Sacrifice (26 page)

178

T
he gypsy cab rolled past their house, me driving, Mole in the passenger seat, Max in the back.

"You see any way in?" I asked.

The Mole ignored me, scribbling something on a notepad strapped to his thigh.

Back in the junkyard, he looked up from a drafting table. "My friends told me you visited that…person. Off Fifth Avenue."

"I didn't hurt him."

"You should have told me."

"Your friends, they ask you if you knew about it?"

"Yes."

"Nice to be able to tell your friends the truth, isn't it?" The Mole took off his Coke–bottle glasses, rubbed them on his greasy jumpsuit, said nothing.

179

L
ater that night, Max slipped out of the gypsy cab, all in black. We were half a block away from the target, on a side street facing the back of their house.

Nothing to do but wait.

We sat in silence, Mole checking the windshield, me the back window. No smoking, a .38 held against my leg, pointed at the floor. It wasn't Max I was worried about—in this neighborhood, they strip cars with the passengers still in them.

Max moved like a squid in ink—didn't see him until he was almost on top of us.

Back in the bunker, Max made the sign of opening a door, held up two fingers. Two doors, front and back. Held up one finger, pushed forward, made a sign like turning a doorknob, put a fist to one eye, like looking through a telescope. Held up two fingers, pulled back, flattened his palm like it was gliding over a smooth surface.

The Mole sketched quickly, showed Max the house: front view, a door between two barred windows, peephole about face level, doorknob to the left. Max nodded yes. Then the back view: the door just a slab of flat metal, no peephole, no doorknob, arrows showing it opened out. Another nod of agreement. The Mole sketched a fire escape along the back of the building, running from window to window. Max shook his head, made the flat–palm gesture again. The Mole used his eraser, showed us a pure slab, windows bricked over.

"Only way in is the front," I said. "Have you got…?"

"We'll look again," the Mole said.

180

I
found the Prof on Wall Street the next day, working his shoeshine rag like a virtuoso. Clarence was his customer, sporting alligator loafers to go with his pearl–gray suit. I waited my turn.

"How about riding shotgun tonight, Prof?"

"Go slow, bro'. Put another quarter in, give me one more spin."

"We got to check out a building. In the Bronx. Me, Max, and the Mole. Can't leave the car alone in that neighborhood. Just a watcher's job—scare anyone away, they come by."

"If it's a score, there's room for more."

"It's no score. Just something I'm gonna do."

"Me too."

"Listen, Prof, there'll be nothing to split up, where we're going, okay?"

"It don't scan, man. But I'll do what you say, back your play. Pick us up on the pier."

"Us?"

"This boy don't take a turn, he ain't never gonna learn," nodding his head at Clarence.

181

C
larence drove the Plymouth along the back street, its muffled exhaust motorboating against the sides of the diseased and deserted cars lining the block. He pulled to a stop, the back seat emptied. He took off as we started across the empty lot to the abandoned building.

Max went first. I brought up the rear, the Mole between us. Broken glass crunched under my feet as I turned to check behind us. I could see the Mole's bulk in his jumpsuit, stumbling along, his leather satchel in one hand.

So much garbage piled up in the gully behind the building that we could step right into the first–floor windows. The smell told me we weren't the first ones to figure it out. Rats scurried. I threw my pencil flash forward, sweeping. Newspapers piled in one corner, a shopping cart without wheels, metal frame to a TV set, plastic coat hangers, rags that had been clothes once. Another corner was the bathroom. Crack vials scattered among broken chunks of concrete from the building itself. Wine bottles. Fire scars on the walls, blackened pillars. Open–grave smell.

The metal staircase was still standing, pieces of the railing missing. Max took a length of black cord from somewhere, looped it around one of the stairs about halfway up, pulled as hard as he could. It held.

We started up the stairs, testing each one. The second–floor landing was solid. I played the flash over the walls—gang graffiti, faded under dust and ash. The next floor was better. Stronger staircase, less damage.

"Basement fire," the Mole whispered. After the building had been abandoned, some wino fell asleep with a cigarette in his hand. They probably just let it burn itself out—worth more money to the landlord empty anyway.

When we stepped out onto the roof, we could see in every direction: headlights on the highway, the quiet bulk of the Plymouth waiting. Looking straight down to the target, eyes pulled to a bright light like moths. A skylight, glowing yellow–orange, set into the center of their roof.

The Mole reached in his satchel, took out a pair of night glasses, and started his scan. Max walked the roof corner to corner, leaning far out over the edge, palms out as though the air could balance him.

The Mole handed me the glasses. I narrowed in on the cars parked along the side of the building, behind the chain link fence. Five of them, parked parallel to the building. One a Mercedes coupe for sure, but no hope of getting a license number from that angle.

182

"T
heir roof edges make a trapezoid," the Mole told us. "No way to get a grip. The top is smooth—even a grappling hook would come loose. And if you hit the skylight, broke the glass, it might be wired. Some kind of sensors all around the building, about chest high. Maybe infrared, motion detectors…can't tell."

"Which leaves what?" I asked him.

"Tunnel through to the basement, punch through the front door, or land on the roof."

"It's the door, then. They have to be getting electricity in there, right?"

The Mole nodded.

"And you could take it down?"

He nodded again.

"Okay, next thing is to make sure it's them. I got their mug shots, from when they were arrested. Had some blowups made. They have to come out sometime…it's a tough neighborhood to hang out in, but maybe we could…"

"I can watch for them, mahn," Clarence said. "Just get me an old car to drive."

Max tapped me on the shoulder, pointed at Mole, touched his mouth, patted his fingers against his thumb in a talking gesture, made the sign for "what?"

I translated, standing over a silent jackhammer, digging with an invisible shovel, moved my hand in a reverse parabola to show coming up from underneath. Shook my head "no." Then I locked my thumbs, fluttered my hands like flapping wings, showed a takeoff and a landing. Shook my head again—we'd need a helicopter. Then I mimed pushing down the T–bar on a dynamite detonator, threw my hands apart in the sign for an explosion. Made the sign for "okay."

Max looked only at the Mole. Got to his feet, pointed. They walked away together.

183

"H
e is still missing, mahn."

"He can't stay missing for long, Jacques. He doesn't have but one way to earn a living. And Wolfe's people are on his case."

"Yes. And if they find him, what happens? He will go to jail for killing the baby?"

"Maybe. Who knows? He'll say it was an accident…or maybe that the mother did it. There's no sure things."

"A sure thing if we find him first, mahn."

"Yeah, I know. That's not why I came. I need some stuff"

"What, then, mahn? You have only to ask."

"Two shotguns. A semi–auto and a double–barrel. Both twelve gauge. And a Glock with a long clip. Straps for the scatterguns, shoulder holster for the Glock, butt down. Okay?"

"A Glock? That is not like you, mahn. You are my only customer who will never use an automatic—always complaining that they could jam no matter what I tell you, huh?"

I just shrugged, thinking about what I'd learned in Indiana.

"You need that much firepower, maybe you could use a couple of men, yes?"

"No, I'm okay. It's just in case, you know?"

"I know. Clarence is still working with you? Looking for that man, Emerson?"

"Yeah."

"He is a good boy. Maybe his temper is too quick, but he is young yet."

"He is that. How soon could you have the stuff?"

"Just a day or so, mahn. I will have them all tested, in perfect order. When you're done, you may leave them wherever you work, ice–cold clean, all right? Anything you want done to them first?"

"Cut down the barrels on the scatterguns."

"Of course, mahn. Modified choke, yes? Twelve–gauge, three–inch shells, double–O?"

"Perfect."

"Tomorrow night, then."

184

I
was teaching Luke how to play casino when one of the pay phones rang at Mama's. She came to the table, pointed at me.

"It is her, mahn. The woman in the photo. A dead ringer."

"Get out of there. Now."

The phone went dead in my ear.

185

H
ow many cards left?" I asked Luke, pointing at the pile between us.

"Twelve."

"How many cards have you already collected?"

"Nineteen."

"How many spades?"

"Five."

"How many cards loose?"

"Four in my hand, four in yours, two on the table. Ten."

"How many cards have I collected?"

"Eleven."

"Okay, now what do you do when…?" Max sat down next to Luke, made a "come on" gesture to me, impatient.

"We'll finish this later," I said to Luke.

The kid bounced in his seat, eyes pleading. "Can't I come too?"

I looked at Max. He grabbed Luke's belt, hauled him out of the seat like a briefcase. The kid's laughter trailed through the restaurant as Max carried him to the back.

186

W
e got in the Plymouth. Max made the sign for the Mole. Late afternoon. We slogged our way north on the FDR, Luke sitting between us, eyes bright with the prospect of seeing his pal.

Terry let us in the gate. He and Luke ran off together, Simba circling them, yapping like a pup. Max pulled me ahead.

The Mole was a good distance from his bunker, hunched over a U–shaped metal bracket maybe twelve feet wide. It was anchored to what looked like metal rods, running at forty–five degree angles from halfway up the bracket arms to the ground.

"What's this, Mole?"

He ignored me, looping a thick ribbon of rubber over one end of the bracket, then the other. It looked like a giant slingshot. From the bottom of the U–bracket, he unfolded a pair of metal tubes, about three feet apart. Placed them against the back of the rubber band. Then he pulled on a lever. Ratcheting noise with each pull. The rubber stretched. Stretched some more. He nodded at Max. The Mongolian picked up two sacks of dry cement mix lashed back to back, placed them in the notch formed by the rubber. The Mole pulled the switch and the cement sacks blasted off like the Space Shuttle, flying in a high arc, smashing against the top of a wrecked car maybe two hundred feet away.

"You're fucking insane," I told the Mole. He bowed. Max grinned.

"It's impossible," I said. "Max'll get killed."

"It's not impossible," the Mole said. "It's just a ratio. Thrust to weight, height to distance. It's got way too much power now. All we need is an arc, Max can float down."

"Float? You're a maniac. And he's a bigger one.

Max was pulling black silk out of a duffel bag when Luke and Terry walked over to us.

"What's Max doing?" the kid asked.

"Making a fool of himself."

"Max wouldn't do that…Can I see?"

The warrior climbed into his costume. He was encased in silk: a hood fit tightly over his head, Velcro closures at his wrists and ankles. Standard night–stalker stuff—I'd seen it before. Then he spread his arms in a crucifixion gesture and he sprouted wings—ribbed silk billowed from his wrists to his ankles.

"It's wonderful!" Luke clapped his little hands, delighted at the game.

"Jesus!" Terry said.

I didn't say anything.

187

T
he Mole carried his launch device in one hand. "Aluminum," he said when I looked a question at him.

"Why don't you just shoot him out of a cannon?"

"He's not going that far. The drop is about forty–five feet roof to roof. The launch building is much higher than the target."

Ask a lunatic a question…

We walked over to where junked cars were piled into a mountain about twenty feet high. The Mole slowly made his way to the top, set up his launcher. He climbed down, paced off a distance, took a can of spray paint from his jumpsuit, made a white X on the hard ground.

"About four clicks," he said. Climbed back to the top. It took a while.

Max went up the mountain like it was a ramp. Leaned back into the notch, nodded once. The Mole pulled on the lever.

"Max is gonna fly!" Luke said.

I held my breath.

A
sproong!
sound and Max was airborne. He shot straight up, jack–knifed his body like a diver, popped open his wings with a loud snap. His body went up like he'd caught a gust, righted itself, and floated to the ground like a butterfly landing on a flower. Right on the damn X.

Max wasn't breathing hard. The Mole cut open his knee stumbling down from the mountain of cars.

188

"F
or the last fucking time, Prof, there's no money in this."

"Even you not fool enough to Rambo a house for nothing, schoolboy. I'll pay the fare, take my share."

I didn't try and talk him out of it—he knew the truth.

We all had our reasons.

I knew I wouldn't find any answers in that house. I was so lonely. Missing my old pal, Fear. I'd see him soon enough.

189

T
wo in the morning, the lights were still on in the front windows. Two downstairs, one on the second floor. The third story was dark.

I checked my watch. In a couple of minutes, calls would start flying into 911: Hispanic, black, white, Oriental voices. Gunfight at 138th and the Concourse, fire at a social club, man with a machete running down Walton Avenue, woman holding a baby on the top floor of the Projects, threatening to jump, bodega robbery, cop down on Hoe Avenue.

Clarence was behind the wheel of the pale blue slab–sided van, the name of some phony butcher shop painted on the sides in maroon script.

Cops see it moving through the South Bronx, they'd figure it was on its way to the meat market in Hunts Point.

"You ready?" I asked Clarence, adjusting the shoulder strap for the shotgun over my chest. I had the semi–auto, the Prof always worked with a side–by–side.

"Yes, mahn."

"We go first, okay? Nothing starts until
we
do. Don't be blasting away just to be doing it—they don't make a move on me, you take off for the spot soon as the front door goes. Listen, Clarence, listen good.
Everybody's
coming out the back, okay? The Mole'll get to the van first. He'll be okay. He can't see worth shit, but he can drive good enough, he has to. And he knows where to go. I come out first, I'm waiting for Max. He comes first, he'll wait for me. Don't waste your time trying to move him—he won't go. Anybody gets hit, we got the medical kit in the back. Let the Mole do the doctoring, you drive, it comes to that. Anybody comes out after me and Max, blow them away."

"I got it, mahn. I won't let you down."

"I know. Your mother raised a hell of a man."

His tight smile flashed in the dark. I watched the target house. Held my hands in front of me, palms down, fingers spread. Delicate fingers, they looked to me now. X–ray eyes, seeing the bones. Cold bones, icicles—they'd shatter like glass if I hit something.

I tapped the side of the plastic bottle of talc, rubbed it all over my hands. Slipped on the surgeon's gloves, warming my hands.

Then I pulled the Velcro band tight around my right wrist, checked for flex. I'd have to fire the scattergun with one hand.

I felt my heart pound, breathed until it settled down into a smooth idle. Inside, they weren't the ones. But they'd do.

On the top of the abandoned building, a tiny red light blinked. Time.

I held out my hand. Clarence took it, squeezed.

I stepped onto the street. Hands full. Started my walk.

The headlights on the van flashed into life. Blinked off. Flashed again. The signal to the Mole. In the target house, the lights in the windows went dark, electricity dead. The bolt cutters took the gate in one chomp. I walked up to the door, shotgun in my right hand. No sounds from inside—they probably figured it for a blown fuse. Flattened myself against the wall next to the door, molded the
plastique
all around the seams. Pulled the string and ran to the side of the house, rolling into a ball, soles of my boots pointed at the door. It blew off with a muffled thump, mini–mushroom of plaster dust billowing out.

I was up and running back to the entrance, crouching as I slid through the doorway, a human trip–wire, on the kill. Movement to my right—I squeezed off a blast from the scattergun. Voices screaming above me. Downstairs was empty except for a couple of couches, big television set. And a body dressed in jeans and a splattered white T–shirt, blood from waist to face.

Center staircase. I started up, crab–style, stomach flat against the left wall, leading with my right hand. A shape peered around the corner ahead of me. I fired, scrambled up behind the blast as a body tumbled down the stairs toward me, swung the shotgun around the corner, cranked off three more rounds, sweeping. I dropped the shotgun, whipped the automatic free of the shoulder rig.

"This is the police!" I yelled, concussion still ringing in my ears. "Come out with your hands up!"

Two of them staggered into the hall. Man in white boxer shorts, woman in a red nightgown, hands up, trying to say something.

I moved down the corridor. "Where's the rest?" I asked, leveling the pistol between them.

"Downstairs," the man said.

"How many?"

"Seven. We're the Nine. I

"Turn around, grab the wall. You move, you're dead."

They braced themselves like they'd done it before. I pulled a flare from my jacket, cracked it open. It glowed cold green fire at the end of the hall near the staircase. Enough light to see Max as he flowed down the stairs, a shadow of power. Something crackled like cellophane in my chest, suppressed fear released—he'd made it to the roof. I pointed ahead, stood guard as he went into the other rooms.

Three rooms and a bath on the floor, doors standing open. The man and woman had come from the one on the end. Max stepped back into the corridor, made an "all clear" signal to me. Pointed a finger upstairs, grabbed the finger with his other hand, bent it in half. One of them had been upstairs.

Time running down. "Where's the rest?" I asked them, reasonable and calm.

"We
told
you," the woman said. "Downstairs."

It hit me then—where it had all started for Luke. I stepped close to them, pulled the trigger again and again, squeezing them off the count. Charged down the stairs, flying now, feeling Max behind me.

The basement door was locked—felt like steel. I stepped aside. Max's leg shot out like a pile driver, rapid–fire hammering all around the knob. A final kick took it off the hinges. Gunfire answered, bullets whined up at us. I dropped to my belly, unhooked the baseball–sized grenade from my belt, pulled the pin with my teeth, tossed it in. A white flash just ahead of the bang. I crawled inside, flying blind.

Lights on—they must have had a generator. A bullet chipped the wall near my face. I emptied the Glock, sweeping in a Z–pattern, hosing them down, slithered back outside, snapped in a new clip.

All–dead silence now. I crept down the stairs. The far wall was cracked open from the grenade—I could see clear out to the night. Pair of heavy videocams on tripods, cross–firing at a black–skirted platform standing in front of an inverted cross. Foot–high numbers sprayed in red on the wall above: 666. The platform stood untouched by the explosion, waiting for the show to start. I walked over, looked down. The surface was gleaming hardwood, an upside–down pentagram carved deep into its face, like a butcher's drain. The pentagram stared back at me, a leering goat's head.

Two bodies down there. One wearing a black hood, peaked at the top, some weird symbols on it in white, a .45 in its hand. The other was a woman, black hair, heavy white makeup, black lipstick. They were both stitched with bullets from the Glock. I spun around to go when I saw it…in the corner. I made myself look. A little boy. Handcuffed behind his back, tape across his mouth, naked. Bullet holes along his spine. I turned him over with my hand, gently too late. The exit wound had taken off his face.

My mind blanked off the child's body, rejecting the image, a pure white screen with black numbers, counting: Nine, the woman upstairs said. We are the Nine. I'd taken out two with the scattergun before I dropped her and her pal. Max left one coming down from the roof. Two in the basement. The little boy wouldn't count—he wasn't one of them. Two more, somewhere. I held up two fingers to Max. He took the point to the back door. It was standing open, swinging softly in the night air. I snapped my last flare, tossed it outside, rolled out in its wake, Max right behind. We started toward the van, keeping low. I saw a woman's body lying face up in the weeds. We were about fifty feet away when the shots came. I caught one in the shoulder—a hard punch from an ice pick. White wires ripped through my arm, my eyes starbursted with pain as I went down. Max dove on top, covering me with his body. Double blast from the Prof's shotgun, snapping string of killer hornets from Clarence's automatic.

"The motherfucker's down, bro'! Run for it, we got your back!"

On my feet now, Max's arm around me bracing, trying to run. Heard the van's engine roar into life, felt myself lifted inside.

It all went black then.