The Vaults (38 page)

“Get these people the hell out of here,” Frings said. “We need to talk.”

Nora lay on the bed in her odd cell, reading Saki. Feral, whose name she still did not know, sat in a chair by the door, silently watching her. He had been there for over an hour. She had initially been self-conscious and had moved around the room, keeping physically active trying to draw him into conversation. But Feral just sat, dressed in slacks and suspenders and a sleeveless undershirt, following her with his eyes, but not his head. Eventually, she realized she had no reason to be self-conscious. This was, in fact, a sign that she had seized the power in their relationship. She was no longer scared and he was—what? Smitten? Infatuated? Obsessed? Whichever most accurately described his mental state, he had no control over it, and while she was his captive physically, emotionally he was hers. In different circumstances, she would have worried about being raped. But this odd little man wanted her on her terms, and his silent, brooding watchfulness was an acknowledgment that if under no terms would she be with him, then he would not have her. Instead, he would watch and brood.

The troubling thought was, how did this end? Did she walk away and continue life as if this had never happened? Were promises made? Or did something worse happen? Was it necessary, in his eyes, for this to end with her death?

Van Vossen produced two heavy crystal goblets and poured from a decanter until both were three-quarters full. When Van Vossen walked, Puskis could see just how weak he was, barely able to lift his feet from the ground. Van Vossen lifted his cup to Puskis, who returned the gesture. They drank. It tasted of mint and dandelion and herbs that Puskis could not identify; burned a trail down his throat and sat in his stomach in a concise pool.

“What is this?” he asked.

Van Vossen smiled. “I don’t know if it has a name. It goes back to medieval monks in Hungary. I’ve heard that there was a small war fought over the recipe back in the eleventh century.”

“What are you trying to find in your encyclopedia of criminal activity? Are you searching for a principle?”

Van Vossen shook his head slowly. “There is none. I can tell you that. If Abramowitz could not find it, then I am quite certain there is none. What was—is—my purpose? Am I a chronicler? There is an understanding that can be arrived at without a single guiding theorem. Does that make sense? There doesn’t need to be a grand organizing principle for things to make sense. There are, for instance, patterns.”

“You have identified patterns?”

Van Vossen laughed scornfully. “Patterns? Of course. I’ve found patterns. There are so many goddamn patterns that interlock and overlie each other and contain others. Everywhere you cast your eye there are patterns. But when this is the case, are they truly patterns or does the mind construct an artificial organizing feature? If you cannot even be definitive about patterns, how can you identify a single, overarching, perfect principle?”

“Which is why Abramowitz went mad?”

“Listen, Abramowitz went mad because he found out that there is no design. This world, this life, is just the product of independent decisions made by millions and millions of people each day. You add to that random
chance and you see that it is all just chaos. Predicting events is an impossibility.”

“Why does that matter? Why did Abramowitz want to predict events?”

“Why in God’s name do we even have the Vaults?” Van Vossen’s words were coming louder and quicker. “Why do you compile and store that information if you are not hoping to glean the future from it? If you are not trying to use the past to inform the decisions made in the present?”

“But why did it drive him to insanity? Many people believe in free will. Many people accept that there is no order in the universe.”

Van Vossen laughed and smiled. “These words that you use,
accept
,
believe
. You and other people accept or believe in free will because it seems to make sense or it fits in with your basic view of the world. But you don’t know. You suspect because it seems more likely to be that way than some other way. The difference is that Abramowitz knew. He proved it. To himself, at least. He was never able to explain it coherently, because by then he was a lunatic. It is one thing to believe, Mr. Puskis, it is another thing entirely to know. Abramowitz proved that God did not exist, and the knowledge drove him mad.”

The footsteps on the stairs outside sent the boys in a panic. Poole, thinking about Whiskers and the fear that he must have inspired in these kids, talked calmly, trying to calm them, give them a plan. “Go upstairs, quickly. Don’t come back down until you’re sure that I’ve left and whoever is about to come in has left. Don’t come down if there are any adults inside. Understand? Go.”

Feet, either bare or wearing soles worn to softness, padded the stairs, ascending. The footsteps from outside paused at the front door. Holding his gun by the barrel, Poole opened the door.

The three ASU officers were caught off guard by his sudden appearance and went straight for their guns.

“Hold it, hold it,” Poole said with genuine fear. He dropped his gun at the officers’ feet and showed them both his palms, one wrapped in bandages.

“Who’re you?” asked the reedy one with sergeant’s stripes.

“I’m Ethan Poole. You’re looking for me, well, probably not you exactly, but the ASU, and here I am. I need to see the mayor immediately. His life is in danger.” This was going to be his play.

This torrent of words did not have any noticeable effect on the sergeant. One of the men behind him leaned forward and mumbled something into his ear.

“Jesus,” the sergeant breathed, and then, from out of nowhere, delivered a professional punch to Poole’s kidney. Poole’s knees sagged, but he stayed on his feet. The sergeant grabbed Poole’s right biceps and tried to turn him to face the wall, but Poole didn’t budge. From behind the sergeant, one of the officers tried to hit Poole in the shoulder with the butt of his gun, but Poole saw it coming and shifted out of its path. He grabbed the hand holding his biceps and wrenched it around, bringing the sergeant to his knees, then wrapped his arm around the man’s neck. The pain in his hand made him wince.

The two officers had their guns out, but pointed them at the ground.

Poole used the sergeant as a shield. “I’m going to let you go. I’ll even let you cuff me. But don’t hit me again. You need to take me to the mayor. There is someone in the City right now who is out to bump him and will do it if something is not done quickly. Savvy?”

The sergeant croaked a “Yes” with what little air he could squeeze out and Poole let him go. The sergeant staggered forward, trying to keep his composure while gasping for air. The other two officers advanced on Poole, who put out his arms to accept handcuffs. They cuffed his hands behind his back and marched him to a police car parked in front of the orphanage. At the car, the sergeant called to Poole. Poole turned and the sergeant hit him again, this time in the stomach. Poole was ready and tensing himself, so the blow hurt but did not knock the wind out of him.

“Never touch a goddamn cop,” the sergeant said, and forced Poole into the back of the car.

Red Henry glowered at Frings, flexing and unflexing his fists.

“We can talk about it here,” Frings said. “I don’t think you’d like it too much, though.”

All eyes were on the mayor, and while he was used to giving orders, he was not used to being drunk and under such immediate pressure. He hesitated for an instant before calculating that he had less to lose by talking to Frings in private.

“Go,” he said dully to his companions. They were uncertain, looking at him. Henry glared back. They dispersed. Some instinct from his street-fighting days had Henry focusing on Smith as he strode off. The posture and speed and tension of his gait were signs that Henry reflexively associated with violence. He stared as Smith worked his way to the door, bumping people indiscriminately as he pressed through the crowd. This, too, Henry knew—a big man marshaling his confidence by using his size to intimidate. At another time, Henry might have worried about Smith’s intentions. He trusted Smith to cause pain, not to make independent decisions. With too many other things to worry about, though, Henry didn’t imagine that Smith could make anything worse.

Henry shifted his gaze back to Frings, who was waiting patiently for his attention. “What do you have to say to me?” Henry asked.

“I know about the Navajo Project.”

A boxer learns how to maintain a front of indifference while enduring pain. Until this moment, exposure of the Navajo Project, while a real possibility, was just the worst of a number of potential scenarios. Now it was out there. When Henry spoke, it lacked conviction. “You going to let me know what the fuck you’re talking about?”

Frings actually let out a brief, scoffing laugh. “Don’t bullshit me, Mayor. You want me to walk you through it?”

Henry shrugged. It would be useful to at least know what Frings knew.

“All right, the way I see it, it went like this. You take the mayor’s office
without any idea that the Navajo Project exists. As you’re getting adjusted to your new position, you, or probably someone else, comes to you with something that doesn’t seem quite right. I’m guessing it was probably a budget item. Anyway, it seems that the government is distributing money to the families of certain murder victims. That’s queer. Where does this money come from? you wonder. You, or one of your accountants, traces this money back to payments made by some farmers. Odd, you think. What’s going on here? You—and I keep saying
you
, but I mean your people—do a little digging around, probably head out to the sticks and have a little look-see. There you find, to your great surprise, a bunch of professional killers are working farms to make money that they pay to the City. This ring a bell so far? I can give you names if that helps you out. DeGraffenereid. McAdam. Samuelson. That’s just three. I’ve got more if you need to hear them. You with me?”

Henry glared. Frings had it pretty much nailed, but the sheer temerity of the man was infuriating.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Frings went on, “You don’t need to be a genius at this point to crab what was going on. These murderers have been shipped out to the country to make money to support the families of their victims. In short, the Navajo Project. So you, having an eye for opportunity, realize that this is an area where you can chisel some cash for yourself. So you take these surviving families from their homes and you stick them in institutions—asylums and orphanages. You can essentially let these go to seed and pocket most of the cash coming out of the Navajo Project farms. I’m doing pretty well so far, right?”

“You’re bluffing” was all Henry could think to say. He focused on his breathing in an effort to keep his temper in check. Things were slipping away at an alarming rate. The fire in the Vaults. The Poles. Bernal. Now this. His mouth was dry. From the stage, the polka band played on, the sound ridiculous. People danced, enjoying themselves.

“Really? Tell you what, why don’t you just speak up when I get something wrong. Does that work? Call my bluff.”

Cheeky son of a bitch. Henry resisted the instinct to hit Frings. Probably kill him with a good punch.

Frings continued, “So after a while, maybe a year or so, you start to get a little dissatisfied. You’re not actually getting all that much money flowing in. Must be something more you can squeeze out of them. So you, or maybe it was Block or Bernal or someone, gets the idea that there are more
profitable cash crops that could be grown. Specifically, you can make a hell of a lot more money if they start growing reefer.”

This was the crucial detail that Henry had been waiting for. The other aspects were troublesome, but survivable; a mea culpa and pinning it mostly on the previous mayor. A minor scandal at worst. The dope changed this picture. This was now a major problem, and the consequences for him were no longer just disgrace and resignation. He flashed on a vision of himself in prison garb.

Frings kept talking. “Your boy Smith runs the operation, using some handpicked ginks to make the deliveries, keep people in line. I’m not exactly sure why you only deliver it to the East Side. Why only the Negroes? Because they don’t vote for you? Is reefer only suited for the Negroes—you want to keep it away from us ofays? It doesn’t really matter, to be honest. Smith’s boys bring it into the City and it gets distributed through a network in the Negro community.”

Henry cut him off. “What the fuck are you after, Frings?”

Frings, Henry thought, was like a dog that senses fear, or maybe a shark with blood in the water. Pick your goddamn analogy. His posture became more aggressive.

“This story’s been written. It’s sitting on my editor’s desk. Unless I call by an hour before deadline, it will be run in the morning paper. I think we both understand what this will mean for you.”

“The fuck are you after?” Henry repeated, loud enough that the people closest to them gave quick glances before seeing Henry’s anger and looking away again.

“I want Nora back. If I get her back before deadline, and she’s unhurt, I’ll kill the story. If not, you go down. You want a minute to think about it?”

Out in the crisp night air, Smith sobered up. Frings had completely disregarded the warnings about what would happen to that little girlfriend of his. Now Smith was going to get to do what he did best: inflict pain in a way that would encourage Frings to pay better attention. The mayor had been clear: If Frings did not stop investigating, Smith could go off the rails on the girl.