information, he said. Mole got really mad then. They started arguing, in Jewish, I guess, I couldn't understand. Then this Zvi guy left."

"Don't fuss about it, kid. They won't do anything to the Mole."

"Oh, I know that. I just never saw him, like, mad before."

The Mole was in his bunker. If the argument with the Israeli had him worked up, you couldn't see it on his face.

"You cracked the code?" I asked him.

"Yes. It was what I thought— a sort program. It matched all the names— before and after."

"You have a copy?"

"Yes."

"Any trouble. With…?"

"No," he said, handing me a thick sheaf of papers.

"They do plastic surgery there," I told him. "It's the perfect cover for the ID business."

"They do something else, too."

"What?"

"I'm not sure. See this?" he said, holding up a clipboard covered with calculations.

I nodded, waiting— the Mole had already used up his supply of words for the week and I didn't want to throw him off the track.

"This was an experiment, like I told you. A double–blind, with a probability matrix."

"Huh?"

"Don't play stupid, Burke— I don't have time. There was a group of subjects, all right? It was divided in half. Half received some…input. A substance, a treatment, exposure to radiation…I can't tell. The other didn't— maybe they got a placebo, maybe nothing. Again, I can't tell. Now for the group which got the input, there was a certain result predicted. That's the probability matrix…the experimenter was looking for a result, and that result was something you would expect to get in a certain percentage of cases anyway, understand?"

"You got a group of a hundred people. You give fifty of them a pill that causes headaches— you give fifty of them nothing. In the first group, ten of them get headaches. But you gotta figure, people get headaches without the pills. So the question is…how many more? Is that it?"

"Yes. The difference must be statistically significant for the input to be the cause."

"But you don't know who…or what?"

"No."

"Did the…experiment work?"

"I don't know. It's not in the data. The running time was ninety days. They run it four times a year, with different split groups. Whatever they expected to happen, it did happen. But I don't know the probability of it happening without the input."

"Wouldn't they know it?"

"They made…educated guesses. It seems they don't have hard data on it."

"So after ninety days, the…input…it's not gonna work."

"That's what it seems. If it works at all."

"It fucking fits," I muttered.

"You think you know…?"

"Mole, you know all about the experiments in the camps. Remember you told me about them?"

"Yes," he said, Nazi–hate blazing behind his thick glasses.

"They were just experiments for the sake of experiments, right? Not science at all."

"Not science at all," he agreed bitterly. "Sadism. Torture. Freakish ugliness."

"But…even if someone wanted to do real experiments, like for cancer or whatever…you couldn't do it on humans, could you?"

"Not legally. I've heard…about places in the Third World where you can…buy subjects."

"Mole, listen for a minute. Is there a drug that could make people suicidal? Make them kill themselves?"

He stroked the side of his face, took off his glasses, polished them on a greasy rag lying on his workbench. "There are drugs that cause depression, drugs that interfere with cognition, affect mood. All kinds of results. But to actually make people kill themselves…no. If they were already disposed, maybe…"

I drove out of the junkyard dazed, brain spinning crazy, info–pinballing, colors and numbers bouncing off the corners. Trying to pick a drop of mercury off a slick Formica surface through a cloud of smoke.

Until I faced it. The same way I did with the child I killed in that basement. Just looked at it and looked at it until it told the truth.

Only one question left— who else was in? And how deep?

The Plymouth was wedged in the driveway like a roadblock. The garage doors were closed. I jumped out of the Lexus, headed inside. They were in the living room: Sonny, Wendy…and Fancy. She was on a padded chair in the living room, knees together, hands in her lap.

"Hey, Burke! We've been playing a game. You want to play too?"

"What's the game?" I asked her.

"Bondage," she said, holding up her hands, wrists together, as if she was wearing invisible handcuffs.

Sonny's face reddened. Wendy stretched her long legs out on the couch, protective and watchful, not saying anything.

"I don't get it," I said.

"Well, it seems like your young friend here got it into his head that I wasn't supposed to leave."

Sonny nodded agreement with the accusation. Hard to believe this was the same kid Charm had slapped into submission such a short time ago. "Good work," I told him as I took Fancy by the hand and pulled her out of the room.

Back in the caretaker's apartment, Fancy sat on the bed as I changed my clothes. "Why did you do that?" she asked.

"Do what?"

"Play that trick. To make me stay there…with Sonny?"

"It didn't have anything to do with Sonny. I just wanted to be sure you didn't wander off somewhere."

"Where would I go?"

"To Charm."

"But you told me— "

"Some things, not the whole thing. I've been stupid. This suicide thing, it didn't start when I came out here. I didn't get it because I was in it. Me, not them. I came here with too much baggage, and the weight made me blind. There's one more thing I've got to tell you…and then it's up to you."

"Tell me what?"

"The truth, Fancy. The truth about Charm, and your father."

"You already told me," she wailed. "I don't want to— "

"It doesn't matter what you want anymore. Things are gonna happen. Happen soon. I don't want you making any more offerings."

"I don't know what— "

"Offerings. Like the way your mother served you up to your father. Like the way Charm uses you for her blackmail videos. I'm not here for the same reason now."

"In Connecticut?"

"On this earth. I am going to fix things. This time. This one time. I looked into the Zero and I saw it. You know what I got, little girl? Another chance."

"Burke, you're scaring me."

I lit a cigarette. Handed it to her. "Blow me a smoke ring, Fancy."

She pursed her lips, puffed gently. The smoke billowed but didn't form itself into rings. She tried again, working harder. "I can't," she said. So much sadness in her voice— a little girl who couldn't do the trick.

"Watch," I told her. I took the pack of cigarettes, pulled the cellophane wrapper down so it was anchored to the pack only by a thin strip. I held the glowing tip of the cigarette against the cellophane, carefully. When I pulled it away, there was a neat round hole in the cellophane— it looked like an entrance wound. I handed it to her. "Draw in some smoke," I said. "Then blow it into the pack, right through the hole."

She did it, puzzlement in her eyes. The cellophane filled up with smoke, thick and cloudy. "Now tap the back of the cellophane, Fancy. Gently."

She held the pack straight up, tapped a long fingernail against the back. A perfect smoke ring bubbled out of the hole, hanging in the air. "Oh!" she giggled, doing it again.

"That's what we need, girl. A trick. To make things work. You gonna play with me?"

She nodded, as gravely as a child promising to be good.

"Do you recognize my voice?" I said into the phone, low–pitched and calm.

"Yes," he replied. I could hear the gears switch in his head, down–shifting to someplace familiar. Getting back there in a snap–second, alert and ready.

"I have something. May have something. Will you meet me?"

"Say where and when," is all he said.

Fancy led him into the room. I was seated on one side of a desk I'd cobbled together from a door laid across the seats of two chairs. He sat down on the other side. Fancy walked out.

Blankenship was clean–shaven, jungle close. Wearing an old set of army fatigues, camo–patterned. Lace–up black boots on his feet, saddle–soaped, not shined. Ready ever since he got my call.

"Thanks for coming," I said, lighting a cigarette, resting it in an ashtray I'd made out of aluminum foil.

"Please don't be fucking around with me," he said quietly, taking a .45 out of a side pocket. It looked like a custom job, all flat black matte finish, with a short–tube silencer that probably cost more than the gun itself.

"I'm not. I wouldn't. Hear me out, all right? Show me the respect I'm showing you."

His face was empty. No expression. Nothing in his eyes. The patience of a sniper. His nod of agreement didn't travel three inches.

I told him a version of the truth. Left Charm out of it, concentrated on Crystal Cove. "You see where I am," I concluded. "I don't know if the stuff even works. And I can't know…I'll never know…if it worked on Diandra."

"The army did that," he said. "Experiments. I heard about them, in the field. Drugs to make a man brave. Or to make you focus. Most of them backfired— the VA hospitals are full of— "

"It isn't the army doing it here," I interrupted nervously. He was too close to the edge— if he decided it was a government conspiracy…

"Okay," he said. Flat, no heat coming off him, safe even from thermal sensors if the enemy had them working.

"I'm close," I said. "Real close."

"What do you need from me?"

"I'm going to go inside. See the head man. Barrymore. The doctor. He could deny everything. He does that, I'll go back to working the corners. Or he could make it right— then we're done. But he might decide to get stupid…that's your piece."

"Say what."

"Backup. I'm going in the door. The front door. He's got a squad all over the grounds. They wear maroon blazers, look like servants from a distance, but they're all pros. I need to get off the grounds. You know the place?"

"I've been there. Every night. In and out. There's a good piece of high ground. And I've got a night scope."

"You'll do it?"

"Over there, I did my job. Just my job, understand? I never took ears, I took eyes. One shot…pop! Right through the cornea. I don't know how many I got— I never kept count. After a while, they had a bounty on me. Not my face— they never saw my face— but they knew my work. If this Barrymore helped…kill my Diandra, he's gone. There's no place he can go. I'll wait as long as it takes. I don't care. About anything. He did that to her, I'm going to put his heart on her grave.

I spent more time talking with him. Soldier to soldier, the way he saw it. Defining the mission, making sure he wouldn't go hunting on his own. He agreed to stay at his base, wait for my call.

He got up, didn't offer to shake hands. I let out a long breath as Fancy came back into the white room.

Back in the caretaker's apartment, I opened a fresh videocassette, plugged it into one of two slots in the front of the high–tech VCR Fancy had bought. I handled the used one like it was a stick of dynamite floating in nitroglycerin.

"I never knew there was another room there," Fancy said. "What do you call that…opening?"

"A pocket door. Whoever built it knew what they were doing. The craftsmanship was incredible. If the…other people hadn't told me about it, I wouldn't have found it even though I knew it was there."

"You switched the tapes?"

"Yeah. And I re–tripped the sensor. When Charm goes to check it out, she'll just find a blank, figure nobody used the room for a while."

"Did it work?"

"Just sit still, girl. We'll know in a minute."

I pressed the switch. It showed me and Fancy setting up the makeshift desk in the room, Fancy walking out, me sitting there alone. Her coming back with Blankenship. And all the rest. "Perfect," I said. "Now we edit a piece off onto the fresh tape."

"For what?" she asked.

"Bait," I told her.

"You're not going back for a while," I told her. "I want you to write a note, leave it for Charm."

"Where?"

"At her house. I'll drive you over."

"I can't do that."

"Fancy…"

"Burke, I can't. It would make her suspicious. I never go in her house. I'm not allowed."

"Okay, I get it. We'll leave it in your place. She'll see it when she comes snooping around."

I rehearsed in my head, running it through, smoothing out the edges. When it got too loaded, I took a break, looked through the list of numbers I'd copied off the fax machine in Cherry's office at Rector's. Something…

"Fancy, is there a phone book around here?"

"I don't know— I'll look."

She came back with two of them— yellow and white. I pored through the white pages until I found it: "International Country and City Codes."

011 was the international access code. Okay, next step: 61 was the country code. For Australia. So 011–61–2 was Sydney. 011–61–3 was Melbourne. They were all Australia, all Sydney and Melbourne except for one in Perth.

Australia. I checked the International Time Zone chart in the phone book. Sydney was fifteen hours ahead of us. Six in the afternoon on Tuesday would be nine in the morning on Wednesday over there. Fifteen hours…

If you showed fifteen hours ahead on a dial clock, it would look like three hours. One full spin, twelve, plus three more for fifteen.

Did Cherry have a passport? Dual citizenship? Another identity?

And that clock, that special clock. Twin clocks, one in Barrymore's office.

It was late when I heard the crunch of tires on the bluestone. Charm's white Rolls, sitting in the driveway, pointing the wrong way, like she'd driven in the exit. I watched for a minute— she didn't get out. I couldn't see her face behind the driver's–side glass. Fancy stood next to me. I could feel her breath against my cheek.

"Too late for that note," I said.

"I'll fix it," she replied, yanking her dress over her head, stripping frantically. Nude, she ran into the back room. She was back in a second, hopping on one leg as she fitted a pair of spike heels onto her feet. "I'll be right back," she said, and went out of the door before I could stop her.

I watched as Fancy negotiated the stairs, as she walked over to the Rolls, stepping carefully in the spike heels on the loose stones. The driver's window slid down. Fancy bent at the waist, her face inside the window, her naked backside white sculpture in the night.

It didn't take long. The Rolls pulled off slowly. Fancy stood there watching it for a minute, then she turned and climbed back up the stairs.

"What was that all about?"

"I told her I was being punished. That you made me go outside like that."

"What did she say?"

"She asked if I turned you out yet."

"Huh?"

"Turned you out…into the scene. I told her you were my master…I wasn't going to be doing anything without your permission now."

"Why was she coming around?"

"She said she was worried about me. What a joke. When I told her…about you…she was happy, I could tell. She kissed me. Deep, like a lover. She hasn't done that in a long time."

"You really handled that perfectly, girl. How'd you know it would work?"

"I just…knew. It worked on me too. I was all…embarrassed. And excited too. Charm said she could smell it on me. Can you smell it, Burke?"

"Come over here and I'll tell you."

I waited two more tight days, perfecting the pitch. Then I made the call.

"Dr. Barrymore please."

"Who may I tell him is calling?"

"Mr. Burke."

"Hold please."

"Mr. Burke, this is Lydia, Dr. Barrymore's personal assistant. You may remember we met the last time you were here…

"Sure." The woman with the improbably seamed stockings and the controlled walk.

"I'm so sorry, but Dr. Barrymore really has quite a full schedule. He said to give you his regrets, but it may be some time before— "

"Tell him I have something I need to show him. A tape."

"As I explained— "

"I don't mean to be discourteous, miss. But please just tell him what I told you— I believe he'll understand the urgency of my request."

"Very well. If you'll hold for another few moments, I'll try and track him down."

I lit a cigarette, smoked it down while I held the receiver to my ear. If this card didn't play, there was always the bottom of the deck.

"Mr. Burke?" It was Barrymore's voice, blue–tinged, loaded with resignation.

"I'm here. Sorry to disturb you from your practice, but I really think you should see this tape."

"Yes, I'm sure. There's really no need. If you'll just— "

"It's not what you think, Doctor. I'm coming to you in friendship, believe me."

"All right. Can you come this evening? Say at nine?"

"I'll be there. And, Doctor…"

"Yes."

"Please believe what I just told you. I am coming in friendship. You're a professional— so am I. Understand?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

"I'm going in," I said into the phone. "Tonight. Nine o'clock."

"I've got your back," Blankenship replied.

He let me in himself. The house felt empty, the phones quiet. I followed him into his office.

"You have a VCR here?" I asked.

"Over there," he pointed. "But, as I told you, it's not necessary. Just tell me what you want."

I ignored him. Slid my cassette into the machine, turned it on. I saw Barrymore's face twitch as the picture came into focus.

"Over there, I did my job," Blankenship was saying on the screen. Barrymore sat straight up, eyes riveted, head cocked to hear every word.

I let it play through. Right up to a tight close–up of Blankenship's nobody's–home, truth–telling eyes:

I don't care. About anything. He did that to her, I'm going to put his heart on her grave.

"You see why I had to show this to you, Doctor? He's out there. Right now. Waiting."

"God! I didn't…I mean, I thought…."

"Yeah, you thought it was a blackmail tape, didn't you? You and Charm, getting it on. Or was it you and Fancy?"

"I don't know what you're…I was never with either of them."

"Sure. And it's a big surprise to you, isn't it? That Charm would be in the blackmail business."

His head slumped forward. "No. I knew that. That's how she …got in here. To work. I thought— "

"It doesn't matter what you thought. Not anymore. This is out of control. Charm's a nasty, mean little bitch all right, but you're running with the big dogs now. I'll be sure to tell Angelo Mondriano how good you keep secrets."

The blood drained from his face but he kept his professional mask on, fighting for control. "Who's that?"

"Well, seems like now it's plain old Robert L. Testa, of Seattle, Washington. We've got all the names, Doctor. Before and after. The new addresses too. I know you changed the faces. Probably got all–new documentation too. A beautiful job you guys do. But this is your lucky day— that's not why I'm here."

"You…don't understand," he said. "This place was my dream. We have the finest facility in the country. We can do things for children that are truly remarkable. But it costs a fortune."

"Don't these rich kids all have some kind of insurance?"

"Insurance doesn't begin to cover some of our work. We don't just take children from this area, we have a sliding scale. Some scholarships too."

"So when Cherry came up with the idea…?"

"She…stores information. Like a computer. I know it's…illegal. But, the way she put it, it's as though some foundation was funding our work."

"Yeah, that's nice. You help people lose themselves, the money helps kids find themselves, right?"

"You make it sound so— "

"Your pal Charm's been killing kids," I told him. "Or trying to, anyway. I can't tell. Take a look."

His hands were shaking— he gripped the edge of his desk to steady them, a shot fighter, lying back on the ropes, waiting for the ref to stop the contest. I tossed the Mole's calculations on his desk. He looked at the papers without moving his hands, frozen, watching the scorpion twitching its tail on the polished wood.

"What is— ?"

"Charm's been doing experiments. On kids. Your kids. The ones who come here for help. She's got a drug she thinks induces suicide. And she's managed to make sure half of the kids who come here get it. Double–blind experiments she's running. Now tell me…tell me she doesn't have access to them."

"She…does. But I never— "

"No, I don't think you did either. You're in business, aren't you? You and Cherry. What's the tariff, doc? For a new face? For a new life?"

"It…varies."

"I'll bet. You're down to two choices now. You live, or you die."

"What do you want?" he whispered, his face so stark it looked X–rayed.

"The truth. Some cash. And silence. You put that on the table, you stay alive. And in business too, if that's what you want."

"What do you want to know?"

"Charm was doing experiments?"

"Yes. With psychotropics. I knew about it. But she told me it was an antidepressant. Something she'd developed herself. She didn't want to go through the FDA maze— it takes too long, costs too much. You have to wait forever, to get human subjects. A real breakthrough, that's what she called it. We don't know very much about endogenous depression…depression from the inside. I thought— "

"How do they get it? The drug?"

"It's an injection. Intramuscular. One dose, five cc's."

"And she gave it to them herself?"

"No. She doesn't come here. She…gave me the…material. And I did it."

"And you kept records?"

"I didn't keep them. I turned my notes over to her. Every week. To a post office box. They were coded— nobody could know which…"

"Where is it?"

"What?"

"The drugs, Doctor. Where's your supply?"

"Right over there," he said, pointing to a mini–refrigerator with a black face built into the bottom of the bookcase, right next to the VCR. "It's…unstable. You need a fresh supply every couple of weeks. She just dropped some off, the day before yesterday."

I moved over to the refrigerator, opened it up. It was full of those little cartons of fruit juice, the kind you pierce with a plastic straw. Two little bottles at the back, full of clear fluid, with flat rubber screw–on tops…for the hypodermic needle to draw through.

I pocketed the bottles. "Did Cherry know?" I asked him.

"She knows Charm is…dangerous. Sociopathic. And she always suspected she might hurt Randy in some way. But she doesn't know about this…"

"How does she know…that Charm is crazy?"

"I told her. Charm never wanted me to treat her— she had her own agenda. Still, she wasn't a difficult case to diagnose. Classic. She doesn't see people as people— they're just objects to her. Things to be rearranged, like furniture."

"Why did you let someone like her into your life? I mean, she's got some hanky–spanky films of you, so what? You're not running for office."

"I told you…it's nothing like that. I first met her as a patient. She self–referred. I probably wouldn't have seen her personally, but Cherry asked me to. My profession is founded on secrecy— I figured it out— Cherry wanted to learn Charm's secrets…through me."

"Did you?"

"Oh yes. At least I thought so. Charm is…capable of anything. Anything at all. She has no superego at all, no moral controls. She doesn't feel anything. Inside or out. Her pain threshold is incredible. I saw her once, right in this office, I saw her hold a finger over a burning match until I could smell the flesh burn. She never changed expression."

"You were afraid of her?"

"Everybody's afraid of her. She is a person utterly without limits."

"A lot of crazy— "

"Charm is not crazy, Mr. Burke. She's well oriented in all spheres; she has excellent reality contact. She's not psychotic…"

"Just dangerous."

"Yes."

"Dangerous enough to kill?"

He got up from his desk, walked in tight, agitated circles, dry–washing his hands. I watched his walk, timing my voice so it hit him as he circled just in front of me. "You remember the tape I just showed you, doctor? Diagnosis is your business. The question for you isn't whether Charm's dangerous, it's whether the man I just showed you is. The man on the tape. There's only one way out for you now."

He reached inside of himself, got a grip somewhere, sat back down. "She killed her father," he said. "Maybe her mother, too. I don't know that for sure, not about her mother, but she has the…knowledge to do it."

"Was that revenge? For the incest?"

"You know about that? How could… she would never tell anyone.

"She didn't. I put it together. From other stuff. Stuff Fancy told me."

"It wasn't for revenge. At least I don't think so. He was in the way, her father. That's what she said. That's all it takes. For Charm, that's all it takes. She told me… all about it. Sat right where you're sitting and laughed about it— she knows all about doctor–patient privilege— I could never testify against her."

"So you thought I was working for her? I was here to blackmail you?"

"I guess I expected it. I've been expecting it for years. I was trying to…protect someone."

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It does to me. I'm going to tie up all the loose ends, or I'm not. If I don't, you can talk to Blankenship."

"Blankenship?"

"The man on the tape," I said. "Diandra's father. You don't believe me, check your own records."

He didn't say anything for a minute. I waited. Like Blankenship was waiting.

"Randy," he finally said. "She said she'd destroy him. I know she had a… relationship with him. When he was just a boy. I got her to promise to leave him alone."

"And she did?"

"Yes. Absolutely. I probed it fairly deeply. When he was in treatment with me. For a long time. He's very close to working it through. Once he finds something to connect with…"

"He already has," I said. "But what's the kid to you?"

"He's my son," Barryrnore said, meeting my eyes for the first time. "When Cherry wanted a child, she didn't want to go near a sperm bank— all those stories about tainted blood. Looks as though she was right too— look what's happened since. Bad screening for HIV. And that doctor who used his own sperm on dozens of his own patients. She was afraid. So I…did it myself."

"And Charm found out?"

"Yes. I don't know how, but she did. She swore she'd never tell, if only I'd…"

I stood up. "The experiments are over," I told him. "Charm's out of business. Your business, you go and do what you want with it— it's not my problem. This cost me and my associates a lot of money. You have to make it good. But it's a one–shot tap— I won't be back."

"How much do you— ?"

"Half a million. Cash. It's a small bite— I got a good idea of what you all take in with this operation. You'll get a call— somebody'll be using my name. They'll make all the arrangements for the pick–up. You keep nice and quiet, so do I. You say one word, to anybody, and the list gets into circulation. Then people will die…and they won't go alone, understand?"

"Yes."

"Don't say one word to Charm. Not one word."

"I understand."

"Doctor, listen to me now. I'm going to walk out of here. And out of your life. You pick up that phone, it won't help you. You swallowed some poison— I'm the antidote. Got it?"

"Yes," he said, head down, looking at his desk.

I drove the Lexus away from the grounds, feeling Blankenship's thermal track all over my back. I kept driving all the way to his house. Parked in his driveway and waited.

He was maybe fifteen minutes behind me. We went into his house. I almost didn't recognize it— the dump I'd seen before was transformed, as poison–neat as a monk's cell.

"It's not Barrymore," I told him. "I've got it down to a short list now. Few more days, couple of weeks at most. I'll be in touch."

"Take your time," he said. "Be sure."

Half a million was just the right amount. Enough so Barrymore would think it was the score of a lifetime for a small–time operator like me— not so much that he might think about other alternatives. I drove straight into the city. Told Mama as much of the story as she'd want to know. Michelle would make the call, get Barrymore to come into our territory with the money. Check into a hotel, go out for a walk. The Prof would do the rest. Very simple.

"Gems worth much more," Mama said reproachfully.

"Smooth is better," I told her.

More calls. More arrangements. More deals.

"I need the Plymouth," I told Sonny.

"Sure. You want me to drive?"

"No, it's just a pick–up. I'll be back tomorrow."

"You want me to keep looking after Fancy?"

"No. She's going with me. But, Sonny, if Charm comes around, tell her that. Fancy went someplace with me. Nothing more. Got it?"

He nodded.

I made another call from a pay phone. Listened to the arguments, ignored them.

"Where are we going?" Fancy asked, squirming around on the Plymouth's front seat.

"To pick up my girl. It's not far."

"Your…girl?"

"Shut up, Fancy. You like to play at being a bitch— you're about to meet the real thing."

It wasn't a long ride. Elroy's shack up in Dutchess County hadn't changed…maybe it sagged a little more. I pulled into the yard just as one of his pit bulls charged the car, running right up on the hood to glare through the windshield. Elroy came out in a minute, shambling forward, his prize beast on a chain. Barko, a white demon with a black patch over one eye.

I cracked my window carefully. "I came for my dog," I told him.

"Hey look, man, she never got pregnant. I mean, she won't even tie …even when she's in heat. I think maybe she's gay. But I got an idea. I know this vet— "

"Now, Elroy. She's coming with me now. Call off your mutts." As soon as he gave the signal, I stepped out of the car, crouched, cupped my hands, shouted "Pansy! Come here, girl!"

The monster cranked around the corner of the house like a rhino on methedrine, pounding toward me, ears flapping, huge mouth open, yipping like a pup. She piled into me, knocked me over, stuck her enormous snout in my face, nuzzling, tail wagging out of control.

"Pansy! Good girl! You look great!"

She finally let me up, running around in circles, a hundred and forty pounds of joyous muscle and bone.

"Pansy! Jump!" I snapped at her. She hit the ground prone, waiting. I opened the back door of the Plymouth, made the hand signal. She piled in. Saw Fancy on the front seat, parked her massive head on the seatback, drooling. I made a signal for "friend" and she growled happily. Fancy was rigid, eyes huge.

"This is my girl," I told her. "Pansy. The world's finest puppy, aren't you?" I said, rubbing the back of Pansy's neck.

"What is it?"

"Pansy's a Neapolitan mastiff. The best, sweetest, most loyal dog in the whole world."

Pansy growled agreement. "Go ahead and pat her," I said to Fancy. "She's cool."

Fancy gave the dog a halfhearted pat. Pansy immediately licked the entire side of her face in one huge swipe.

"Eeewww!" Fancy responded. I couldn't tell if she was happy or disgusted.

"You ready to do what I asked you?" I questioned Elroy.

"Okay, man. But look…"

"We'll talk later," I told him, gesturing for Fancy to come over to me.

We walked into Elroy's shack. It was all set up, the assortment of working tools I'd told him to buy on a flat table next to a chair. I sat on the couch, told Fancy to come to me. I pulled her across my lap, lifted her skirt, pulled the hem of her panties toward the center of her buttocks, off one cheek. "Right there," I told Elroy, pointing.

The tattoo needle hummed as Elroy did his work. He'd never done one before, but he had world–class hands, a master engraver, specializing in commercial artwork— stock certificates, bearer bonds, twenty–dollar bills…

Fancy lay still for the whole thing, holding my hand.

"Looks pretty good," Elroy said, admiring his work. "It'll probably scab up— better keep the bandage on for a few days. And try to stay off it."

"Thanks," I told him, helping Fancy to her feet.

Elroy walked over to the driver's window. "Look, man, I'm telling you— "

"It's not gonna happen," I told him. "You'll have to find some other way to breed your super–dog. The experiment's over.

I stopped at a deli, left Pansy and Fancy together while I went shopping. Back at the apartment, I dumped a quart of chocolate chip ice cream into a giant mixing bowl Fancy brought over from the big house. I added a couple of pounds of gingersnaps, all crumbled up for a topping. Pansy watched the preparations, her eyes screaming with desire.

"Speak!" I told her. She hit the mixing bowl like a jet–fueled battering ram. Fancy watched, transfixed, as the huge dog made the whole concoction disappear.

"God!"

"Yeah. Isn't she beautiful?"

"I never saw anything like it."

"I had her with Elroy, that guy you met? He was gonna breed her, but I guess it didn't work out. But now she's back with me. Back home, right, girl?"

Pansy put her head in my lap, making her downshifting–diesel noise of contentment as I scratched behind her ears.

The next night, in the apartment.

"You ready?" I asked.

"Yes." Fancy was nude again, standing in the high heels, the white bandage stark against her right cheek. She bent over, dialed the phone.

"Charm? I'm back!"

…

"No, it's perfect. You were right. I'm really out now."

…

"No, he went off somewhere. I'm not allowed to move from the corner where he put me. He's…perfect, now. That's why I called. I want to…give him something. He's really into it now, the scene. He wants to do a double. The whole thing. Over the barrel. I have to bring him … another slave. I mean, maybe I don't have to, but it would be— "

…

"Yes! Do you think Sybil would— ?"

…

"Really? Charm, you'd do that for me. Oh, that's perfect. Can I— ?"

…

"Okay. It has to be late, though. He's not ready for a group thing. After it closes, all right?"

…

"And I'm in charge, Charm. You might have to really take it. He's— "

…

"Oh, that's great. Thank you so much. I'll see you."

The parking lot at Rector's was dark. A little past four–thirty in the morning. The white Rolls was the only car there, standing right next to the back door. I pulled Fancy's NSX in next to it.

She opened the door and we stepped inside. Fancy unzipped her dress. Underneath, she was wearing her domina outfit— all black leather— restraining, displaying, threatening. Her spike heels clicked on the floor as she walked over to the cabinet just past the long bench. She came out with a black whip, a cat–o'–nine–tails with a short stock.

She walked beside me, flicking the whip lightly against her hip. All the way down the hall to a room with a red door. I started to reach for the handle. She pulled at my hand, pointed to the back of her thighs, nodded emphatically. I took the whip she handed me, watched as she bent over, cracked it across the back of her muscular thighs a few times, more sound than fury, being careful to stay away from the bandage. She let out a moan, turned and winked at me. Then she took the whip from my hand and opened the door.

Charm was sitting in a straightback chair, facing the doorway, dressed in a schoolgirl's sailor suit, blue top over a white pleated skirt. She had on the Mary Jane shoes with straps, plain white socks. Her long hair was combed into pigtails, each one anchored with a white ribbon. Right out of the fetish catalog.

I nodded at Fancy. She stalked over to Charm, every scene–freak's fantasy, the domina turning submissive, following orders. Turning the tables.

"You're a bad, disobedient little bitch," she said. "Aren't you?" Charm hung her head.

"Answer me when I speak to you!" Fancy snarled, grabbing Charm's hair, pulling her face up.

"Yes," she said, looking just past Fancy's hip, catching my eye, in control. That's how she thought this was going to end…with a cluster fuck.

"Yes what?" Fancy demanded, slapping Charm hard across the mouth.

"Yes, mistress."

"You know what happens to bad girls?" Fancy said, slapping her again.

"Yes, mistress."

"All right, miss. Get up. Right now!"

Charm got to her feet. Fancy pointed at a barrel standing off to one side. It was full–size, standing in a shallow wooden cradle so it wouldn't roll. Charm lay on the barrel, face down. Fancy fastened the wrist and ankle straps, pulling them tight. Then she lifted Charm's skirt to expose the white cotton schoolgirl panties.

"You're a bad girl!" she said again. "And now you're going to pay for it." Fancy picked up the little whip and held it high— I could see the hard muscle flex in her arm. She cracked it across Charm's bottom, again and again. Charm groaned.

"You better keep your smart mouth shut, bitch. Or I'll really give you something to cry about," Fancy said, whipping her more.

It went on and on. Longer than I thought anyone could take it, but Charm didn't make another sound. Finally, Fancy stepped back, tossing the whip aside. Then she pulled down Charm's panties, displaying the violent red stripes.

"She's ready for you now, master," she said to me.

I stepped behind Charm, put one hand on the small of her back. My right hand flashed.

"Aaaargh!" It was a scream of rage.

I walked around the barrel, facing her. She looked up, craning her neck, tendons standing out, psycho eyes dry iced.

"Did that hurt?" I asked her.

"Yes!"

"The pain's not over," I told her, holding up the hypodermic needle so she could see it.

"What…what is that?"

"Don't you recognize it, Charm? It's your serum. Your special little suicide drug. Time to find out if it works."

"You …!" she snarled, her body rigid with strain as she fought against the straps.

"Forget it," I told her. "It's too late. You got ninety days, Charm. That's the way you set it up, right? Ninety days. To find out the truth. Maybe it works, maybe it doesn't. If it works on you, it'll work on anybody, wouldn't it? You never even thought about killing yourself."

"I'll kill you," she said. No emotion— a viper's promise.

"No, you won't do that. See, the same scientist who cracked your code, he's working on an antidote. Maybe he'll get it done in time, maybe he won't. You can't take that chance, can you? Here's the deal. The last deal you'll ever make. I'm walking out of here now. When I get the antidote, I'll call you. And it'll cost you. I figure you can scrape up some serious money pretty quick, especially if you're motivated. How's about two million bucks, you miserable blackmailing bitch? Two million bucks, for your life?"

"I can get it," she said, calm.

"I know. My man says he's close. Couple of weeks, at the outside."

"How would I know— ?"

"You won't. You never fucking will. What I want is the money. It's up to you.

"But what if I— ?"

"I'll stay with you," Fancy said. "I'll stay with you, Charm. Every minute. I won't let you…kill yourself, I promise."

"I love you, Fancy," Charm said.

"I know," Fancy told her, stroking her sister's face.

It only took me a few minutes to pack the next morning. Sonny was standing outside, patting the Plymouth like he was saying goodbye to it. I gave the command and Pansy jumped inside.

"This came for you. Yesterday, by messenger," he said, handing me a heavy buff envelope, sealed tight.

"Thanks," I said, slipping it into my pocket.

"Burke, I can never— "

"Shut up, kid," I told him. "I'll be watching for your name in the Grand Prix."

"Or Daytona, I haven't made up my mind yet."

"It doesn't matter, Sonny. You found yours, that's what counts."

He grabbed me in a bear hug, almost cracked my ribs.

I didn't look back. Neither did Pansy.

Back in my office, Pansy prowled her old haunts as I slit open the envelope Sonny had given me. A short note, on thermal fax paper.

Jubal told me. Everything. You did what I asked you to do. I don't know what you think of me, but I love my boy. I know he's safe now. I didn't mean for things to happen like they did. It was just business. We're all square, you and me. No hard feelings.

It was signed "Cherry."

Ten days later, a knock at the door of the motel room I was renting in New Rochelle, just south of the Connecticut border.

Fancy stepped in, wearing a severe black business suit, low–heeled pumps, a black pillbox hat on her head. An alligator briefcase was in one hand, as thick as a book bag. She gave me a chaste kiss, walked over and sat on the bed.

"Here it is," I said, handing her a hypo–ready bottle of blue liquid. "Draw five cc's, give it to her in the butt."

"Will it really work?"

"That's what the man says," I told her.

She nodded, handed me the briefcase. I opened it. Stacks of neatly banded bills, all hundreds. I'd already told them— no sequential serial numbers, used bills. I didn't count it.

"I have to get back soon," Fancy said. "I left her tied up. There's no way she could kill herself, but it could get real uncomfortable after a while."

"That's okay."

"Well, I guess this is— "

"Not quite yet," I told her. "There's one more thing." She looked a question at me with her deep gray eyes. "I'd sure like to see how that tattoo turned out," I said.

I met Blankenship in the parking lot of Yonkers Raceway, the spot behind the paddock where the overhead fixtures cast more shadow than light.

"It wasn't the doctor," I said. "Like I told you before. Nobody at the hospital. Nobody who legitimately works there, anyway."

"Who?" is all he said.

I told him about Charm. Not the whole thing, just enough. "She's taken off," I told him. "I got word she's heading for Switzerland. We're looking. Sooner or later, she'll turn up."

"I'll get a passport," he said.

I thought it was over then. That shot I'd given Charm when she was posed over the barrel, it was a dummy. As useless as the phony antidote she'd just bought. Her fangs were pulled.

I was done.

And the Zero wasn't pulling.

I had time after that. But it didn't feel like the kind of time a judge gives you anymore.

I used the time. Thought about that bromeliad I'd seen in Fancy's greenhouse— the one without roots. Plants die in pots, but they never die in gardens. Not really die. They return to the ground, to nourish their brothers and sisters coming up.

The cash all went to a laundry I know. For thirty percent off the top, we got back clean money— some mob–run movie house was going to do boffo box office in the next few weeks. I split the take with my family, equal shares. "Slick as ice, but twice as nice," the Prof praised me. "And you did it without the gun, son."

Clarence said he was going to buy some ground. On the Island. So he could always go home.

Michelle counted the cash in her perfectly manicured hands. Told me about a new place she'd found. In Colorado. Where they'd take her the rest of the way back to herself.

The Mole grunted.

Mama's face lit up, her faith in the world's balance restored.

Max didn't say anything.

Me, I went across the barrier. In my mind. Talked to Belle. To the boy who died in that house of terror.

I'd always have the pain. I made it for myself, like Fancy's tattoo. And I'd carry it around the same way.

I'd always feel sad. But I felt something else too.

Forgiven.

I had me back.

Belinda was still writing. Maybe I'd answer her someday, find out what the game was.

Or maybe I'd go find my Blossom.

I remember the day. It was in September, crisp, with the winter hawk's promise far in the distance. I sat in the back booth of Mama's restaurant, checking the mail her driver brought over from the warehouse. The envelope had no return address. Inside, a clip from a newspaper.

TWIN SISTERS TRAGEDY! the headline said. Twin sisters were vacationing together in Maine, near the coast. They went rock climbing. One of them jumped or fell from a high cliff. Dead on impact. Her sister was inconsolable. Told the cops Charm had been depressed. They'd gone climbing to get away from all the pressures of business. Just the two of them.

I put the newsclip in an envelope. Mailed it to Blankenship— flowers for Diandra's grave.

I wondered if Charm saw the Zero on the way down. And if she blinked.