Down in the Zero

by Andrew Vachss

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 di
dn'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.

  About the Book

  Andrew Vachss has reinvented detective fiction for an age in which guilty secrets are obsolete and mrder isn't even worth a news headline. And in the person of his haunted, hell-ridden private eye Burke, Vachss has given us a new kind of hero: a man inured to every evil except the kind that preys on children.

  Now Burke is back, investigating an epidemic of apparent suicides among the teenagers of a wealthy Connecticut suburb. There he discovers a
sinister connection between the anguish of the young and the activities of en elite sadomasochistic underground, for whom pain and its accompanying rituals are a source of pleasure—and power.

  Andrew Vachss

  Andrew Vachss has been a federal investigator in sexually transmitted diseases, a social caseworker, a labor organizer, and has directed a maximum-security prison for youthful offenders. Now a lawyer in private practice, he represents children and youths exclusively. He is the author of numerous novels, including the Burke series, two collections of short stories, and a wide variety of other material including song lyrics, poetry, graphic novels, and a "children's book for adults." His books have been translated into twenty different languages and his work has appeared in Parade, Antaeus, Esquire, The New York Times, and numerous other forums. He lives and works in New York City and the Pacific Northwest.

  The dedicated Web site for Vachss and his work is www.vachss.com

  BOOKS BY ANDREW VACHSS

  Flood

  Strega

  Blue Belle

  Hard Candy

  Blossom

  Sacrifice

  Shella

  Down in the Zero

  Born Bad

  Footsteps of the Hawk

  False Allegations

  Safe House

  Choice of Evil

  Everybody Pays

  Dead and Gone

  Pain Management

  Copyright © 1994 by Andrew Vachss

  All rights reserved under International and Pan–American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in hardcover by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., New York, in 1994, and in trade paperback by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 1995.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Library of Congress has catalogued the Knopf edition as follows: