“What does it matter?” I asked him.
“Matter? Nothing. I was simply explaining that I have no direct method of ascertaining whether your rather legendary commitment to vengeance is valid. Regardless, I am both invulnerable as to you and needful of your. . . services, for which I am prepared to pay. Or, at least, until you so adroitly pointed out your own uselessness, I was prepared to pay. I do assume your reputation as a man-for-hire is factual. . .?”
“Yeah. It is. But I’m no hit man. Wesley—”
“Wesley was a rank amateur,” he said, his tone sounding more human now, even through the mechanical barrier. “How he achieved such. . . immortal status is beyond my comprehension. I assume it was the rather theatrical way he elected to exit which retroactively amplified his rather pedestrian accomplishments as an assassin.”
“Amateur?” I taunted him. “Amateurs do things for fun. Like you do. Amateurs call it fucking ‘art.’ Like you do. Wesley, he got paid. And he never missed. You gave Wesley a name, you got a body,” I said, echoing the Prof. “The only body they never got was his.”
“Have you ever read any of Conan Doyle’s works, Mr. Burke? Sherlock Holmes, surely you are familiar with that fictional detective? Holmes was a self-described amateur. And, simultaneously, the king of his profession. Performing feats for compensation is not a higher art.”
“Maybe where you live,” I told him.
“Where I live. . . doesn’t matter. That I live is all that is of importance. Vital importance. I am Wesley now. His immortality is mine. I no longer require your services. Any works of art erected after Wesley’s demise which are attributed to him are, in fact, mine. When this ‘whisper-stream’ of yours speaks, as it will forever, every time it says his name, it will be me of which it speaks. Do you understand?”
“Sure. You’re gonna blow this building. After you get out. So everyone’ll say: That’s Wesley—he knows how to blow things up and still walk away. You’re an identity-thief.”
“My work was superior to his in every aspect!” he said, sharply. “His identity is mine, now. I have not ‘stolen’ it, I have ascended to it. And then transcended it. And you have, unwittingly, already identified my work. . . my recent work. . . as his. That is not theft, it is proper attribution. Anything less would be plagiarism.”
“How can you be sure I did that?” I asked him.
“Oh, I have no doubts,” he said. “Mr. Felestrone is proof enough of that.”
“How can you be sure?” I repeated.
“Pure art will out. Time is its only test. Axiomatically, I cannot personally verify such things. It is an act of faith.”
“And you did it all for art?”
“For my art. I do not fit any of those pitiful law-enforcement ‘profiles.’ I do not live to kill. In fact, I killed to live. . . although I do not believe you are capable of comprehending such a concept other than in the most elemental terms. No ‘motivation’ drives my work. The motivation is the work itself.”
“Bullshit,” I told him calmly.
“Surely you are not fool enough to believe you can anger me into accessibility, Mr. Burke? Am I supposed to rise to your transparent bait and physically attack you in some way? Your attempt is ludicrous. Do you know what an osmotic membrane is?”
“Yeah. A one-way barrier. You can cross over to the other side, but you can’t step back.”
“Ah. You surprise me. I would not have thought—”
“I did a lot of reading in prison,” I told him.
“Which apparently included a good deal of pop psychology,” he said dryly. “Nevertheless, this barrier—the one which separates us now—is, in fact, osmotic. You could enter the area I now occupy, if I so elected. See. . . this!” he said.
A yellow light suddenly blinked on to my right. It looked like it was floating in air.
“What you see is a projected beam. It will open the barrier between us.”
“A door in the Lexan?”
“If you will. I prefer my own analogy—it is more. . . applicable to the instant situation, especially given the wires embedded in the glass. Do you wish to come closer, then, Mr. Burke?”
“No,” I told him. “I’m fine right here.” I lit a cigarette, leaned back in my chair, blew smoke at the invisible ceiling.
“Then you wish to retract your absurd statements concerning my alleged ‘motivations’ for my art?”
“Sure,” I told him. “I’ll do that. I figure there’s a better way.”
“What are you—?”
“I know you,” I told him. I didn’t know if he could feel that truth—maybe it would just wash against the glass, never touch him. But it was all I had. I couldn’t see his eyes. A freak’s eyes always get soft and wet—sex-wet—when he talks about his fun. Wesley’s eyes were as dry as his bloodless heart—killing was work to him. “And I know you don’t want me going out and being your ‘agent,’ ” I sneered softly at him. “Once was enough. Now you want this all to vanish. Everything. You figured it out a long time ago. Immortality requires death. And that part you said I’d never understand. . . killing to live? I know who you killed to live.”
“Do you actually believe I—?”
“Why don’t you tell him?” I said, turning to Nadine. “It’s time now. You wanted this so bad. Now you’re here. Tell him.”
“I. . .” she started to speak, then stopped.
Velociraptor. A combination of crocodile and bird. Both survived. He claimed that for his own. Time to find out if he’d split or stayed mixed. It was all I had. I sucked the smoke deep into my lungs again, knowing it had to be perfect or I was done. “Go ahead. Tell him. Tell him the truth. . . Zoë.”
She gasped so hard her whole body shuddered in the chair. She got to her feet, shakily. Stood with her hands behind her back, one knee slightly bent. A little girl.
“You are my father,” she said into the darkness. “You gave me life. I waited for you. Inside. But I knew you would come for me someday.”
“You’re—” His voice cracked, clear even through the microphone.
“You never killed her at all,” I told him, flat, no more debating. “Not all of her. That last journal entry was as cute as it gets. You figured out Angelique was a multiple. And you knew why she was. But that wasn’t what did it. It was when she recognized you that everything. . . changed. Changed forever. You killed the alter. Killed Angelique. And left this other one behind. I don’t know how you did that, but. . .”
I let my voice trail off. Then I spoke right at Nadine’s back: “Where did you wake up?”
“I. . . don’t know,” she said, her voice still a child’s. “It was in. . . California, somewhere. The police found me. I was. . . they said I was. . . amnesic. They put me in a hospital. I never. . . They looked, but they never found. . . I was. . . adopted. Not really adopted. . . a foster home. They named me. Nadine. I was very. . . intelligent. But I couldn’t remember. I was. . . somewhere else. Inside. Waiting. I’m an architect. I knew I loved. . . design. And I hated men. I was never with a man. Ever. I. . . waited. And when my father started to. . . avenge. . . I felt the pull. I always. . . knew, I think. But not. . . I’m still not. . . I’m Zoë. Now. I am.”
The speaker spit out, “You could not. . .” but his voice trailed off.
“You know the truth,” I told him, calm and quiet and centered as deeply as I ever had been in my life. “You only killed Angelique. That’s when your art was done. When you found out the real reason why you did it. She taught you. She’s not lying. You are her father. But she was the one who gave you life.”
“My life is art. And my art is death.”
“Yes. And you’re done now. You’re Wesley. You can’t die. So you can’t stay either.”
“I know,” he said. A human voice now. He must have switched off the distorter in the microphone.
“Take Zoë with you,” Nadine begged him. “I wanted to go with you then. I can help you now. I can be with you. I don’t want to be here.”
She was crying then. I didn’t move, even when the cigarette started to burn the tips of my fingers.
“Come here, child,” he finally said.
Nadine walked forward. Touched the yellow button. And stepped into the darkness.
I heard a faint click as the Lexan door closed again.
I sat there, frozen, watching the barrier.
A white-orange fireball exploded in front of my eyes. The room rocked.
I got off the floor, surprised I was still there. I knew what was coming next. Wesley was going out again. The same way. I wondered how much time I had even as I ran toward the waiting elevator.
“Reprogrammed,” the maniac had said. I didn’t touch any of the buttons in the elevator. I climbed onto the railing and shoved the flat of my hand against the ceiling. The security panel yielded. I climbed out of the car and looked across. Empty black space. Sure—only that one car went to the secret top floor. But the blackness ahead of me wasn’t the Zero. There had to be other cars. I slipped the gloves onto my hands, wished for a flashlight. The stairway was sealed at the bottom. This way was my only shot. And a timer somewhere was ticking away my life. How much was left before he turned into Wesley for real?
I jumped, reaching out for the cable I couldn’t see. I hit it with my chest, grabbed on as hard as I could. Got a grip but it was too greasy—I lost it and started to free-fall. I. . . crashed onto the roof of the car below. Felt the wind go out of me. Didn’t fight it, waiting even as my mind screamed the opposite command. I got a breath. Clawed around frantically until I found the panel’s handle. Yanked it up and dropped inside. Stabbed the button for the ground floor, willing the damn thing to drop like a stone.
It opened into the lobby. I sprinted toward the thick glass doors and pulled with all my strength. Locked! Sure, the son of a bitch wouldn’t do anything without a backup plan. Alive, I could tell the truth. I pounded on the door. Useless. I looked around frantically, knowing it was coming and. . .
The night lit up. The quad beams of my Plymouth, aimed right at the door. I semaphored wildly. The Plymouth backed up, tires squealing, spun into a J-turn, and shot toward me, rear end first like they do in Demolition Derbies. I backpedaled toward the elevator as the Plymouth roared right up the steps and crashed into the doors, splitting them wide open. I ran for the passenger door, wrenched it open, and dove inside as the big car lurched forward, bouncing down the steps, fishtailing as it hit the street, then shot toward the FDR.
I looked over at the driver and caught Wolfe’s Satan-slayer smile. “Controlled collision,” she said. “The Mole wanted to work the lock, but the Prof said it was probably rigged. So we waited. When we saw you, it was time.”
“I. . .”
“I know you do,” Wolfe said, as the night behind us turned into flame.
It was probably getting light outside somewhere, but none of it penetrated into Mama’s.
“All she did was love him,” Wolfe said. “And he must have hated all the freaks, just like she did. Why didn’t he just go on and—”
“It was his choice,” I told her. “She knew his secret. She loved him for it, but he had no love left in him. He wanted to go, but he wasn’t going to leave anyone who would make excuses for him. You know how they talk about a choice of evils? He had all the choices. And evil was the one he chose.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Wolfe said. “I think he loved her. The only way he could.”
“He was just. . . what, then?”
“I don’t have a name for it.”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s gone now.”
“You’re not,” she said, leaning toward me, her hand on mine, gray eyes soft with something I’d never seen before. “And it’s your time now. Your time to choose.”
An excerpt from
DEAD AND GONE
by ANDREW VACHSS
Soon to be available in hardcover from Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.
You know what it takes to sit across the table from a man, listen to him talk, look into his eyes. . . and then blow his brains all over the wallpaper?
Nothing.
And the more of that you have, the easier it is.
“You pick a spot yet?” The voice on the cell phone was trying to come across as bored with the whole thing, but I could pick up little worms crawling around its edges. Impatience? Nervousness? No way to know for sure.
“No,” I told him. “And if I can’t find one in a few minutes, we’ll have to do it next time.”
“Hey, pal, fuck you, all right? There don’t have to be a next time.”
“Up to you.”
“Hard guy, huh? I guess that’s right—it’s not your kid.”
“Not yours, either,” I said, my voice level and unthreatening, sending my calmness out to him. “We’re both professionals—how about we just keep it like that? This is a trade. You know how trades work. Soon as I find a safe spot, I’ll pull in, just like we agreed, okay? We’ll hook up, do our business, and everybody gets paid.”
“You don’t find a spot soon, nobody gets paid.”
“I’ll get back to you,” I said, and killed the connection.
It had taken weeks to get this close. A missing kid. Too young to be a runaway, but there’d been no ransom note. Just a. . . vanishing. That was almost ten years ago. It wasn’t a media story anymore. The cops told the parents they were still looking. Maybe they were.
The parents were the kind of people the cops would put out for, that was for sure. She was a gynecologist; he did something in biochemistry. But they were also first generation Americans; Russians. So when they got a call from a man who spoke their language, a man who said he ran a “recovery service” on commission, they took their hopes and their fears to Odessa Beach. Not the one on the Black Sea, the one in Brooklyn.
In the Russian mob, even the grunts have a hierarchy. You can read their rank right on their bodies—the specialists mark themselves with prison tattoos. The symbols tell you who’s the thief, who’s the assassin, who uses fire, who does bodywork. But they didn’t have anyone who does what I do. So Dmitri, the boss, reached out across the border. To a Chinatown restaurant run by a Mandarin matriarch who trafficked in anything except dope and flesh. She didn’t sell food, either.
“Half a million dollars?” I asked her, seated in my booth in the back, the third bowl—of a mandatory three—of hot-and-sour soup in front of me.
“They say,” Mama answered. Meaning: she wasn’t endorsing it herself; she wouldn’t vouch for anyone involved at the other end.
“And a hundred for me?”
“For whole trade,” she said, reminding me that I hadn’t found this job on my own—they’d called her. The whisper-stream knows a phone number for me. After it bounces around the circuits, it eventually rings at one of the pay phones in the back of Mama’s restaurant.
“Six hundred,” I added it up. “And Dmitri, he’s going to taste too, right?”
“He say, same country, he help for nothing.”
“And you say. . .?”
Mama just shrugged. We’d never meet the parents. What they wanted was a middleman. The hundred large was all there was as far as we were concerned, no matter who else was getting what.
“Why come to me, then?”
“Cossacks know I find you. Say you know. . . these people.”
“You mean they think—?”
“Not same people. Those people.”
“Ah.” Sure. Who knew the freaks better? They raised me. Recaptured me every time I ran, aided and abetted by the only parent I ever had: The State. I learned from the freaks, did time with them. And, when I got the chance, I hurt some of them.
Never enough of them, though. Those scales would never balance.
Mama was silent, letting me decide. Work was money. This deal wasn’t a retirement-size score, but it was strong cash.
Any other circumstances, she would have been all over me to take it. Instead, she looked a question at me.
I knew what she needed to hear. “I can do it,” I told her. Meaning: I could trade cash for a stolen kid and just walk away. Keep it professional.
Mama gave me a sharp look, then nodded slowly.
Whoever they were, they knew their business. I was waiting at the corner they’d had the Russians send me to, standing next to a pay phone. It rang. I picked it up.
“You’re going to hear me say a 917 number. I’m only going to say it once. You walk away from that pay phone. Far away. When you get far enough away, you call the 917 number. Don’t bother writing it down—it’s going to disappear after this one call. That’s the way we’re going to work this, until we get it all sketched out. A new number each time, understand?”
“Yes,” I said, keeping it short. If he thought I was trying to prolong the conversation, he’d smell cop. And that would end it.
“You ready for the number?”
“Yes.”
He gave it to me. I shook my head “No!” at the men from Dmitri’s crew who’d been standing next to me and walked over to where my Plymouth was parked, keyed the ignition and took off.
I drove all the way out of Brighton Beach, one hand on the cell phone the Mole had built from spare parts around a cloned chip. As soon as I got clear, I punched in the number he’d given me.
“Go ahead,” is all I said.
“We’re not going to play around,” he told me. “The Russians, they’re already satisfied, understand? So don’t be asking any questions about the merchandise. All you and me have to do is figure out how to make the exchange.”
“Safest place is right out in public.”
“Safest for who, friend? I don’t think so.”
“Just tell me how you want to do it.”
Choice of Evil b-11 Page 33