Terminal

by Andrew Vachss

  And that’s where I showed her what happens to any cunt who abuses me like she had.

  I know the cops never released any of the crime-scene photos. At least, not to the public. So these pathetic little punks—the ones who’ve been thinking they’re “killers” for all these years—they never saw what the body looked like when it was dug up. If they had, they would have known the truth.

  What I really wanted was to carve my initials in her ass after I finished with her, but I knew I couldn’t do that. But I did burn a sign into her. With cigarettes. She probably died while I was finishing—I could hear her trying to scream through the gag—but it doesn’t matter. Because I had to make sure.

  Nothing was ever in the papers about exactly how she died, but I know. I’m the only one who knows. Because it was me who beat her face in until those dirty whore-cunt eyes of hers were gone. Then I turned her over and used the same bat to open her skull, right down to the white stuff.

  That was the real last laugh. She thought I didn’t have any brains, so I beat hers in.

  I slid some of the paper across the slick surface of the table. It landed in front of Reedy. The autopsy photos. A perfect match to everything Thornton had just confessed to.

  “Copies of the police files,” I said. “The originals are still in their evidence locker. In storage. Cold-cased. The seals are intact.” I was just a messenger, describing the contents of the package I was handing over to its rightful owner.

  Reedy couldn’t help himself. “How could you possibly—?”

  “Trade secret,” I told him. And then Thornton came back on:

  I can’t say I’m proud of what I did. That’s not why I’m making this statement, or whatever you want to call it, now. That filthy whore made me into what I ended up being. Nothing. That’s what I ended up being. I was on the fast track, and she turned me into a loser.

  Those kids I used? I ended up blackmailing them. Right up to the time anyone sees this, they’re always going to believe that they’re killers. I told them that I had a tape…an audiotape. There never was any tape; it was all a bluff. But if you’re scared enough, if you feel guilty enough—or if you’re afraid of being caught—that bluff is always good for…for whatever you want.

  Where do you think I learned that trick? That’s right. Sweet little Melissa. She was the expert. Far as I’m concerned, I did the world a favor by taking her out. What I’m doing now isn’t for her. She’s probably in hell right this minute, sucking the Devil’s cock, saying, “Oh, that tastes so good, Daddy!” No, this is for the people I really wronged.

  What good is an apology now? Especially from a man who’s terminal? I’m not going to pay for what I did. But I don’t want anyone else to, either.

  I have to be back in the hospital in another couple of hours. Next time I leave, I’ll be in a box. A little box.

  I’m sorry about a lot of things. But what I’m sorriest about most is that I’ll never be able to watch that dirty little cunt die again. I still have the Polaroids I took. I’m going to burn them before I go back to the hospital, bring the ashes with me. In my will, I tell them to cremate me. And scatter my ashes with the ones from those pictures I took of her that night. So we can be together, forever.

  That’s all I have to say.

  The speakers went silent, but you could still see Thornton’s image on the screen. Lighting another cigarette, leaning back in his chair, like he’d just had a real good one, from a really experienced whore.

  “Well?” was all I said.

  Reedy made a crooking motion with his left forefinger. One of the mercs stepped over, handed me a big, soft-sided suitcase.

  “Want to count it?”

  “No,” I said. “I want to add to it.”

  “What?” Reedy snapped, both hands grasping the Mole’s special phone, as if I was going to try and snatch it back from him.

  “I brought you what I promised,” I said, hands open at my sides. “Walked into the lion’s den to do it. Am I lying?”

  All three shook their heads “no.” Reedy handled it nicely; Henricks went at it a little harder. Bender looked like one of those bobble-head dolls.

  “You can keep that phone,” I said. “The whole thing has been captured. You can transfer it to video. Right now, if you want; I’ll wait.”

  Reedy made another signal. One of the mercs—I knew he was a tech, because he wasn’t carrying—immediately ran over. He examined the phone, nodded. He moved rapidly back to a bank of equipment, plugged a thin cable into the phone, the other end into an adaptor, into which he plugged a much thicker cable, leading to a computer screen.

  “Just press ‘22’ on the phone,” I said.

  The tech did it.

  “When it’s rewound, the screen will flash red. Just hit ‘23’ and you can transfer.”

  It took a few minutes, but there was Thornton, on the tech’s computer screen, the terminal man, doing his thing.

  “You can keep these, too,” I said, tossing the rest of the police-file photocopies over to Reedy.

  “So the extra money would be for what exactly?”

  “Remember what Thornton called his statement?”

  “An apology?” Reedy said, angry at something, but I couldn’t tell what—he had a lot of choices.

  “A dying declaration,” I said. “To be legal, it has to meet two criteria. You know what they are?”

  “Why don’t you tell us?”

  “Sure,” I said. “One, it can’t be made under duress. Like, if someone had him wired to a source of electricity, and he was reading off a script, knowing one slip and he was going to feel real pain. Over and over, until he got it right. If a man did that, and later changed his story, well, it wouldn’t pass the first test.”

  “And the second?”

  “A dying declaration is only good if the person not only believes they’re dying, but…”

  Reedy nodded again. Another merc opened another suitcase. There was a lot more in there than the six I’d asked for. He counted it out, pointed at the over-the-shoulder canvas bag I’d used to bring in the Mole’s cell phone. I opened it—showed him it was empty—and he shoveled in the money.

  “There’s one more thing,” I said. “I’ve played this straight, right down the line. I hope you did, but I can’t be sure. You had me followed before. At least twice. I can’t have that.”

  “Nobody move,” Reedy ordered.

  “Yeah, that’s very nice,” I told him. “But it won’t do. That phone you’re holding? Keep holding it. You let me walk clear, no trail, no trace; I keep walking. And you never see me again.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Right. And when I’m sure, I’ll call you…on that phone. You pick it up, say whatever you want, just so I recognize your voice. Then, I’ll say, ‘Okay.’ And then we’re done. I’ll take care of the rest of what you just paid me for. If you’ve got any sense at all, you’ll leave me free to do just that.”

  “We have a deal,” Reedy said.

  I turned and walked out the door.

  On the way down the staircase, I passed a man dressed all in black. Not breathing.

  I guess the guy they’d stationed on the next landing never heard his partner go—he looked like he’d never seen it coming, either.

  As I walked out the front door, Clarence pulled up in my Roadrunner. Max would already be gone, along with the Shadows. The loudest sound was the blood pounding in my ears.

  Clarence handed me a cell phone. I motioned for him to get rolling, and I dialed the Mole’s device.

  “Already?” Reedy answered, no surprise in his voice that his staircase assassins had failed. “You see? I’m a man of my word, too.”

  I punched in “88.”

  The top of the building exploded into a raging fireball—the mercs must have been packing something heavier than the firearms I’d seen.

  The Plymouth blasted down the narrow corridor like it was trying for a ten-second quarter. I spotted a black blotch against the wall just a
head, screamed: “Stop!”

  The Plymouth’s four-piston calipers locked like an anchor in asphalt. I was out the door while it was still skidding.

  “Prof!” I screamed. The little man was lying with his back to the wall. His right thigh was torn so badly I couldn’t see anything but blood.

  I knelt next to him as Clarence ran up, pistol at the ready.

  “Get that car out of here, quick!” the Prof gasped. “Too big a target.”

  “Prof—”

  “I was inside, ’cross the way,” the little man said. He twisted his head at the building across from Reedy’s headquarters. It was just one story higher than the one I’d just left—the windows said it was some kind of factory, not for the executive class. “I was on full ghost, but the motherfuckers peeped me anyway. Must have had an electronic eye somewhere. I thought I’d got away clean, but they got a sniper on the top floor. Left corner window.”

  Pain flashed across his face. “They got ten, twelve men on that floor. Full gear. Probably be coming down this way any second.” A warrior’s grin drove the pain from his eyes. “If they got the balls—I fed them some lead before I fled. Now go!”

  “We will not—”

  “You hush, boy!” the Prof snapped at Clarence. “I’m done, but I can buy you time to get gone.”

  “Father…”

  The Prof’s eyelids fluttered. I took over. “Get the car around the corner, where the sniper can’t see it,” I snapped at Clarence. “Pop the trunk. Then get back behind the wheel. I’ve got this.”

  The Prof’s eyes came back to life. A bubble of blood was in his mouth from where he’d bitten into his lip to revive himself. “Do what I tell you, boy!” he barked, his iron voice too full of love to be disobeyed.

  A piece of the wall just above us came off. Never heard a shot—the shooter must be using a suppressor.

  “Cocksucker ain’t no Wesley,” the little man sneered. “I been laying here like a fucking bull’s-eye; he already missed twice.”

  I leaned close, needing to catch every word, but desperate to get to my car.

  “Honor thy father,” he whispered. “Call my name, son. My true name. Say it! Say it loud, so those whores know who’s gonna bar their door.”

  “John Henry!” I screamed, with all my strength. The war cry pulled the Prof back from the brink—I could see the blaze of golden fire flare in his all-seeing brown eyes.

  “Fetch me my hammer, son!” the little man commanded. “Time for me to drive some steel for real.”

  I was frozen—trapped between the two most compelling forces of my life.

  “Get gone, Schoolboy,” he assured me. “I’ll be waiting when you show up. Me and that hound of yours.”

  I kissed him. Another shot ripped the wall. I pulled a fistful of spare 12-gauge double 0’s from the Prof’s side pocket, dropped them by his side. Found his scattergun a few feet away, placed it reverently in his right hand…and ran for the corner.

  The trunk was open, but Clarence wasn’t behind the wheel. He was on one knee, his pistol out, a rabid dog on a gossamer leash. I’d told him to get around the corner, but that was as far as he was going.

  I grabbed the RPG, shouldered it, shouted, “Get ready to fly!”…and ran back the way I’d come.

  The Prof was still down, but his sawed-off was up. Waiting. The concrete was dark next to him, a spreading stain.

  He never saw me as I dropped to one knee, sighted, and let loose at the sniper’s roost, screaming “Die!” inside my heart, like I’d been doing since I was a kid. I could actually feel my hate raging inside that whistling warhead.

  Yitzhak’s man hadn’t been lying. I was still staring at what was left of the top corner of the building when the armored van wheeled up broadside, a string of killer wasps flying out of the gun slits, a buzzing fog of death for whoever wanted to come down that alley toward us.

  Gateman kept blasting, emptying clip after clip, covering Gigi as the giant lumbered out, so wrapped in Kevlar he looked like a moving boulder.

  He scooped up the unconscious Prof, draping some layers of bullet-blanket over him. The back doors opened. Gigi laid him down, ran around to the front door. Michelle was already in motion. She jumped into the back. I could see Gateman already had the tourniquet out just before the doors closed. I knew the morphine was next.

  I left the RPG where it was and sprinted down the alley. I stole a quick look over my shoulder. The alley was empty.

  Couldn’t face John Henry, could you, punks? My father’s too much man for every fucking one of you! I was sobbing with pride, moving faster than that rocket had.

  As I turned the corner, I yelled, “We got him! He’s in the van!” as I dove into the passenger’s seat.

  Clarence had the Plymouth on full-jet as I speed-dialed Claw’s last phone…the one with the yellow tape.

  “Count it,” I told Claw, three days later.

  “I don’t need to.”

  “I want you to.”

  He gave me an unreadable look, then opened the duffel bag, stacked the banded cash on the table in my booth at Mama’s. Took him a long time to count—he knew I wanted him to touch every bill.

  “There’s an extra—”

  “—share,” I finished for him. “The guy who was supposed to get it, he won’t be needing it.”

  “That’s the fucking truth,” the AB man said, grimly. “I did it plenty of times before. Inside, I mean—never on the street. Did it because I had to. I always stayed away from guys who liked doing it. But this time…”

  “I know,” I said. I held out my hand. He grasped it with the claw he’d used on Thornton. “You’re going to make it,” I told him. “The Prof knows.”

  “Is he going to?”

  “We do not know yet, mahn,” Clarence said. “My father is in a place where he is getting the best of everything, but we could not get him there immediately. We cannot visit. Every day, we wait. Every day, we pray.”

  He didn’t mention that it was going to take a big chunk out of our piece to cover the freight for this one. And cost a few doctors their licenses if they got caught.

  “I pray for him, too,” Claw said.

  Max bowed. Meaning: we didn’t care who or what Claw was praying to—we believed that he was.

  Mama came over to my booth. Handed Claw a Barnard mug.

  “What’s this?” he asked. It wasn’t a food question.

  “Old Chinese medicine,” Mama told him, her black-ice eyes unblinking. “Kill bad things inside.”

  Claw held her eyes as he drank it down.

  “Sure cure,” Mama said. “Need two cups.”

  “May I please have the—?”

  “When you come back,” she said. And walked away.

  “All we can do is wait?” Michelle said, floodlighting the truth none of us wanted to speak aloud.

  “If my father does not come back to us—”

  “He’s got the best,” I cut Clarence off. Meaning: there’s some things you can’t get revenge for, and if the Prof didn’t come back to us, it wouldn’t be due to malpractice. The sniper who’d shot our father was already nothing but tissue samples.

  “Maybe the Mole has something,” Michelle said, hopefully. “Something special.”

  “Couldn’t hurt to go ask, honey,” I told her.

  I finally said the first prayer of my life that didn’t ask for death. I couldn’t know if it would mean anything, but I had to say it. I would never disgrace my father by begging. But I could be a man and still say what I’d been saying ever since I could remember: “You owe me this.”

  Only, this time, I didn’t curse whoever I was talking to.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Andrew Vachss has been a federal investigator in sexually transmitted diseases, a social-services caseworker, and a labor organizer, and has directed a maximum-security prison for “aggressive-violent” youth. Now a lawyer in private practice, he represents children and youths exclusively. He is the author of numerous novel
s, including the Burke series, two collections of short stories, and a wide variety of other material including song lyrics, graphic novels, essays, and a “children’s book for adults.” His books have been translated into twenty languages, and his work has appeared in Parade, Antaeus, Esquire, Playboy, The New York Times, and many other forums. A native New Yorker, he now divides his time between the city of his birth and the Pacific Northwest.

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

  ALSO BY ANDREW VACHSS

  THE BURKE SERIES

  Flood

  Strega

  Blue Belle

  Hard Candy

  Blossom

  Sacrifice

  Down in the Zero

  Footsteps of the Hawk

  False Allegations

  Safe House

  Choice of Evil

  Dead and Gone

  Pain Management

  Only Child

  Down Here

  Mask Market

  OTHER NOVELS

  Shella

  The Getaway Man

  Two Trains Running

  SHORT-STORY COLLECTIONS

  Born Bad

  Everybody Pays

  Copyright © 2007 by Andrew Vachss

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pantheon Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Pantheon Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Vachss, Andrew H.

  Terminal: a Burke novel / Andrew Vachss.

  p. cm.

  1. Burke (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 3. Girls—Crimes against—Fiction. 4. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. 5. Extortion—Fiction. I. Title.