Sacrifice (14 page)

77

J
acques was at his table in the basement. He didn't blink at Pansy. Pansy didn't blink back.

Clarence handed him the pistol I'd taken from the man in the park. Jacques released the clip, pulling it from the butt, worked the slide.

"Empty, mahn. Nothing in the chamber. Safety was on too."

I nodded. The gunman was what he said he was—not a shooter.

Jacques turned the gun over in his hands, put one polished thumbnail inside the chamber, sighted down the barrel. "Hasn't been cleaned in a year, mahn. A piece of junk. Iron Curtain stuff, not even military." Jacques's fine–boned nose curled into a faint sneer. "Whoever had this, mahn, he was not a professional."

"There was another one," Clarence told him.

Jacques raised his eyebrows, waiting for the rest.

"He had no gun, nothing. And he never saw me coming," Clarence said, a leather–covered sap in his hand, showing Jacques what had happened to the watcher.

"You talked to the man with the gun?"

"He said he just wanted to take me someplace. To see someone named Thana. Queen Thana."

Jacques's eyes didn't change but his cheeks went hollow.

"You know her?" I asked.

"Everybody knows
of
her, mahn. I have not met her. And I do not want to. Obeah. Very powerful obeah. A voodoo priestess. Her followers are all from the Islands. People say she can make a man do what she wants. That she can kill you with a thought. Reach across the sea, back across time."

"She's in business?"

"Not our business, mahn. Not for money. But she is no love goddess, that one. A warrior priestess. They say her soldiers are the dead come back to life."

"What does she want from me?"

"I do not know, mahn. But if she wants you, she will find you."

"You can reach out to her?"

"No, mahn. Not with the phone. But I know…some things. I can, maybe, get a message through."

"The bag…the juju bag," Clarence whispered.

"What?"

"That was hers, maybe. Swinging from that tree in the moonlight. Evil. She knows."

"Knows what?"

"I went back. Later, I went back. In the daylight. And the bag, it was gone."

I lit a smoke, hands steadying with the answer. She hadn't taken the bag, but her watchers knew who did.

"Tell her I'll come and talk to her," I told Jacques, and walked out of the basement.

78

I
n prison, I used to lift weights. Just to be doing something—I was never any good at it. Bench presses. Some days they put too much weight on the bar—I couldn't get it up off my chest.

I felt like that now. Put a cardiogram on my life, you'd get a readout: sharp spikes, deep valleys.

I drew a red dot on a piece of mirror. Drew it with some lipstick Belle had left behind. I'd been meaning to throw it out for a long time now, that lipstick. I went into a halfass lotus position, looking into the dot. Until it got bigger and bigger, deeper. I went down inside, clearing my mind.

There's always a pattern. Any crazy thing makes sense to somebody at the other end. I didn't know anything about smuggling until I went to prison. You can get whatever you want inside the walls if you can pay the freight. Guards smuggled in guns, but they never crossed the color line: you wanted a pistol, you asked a guard of your own race. Drugs they'd sell to anyone.

In prison, there's lead pipes just lying around. If you hold them just right, you can still feel them vibrate with the skulls they've crushed.

I pictured a lovely glass ball. As pure as a teardrop, on a polished black marble surface. Pictured it rising from the table, floating gently in the air, hovering. I was holding it up with my will.

I blinked my eyes and came out of it just before the glass ball splattered on the marble.

79

M
eetings. Always bullshit meetings. Talk talk talk. And rules. Made by the rulers. In prison, what you want is to get through it. You can't stay by yourself—they won't let you. So you mob up. Get a crew. Someone to watch your back. On the Coast, they call it getting in the car. Going along for the ride. Or the drive–by. If a crew splits up, the other side picks them off one by one, so you stay together. You change sides, nobody trusts you. The first choice is the only one you get.

I wished I could explain it to Wolfe and Lily.

80

I
stayed out of the loop for a while. Prairie dog careful—just barely peeking out of my hole in the ground, ready to spook if I saw a strange shadow. Wolfe's time limit pushed me back up to ground level.

Max opened the back door to SAFE, held it while I slipped inside. I don't know how he does that—he can't hear my knock. He pointed toward the back office, made a "be careful" gesture, and went back to the gym.

Lily was standing with her back to me, hands on hips, arguing about something with a calmly seated Storm. I tapped lightly on the doorjamb. Lily whirled, not missing a beat.

"What is it, Burke? We're busy here."

"I needed to talk with you," I said mildly.

"Your telephone's broken?"

"I didn't know who'd be listening."

"Who'd be…" Lily sneered.

"Wolfe," Storm cut in.

"She wouldn't…"

"Sure she would," Storm told her. "What's wrong with you, girl? You know how she is."

"I thought I knew."

"That's what she's saying to herself right about now," I replied, even–toned, "saying it about you. You're doing what you're doing to protect a kid…so's she. Just different kids."

"She doesn't know Luke," Lily said. "All she knows is crimes—that's all she cares about."

"Stop it, Lily," Storm said, lighting her one cigarette of the day. "The doctor says stress is bad for my baby."

Lily fought a giggle. "Sure."

I lit a smoke of my own. "I got an idea," I told her.

Storm silenced Lily with a look. I went on like I hadn't seen it.

"Wolfe doesn't know Luke, that's what you said, right?
That's
the idea. How about if they meet?"

"Sure. What's a kidnapping on top of everything else?"

"Not a kidnapping, Lily. I'll make a deal with her."

Storm tapped her fingers on the desk, thinking. Lily brushed some of her thick glossy hair away from her face, waiting.

"She won't break her word," I said.

"It's true," Storm added.

"She's clever, though." Lily came back, stubborn–sulky.

"And you're glad enough for that, most of the time," I told her. "What's happening, you're all convinced you're right. You know what Wolfe wants…what she really wants?"

"She wants the killing to stop," Storm said.

"And she wants someone to pay," Lily put in. "That's Wolfe—someone always has to pay."

I sat on a corner of the desk, where I could see both of them. "Once I was involved in this case. Guy killed his mother. Pointed a magnum at her face, blew out the back of her head. The defense attorney put him on a polygraph. Asked him: Did you kill your mother? Answer: No. And the machine said: No Deception Indicated—Truthful. That's when the lawyer called me in. Figured, bad as it looked, it must be that someone else had done it, understand?"

They both nodded. Storm interested, Lily suspicious.

"So I talked to the man, where they had him locked up. I'd seen guys like him before, when I was inside. Anyway, I went back to the lawyer, asked him to try the polygraph again, only this time ask
my
questions. So they asked him again: Did you kill your mother? No. Then: Did the gun kill your mother? Yes. Were you holding the gun when it killed your mother? Yes."

"What's your point?" Lily wanted to know. "That you have to ask the right questions?"

"What if the guy was telling the truth?" I fired back.

"Huh?"

"What if he was telling the truth? What if it was the gun who killed his mother? Not him, the gun."

"I understand what you're getting at, Burke," Storm said, "but I don't see how it helps us. The gun couldn't do the killing by itself."

"Neither could Luke."

Lily walked right up in my face, her chin tilted at an aggressive angle. "What?" she demanded.

"You know Wolfe, how she is about playing with the law. Remember the time she proved that rapist wasn't having 'flashbacks'? No 'Vietnam Vet syndrome'? Remember when she shredded that 'episodic dyscontrol' defense…when that guy shot his wife and said he had some kind of brain seizure that made him do it?"

"You're a real fan of hers, huh?"

"Oh, chill out, Lily," Storm said. "Burke, all the stuff you talked about, it was Wolfe fighting some sophisticated defense. That's what she does, she attacks…not defends."

"No, that's not what she does. Not all of it.
Victims
get defended, right?"

"Or avenged." Lily.

"Yeah, or avenged. Sometimes both. But how about this: Luke comes in, okay? The defense is this Multiple Personality Disorder. Insanity, okay? And Wolfe'll know the kid's crazy—no way he's faking—he'll stand up to any test. But you can't end up like Luke unless somebody does something to you. Something real ugly. For a long time."

"You think she'd want to go after Luke's parents? For child abuse?"

"Not for child abuse, Storm. For homicide. Like Luke was the gun, but they pulled the trigger."

Nobody said anything.

I lit another smoke, letting it percolate.

Storm made a noise. "The baby kicked," she said.

I bowed. "She agrees with me."

Lily smiled her Madonna's smile. "You really think she'd go for it?"

"She's
your
sister," I reminded her. "You tell me."

81

I
went by the restaurant the next morning, to check my messages before I called Wolfe. Immaculata was at the register. A fear–jolt hit me—I never saw anybody but Mama there before.

"Where's Mama?" I asked her. "You taking over for her?"

"Downstairs. With Luke."

Something in her voice. I came close, leaned over to her. Her face was set in hard straight lines, white streaks under the golden skin, jaw tight, eyes moist.

"What?"

"He…tried last night. Max had to hold him. Flower…she woke up. He was…like demons in him. When he finally stopped, he just slept. This morning…like it was nothing. I brought him here."

"Do you want…?"

"No! I'm just…"

"I know," I told her. Like trying to sleep in prison. With the cell doors unlocked.

82

I
left her there. Called the DA's office. They told me Wolfe was on trial, in Long Island City, Part L–3. Bureau chiefs don't try cases. I put it together. Threw on my lawyer suit and headed out to Queens.

When I walked in the courtroom, Mary Beth was already on the stand. That's the way Wolfe trained them: no prelims, no dancing—come out throwing bombs, try and drop the other guy soon as you hear the bell. Lola was leading the little girl through her testimony, her body language suggesting she was pulling softly, coaxing the child out past her fear. Bringing the monster into the light. Lola's slim body was a gently weaving wand in front of the little girl, pacing back and forth on her high heels, blocking the defendant's view of the witness box.

Sheba sat next to Mary Beth, the little girl's hand on her head. The dog's eyes followed Lola.

"Just one more question, Mary Beth. You told us what he did, what he did to you. It went on a long time—how come you never told anyone?"

"He said…he told me he'd make something bad happen to Mommy. He said he'd made her get sick and die. He showed me…in the paper where a little girl's mother got sick and died. He said he did that to her. Because the little girl told."

"No further questions," Lola said, sitting down as Mary Beth brushed tears off her cheeks.

The defendant's lawyer got to his feet. A fat, jowly man, his hair was plastered to his scalp with sweat, carefully combed up and over his head from one side to advertise his baldness.

"Your Honor, I again renew my objection to the presence of that animal while the witness testifies. The
Rulon
decision clearly holds that…"

The judge was a regal–looking woman, reddish–blonde hair cut stylishly short, square shoulders, almost a military bearing. I'd seen her before—she started out in Family Court, where they get closer to the truth. Hard to tell her age, but her eyes were old. "Counselor," she said, "the court is familiar with the
Rulon
case. That involved a witness who testified sitting on the lap of a social worker. Surely it is not your position that the dog is signaling to the witness?"

"No, Your Honor. But…"

"The court has already ruled, sir. You may have a continuing objection, and your exception to my ruling. Ask your questions."

Sheba watched the fat attorney like he was mutton in a three–piece suit.

The questioning wasn't much. The usual: Did she ever watch horror movies? Ever see a porno tape on the VCR in her mother's house? Have bad dreams? Anybody tell her what to say?

Mary Beth answered the questions. Sometimes the judge had to tell her to speak up a little bit, but she was getting through it. Patting Sheba, drawing comfort and strength.

The defense attorney asked, "Do you know it's a sin to tell a lie, Mary Beth?"—stepping aside dramatically so the jury would understand it was his client being lied about.

"I know it's a sin," the child said, calmly. "I'm not lying."

"She can't see me!" the defendant hissed suddenly, whispering for his lawyer's ear but loud enough for everyone to hear. "She can't see without her glasses."

Wolfe was on her feet and charging forward like they just rang the bell for the last round and she needed a KO to pull it out. "Was that an objection?" she snarled.

"Yes, that was an objection!" the defense attorney shouted, scrambling to clean up the mess the molester made. "My client is being denied his Sixth Amendment right to confrontation."

"He doesn't want confrontation, he wants terrorism. The law says he gets to see and hear the witness—it doesn't say anything about her having to stare at the likes of him."

"That's enough," the judge snapped. "Take the jury out."

The court officers hustled the jurors away as everyone sat in silence. One of Wolfe's people took Mary Beth and Sheba out a side door. The judge turned to the lawyers.

"That will be just about enough, counselors. You both know better than to make arguments like that in front of a jury. I don't want to hear a lot of rhetoric now. Mr. Simmons, have you any authority for the proposition that the Sixth Amendment requires a witness to wear corrective lenses?"

"Not specifically, Your Honor. But if she can't even
see
the witness, how can she identify him?"

"She already did that, counsel. On the prosecution's direct case, remember?"

"Yes, I remember. But she was wearing her glasses then."

"What's your point?"

"My client has rights."

"None that have been abridged by this court. Now…that won't be necessary, Ms. Wolfe…I have already ruled. Bring the jury back in."

"Your Honor, in light of your ruling, I have no choice but to ask for a mistrial."

"On what grounds, counselor?"

"Prejudice, Your Honor. The jury heard what my client said. A statement like that will poison their minds."

"Are you claiming the prosecution caused your client's outburst, Mr. Simmons?"

"Well, yes…I mean, if they hadn't…"

"Denied! Let's go."

Wolfe turned away from the bench to return to her seat. Caught my eye.

The defense attorney stood up again. "Your Honor, may I have a few minutes with my client before the jury comes back in?"

"No, counsel, you may not."

"Your Honor, I ask for this time because I believe it might promote a settlement of this matter."

"There is no settlement," Lola snapped out at him. "It's too damn late for that."

"I don't need your permission to plead to the indictment," the defense attorney shot back.

"Then do it. It's a B felony, and we're asking for the max."

"Your Honor, could we approach?"

The judge nodded. Wolfe and Lola came up on one side, the defense attorney on the other. Couldn't hear what they were saying. Finally, the defense attorney walked back to his table, began talking urgently to his client, waving his arms.

I felt it coming.

The defense attorney stood up one last time. "Your Honor, my client has authorized me to withdraw his plea of Not Guilty and to plead to the indictment as charged. My client is a very ill man. Besides that, he wishes to spare the young lady the trauma of cross–examination. I believe…"

"Counselor, save your presentation for the dispositional phase of these proceedings. If your client wants to change his plea, I will take his allocution."

They kept the jury out of the courtroom while the defendant admitted the whole thing. His lawyer promised extensive psychiatric testimony to
explain
the whole thing. Lola and Wolfe sat silently.

The judge discharged the jury, thanking them for their attention. I watched their faces—the defense attorney had read them right—if they had gotten their chance, his client was going down.

The defense attorney asked for bail to be continued. Lola pointed out the defendant was now a convicted felon, facing mandatory imprisonment, with great motivation to flee the jurisdiction.

The judge listened, asked the defense if there was any rebuttal. Listened again. Then she revoked the defendant's bail, slammed her gavel for emphasis, and walked off the bench.

The fat defense attorney turned to Wolfe and Lola. "You just put a very sick man in prison. I hope you're pleased with yourselves."

Wolfe and Lola looked at the lawyer, blank expressions on their faces. Then they slapped each other a loud high–five.