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, stepp
ing 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 ever
y 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.
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