Down in the Zero b-7

by Andrew Vachss

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

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

  "Sure is. From all that tennis?"

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

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

  "Done what?"

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

  "You're a beautiful girl, Fancy"

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

  "That was in your head, girl."

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

  "Did she ever get any more?"

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

  "You just looked different."

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

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

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

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

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

  "Your father?"

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

  "You were really going to kill him?"

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

  "What happened?"

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

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

  "Wouldn't they figure…?"

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

  "Not with his body, anyway."

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

  "With the whips?"

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

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

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

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

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

  "But when it's over…"

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

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

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

  "So why…?"

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

  "What do you mean?"

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

  "Who?"

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

  "Did you?"

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

  "I'm not a trick, girl."

  "But you like it, right?"

  "I like you."

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

  "No."

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

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

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

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

  "Burke…Burke, are you okay?"

  "Yeah."

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

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

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

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

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

  "What does that mean?"

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

  "Tell me what to do," she said.

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

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

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

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

  "What's that?" I asked him.

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

  "Clean you out from what?"

  "Drugs, booze…anything that's toxic."

  "So how come you…?"

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

  "Sounds good to me."

  "You want some?"

  "For what?"

  "Uh…cigarettes?"

  "I think I'll pass."

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

  "You spoke to him?"

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

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

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

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

  "Can I help you, sir?"

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

  "Yes sir. Your name, please?"

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

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

  "I got it," I told him. "Thanks."

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

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

  "Hi! Can I help you?"

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

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

  "Sure."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Looks like the meeting was successful."

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

  "Me?"

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

  "I don't know."

  "You were never curious?"

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

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "I see. About suicide, then?"

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

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

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

  "What do you mean?"

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

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

  "Lots of people get depressed."

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