Down in the Zero (26 page)

"Sure."

"Just follow me." When she turned around, I could see her dark stockings had black seams. It didn't fit, somehow, didn't match the tightly controlled sway of her hips. She ushered me into a small, comfortable–looking room, offered me coffee. I passed.

"I'll be back as soon as he's ready," she said, stepping out of the room. I looked around, didn't see any ashtrays, took the hint.

Before I could really check out the room, she was back, her hand full of papers. "Will you come with me?"

I followed her down a corridor, around a right–hand turn, all the way to the end of the building. She stepped aside, making a graceful sweeping gesture with her hand. A man stepped from behind an antique desk to greet me, holding out his hand. I shook it—his grip was firm and dry. "Have a seat," he said, nodding toward a mahogany rocking chair canted at an angle in front of the desk. We sat down simultaneously and watched each other for a minute.

He was tall, slender, with a neat haircut of tight golden brown curls. His skin was almost the same color, eyes a pale blue. His features were fine, sharp–cut, a cross between handsome and exotic.

"Trying to figure it out?" he asked with a smile, showing perfect white teeth, leaning forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped.

"Genetics is too complicated a subject for me," I said.

Another smile. "I'll help you out," he said. "My mother was half Norwegian, half British. My dad was Samoan. They met during World War Two, on the island."

"Looks like the meeting was successful."

"They surely thought so. They celebrated their fortieth anniversary last year. What about you?"

"Me?"

"Well, Burke, that's an English name, isn't it? Or Irish? But your features are more…Mediterranean. Perhaps you have some Latin blood?"

"I don't know."

"You were never curious?"

"There's never been anyone to ask," I told him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"It's okay—I didn't come here to search for my roots."

"I understand." Therapist–speak, acknowledging aggression, mollifying it when it surfaces.

I let him stay uncomfortable for a minute, using the opportunity to look around the office. It was something out of the last century, all heavy dark furniture and paneling. The ultra–modern clock was the only discordant note, a duplicate of the one in Cherry's bedroom.

"Your message was a little unclear," he finally said. "If you'll tell me how…"

"I guess I'm a little unclear myself, Doctor. Mrs. Cambridge…you know her?"

"Yes. Quite well. She's been a patron of the hospital for years, serves on the board as well."

"Well, she was concerned about the suicides. Some of them were peers of her son. I'm not sure what I could do—this isn't exactly my usual line of work. But I thought, the least I could do was get an expert opinion."

"I see. About suicide, then?"

"About youth suicide in particular. What would make them do it? How come they seem to do it in clusters? Like that."

He leaned back in his chair, flicking one hand against the white turtleneck he wore under a camel's hair sport coat. "Tell me what your take on it is," he said. "It might be more helpful if I tried to fill in the blanks."

"Seems to me it's real hard being a kid. Not a baby, like a teenager, young adult, whatever. Hormones, peer pressure, uncertainty about the future, all kinds of messages about the environment, war, religion, society…tough to process. Kids are impatient, that's part of being one. They work hard at being cool, but they feel things real strong. And they don't get it… that death is forever."

"What do you mean?"

"It's like…they can experiment with dying. See if they like it. Try it on the way they do clothes. Kids don't see the future real well…mostly because they don't look. It's all
right now
for them."

"That's true enough. But most suicides have their root in depression."

"Lots of people get depressed."

"There are different forms of depression, Mr. Burke. Reactive depression … like being sad over some personal tragedy…cancer, flunking out of school, a death in the family. And there's a depression of the spirit too. A profound sadness, very deep. But some youth suicide is anomic."

"Anomic?"

"Simply put, it means having no special reason to live. Anomic suicides don't feel the same sense of loss the others do. It's more like an emptiness at the core. You see it a lot in borderline personality disorder…a sense of a void within yourself."

"Don't some of them just want to check out of the hotel?"

"I'm not sure I understand you."

"Life can be intolerable, all by itself. It's not so much that there's a better place, just that this one's no good. You see it in prison, sometimes."

"You worked in a prison?"

"I was in one. More than one."

"Oh. Did you ever think about suicide?"

"Not then. Not for those reasons. But there's a…Zero, you know what I mean? A deep black hole you can dive into. Where people all go when they die."

"People don't
go
anywhere when they die. A person's spirit lives past death. That's as close to them as you can get…you can't join them."

"I know."

"But you've…thought about it."

"Yeah."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

I felt a twig snap in the jungle of my mind—the enemy flirting with the perimeter, closing in. "No," I said. "I'll deal with it—it'll pass."

"It always does?" he asked, leaning forward.

I nodded, holding his eyes, wondering how he knew. I moved to deflect the probe, going on the oblique offensive. "The kids who killed themselves, they were all treated here?"

"I guess it's no secret," he said. "But literally hundreds of young people have been treated here. We've already pulled their records and I can assure you of this much…there is no common denominator among them psychiatrically, none. They presented with different behaviors, their diagnoses were not similar… although depression was a factor in most. Therapeutic modalities varied according to their individual needs. Some were drug or alcohol abusers, others abstained. Some had gender identity problems, sexual or romantic issues. Others did not. Some were discharged to individual treatment, some to a group, some with a pharmacological regimen. Some had supportive, caring parents. Some had parents I would characterize as downright abusive. Emotionally abusive, certainly. There was no similarity in EEG …" He paused, looking to see if I was following him. I nodded, encouragingly.

"Some had apparently good peer relationships," he continued. "Some were quite isolated. And there's no question but that patients with almost precisely similar profiles were discharged without incident."

It had the air of a prepared speech, but he delivered it as though he was doing the work as he went along. "I guess you're way ahead of me, Doctor," I said.

"I don't think it's a question of that, Mr. Burke. Suicide prevention is like all other forms of viable therapy—it requires participation for its success. The patient has to
engage
in treatment, not just passively accept it. Mechanical compliance never works. The problem is, unlike any other form of mental illness, we don't have the opportunity to interview the patient once they've made their decision."

"Don't some make suicidal gestures?"

"Yes, and some have suicidal ideation we can pick up early. But the truth is, if they decide to kill themselves, there is literally no way to stop them."

"I know," I said, thinking of all the dead prisoners who defeated a suicide watch, how easy it was. "How long did it take?"

"Take?"

"From the time they were discharged."

He nodded thoughtfully, tapping his long, slender fingers on the desk top. "That's the wild card," he said. "They all killed themselves within ninety days of being discharged."

"Every one?"

"Yes. Every one. I've gone back over our screening mechanisms, especially our pre–discharge summaries. If they were carrying that virus, it seems we should have seen it. I'm telling you this in confidence. It disturbs me, but we're no closer to an answer."

"Maybe there isn't any," I said.

"Maybe not," he replied. "But we're not going to stop looking."

I
hate the idea of "vibes." The only time I saw an aura in my life was around the face of an intern as I was coming out of a concussion. Turned out it was the broken blood vessels in my eyes. But…

I know freaks. I know how they hunt. I can track their spoor through the best camouflage, the heaviest perfume. I'd been prepared for Barrymore to be…something like that. And he was slick, all right. Sharp, on the job, focusing in. He had the best psychologist's mind— telling you he didn't exactly know your secrets, but, whatever they were, he'd work something out. They can't teach that. Top professional interrogators all have it—they can open a vein with their soft voices, probing around until they find the carotid, pinching it just enough to let you know what they
could
do.

Maybe I was slowing down. Getting old. Maybe the Zero was pulling me, tunneling my vision. But…

Barrymore didn't seem as though he was lying. He didn't waste time with layering a glop of thick–troweled "concern" on me. Kids killed themselves—he didn't deny it, didn't minimize it. It seemed like some piece of him really wanted to know. But…

That clock in his office bothered me. Maybe Cherry gave them as gifts to her friends. Maybe that was part of her patronage.

But why would the digital window be set the same way hers was… to three hours ahead? That would be the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

Soon as I got back, I pulled the pistol out of the Plymouth. Not to switch it to the Lexus again—I wanted it close at hand.

I
t wasn't until I heard some radio announcer blathering about how it was a beautiful summer Saturday that I paid attention to what day it was. I steered the car toward Fancy's.

She wasn't home. I turned to leave just as her black Acura sailed into the drive and nose–dived to a skidding stop. She bounded out, running toward me.

"Burke! Wait!"

I stood where I was. She started to run to me, stopped suddenly, charged back to her car. She opened the door, reached behind the back seat, and came out with a big white box in her hands.

"Come on inside," she said, as soon as she got close. "I got it."

I followed her inside. She was wearing her tennis outfit, a white sweatband around her forehead. "Take a look," she said, handing me the box.

red knitted waistband and matching collar. The back was blank, a broad expanse of white, just waiting for a billboard. On the front, right over the heart, a name in red script.

Sonny
.

"TKO in the first round," I told her.

She threw me a "What the hell are you talking about?" look.

"It's just right," I explained. "Exactly what the kid needs," I told her, kissing her just to the side of her mouth. "You did great. How much was it?"

"Couldn't it be my gift too, Burke? I think it's so great he's going to be doing something…for him
self
, you know?"

"We'll split it," I told her. "How much?"

"Well, it was a rush job. And I really had to stay on their case. I know it's his right size… I got one of his jackets from—"

"How much, Fancy?"

She shifted her feet, like a guilty little girl. "About three hundred."

"Jesus!"

"Well, you said—"

"It's okay, girl," I said, reaching in my pocket. I handed her a yard and a half, thinking she didn't care enough about money but she sure knew other people did. A sweet and classy thing for her to do. For her to feel.

"You really like it?" she asked.

"He'll get pre–orgasmic just putting it on," I assured her.

"Ummm…"

"Never mind, bitch. You coming to the races?"

"Oh, could I?"

"Sure. Don't you want to see how he likes the jacket?"

"Yes. But I didn't want to—"

"You won't. How about if you keep it with you? Until then? I don't want him to see it up front."

"Okay. Uh…Burke?"

"What?"

"I got you something too."

"Fancy…"

"Just wait, all right? Come on out back. To the greenhouse. It'll look better there." She held out her hand, then pulled me along like a kid wanting to show off a school project. "Close your eyes and hold out your hand," she said as soon as we went into the greenhouse. I gave her a look, but went along. "Not that one," she said, pushing my left hand away, taking my right. I felt her run her fingers gently over my hand, exploring.

"What are all these little white scars?" she asked. "Around these two knuckles?"

"I broke it open once."

"How?"

"I hit a brick wall. Hard."

"Oh God! Because you were angry?"

"Because I missed—the other guy ducked."

"Ugh! Well, this will make it look better. Hold still."

I felt her slip something on my right ring finger, kept my eyes closed as she turned my hand back and forth. "Look!" she said.

The ring was heavy, a soft, dull silver–gray. Platinum, I guessed. Supporting a fat, glistening diamond set in its center.

"Damn!"

"You like it, honey?"

"I…don't know
what
to say. It's a monster."

"Just over two carats. I put a string around your finger while you were asleep."

"Fancy, something like this must have—"

"So what? It's my money. I want you to have it. You don't wear any jewelry…at least I've never seen any.

"It…wouldn't go with what I do."

"That's not it, is it? Not really. It's like the tattoo—you don't want to mark yourself. You don't want people to know anything about you just by looking."

"Maybe."

"Well, this is just
like
the tattoo, honey. The one you gave me. You can try it. And you can always take it off, yes?"

"Yeah, but…"

"You're worried that it would make people…greedy?"

"No. Hell, it's so big, it doesn't look real. Any decent mugger would take it for C.Z."

"C.Z.?"

"Cubic zirconia. Man–made."

"Not a chance. Here—hold it up to the light."

It was like someone put a stick of dynamite inside a rainbow and set it off—the colors exploded in lancing shafts of brilliance. I held it almost at arm's length, hypnotized by the icy flames.

"See the fire?" she whispered. "The fire inside?"

"There's no fire inside," I told her. "That's a myth. Diamonds don't have any light of their own. They bend the light—that's why they don't work in the dark."

"I don't get it."

"Only living things have light," I said. Thinking:
Living things have dark, too.

B
ack inside, on her couch, shades drawn. "Do I smell…musty to you?" she asked, leaning close.

"You smell like a lot of perfume."

"I know. I was trying to cover it up."

"What?"

"I didn't want to take a bath. Like I always do. Soaking in the tub. I was afraid it would come off…the tattoo."

"It'll come off eventually, no matter what you do."

"I know. But it worked. Already. It made Charm crazy. Early this morning, when she came over."

"I don't get it."

"Remember when you met her? How I was sitting out back with my skirt up? The look she gave me? I told you, that look wasn't about me, it was about you. I hate that. She thinks she knows everything about everybody."

"It bothers you so much, that Charm would think I'm a trick?"

"Not just that. I mean, it's bad enough, she would think that. Like I couldn't have someone unless I…dominated them. You understand?"

"That nobody would want you unless you did a domina routine? That's insane, Fancy You're a beautiful woman, and you—"

"But she knows me. She knows I don't have sex. I have…male friends. But they're friends, you know? I have a good friend, Reggie. He's gay, but he doesn't flame—you'd never pick him out of a crowd.
That
doesn't bother Charm."

"Because she knows you don't have sex with him?"

"Because she knows
about
him, okay? She knows the handle. What buttons to push."

"And you didn't want her to know mine?"

"She
doesn't
know yours, does she? I let her see it. The tattoo. Not up close, just enough. I let her stay here, right where you're sitting. I went back to the bedroom, like I was in the middle of changing clothes. I knew she'd follow me. She saw it. Asked me what that was, on my butt. I just told her, 'Never mind.' Then I kept getting dressed. I put on a thong under my skirt. Instead of underpants. She told me it looked slutty—I should put on something nicer. I told her, I was following orders. Your orders. It got her real upset. She asked me, was I working as a switch now. Flipping it around. I told her, I wasn't working at all— you were my boss. All the time."