Book of Secrets (6 page)

  "What are you going to do?" Louise asked at a silent signal from Taylor. 

  "I'm going to kill you, of course."

  "But why?" she went on, stealing a glance at her silent companion.

  "Why not ask your boyfriend?" Matthews taunted. "I think he's got it all figured out." 

  "You tell her," Taylor snarled. "I wouldn't want to spoil your fun." Taylor needed just a few moments more, and he knew that once bragging, Matthews would give them to him.

  "Very well," Matthews sighed. "My father disowned me last year, Mrs. Black Hand, on account of my somewhat unsavory associates. A boy has to have a hobby, you know. In any case, I find myself in need of cash, and the old man simply won't give it to me, no matter how often I ask. He hates me, you see. A huge disappointment. That's the rub, really.

  "But he doesn't want me dead. So say I were kidnapped, and his only choice was to pay up or get my severed head in the mail. That would spoil his brunch, don't you think?" Matthews walked to the wall about ten feet away, threw a switch, and from overhead came the sound of rusty gears groaning to life.

  "So you staged your own kidnapping," Louise said. "But why me, and all the others? What do they have to do with it?"

  "Well, I wanted daddy dearest to see I, that is the Talon, was serious, so I tried a few dry runs first. Pick up an heiress' daughter from school, milk a few bucks from the old cow, and puncture the little darling if mommy doesn't pay. Then the police are sure to tell daddy that the kidnapping is for real." He paused. "My father just doesn't trust me you see. Anyway, by kidnapping little beauties like you, I get the money too. Like a bonus. And I just pay some drunk fifty bucks to stand around in this smelly mask for the pickups, and I never run the risk of getting caught." He smiled grimly. "Pretty snappy, huh? But enough of my jawing." He swung the pistol around, and pointed it at one and then the other of them.

  "Which one of you wants to go first?" He took a step to the side, and gestured behind them. There, four feet from the concrete floor, hung the iron hook. The gears above had lowered it into place, and now it stood ready.

  He stepped forward, the gun trained on Taylor, until he was only a few feet away.

  "You, I think, Mr. Hand," Matthews finally said. 

  "I think not," Taylor replied and, splitting his bonds, drove his feet into Matthews' knees. Matthews tottered, shooting blind, and staggered back, moaning. The bullet rushed past Taylor's ear, striking the wall behind him and sending splinters of wood flying into the back of his neck. Taylor pulled the now severed binds from his ankles and sprang to his feet. In his hand he held the slim blade he'd managed to pull from the hollow heel of his shoe, and with which he'd cut the rope wrapped round and round his arms and legs.

  Matthews stood stock still, gaping, not sure what had happened, and as he brought the pistol once more level with Taylor's chest the man of mystery rushed towards him. Disoriented, Matthews shot wildly, but if any hit Taylor he didn't slow down. An unstoppable engine, he plowed into Matthews, driving him back. 

  Matthews, crazed, struck at his attacker with the pistol, and then flung it away. Taylor was inhuman, unstoppable, and bullets couldn't hurt him. Taylor slowed his advance. Matthews staggered back, and then turn to flee. He took only two steps into the shadows and was brought up short, screaming.

  Taylor, blood dripping from the bullet wound in his shoulder, stepped forward slowly, but it was too late. Matthews, in the darkness, had run directly into the iron hook, and with the force of his movement had impaled himself there. Now he hung, lifeless, listing slowly this way and that. The Talon had met his death on his own claw!

A
fter recovering his hat and mask, and freeing Louise, Taylor had returned to Nick's waiting cab. From there, he was driven to Louise's building. Nick helped the masked Taylor up the stairs to Louise's apartment, and then stayed to help her dress the Black Hand's wounds. When they were done, still masked, Taylor thanked Nick for his loyal service and asked him to depart. 

  "Sure, boss," the cabbie answered. "I'll let myself out. And call any time."

  Once he had left, Taylor drew the mask from his face and called for Louise to bring him the phone. Dialing, he flexed his shoulder, testing the dressing.

  "Good work, Miss Aldridge," he complimented. "I am always grateful I was able to lure you away from the medical profession."

  "Anytime, Mr. Taylor," she answered, smiling. "And if you think being a nurse is more exciting than this, you've got another think coming." 

  "Yes," he replied, nodding. "I suppose you're right."

  The line continued ringing, until at last came the sleeping voice at the other end of the line. 

  "Yes."

  "Joseph," Taylor said, "I apologize for disturbing your rest, but I have information regarding the Talon. Direct your colleagues to the empty warehouse at Pier 31, and there you will find the Talon. I believe you will discover that the warehouse is in the possession of Matthews Industries, and that, with the knowledge that the man you will find was the face behind the Talon's hood, should be all you will need to know." 

  "Yes sir," Martenson answered. "Right away, sir."

  Taylor dropped the handset back into its cradle, and then eased back onto the couch. 

  "Miss Aldridge," he finally spoke, his eyes half lidded. "I am afraid I will have to ask another favor of you."

  "What?" Louise shot back, feigning indignation. "What could you possibly need now?" 

  "The use of your couch until morning," Taylor replied. "I'm afraid I'm not going anywhere." 

  Louise smiled, and drew a quilt over him.

  "You got it, Mr. Taylor," she answered, "but I need something from you, too."

  "And what is that?" Taylor asked, almost succumbing to sleep.

  "You still owe me a dinner on the town," she replied, "and I mean to collect."

  Taylor laughed, smiling, and then closed his eyes. Tonight, at least, justice would sleep.

Morning came early with a spike in my head and an unpleasant taste in my mouth. I lay sprawled on top of the bed sheets and felt myself being baked by the white hot light that knifed into the stale air through the part in the curtain. I rolled off the bed and bumped the air conditioner down a couple of notches, but it gave a sad wheeze and sputter and then stopped working entirely.

  Figuring this as good a time as any to get moving, I thumbed the television on to the morning news, and stripping off my clothes climbed into the shower. I got as wet as I could under the little trickle eking its way out of the shower head, and did my best with the doll-sized soap and shampoo provided for my convenience. Finishing, or rather just stopping a few moments later, I tried as much as possible to dry off using the little tissue-sized towels all cheap motels seem to come equipped with. I was used to the drill, never getting wet enough when in the shower, never getting dry enough once out.

  As I rubbed the little towel against my head, I caught strains from the television in the next room. The usual stuff: stock market down, the wrath of God descending on some trailer park somewhere, some politician caught in some kind of scandal. When I heard the name "J. Nathan Pierce" my ears pricked up, and I ambled into the other room.

  There was a commercial break, and then the anchor returned to pick up on the teaser he'd dropped just before.

  
"And in business news, sources close to land and oil
magnate J. Nathan Pierce announced today that he had
closed a deal to sell his interest in Vista Incorporated…"

  The bobbing blow-dried hairdo dissolved and was replaced by a shot of an elderly giant of a man, dressed in an expensive suit and standing in the middle of what looked like a private library. There was a towering shelf of books behind him, a bronze bust of some dead white man to his right, and a large book with a silver disc on the cover in a glass case to his left. Along the bottom of the screen appeared the legend, "FILE FOOTAGE."

  
"…the company which he began out of his father's
garage during the depression and which made him a bil
lionaire – to the multinational information giant
Lucetech."

  The hairdo reappeared, and was soon followed by a computer graphic that hovered over his left shoulder. It showed a circle enclosing two intersecting sine waves, almost like a yin-yang symbol doubled and laid over itself at an angle. Below was the name "LUCETECH".

  
"The details of the arrangement at this time are still
unclear, and it has yet to be announced whether Pierce
will step down from his position as CEO of Vista, or
whether he will be kept on in an advisory capacity. And
now for a look at sports…"

  I switched off the set as another, jauntier hairdo appeared, and sat down on the edge of the bed, dripping water onto the threadbare carpet. Though I doubted the vapid puppet of an anchorman had understood the importance of what he had just said, to me it was clear. Vista Incorporated, which Pierce had begun by purchasing up distressed real estate with his daddy's oil money back in the thirties, had always been the cornerstone of his financial empire. It was the parent company of all his oil production, real estate and property management, brokerage and consultation operations. With the sale of Vista, Pierce was left with a big house, a fleet of cars, a private jet and lots of money in the bank. But no financial power, and no leverage to obtain anything more. For any normal human being that would be well and good, to live out life driving a different car every day of the week and using hundred dollar bills as scratch paper, but Pierce wasn't exactly a normal human being.

  I got dressed and scooped the pile of photos and notes back into the box. I had decided that the answer to a lot of the questions I kept tripping over was somewhere in that box, and I just needed to go to the man who could find it for me. And that meant a trip to New Orleans.

Back in the car, driving along the wide road to Louisiana, I found the same spectrum of religious broadcasting, but this time with Christian Hip Hop added into the mix. I switched it off and smoked one cigarette after another, the smoke drifting in a wide circuit around the interior of the car before being drawn out the cracked window.

  I kept coming back to the story I'd read the night before. I wondered if my grandfather had kept the
Black Hand
magazine because the character had his same name, or whether the character had been named after him in the first place. I wasn't aware that the old man had known any writers in his life, but then I didn't know much about him at all. Still, another Texan high roller with the same name seemed an unlikely coincidence. The only major difference between the two was that, as far as I knew, my grandfather was never lunatic enough to go around playing Zorro. When I had the chance, and had nothing better to do, I figured I could check into Walter Reece, the writer of the story, and see what I could find out.

  In the meantime, I was on my way to New Orleans to ask the help of the greatest man I'd ever met.

  At the age of fourteen, I ran away from home. I suppose I'd had enough of living in San Antonio with the old man, and my brother was starting to get on my nerves, so I packed up a few things in a duffel bag and hit the road. I went to New Orleans, which I'd seen once in a movie, and after my money ran out in the first couple of days was reduced to eating out of dumpsters. The city lost a lot of its luster from that angle, so I decided to try a different approach. Remembering my life long dream, I decided to become a burglar.

  The whole idea of sneaking into people's houses, and sneaking out with all their good things, seemed daring and romantic, like Errol Flynn in a ski mask. I half expected to meet some beautiful girl doing it, just coming out of the shower, wrapped up in a towel. She'd fall in love with me, help me mend my evil ways, and we'd take off together for Paris or somewhere like that.

  As it turned out, I only broke into one place, and I didn't meet the girl of my dreams. Instead, I got a kiss in the mouth with a steel cane and lost a couple of teeth. I still rub my tongue over the gaps in my smile whenever I get too cocky, just to remind me never to let dreams run away with me. My first night on my new career as a burglar, I broke into Tan Perrin's house.

  Once upon a time, Tan was the greatest cat burglar this country had ever seen. He was a legend, but nobody knew his name. The papers, the cops, they all knew his handiwork, but nobody had ever caught him. Tan was an artist. He'd break into museums just to rearrange the paintings, and come back the next morning to see how folks liked them. He once broke into the Federal Reserve Bank in San Francisco, stole the hundred dollar plates, and mailed them to the Treasury Department in Washington. Sent a note along saying they might think about hiring some girl scouts to guard the place for them.

  Tan was true innovator, a pioneer, Michelangelo reborn as a thief. Twenty years at it, and he never got caught. Then time and luck caught up with him.

  He was breaking into a museum where they were keeping some of Leonardo da Vinci's notebooks. He claims he didn't want to take them; he just wanted to look at them up close. I tend to believe him. He was up on the roof, on his way down, when a security guard up there sneaking in a cigarette caught a glimpse of him in the moonlight. The guard got off a lucky shot; Tan got a bad break and caught the bullet in his spine. He just laid there twitching, bleeding his life out, while the cops took their own sweet time sending an ambulance over. By the time they got him to the hospital, he was paralyzed from the waist down.

  After that came the hospital, the court room, and the penitentiary, in that order. Twenty years all together, and when he was finally released he was just another withered old man in a wheelchair. He went back to New Orleans, where he'd been born, and moved into a large second story apartment. He'd socked away quite a bit of money over the years, on jobs no one even knew about, and hidden it where the feds could never find it. I think he intended to just live out his life in luxury, drinking twelve year old Irish whiskey and betting on the races. That's when I came along and he realized just how bored he'd become. He took me in and became my teacher.