Sacrifice Read online

  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 don't have any.

  "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.