Sacrifice (12 page)

63

W
e found a bench in Grand Central, a half hour before the Albany train was due. Doc had been the prison shrink back when I was Upstate on my second bit. The better class of cons, hijackers, thieves, the professionals, we all liked him. You couldn't gorilla him out of medication and he wouldn't write you a phony rehab statement for the Parole Board like the wet–brain we had in one of the federal pens, but he was stand–up all the way. I remember once, a young white dude, he climbed onto the tier railing, started screaming he was going to take the dive, check out of the hotel for good. Some of the cons, they shouted at him, go ahead and jump, motherfucker, don't be talking about it, do it. Cheered him on. Some of us just watched. The guards too. Doc shoved his way through the crowd on the ground floor, talking softly, urgently up to the guy, telling him it could be fixed, whatever was wrong. But the youngster took off, and he couldn't fly. The
sound
when he hit the floor…first the
whump!
of his body, then the crack of his skull. One–two. A piece of his brain jumped around on the concrete, still full of electricity, looking for answers.

Doc ran T–groups for the rapists. I was typing reports in his office once, scamming with both fingers, hunting and pecking a go–home for a guy who'd paid me the usual twenty crates of smokes. Doc came in, face all red. He's a medium–sized man, husky, big chest, thick wrists. Hair cropped short, wears glasses.

"You give the skinners some new insights today, Doc?"

"The group is done, Burke."

"How come?"

"Because I plain hate the slimy motherfuckers, boss. They ain't sick, they're mean. They didn't teach me that part in medical school."

I liked him from then on. Once saw him go right into a cell with a con who'd ripped the toilet loose from the wall, he was that far out of his mind. And Doc talked him quiet. Saw him stop the screws from whaling on some poor bastard who'd just
stopped
—wouldn't
move, gone catatonic. Now Doc runs the whole show for the State, manages all the joints for the criminally insane.

Sophie did her time in the psycho ward. She didn't start out there, but they told her what a ticket cost and she bought one. Bit off one of her own nipples and spit it out the cell bars. Doc ran a bunch of brain scans on her, figured her for some kind of seizure disorder. Started her on the medication, and Sophie was coming back to the world. But she terrorized the joint—when she went off, she didn't feel pain. But she sure handed it out. Doc found out she'd had a daughter. Kid would be about fourteen, wherever she was. Asked me to find her. Bring her to the joint, let her mother see her.

Took me almost a month, but I found the kid. On her knees in an alley, waiting for the next trick, not even bothering to get up while her pimp negotiated price with me. I paid the pimp what he was due, brought the kid to Lily. After a while, I took her up to see Sophie, like Doc wanted.

At first, Sophie didn't seem to know her. Then her eyes snapped open. She lunged at me, screaming. Doc had the hypo ready.

"It was worth a try," he said, later.

The little girl's okay now. Maybe she'll see her mother again. On Visiting Day.

Some of the little girls don't make it. Louisa looked up at me from her hospital bed. Sixteen, she was. Huge eyes in what was left of her face. The lost child had turned one too many car tricks. Bad skin and weak bones, held together with scabs and scores. Dying now, and she knew it.

"Anything I can do?" I asked her. "Anything you want?"

She turned her skeleton's face to me, no–soul eyes on the medical chart clipped to her bed. Where her death sentence was spelled out. AIDS. "I'd like my father to fuck me. Just one more time."

She died before she could say his name.

64

T
he train came in, only about ten minutes late. I took Luke's hand. If he bolted in that place, I'd never catch him. I wished Michelle was with us.

Doc had a dark blue Lands' End canvas bag slung over one shoulder, nothing else. He wasn't planning to stay. We shook hands.

"Doc, this is my friend Luke. Luke, this is Doc."

The boy stuck out his hand, clasped his left hand over Doc's right as they shook. The way I'd done.

The Bronx Zoo is nice and quiet during the weekday. Luke loved it all: the bears, the monorail that ran through a replica of an Asian forest, the jungle cats. I filled Doc in while the kid happily took a camel ride.

"Luke's video–phobic, went rigid when he saw a camera. Don't know much about his parents—a black–market adoption. He killed his baby brother, stabbed him to death. His eyes roll up sometimes. He loses time. In a foster home, he strangled a baby. Doesn't know anything about it. Or the stabbing, either. Genius IQ. Yesterday, he was a baby girl for a while. Doesn't remember that either. The DA knows, wants him to come in. We've only got a little time."

"Who's the DA? Maybe I can talk to him."

"Wolfe. From City–Wide."

"Forget it. Her crew accounts for half the rapist population in my joints."

"I know. I'm not looking for a play from her."

"What do you need me for? You know what's wrong with the kid as well as I do."

"I told you, Doc. The girasol."

Luke climbed off the camel, beaming. We took him to the reptile house. "Think he'll like the chameleons?" Doc asked.

"He doesn't know," I said.

"Don't be so sure," Doc said, watching the boy.

65

T
he Plymouth poked its way through Hunts Point, heading for the Mole's junkyard.

"Remember Elroy?" I asked Doc.

"Sure. Who could forget him? A rich fantasy life don't make you crazy, but Elroy flirted with it pretty good."

"He's writing a book."

"Why not, hoss? Probably make him rich."

Luke sat between us on the front seat, his hands on the padded dashboard. "You like dogs?" I asked him.

"Some dogs," he said, wary.

"These are wonderful dogs," I promised him. "You'll see."

I stopped the Plymouth at the gate. Waited while Terry came to open it. Pulled inside. The pack swirled around the car. Simba leaped lightly onto the hood, peering in at us through the windshield.

"Is he a wolf?" Luke asked.

"I don't know what he is. But he's the best at it."

Terry came around to the window. He'd been pulled loose from a kiddie pimp in Times Square by Michelle. A war–zone adoption, and Terry was her child. Hers and the Mole's.

"The Mole says to take you back in the shuttle," he said, pointing to an old Jeep, cut down so it had a flatbed rear. We climbed out. Followed Terry through the pack, climbed aboard.

He drove expertly, negotiating the minefield like it was a post–apocalypse gymkhana. Luke's eyes widened—this was wilder than the safari ride at the zoo. We pulled up in a clearing next to the Mole's bunker. The resident lunatic was nowhere in sight. I looked a question at Terry. "Mole won't be around unless you need him, okay?" he answered. "You can work downstairs."

66

L
uke's eyes swept the area. The dog pack had reassembled, sitting patiently. Abandoned cars, interwoven with huge pieces of machinery, had rusted into a permanent necklace, blocking any view of the outside. Behind the necklace, a chain link fence topped with razor wire. Dots of firelight on the surrounding flatlands, sounds of diesels chugging past, a siren cut through, faded. The tip of the world. Junkyard or graveyard. The boy took it all in, observing and calm. Interested, not curious.

I started toward the bunker. "Come on, Luke. Let's go downstairs, so we can talk."

The boy stiffened. His little face went rigid, skull showing under the soft skin.

"Basement?" he said, like he didn't have enough air. "Basement?"

"Oh shit," Doc said, moving back to give the boy room.

Terry stepped forward. "It's
not
a basement, pal. Who said that? We don't have basements here. It's safe here, Luke. Burke's going to. the cave. A
real
cave, like in the jungle. It's where we go when there's trouble. They can never find you there."

"Cave?"

"Sure. It's fun. We have all kinds of neat stuff there. Want me to show you?"

"I…don't know."

"Well, you don't
have
to go. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. Not here. This is
my
house, see? And you're
my
friend."

"Friend?"

"Sure, my friend. Like I said. I protect my friends, and they protect me. We protect each other. If bad people come around here, we know how to fix them. Fix them real good, I promise."

"Fix them?"

"Sure," Terry said, kneeling next to the boy, not touching him. "Simba!" he called.

The tawny monster bounded into the clearing, ears tipped forward, bushy tail curling up over his back. Terry made a circle gesture with his hand, and the beast whirled in his tracks, facing me and Doc, standing between Terry and Luke.

"Who's in charge here?" he asked Luke. "Me or Burke?"

"Burke is the man," Luke said, more life in his voice now, reasonable.

"And I'm the kid, right?"

Luke nodded.

"Simba, watch!" Terry snapped.

A low warning growl from the beast. He backed up until his tail was brushing Terry, magnificent head swiveling on a narrow arc. Me to Doc, Doc to me.

I took a tentative step forward. Simba lunged at me, blood–ugly snarl from deep inside him. I stepped back. The other dogs made pack–noises behind me—I didn't turn around.

"Simba's
my
dog. Mine and the Mole's. He loves us. Nobody hurts us here. Nobody."

"Would he hurt Burke?"

"He'd kill him," Terry said, matter–of–fact, patting the dog on his shoulder. "Or anybody else."

Luke's little hand reached out, touched the dog. Simba watched us.

I knew better than to say anything.

67

"C
ome on, Simba," Terry said. He walked to the bunker, Luke right next to him. All three of them disappeared inside.

I walked over to where they'd been standing. Sat on one of the cut–down oil drums the Mole uses for outdoor furniture. Doc took a seat next to me. I lit a smoke.

"Got another one of those?"

"I thought you quit."

"This is one of those times, hoss."

I handed over my pack, cracked a wooden match for him.

"We almost blew it, partner."

"I know."

"Damn! How'd that kid…Terry…how'd he know what to say?"

"It's what his mother said to him—when she brought him here. His real mother, not the bitch who birthed him. He was a sex rental when he was younger. They can smell it on each other."

"Yeah. They're brothers…"

I dragged deep on my cigarette, watching the dog pack. "You got any doubts?" I asked him.

"No. Neither do you. So what am I doing here?"

"Diagnosis."

"Bullshit. You do diagnosis as well as I do. Probably better. Never met anyone who could spot a freak like you—you got a built–in detector. And I can't treat him in one session."

"There's a piece missing, between diagnosis and treatment. We know what he is—we don't know why."

"You don't mean why, hoss…you mean who."

"Yeah. That's your piece."

"And then…"

"That's mine."

68

S
imba came out of the bunker first, Luke right behind him. Then Terry.

"Burke, it's great down there!" Luke greeted me.

"Yeah? What'd you see?"

"A laser. A real laser! It cuts right through steel. And an earthquake machine…wow!"

I didn't ask him whether he was talking about the Mole's seismograph or the panel of buttons that would launch big pieces of the junkyard like NASA.

"You ready to go to work now, kid? In the cave?"

"Sure! Can Simba come too?"

I caught Terry's eye. He stepped in next to Luke. "Simba can't come, pal. He's got to go on patrol. Make sure everything's safe. But I'll come with you," his eyes daring me to refuse.

"Okay," Luke said.

Simba trotted off. I led the way downstairs. I sat down on a stool next to the Mole's workbench. Doc pulled up the ottoman to the old leather chair, made himself comfortable. Luke took the armchair, Terry standing next to him, his hand on the smaller boy's shoulder.

Underground. Diffused, natural–sunlight quartz lighting. The industrial ionizer gave the air a fresh, just–after–the–rain smell. Faint hum of machinery. A panel of LEDs blinked a message only Terry and the Mole could understand. Luke gripped the arms of the chair.

Doc started talking, low, soft tones. Just about anything, engaging, drawing Luke along. The kid grew less and less guarded…flashing, showing his brilliance, giggling happily when he solved math problems in his head. "You know what this is?" Doc asked, taking a vitreous stone out of his pocket. It was attached to a thin platinum chain.

"A gem?"

"It's a girasol, Luke. A fire opal. Look closely, see the fire, see all the colors?"

The girasol moved in a gentle arc, back and forth. A liquid light show, soft, infinity–depthed. Fire in a teardrop.

The boy's eyes tracked the gem, like he knew what was coming. I breathed through my nose, shallow, measured breaths. Luke slumped in his chair, eyelids fluttering. Doc talked him to it, no pressure, telling the boy how sleepy he was getting.

"Sleepy…" Luke agreed, baby–voiced.

"Can I talk to the others?" Doc asked. "Can you let them come out for a minute?"

Luke's eyes rolled straight up into his head, only the whites showing. He blinked rapidly. "Baby, baby, baby." A toddler's voice, maybe two years old. Happy–babble. "Baby, baby, baby."

"What's the baby's name?" Doc.

"Baby. Baby Doll. Doll Baby. Sweet Baby." The boy's features softened, bloblike, drool in one corner of his mouth.

"Hello, Doll Baby. My name is Doc. Want to be friends?"

"Baby, baby, baby…"

"Yes, you're a good baby. A handsome little boy…"

"She's a girl, stupid." My eyes flicked up to Terry, but he hadn't spoken—standing there, mouth wide open, the color leached from his face.

"What's your name?" Doc asked Luke.

"Toby. Don't you recognize me? What's wrong with you?" Smartass kid's voice, maybe eleven, twelve years old.

"Hello, Toby."

"Yeah, hello. What do you want?"

"I want to talk to you…to talk to the others."

"One at a time, pal. That's the way it works. It's my time now."

"Do you come out often?"

"Whenever he's getting tricked. Luke's school–smart, but he don't know people. Not like me."

"And the baby?"

"That's Susie—she's a runaway. When they hurt us, she comes. Runaway. You can't hurt the baby—she doesn't feel things."

"Does that make you mad? When they hurt you?"

"I don't feel it. But when they do things, we remember. We remember. And…"

I was ready for it this time, saw the eye movement. The boy's face hardened, bone structure prominent, stretching the skin. "Blood," the skull said. It wasn't a human voice.

Doc didn't miss a beat. "Blood?" he asked.

"Baby blood. Clean new blood. Mine. I need it."

"Who are you?"

"Satan's Child. I am Satan's Child."

"What do you do?"

"I kill," the voice coming from Luke said.

"Who do you kill?"

"I kill babies. Little stupid babies."

"Why do you kill babies?"

"For their hearts. To eat their hearts."

"Why do…?"

Luke launched himself at Doc, humming a baby tune, his eyes screaming. One little hand in a fist, the other pushing against Doc's chest, steadying the target. Stabbing motions, the blows so powerful Doc grunted in pain. I grabbed Luke from behind, pulling—his muscles coiled like steel snakes. I twisted his left hand behind his back. It took all my strength to bend it up toward his neck, right to the breaking point. He kept humming his baby tune, stabbing. Doc fell to the floor, Luke still on top. Terry yelled something. Luke went rigid in my hands, a piece of iron. I put him back in the easy chair. He lay like a board, spine not touching the chair back.

We watched. Luke was drenched in sweat, red and white splattering his face from inside. He went limp. More time passed. Luke squirmed, shrugged his shoulders. Rubbed his eyes like he just woke up.

"Hello, Luke," Doc said.

"Hi. It's a great cave, isn't it? Terry was showing me just before you came down."

"Yes, it's a great cave. How do you feel?"

"I feel good. Can we go to the zoo again someday?"

Doc didn't answer him, watching.

"Can we, Burke?"

"Sure," I told him. Hands in my pocket so he wouldn't see them shake.