Footsteps of the Hawk (30 page)

E
ven when I was a little kid, I knew the truth. If I wanted to stand my ground, I'd have to steal some first.

My family is my ground now. All I've got. Everything.

If I screwed it up, if it didn't play the way I figured it…then I knew what had to be done. Knew I wouldn't be around to do it.

The Prof can do many things, but he's no assassin. I couldn't let him die trying.

So I did the right thing.

I went over to Mama's. Sat down in my booth and told her everything. She never made a note, but I knew it was engraved in her mind.

If I didn't jump off the tracks in time, Max the Silent would visit the people who had shoved me down there.

I
t was another three days before it happened. Almost midnight when the cellular phone in my jacket chirped like a damn cricket, jolting me awake. I opened the channel.

"What?"

"She call. Say you call back, quick."

"See you later, Mama," I said.

"You still—?"

I cut the connection.

"H
ello…" Her voice was trembly, trailing off to a whisper–breath.

"It's me," I said.

"I've got it," she said. "The proof. Certain–sure. And I'm scared. He could be—"

"Say where and when."

"
Now!
Right now. Can you—?"

I said Yes. She gave me the address.

I
t was on Charlton Street, close by the river. Her name was on the bell: Belinda Roberts. I rang it, got buzzed in. It was a walk–up, four flights.

The door was standing open. Belinda stuck her head out, waved me on. She was wearing only a black jersey bra and a pair of white shorts. I closed the gap between us. As I walked into the apartment, she stepped to one side. I could see from the way it was laid out that it was the only apartment on the floor.

"Have a seat, she said, pointing down the hall. The place was L–shaped, turning a corner as you walked in. The floor was wood, bleached so white it looked unreal. The left–hand wall was all bookcases. The right was all windows, a thick cage of steel bars blocked most of the view. Straight ahead was darkness, the only light a baby spot, its rose–colored light illuminating a big wooden chair. The chair…I walked closer, took a look. It was an execution chair, or a damn good replica. Complete with heavy leather straps on the arms and a metal electrode cap. Above it, a glossy black–and–white poster: a photograph of an electric chair—the same chair? maybe…At the top of the poster, in blood–red letters:

CAPITAL PUNISHMENT

SOMETIMES IT'S A
FATAL
MISTAKE!

"What's this supposed to be?" I asked, turning around to face her. That's when I saw the big automatic in her hands. She held it trained on my chest, feet spread in a combat shooting stance, close enough for me to see the sweat on her face…and the long tube silencer screwed into the barrel of the gun.

"It's your turn now, she said, holding the gun dead steady. "Remember? Remember when I came to your place? Remember what you made me do? Well, now it's
you
I don't trust. I'm too scared to play around."

"What do you want?" I asked, watching her eyes—so I wouldn't have to look at the pistol.

"I want what you wanted," she said. "To know I can trust. If you're wired…if you're with
him
, I'll…"

"I'm not with anybody," I told her.

"Then show me," she said. "Do what I did. Take off your clothes. All of them. Slow."

"Watch my hands," I said quietly. "I can't take this stuff off without reaching, you understand? There's no wire. I'm doing what you want. Just don't get nervous, all right?"

"Why would I be nervous?" she snorted. "Because I'm a bitch, is that it?"

"Anybody would be nervous," I said. "I'm nervous. Probably more than you, okay? But I'm not pointing a gun at anyone."

"Just do it," she said. "Do it now."

I removed my army jacket. Very slowly. I dropped it to the floor, knowing the padding wouldn't let any of the metal clank. I pulled my black sweatshirt and white T–shirt over my head, dropped them on top of the jacket. I held my hands over my head, turned around completely.

"Do the rest," she said.

I unbuckled the black chinos, unzipped the fly. I went to one knee, careful to keep my hands where she could see them. Then I pulled off the boots, one at a time. Socks too. When I stood up, the pants fell down. I stepped out of them, waited to see if…

"Come on," she said, her voice as unwavering as the pistol she was holding.

I pulled my shorts down, stepped out of them too.

"Step away," she said, her voice deliberately harsh, the way cops learn on the street—keep control of the guy you're arresting—keep the reins
tight
—don't talk,
demand.
"Not to the side, back! More. Get
away
from those clothes—now!"

I backed off. She came forward, closing the gap, walking splay–footed, keeping the pistol centered, perfectly balanced.

"Further," she ordered. The back of my legs touched the electric chair. "Stop," she said.

I raised my hands again, trying to reassure her.

"Sit down," she said. "In the chair."

I did it.

Belinda circled to my left, as careful as a wasp stalking a scorpion. My eyes followed her, but I held my body straight. "Put your arms where they're supposed to go," she said, almost out of my peripheral vision. "I've got to look through your stuff, and I can't do it while I'm holding a gun on you.

I laid my forearms on the broad flat wood arms of the electric chair as she stepped in behind me. I felt the barrel of the pistol in the back of my neck. "I'm going to fasten the straps," she said. "I can do it with one hand. If you move, you're dead."

I sat still, breathing through my nose to keep the panic at bay. I heard the metal–on–metal as the restraints snapped into place. She pulled another strap around my waist. I heard that one snap closed too, somewhere behind me.

Belinda circled back in front of me, walked over to where I'd dropped my clothes. She put the pistol on the floor, started pawing over my jacket. "You got toys, huh?" she said, pulling out the Velcro panel, holding up the handcuff speed key.

"I never leave home without one," I said, hoping for a smile. I didn't get one—she went back to work, rooting through my clothes.

"No lock picks?" she asked.

"Never use them," I replied, still trying for flip.

"Don't worry," she said. "I've got some."

Before I could ask her what the hell that meant, she turned back to her task, her face tightened in fierce concentration. I kept it quiet—maybe after she saw I was clean…

Finally, she stood up. "No wires," she said. "No guns either."

"I'm playing it straight," I told her, sick of games, scared real deep, trying to sound calm, keep her from spooking.

"Yeah. Maybe you are." She walked back toward me, pistol in her hand again. "You've got a nice body for a man your age," she said. "Pretty thin, though. You work out?"

"No."

"Too bad. It can make you feel real, real good, you do it right."

"I'll have to try it," I promised. "Now, how about if you take—"

"Just sit there," Belinda said. "It's time you learned what's going on. You have any cigarettes?"

"In my jacket."

She walked over, found my pack. "You want one?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Okay," she said, coming close, holding it to my lips, striking one of my wooden matches. I took a long drag, smelling her sweat—a sour, ugly smell. What had Immaculata said? Coarse?

She pulled the cigarette away, went back to where she was standing. Then she carefully placed the burning cigarette in an ashtray.

"That's one," she said absently, like she was speaking to herself.

"One what?" I asked, trying to keep her talking.

"Sssshh," she said, bending forward at the waist, arching her back so I was looking directly into her cleavage. "It's a secret. You be a good boy, maybe I'll tell you about it, okay?"

"Sure," I replied, trying to sound reassuring without spooking her.

"You want the truth?" she asked, straightening up, hands on hips, looking down at me. "This is just like the movies, isn't it? Where the detective gets everyone in the room and solves the crime? Well, there's only two of us here. And only one of us knows what's going on. So I guess it's my turn…" She walked a few paces closer, then stopped. "You want me to solve the crime, Burke?"

"Do it," I told her.

"I love him," she said calmly. "George, I love him. Don't give me any funny looks—I saw how you were looking at that painting in Jon's apartment…the one on Van Dam. I'm not like that—I'm no groupie—serial killers don't get me hot. It's not what George did, it's what he
is
. My lover. Since we were kids. That wasn't how it was planned, though. You want to know how it was planned?"

"Yeah, I do," I said, staying in my center, willing her to stay in hers too, stable, calm…pushing that out at her, a cloud I wanted to wrap around her, a mist on her vision, slowing her pulse with mine.

"The way it was planned, we were the entertainment. Did that ever happen to you? Where you go to a party and you think you're going to have fun…and then it turns out you
are
the fun? That happened to me.

"I loved this guy in high school. I mean, I
worshipped
him. I'm the kind of woman, I love you, I'll do anything for you. Anything. I was only fifteen. I didn't know…but I should have. When you look back, everything's clear, isn't it?"

I just nodded, wanting her to go on, keep talking until her motor ran down.

She put her hands behind her back, looked down like a bashful kid. "He invited me to this party. I was so excited. But when I got there, it was just him. And some of his friends. They didn't actually…force me. He said it would prove I loved him. So I did it.

"But that was after…First, they brought us to this big house in the country. All us kids, I mean. This old man was in charge. He was a rich man. A philanthropist, they said. In the foster home, that's what they said. It would be like we were getting adopted. We all went to live there. I was about ten…eleven, I don't remember. George was there too. And a bunch of others.

"We were the entertainment. The old man would do things to us. After a while, he made us do things to each other. Sometimes, he brought his friends in. To watch. At first, just to watch. But sometimes, they would do it to us too.

"I'm going backwards," she said. "I do that sometimes. But I'm not crazy—I wouldn't want you to think that. Where was I…?"

"You were the entertainment," I said. "First for this freakish old man. Later for some high–school jock."

"You
are
listening," she replied. "That's good. You're a good listener. Did anyone ever tell you that? I knew you were a good listener, the first time I met you. In Central Park, do you remember that?"

"Yeah. You said you liked my dog."

"I
did
like her," Belinda said, a hurt tone in her voice. "I knew what you were, even back then. A few months later, Morales told me. He told me what you do. He hates you. So he told me what you did. And I thought, one day for sure, I could use that. A man like you."

"What did Morales tell you?"

"He told me you were a hit man," she said, closing to within a couple of feet. "A paid killer. He said you killed a few people. He said you were a liar and a thief and a killer. I knew I would like you."

"None of that's true," I told her.

"Yes it is. I checked. And you know what? Morales, he
helped
me check. And then…" She walked in tiny circles, nibbling at her lower lip, looking down, the pistol waving aimlessly in her hand. I stayed quiet. Her head came up: "Where was I?"

"You said you loved George," my voice gentle and soothing, still trying.

"Yes. I love him. That wasn't supposed to happen. They made us…do things with each other. Me and George, we did it a lot. Even before we…could, like. I mean, before he could even get it up. When he was a boy. That's really when I loved him…when we were in it together. Like brother and sister, so close. If I love you, I'll do anything for you."

"What did he want you to do?" I asked.

"Kill," she said, the word as dead as her eyes—a pretty–painted house with no furniture inside. "The case against George, the one in New York, the woman on University Place, it wasn't really that strong. Fortunato said he could get it overturned if he had something—newly discovered evidence, that's what he called it. I was going to mess up the trial. I had this plan. I'd jerk George off on a visit, into a condom. Then I'd plant it inside one of the others. But that was stupid. George told me it was stupid—the only way you get the same DNA is from identical twins—it would lead them right to me. George wouldn't want that. Besides, he always wore a rubber when he…AIDS, you know. George always said he wasn't gonna let one of those cunts kill him from her grave. So I used the red ribbon. It wasn't that hard. To do it, I mean." She had her hands clasped in front of her, still looking down. All of a sudden she dropped to her knees. Dropped hard—I could hear the dull thud when her knees hit the wood. She reached her right hand behind her. When she brought it back around, a long red ribbon trailed from her fingers.

"I did it for love," she said, bowing her head again.

I sat there, strapped in place, working on calm, watching. I had one shot—one thing that might spin her. But the one shot was like a bullet in a derringer—the target had to be close. Her head came up slowly, a tiny bit at a time, her eyes going slowly over me, climbing until she was looking into my face. Now…

"You have no love, Eunice," I said softly.

She rocked back on her heels like she'd been slapped, face a mottled red–and–white. "You…" she whisper–snarled.

"Eunice Melody Moran," I said, moving into the rhythm, trying to wash over her with words, get her spinning, keep her against the ropes, then…"You changed your name. Easy enough to do. Just like Barbara Thomchuk did. I don't know about the woman on University Place…I guess George did that one on his own, huh?"