Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [77]
"You know what those are?" she asked.
"Yeah. Thorazine. Fifty milligrams."
"How come…?"
"When I was a kid…before I learned to keep inside myself…they used to give it to me."
"You were in a psychiatric hospital?"
I didn't like the sound of my own laugh. "I was in what they called a training school."
"You still remember…?"
I nodded, remembering it all, saying nothing. It was always dark in there. The gym was fear, the shower room was terror. Nothing clean, nothing private, nothing safe. Some kids ran. They brought them back. Some found another way to go—a swan dive to the concrete, a belt tied around a light fixture. Viciousness was worshiped, icy violence was God. When the rage–dam broke inside me, I didn't know when to stop. Stabbing inmates was okay, but not fighting a guard. So they went to the Thorazine. Chemical handcuffs. They didn't work the same on everyone. This one boy in there with me, the stuff worked on him like an anabolic steroid—he raged against the chemicals inside his body so his life was an isometric exercise. It got so he could crush a man's life with his hands. And that's what he did. Me, all I wanted was to learn to ride the storm.
The prisons were full of men they trained in those training schools. By the time I went down, I was ready.
Blossom was quiet, pawing through her supplies. Then: "Here it is." Holding up a stainless–steel needle, encased in plastic.
"Here's what?"
"Secobarbital sodium. Like Seconal, you know what that is?"
"Sleeping pills."
"Like that, but this is damn near an anesthetic dose. It's in Tubex. One–shot needles, preloaded. Just inject them right into whatever the dog's going to eat."
"Is that enough?"
"There's a grain and a half in each cartridge. I've got four here. Enough for a whole kennel."
"How long would it take to work?"
"Depends. It has to go through the GI tract. He laps it right up, runs around some to get his blood pumping, maybe five, ten minutes."
"Okay. You got any chopped liver around?"
"Chopped liver?"
"Like you get in a deli. Never mind. I'll be back in a little while."
134
TWO MORE DAYS of working with the clips, trying to match an address for any of the "Family Reunified—Closed" cases with something close to one of the shootings.
Nothing.
135
TWO A.M., at the end of Matson's block. Lloyd at the wheel, Virgil and I in the back seat, me on the passenger's side.
"Tell me again," I said to the kid.
"I drove by last night. Like you said. The dog didn't do nothing. So I got out of the car, walked up to the fence. He started barking like all holy hell, snapping at me. I get in, drive away. Wait ten minutes. On my watch. I drive back, he's quiet again. Simmered right down."
"Okay. Put it in gear, cruise by slow. You see anyone, see another car, just keep on going."
Virgil gave him a couple of hard pats on the shoulder and the Chevy rolled forward.
No lights on in the house. The dog's sleek shape loomed in the shadowed front yard. Lloyd slowed to a stop. I got out, the softball–sized glob of hamburger with its chopped–liver core in my gloved hand. The dog hit the fence, snarling. I slapped the meat against the chain link with an open palm, feeling his frenzied gnawing against my glove as I stuffed it through. The dog grunted his rage, clawing at the fence.
I backed away, jumped in the car. No lights went on in the neighboring houses—they'd probably heard all this before.
136
WE GAVE IT fifteen minutes. The dog was lying in the front yard. He didn't stir as we approached. Virgil worked the bolt cutters and the padlocked chain gave way. We were inside. I watched the dog with my pistol. He didn't watch back.
The Nazi had a lock on his back door even I could open. Door chain lasted one snip of the bolt cutters.
We reached inside our navy watch caps, pulled down the pantyhose masks, adjusted our eyes to the gloom. No carpet on the floor,