Down in the Zero
Page 26
"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?"
"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 d
ie…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."