Dead and Gone - Andrew Vachss [36]
He backed off then, playing them expertly, like a professional angler giving a fish some line. He asked them questions they should have known the answers to—the penalties for driving under the influence, for instance—then provided the answers when they dropped the ball.
The finale was a pair of goggles he called “Fatal Vision.” He told the class the glasses would show them what the world looked like through a drunk’s eyes. One kid volunteered to try them out. Clancy walked him through the whole routine—fingertips to nose, walking a straight line—and the kid flopped like a fish on a pier. Then he asked the kid some simple problems—counting backwards, naming the last four presidents—and you could see the kid struggling before he came up with the responses. “Easier with your eyes closed, right?” Clancy asked him.
“Right!” the kid agreed.
“Some drunks try to drive that way,” he said, harshly, offering the kid a high-five. The kid missed by three feet and would have fallen on his face if Clancy hadn’t caught him. The class roared.
Clancy finished strong, telling them one truth after another. Some of them were going to drink. This wasn’t about preaching abstinence—this was about survival. When he stopped talking, the class was dead silent. “Scared Sober,” I thought, sarcastically. But then they broke out into spontaneous applause, their faces serious, some teary.
The teacher’s face was a study in surprise—these kids were way too cool to clap, especially for a cop.
The bell rang for the next class. Clancy was surrounded by students, all trying to tell him something. Or ask him something.
The teacher just watched, his mouth gaping.
“Does it always go like that?” I asked Clancy, watching as we drove through a neighborhood so lush it seemed to bloom in the dead of winter.
“Pretty much,” he said, smiling. “It’s more art than science, and there’s horses for courses. Some of the guys, they can work anywhere. Others, you have to pick their spots. But I’ve never done a class where I didn’t get some response. Some … engagement.”
“You really believe in this, don’t you?”
“It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done in my life,” he said, conviction braided through his words. “I took out a second on my house to keep the program going while we wait on the foundations.”
Wolfe had set this whole thing up like a blind date. I didn’t know what she’d told Clancy about me, but she’d told me a lot about him. A karate expert, he’d once taken down two armed robbers without drawing his gun. He was the man when it came to coaxing confessions, practicing a different martial art there, combining his Irish charm with a cobra’s interior coldness. He’d broken dozens of major cases, earned enough commendations to fill a file cabinet, graduated from the FBI National Academy. Gold medalist at the World Law Enforcement Olympics four straight times. Three kids, all top students.
“I get it,” I told him. Telling him the truth.
He gave me a look. Held it. Then nodded as if he was agreeing with a diagnosis. “What do you feel comfortable telling me?” he asked.
I knew we were done talking about his dreams. “I’m looking for a couple, man and wife. I’ve got an address.”
“You came all the way here to see if they’d be home?”
“No. They know something I need to know.”
“You carrying?” he asked abruptly.
“No,” I said, limiting my truth to handguns, not mentioning the Scottish sgian dubh—Gaelic for “black knife,” a weapon of last resort—in my boot. The knife was a thing of special beauty; a gift from a brother of mine, a nonviolent aikidoist who knows there are situations where a man needs an edge.
“What’s your cover?”
“I’m going to tell them I’m the law,” I said. “Federal. You know their kid was—”
“Yeah. It’s cold-cased now. But it’s not closed.”
“Right. Supposedly, the kidnapper made contact