Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Quotes
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Chapter 147
Chapter 148
Chapter 149
Chapter 150
Chapter 151
Chapter 152
Chapter 153
Chapter 154
Chapter 155
Chapter 156
Chapter 157
Chapter 158
Chapter 159
Chapter 160
Chapter 161
Chapter 162
Chapter 163
Chapter 164
Chapter 165
Chapter 166
Chapter 167
Chapter 168
Chapter 169
Chapter 170
Chapter 171
Chapter 172
Chapter 173
Chapter 174
Chapter 175
Chapter 176
Chapter 177
Chapter 178
Chapter 179
Chapter 180
Chapter 181
Chapter 182
Chapter 183
Chapter 184
Chapter 185
Chapter 186
Chapter 187
Chapter 188
Chapter 189
Chapter 190
Chapter 191
Chapter 192
Chapter 193
Chapter 194
Chapter 195
About The Author
Also By Andrew Vachss
Copyright Page
for
SHEBA
a warrior who fought blindness
until the last battle closed her eyes
if love would die along with death,
this life wouldn't be so hard
ACCLAIM FOR Andrew Vachss
"Burke is back, tougher than ever….Gritty….hard-edged."
—San Francisco Chronicle
"Vachss's characters are carefully sketched, the dialogue is sharp, and the driven Burke is a creature you can't spend enough time with. Many writers try to cover the same ground as Vachss. A handful are good. None are better."
—People
"As savage as Celine…As pure as Euclid."
—Newsday
"Burke is an unlikely combination of Sherlock Holmes, Robin Hood, and Rambo, operating outside the law as he rights wrongs…Vachss has obviously seen just how unable the law is to protect children. And so, while Burke may be a vigilante, Vachss's stories don't feature pointless bloodshed. Instead, they burn with righteous rage and transfer of degree of that rage to the reader."
—Washington Post Book World
"Andrew Vachss, a New York lawyer who specialized in the problems of child abuse, writes a hynotically violent prose made up of equal part of broken concrete blocks and razor wire."
—Chicago Sun-Times
"Strong, gritty, gut-bucket stuff, so unsparing and vivid that it makes you wince. Vachss knows the turf and writes with a sneering bravado….Burke prowls the city with a seething angry, almost psychotic voice appropriate to the devils he deals with ….Vachss is good, his Burke novels first-rate."
—Chicago Tribune
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
Bob Gottlieb
none better, ever
1
When you hunt predators, the best camouflage is weakness.
The E train screeched into Forty–second Street. I got to my feet, pulling slightly on the leather handle of the dog's harness. She nosed her way forward, wary. Citizens parted to let me pass. A black teenager wearing an oversized blue jacket with gold raglan sleeves braced one side of the doors with his arm, making sure they wouldn't close as I passed between them. "You okay, man. Step through."
My dark glasses had polarized lenses. The kid's face was gentle. Sa
d. Someone in his family was blind. I mumbled thanks, stepped off the subway car onto the platform.
I pushed forward on the harness handle, like shifting into gear. The dog headed for the stairs, waited for a clear path, then took me up along the rail.
On the sidewalk, I turned my face toward the sun, feeling the warmth. "Good girl, Sheba," I told the dog. She didn't react, a professional doing her work. I shifted the handle and she went forward, keeping me in the middle of the sidewalk. Away from doors that might open suddenly, maintaining a safe distance from the curb. I closed my eyes, counting steps.
Sheba halted me at the corner of Forty–fourth and Eighth. She didn't watch the traffic signals any more than the other pedestrians did. It's the same rule for everyone here—cross at your own risk.
I made my way carefully along the sidewalk, counting steps, guided by the dog. Found my spot. Tugged slightly backward on the handle—Sheba sat down. I unwrapped the blanket from around my shoulders, knelt, and spread it on the ground. When I stood up, Sheba lay down on the blanket, made herself comfortable. I opened my coat. Inside was a cardboard sign, held around my neck with a loop of string. White cardboard, hand–lettered in black Magic Marker.
PLEASE HELP
I held a metal cup in my hands. Added a few random coins to sweeten the pot.
Waiting.
2
Humans passed around me, a stream breaking over a rock. They didn't look at my face. If they had, they would have seen a couple of rough patches where the blind man had missed with the electric razor. I was wearing high–top running shoes, loosely laced, denim pants, a gray sweatshirt. All under a khaki raincoat that came past my knees. A well–used black fedora on my head.
The local skells were used to me by now. I made it to the same spot every day. Patiently collected coins from passing citizens, face held straight ahead.
I was a piece of scenery, as anonymous as a taxicab.
My eyes swept the street behind the dark lenses.
Sheba settled into her task. An old wolf–shepherd, mostly gray, soft eyes watchful under white eyebrows. She had a warrior's heart and an undertaker's patience.
Hooker's heels sounded on the sidewalk. A bottle blonde, wearing a cheap red dress, short–tight, black fishnet stockings, a hole the size of a half–dollar on the front of one thigh, pale skin poking through the mesh, low–rent makeup smeared her face. Getting ready to work the lunchtime crowd.
"Your dog's so pretty."
"Thank you."
"Can I pet her?"
"No, she's working."
"Me too… I guess you can't tell."
I drew a sharp breath through my nose, inhaling her cheap perfume as greedily as a cokehead. She laughed, bitter and brittle. "Yeah, I guess maybe you can. I seen you before. Standing here."
"I'm here every day."
"I know. I seen you smoke sometimes…when someone lights one for you. You want one now?"
"I have some…" Fumbling in her red vinyl shoulder bag. "You want one now?"
"Please."
She stuck two cigarettes in her mouth, fired them with a cheap butane lighter. Handed one to me.
"It tastes good," I told her, grateful tone in my voice.
"It's menthol."
"The lipstick…that's what tastes good."
"Oh. I guess you don't…I mean…"
"Only my eyes don't work."
She flushed under the heavy makeup. "I didn't mean…"
"It's okay. Everybody's missing something." Her eyes flashed sad. "I had a dog once. Back home."
"And you miss her?"
"Yeah. I miss a lot of things."
"Go home."
"I can't. Not now. You don't understand…Home's far away from here. A million miles away."
"What's your name?"
"Debbie."
"These are bad streets, Debbie. Even if you can't go home, you can go away."
"He'd come after me."
I dragged on my cigarette.
"You know what I'm talking about?" she asked, her voice bitter–quiet.
"Yeah. I know."
"No, you don't. He's watching me. Right now. Across the street. I spend much more time out here talking to you, not making any money, I'm gonna get it from him."
Even with my eyes closed, even with her facing me, I could see the coat–hanger marks across her back. Feel them. I shifted my face slightly, let her hear the core to my voice. "Tell him you made a date with me. For later."
"Sure." Melancholy sarcasm.
"Put your hand in my coat pocket. Your left hand."
"Wow! You got some roll in there."
"It's mostly singles, two twenties on the inside. Take one…Tell him you asked for half up front."
She glanced over her shoulder, hip–shot, leaned close to me. "I tell him that and he'll be waiting for you later…when you go home."
"I know. Tell him the roll was a couple a hundred, it's okay."
"But…"
"Just do it, Debbie. You live with him?"
"Yeah…"
"You can go home tonight. Away from here."
"How…?"
"Take the money, go do your work. Tell him what I told you."
"Mister…"
"Reach in, pull out the roll. Shield it with your body. Take the bill, put the rest back. Pat my dog. Then take off. Tonight, you go home, you understand? Stay out of the bus station—take a train. It'll be okay, Debbie."
She reached in my pocket, knelt down.
"Sheba, it's okay, girl," I said.
The dog made a sweet little noise as Debbie patted her. She straightened up, looked into the lenses of my glasses. "You're sure?"
"Dead sure."
I listened to her heels tap off on the sidewalk. A different rhythm now.
3
It was almost two o'clock before he showed. I recognized him easily by now. In his thirties, close–cropped brown hair, matching mustache, trimmed neat. Wearing a blue windbreaker, jeans, white basketball shoes. Youth worker from one of the Homeless Shelters. Last time he stuffed a dollar bill into my cup. I remember saying, "God bless you."
Watching his smile.
This time he wasn't alone. The kid with him was maybe eight years old. Skinny kid, wearing a brand–new sweatshirt with some cartoon character on the front, munching a hot dog. Having a great time. Probably spent a bunch of quarters in the video arcades first.
They turned into the electronics store a few doors in front of where I was standing—the same place he'd gone into the last time. When he'd come up behind me and put the money in my cup. The same place he always went.
He was inside almost an hour. When he came out, he was alone.
4
He walked past me. Stuffed another dollar in my cup. "May the Lord follow you always," I thanked him. He smiled his smile.
The Prof strolled up to me. A tiny black man, wearing a floor–length raincoat, scuffling along.
"You got him?" I asked.
"Slime can slide, but it can't hide."
"Call McGowan first," I told him, holding his eyes to be sure he got it. McGowan's a cop—he knows what I do, but kids are his beat, not hijackers. "Tell him the freak made a live delivery this time. Tell him to go in the back way—Max is there on the watch."
"I hear what you say—today's the day?"
"The bust will go down soon—they're ready, warrants and all. You find out where the freak goes, where he holes up. They'll take him tomorrow, at work. Then we take our piece out of his apartment. Just the cash—the cops can have the rest."
The Prof took off, disappearing into the crowd. The freak would never see him coming.
5
Time to go. I gently pulled on the harness and Sheba came to her feet. I folded the blanket, wrapped it around my neck, and let the dog pull me forward. I turned the corner, headed down the alley where Max would be waiting.
I spotted Debbie's owner lounging against the alley wall. T
all, slim brownskin man wearing a long black leather coat and a Zorro hat.
Stocky white kid next to him, heavily muscled in a red tank top. A pimp: he needed reinforcements to mug a blind man.
I plodded on ahead, oblivious to them, closing the gap.
The pimp pushed himself languidly off the wall to face me. The muscleman loomed up on the side.
"Hold up, man."
I stopped, pulling on the harness, squeezing the button on the handle that unsnapped the whole apparatus from the dog.
"Wha…?" Fear in my voice.
"Give up the money, man. No point in getting yourself all fucked up, right?"
"I don't have any money," I whined.
I saw the slap coming. Didn't move. Let it rock me to my knees, pulling the harness off as I fell.
"Sheba! Hit him!" I yelled, and the dog sprang forward, burying her wolf's teeth deep into the pimp's thigh. He shrieked something in a high octave just as the muscleman took a step toward me. I heard a crack and the muscleman was down, his head lolling at a chiropractic angle.
Max the Silent stepped into view, his Mongol face expressionless, nostrils flared, eyes on the target. Hands at his side: one fisted to smash, the other knife–edged to chop.
"Sheba! Out!"
The dog backed off, cheated, but acting like a pro. The pimp was holding his thigh, moaning a plea to someone he didn't know.
I squatted next him, patted him down. Found the little two–shot derringer in his belt, popped it open. Loaded. No point warning this dirtbag—he wouldn't be a good listener. I held my hand parallel to the ground, made a flicking motion like I was brushing crumbs off a table. I heard a pop, like cloth snapped open in a gust of wind. The pimp slammed into the wall, eyes glazed. Blood bubbled on his lips. I stuck the derringer back into his belt—it was all the ID he'd need at the hospital.
He wouldn't come home tonight. The rest was up to Debbie.
A putty–colored sedan lumbered into the alley at the far end, bouncing on a bad set of shocks. The cops. Max merged with the shadows. I put on my dark glasses, snapped Sheba's harness, and made my slow way out to the street.
6
The E train let me out at Chambers Street, the downtown end of the line. I found my Plymouth parked at the curb near the World Trade Center. Unlocked the back door, unsnapped Sheba's harness. She leaped lightly to the seat.
I took off the dark glasses and climbed behind the wheel. None of the watching citizens blinked at the miraculous transformation.
7
I turned the Plymouth toward the West Side Highway, slipped through the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel, tossed a token in the Exact Change lane, and cruised along the Belt Parkway just ahead of the rush–hour traffic.