Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [75]
"Burke…if he's in there…if you're so sure he's in there…why do you look so depressed?"
"There's so many…so many. I can't bring it down too tight. I could miss him if I do. These reports are full of busted–up babies. Burned, beaten, crippled. Sexually abused. And every one of these files, they sent the kid home again. Everything all right again."
"And you're sad because you're not sure he's in there."
"I'm sad because …of what else is. All the success stories."
"You sound so evil when you say that. Like there's a chill in here."
"How should I sound?"
"I hate him too, honey. He killed my sister. But that boy…he has to be so…sick."
It felt like I was being baited. Goaded into something. "You think he needs a psychiatrist?" I asked her.
"Don't you?"
"No."
125
IT WAS TEN o'clock that night before I finished. Counted the files I had set aside. Almost two hundred. I closed my eyes. Went down inside. Where only the devil knew my secrets.
Called his name.
Wesley. The monster who signed his suicide note with a threat—I don't know where I'm going, but they better not send anyone after me.
"Where is he?" I asked the monster.
"Out there."
"Can I find him?"
"He can find you," the monster said, in his dead–machine voice. "Fire works."
I knew. He wasn't talking about the Fourth of July.
126
A HAND on my chest. Foggy voice. A strangled scream. Blossom's face inches from mine, the pink glow gone dark. My fingers locked around her throat. The soft flesh turned to acid—I whipped my hand away.
Later, on the couch, her head in my lap. Cold water dripping onto my thighs from the ice pack she was holding against her throat.
"I never saw anything move so fast. It was like a steel vise…" Her voice was raw, raspy.
"Don't talk."
"Burke…"
"I'm sorry. I was somewhere else. Didn't know it was you."
"It's okay. I thought you were asleep. I just wanted you to come to bed."
"Close your eyes, Blossom. Go to sleep."
She found my hand, separated the fingers like she was counting them. Put my thumb in her mouth, curled onto her side, closed her eyes.
I felt the cold go through me, reaching where the ice pack couldn't touch.
127
VIRGIL AND I spotted the Blazer in the parking lot. Matson was sitting in his spot. Two guys with him. Looked like he did: mean–eyed, blotchy–faced, chinless. The Master Race.
We sat down.
The fashion show went on behind us.
Matson leaned forward. "You got yourself quite a background, friend."
"Satisfied?"
"Yeah. What was it like?"
"What was what like?"
"Africa. I thought of doing that kind of work myself. Merc stuff. Pay's good?"
"Good enough."
"Must be heaven. Killin' niggers and gettin' paid for it too."
One of his boys laughed. I swiveled my head slowly, catching his eyes. Weasel. He stopped laughing, waiting for his cue, not knowing the script.
"You go by Mitchell Sloane?" Matson asked. So he wrote down the Lincoln's license number. Or Revis was more helpful to him than just running my prints.
"I go by a lot of things."
"Yeah. Yeah, I understand. Where'd you hear I was in the market for some hardware?"
"Around. I heard you were a serious man. Had serious business."
He nodded sagely, basking in the praise. "That's the truth. Lots of groups like ours around, but we're the real thing. Everybody knows that. It ain't just the niggers, you know. Maybe it ain't as bad as Jew York yet around here, but we're workin' on it. Got homos in the government, Jew–bastard IRS on our necks, no room for a white man to breathe anymore."
"That's what I sell. Breathing room."
"I got you. You know, a nigger once came in here. Right in the fuckin' door. Like he owned the place. Lickin' his ape lips at the girls. Now that don't happen no more. The word's out. We've been growing. Slow but steady. Have to be real careful, who you let in."
"Yeah, the feds are everywhere."
"Undesirables too. You hear about Patterson's crew, down in Crown Point? They had a guy in there, ranking member and all. Turned out he was a Jew. Patterson's a fuckin' fool—he shouldn't be in a leadership position