On Broken Wings (18 page)

We could use a second computer. At the least, we're going to need another keyboard pretty soon.

He thought about the world she was headed for, the world he had left so few months ago. His urge to giggle died completely.

Why am I training a helpless young woman to be a government lackey? What the hell is wrong with me?

He reared back from his own conclusions. It had been her desire to learn his trade, not his. He had tried to discourage her. What else was he to do? Send her to secretarial school? Teach her how to steal? She was superbly gifted at computing, whatever use -- or none -- she might find for it. And it was within his power to free her from money problems for the rest of her life. So why torment himself over it now?

Because she's going to want to work. She's too good to treat it as a hobby. And the only work she'll be able to get with her new skills is making things for the very thugs that are taking the machines away from us. Maybe she'll wind up making digital surveillance devices or guidance systems for smart bombs. Maybe she'll impress the hell out of somebody in a uniform and get conscripted as a national resource. What fun.

He thrust the train of thought aside. There was nothing to be done about it now. He could never disengage her. Just as it had with him, it had become a passion to her. She was determined to explore it exhaustively.

And so she will. I've never seen anyone as happy as she is when she's at my computer. I just wish she wouldn't hit the keys so hard.

When the coffee was done, he filled two mugs and carried them up the stairs to the office. He set one down at Christine's right. She appeared not to notice, so complete was her absorption in the program rapidly mutating under her fingers.

He reached into her field of view, grasped her right hand, and pulled it to the mug that steamed less than a foot away. She ceased to type and looked up at him. The fingers that had been making digital thunder moments before closed on the handle.

"Mustn't forget to eat, Chris."

She smiled, and his misgivings dissipated. "Thank you, Louis."

***

Rusty McGill had become exceedingly tired of Albrecht's Department Store. He had tried to get one of the other Butchers to swap with him without success. You had to be too presentable for this post, and most of them didn't have the gear or wouldn't make the effort.

The newest Butcher sighed, reached for his cigarettes for the hundredth time, and remembered once again that Tiny had forbidden him to smoke while he was standing watch. He cursed without energy, stretched to relieve the kinks in his neck and shoulders, and settled back against the wall of the store to resume his vigil.

He had come to loathe that damned wall. Having to camp out here day after day and watch hundreds of women troop in and out of this store, nothing on their minds but shopping and getting home in time for the kiddies or some inane soap opera, was beginning to unhinge him. But Tiny would not relent.

Rollo had told him to stay cool. Rusty's lover knew the head Butcher much better than Rusty did, and of course was far higher in Tiny's esteem and council. Rollo had assured Rusty that Tiny would tire of the hunt, in time, but that any attempt to hasten the process would have the most unpleasant consequences. So Rusty husbanded his waning patience and tried to soldier on.

Day was sliding into evening, and he was about to return to the barracks for chow when his eye caught on an arriving couple. The man's red and white checked flannel shirt was what did it. Rusty had one just like it.

Rusty's visual memory was excellent. He knew he'd seen the little twerp before, and wearing the same shirt. A moment's thought told him where: at Onteora General Hospital, helping his aged mother or some such to cross the parking lot. Though stooped, the woman he'd been guiding had obviously been taller than he was.

Images flooded back. The guy and his charge had made for an old blue Dodge pickup truck that had been parked in an otherwise unused section of the lot. Once he'd packed his granny or whoever into the death seat, he'd sped off at about a hundred miles an hour. That had been just before Tiny had led them all into the hospital on that segment of this pointless pussy hunt.

Rusty's attention flicked to the woman. She was young, tall, and dressed to kill. Her hair was a cloud of dark brown ringlets. Her face was a light olive tone, pointed up nicely with rouge at the cheekbones. And her figure would have made any of the other Butchers want to drop to all fours and howl like a dog.

Holy shit.

Rusty knew better than to approach the two by himself. But if he were to tell Tiny that he'd seen her and had let her get away, Tiny would have his balls for breakfast.

I'm gonna have to wait until they come out and trail them.

It didn't take as long as he feared before Red-and-White-Check came back out, but this time the little guy was alone. Rusty panicked. He let the twerp get maybe thirty paces away before he realized that he had to follow. The woman, wherever she was now, might be traceable through the man. Hell, they might even be living together.

Moving with all the nonchalance he could muster, Rusty went to his bike and fired it up, keeping one eye fixed upon Red-and-White-Check. The twerp got into the same blue Dodge pickup Rusty had seen at the hospital. Rusty gunned his engine and followed the pickup out of the parking lot and onto NY 231.

***

It was late in the evening when Rusty returned to the barracks on Lumberjack Road. Most of the pack was absent, but Rusty's eyes lit on Hans, Rollo and Tiny as he walked through the front door.

The officers never have to stand watch. Shit.

He fought down his resentment and approached the troika with as much poise as he could command. They turned toward him with blank expressions. Excepting his private interludes with Rollo, he had never been so forward.

"I think I found her, Boss."

That was the end of the blank expressions. Hans's face registered shock. Rollo's displayed relief. All the blood in Tiny's body seemed to concentrate in the few square inches around his eyes.

"Where is she?"

Rusty's throat had gone dry. "She's staying at a place a little outside town, on Alexander Avenue. There's a guy living there, too."

Tiny's eyes remained on Rusty's own. "How did you find her?"

"She walked into Albrecht's with this guy about seven. I followed 'em to the house." The flamethrower intensity of the head Butcher's gaze made him want to back and fill. "Boss, I could be wrong about this. Remember, I'm the only member of the pack that's never seen her before."

Tiny's hands came down on Rusty's shoulders with a force little short of a blow. "Big girl? Olive skin? Thick mop of brown curls? Built like a brick shithouse?"

Rusty nodded. "Yeah."

The hands converged on the sides of Rusty's face. "You got her, man. There ain't that many." The pack leader exhaled and flung himself onto the sofa behind him as if he'd just finished a thousand-mile sprint. Rusty stood between Hans and Rollo, uncertain what to do or say.

"Tell me about the house."

Rusty shrugged. "Ordinary house. No neighbors, though. Looks like a two-story. No garage. Just one ride in the drive."

"Clear lines of sight?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Damn." Tiny stared at the ceiling. "Well, tell me about the guy. Could he be a hassle?"

The idea of it was enough to make Rusty laugh. "One guy, Boss?"

Tiny sat up and glared. Rusty's laughter died at once. Rollo intervened before things could turn ugly.

"One guy can cause a lot of trouble, Rusty." Rollo's raspy voice was pitched low and soft. "Especially if he's got the right stuff and the wrong attitude. Are you sure there's only one guy in this house?"

"Yeah, Rollo, just the one, and he's a joke! Pale as a ghost, and skinny to boot. Barefoot, the bitch is taller than he is."

"Her name is Christine, Rusty." The dangerous light had not left Tiny's eyes, and the edge on his voice could have cut armor plate. "Remember it. Learn to use it. You'll be getting to know her real well."

The words hinted at unspoken knowledge. Rusty didn't like it. Despite Rollo's admonitions, Rusty hadn't bothered with any of the women that were drawn to the Butchers. Apparently the pack leader had been watching him more closely than he thought. The newest Butcher clamped his mouth shut and averted his eyes.

Tiny turned to Rollo. "Saddle up and have your buddy show you where this house is. Check it out as thoroughly as you can without giving yourself away. Then get back here pronto and give me a full report. I mean a
full report.
Details about everything. I want to know the exact fucking shade of this guy's shit and which hand he wipes with."

"You got it, Boss." Rollo moved to Rusty's side and clapped him on the shoulder. The caress at the tail of the gesture was concealed from the surrounding eyes.

"If it all checks out, we hit them tomorrow at noon, and tomorrow night, we party." Tiny turned to Rusty once more. "You did okay. But next time, spend more time on the details. The details can kill you. And I've lost enough Butchers for one year."

Rusty managed not to salute, but it was close. "Yes, sir."

Tiny grunted and began to turn away. Rollo started toward the barracks doors, expecting Rusty to follow.

"Boss?" Rusty's mouth had gone dry.

"What?"

"I think she was in one of the hospitals we went to."

"What! How do you know?"

Rusty regretted having said anything more. "I saw the guy once before, in the parking lot at Onteora General. He was herding some stooped old bag across the lot. I figure it was her in disguise."

Tiny's face had turned so red that Rusty expected his head to explode.

"That fucking nurse lied to me." It was a whisper. "Me!"

Without another word, the head Butcher strode to the front door, swept it aside, and stalked out alone into the night.

====

Chapter
18

Tiny pulled on his jacket. The day was warm, but he liked to be in full costume when he went into action. Besides, the old thing had saved his hide more than once, turning blades he hadn't seen in time to evade them. He was both fond of it and superstitious about it.

"Go over it again."

Rollo nodded. "It's a two-story bungalow, all brick. Set well back from the street. No garage, wooden front door, wooden back door with a screen in front. Three steps up from the walk to a concrete stoop. First floor picture windows front and back. Small windows on the top floor, but you couldn't reach them from the ground without a ladder. No trees near the building. Back yard's got a split-rail fence. No other houses within half a mile on either side. Other side of the street's nothing but scrub woods. Electric and phone lines are both overhead and run to the pole from the top of the building."

"And the guy?"

Rollo shrugged. "Rusty was right, Boss. This guy's insignificant." The Butcher lieutenant snorted. "Probably a fairy."

The barracks erupted in laughter. Tiny wiped saliva from his chin with the back of his hand.

"All right, we're ready. It's going to be Rollo, Duffy and me."

Duffy Lee Ryback, a short, broad-bellied biker of long years with the pack, grinned and strode forward. A twenty-four inch length of iron pipe, his favorite weapon, dangled from his hand. An inarticulate sound came from the corner in which Rusty McGill stood. Tiny glared at him.

"Some rookies join the Butchers thinking they're going to be in on every conversation, every planning session, every hit. Thinking they're going to help the boss run the pack. It doesn't work that way. We have to learn about a rookie. Even one that came highly recommended. Find out where his strengths and weaknesses are. Find out if he can be trusted to do what he's been told. The smart ones learn it before they get their tongues wrapped around the boss's axle. The stupid ones wind up with no tongues."

The barracks was silent. Tiny swept his eyes across the pack. After a moment, he allowed himself to grin.

"Clean this place up, guys. We're going to party down tonight."

From the throats of the assembled Butchers came a sharp, vicious shout as Tiny, Rollo and Duffy made their exit.

***

Rusty waited for the sounds of cycle engines to die away. As the Butchers began to turn toward their several pursuits, he turned to Mac Swanson, a rider of moderate longevity close to his own age.

"The Boss was in some kind of mood. What do you think he did at that hospital this morning?"

Mac adjusted his neck brace. "Not much, for him. We better get to work."

***

The Butcher strike group rode convoy-fashion through the streets of Onteora and through the little exurban village of Foxwood. Most passers-by recoiled from the mere sounds of their cycles. Few people anywhere were likely to show an open interest in their doings. It was widely known to be unhealthful.

Alexander Avenue was a connecting street, linking the village's Main Street to NY 231. There was only one house between those two intersections: their destination. When he had seen it with his own eyes, Tiny grinned. This would be too little exercise to bother with.