Andrew Vachss: Strega

It was quiet and peaceful in my concealed blind. It made me think of Biafra again-comfortable isn't the same as safe.

I watched the redhead jog off along the path, her face set and hard but her body doing what the freak wanted it to do. She'd make the three circuits, standing up all the way-just like Julio promised.

He had to be out there somewhere. I didn't know his name, but I knew him-he'd have to see the redhead dance for himself. But I'd been there for hours; if he was anywhere nearby, I'd know it by now. The bridle path was about a half-mile around. The freak could be anywhere out there-but so could Max the Silent.

Minutes passed, but I never moved. I'm good at waiting. Then I heard the car: someone was driving along the road parallel to the bridle path, moving too slowly to be an early commuter. I froze as I heard the tires crunch gravel-he was off the road now, heading over to right across from where I was hidden. Perfect.

The tan Pontiac rolled to a gentle stop deep into the branches on the other side of the path, about fifty feet from where I was hidden. The engine died and the forest went silent, wondering at this new intruder. The side window of the Pontiac was heavily tinted-I couldn't even see movement inside. Then the door opened and the freak cautiously stepped out. He was tall, well over six feet, and rail-thin. He was wearing one of those jungle camouflage outfits they sell in boutiques, complete with polished black combat boots. He had a military field cap on his head, and his eyes were covered with mirror-lensed sunglasses. A long survival knife was slung low on his left thigh.

The freak started chopping at tree branches with the knife, covering the nose of the car so it would be invisible. His movements were quick, frantic. Maybe in his mind he was a soldier building a sniper's roost-to me he looked like a freak in a raincoat bouncing up and down in his seat, waiting for a porno movie to start.

The little telescope brought his face right into the blind with me. I couldn't see his eyes, but his lips were working overtime. Then we both heard the measured slap of sneakers on the path and we knew the redhead was making another circuit. He dove back into the Pontiac. I watched until I saw the driver's window sneak down and there he was, his face swiveled on a scrawny neck, eyes glued to the bridle path.

The redhead came along at a dead-even pace, running in the middle of the path, looking straight ahead. The freak's head turned with mine as we watched her approach and watched her disappear around a bend. I could see his face, but not his hands-I knew what he was doing with them.

The freak never moved. His window stayed down. Now I had to wait-was one circuit enough for him to get where he wanted to go? Would he take off now? I couldn't read the license number on his car. If he took off I'd have to make my move without Max.

But he stayed where he was-going back for seconds. I slowly twisted my neck back and forth, working out the kinks from staying too long in one spot, getting ready to move out. I felt a sharp sting against my face-I slapped the spot, looking all around me for the offending hornet.

Nothing. Then a snake's hiss, amplified a dozen times, penetrated my foggy brain and I knew Max was close by. It took me another half-minute to spot him, crouched motionless not ten feet from my blind. I pointed over to where the freak was parked and Max nodded-he knew.

I held up one finger to Max, telling him to wait a minute before he moved. Then I used the same finger to draw a half-circle in the air, made a motion as if I was getting to my feet, and grabbed my left forearm with my right hand. Circle around behind the freak, I was telling Max, wait for me to show myself, and then make sure the target doesn't move. I had grabbed my forearm instead of my throat for good reason-I wanted the freak to stay where he was until I could talk to him, not get planted there forever.

Max vanished. The park was still quiet-we had some time, but not much. How long does it take a woman protecting her cub to run a half-mile?

We both heard her before we saw her again, just like the last time. I knew where the redhead had left her gym bag, up ahead of where she rounded the corner. This would be the last time we saw her, but maybe the freak didn't know that. He had missed the first circuit-maybe he thought there was another lap still to come.

The redhead jogged past us exactly like before-a reluctant machine unable to overcome its programmer. I could feel the freak's eyes burning.

I waited a couple of seconds after she rounded the bend, watching carefully, but the freak didn't start his engine. I knew Max was in place. No point in trying to be quiet about this-it would take me ten minutes to slither out of the blind without giving myself away.

I grabbed both knees, rocked back until I was flat on my back, and kicked out with both feet. The blind went flying, the birds started screaming, and I heard the freak trying to start his car. His engine fired into life just as I was charging across the road to where he was hidden, but he never had a chance. His rear tires spun in a frantic dance, but his car never moved. It wouldn't go anywhere, not with the concrete wedges Max had stuffed in front of each front wheel.

The freak saw me moving toward him; his head was whipping wildly on its thin stalk of a neck looking for a way out, and then Max materialized at the side of the car. Another split-second and he reached into the car and pulled out the freak, the way you'd pull a dead fish out of a tank. The freak started to say something and Max twisted his neck-the something turned out to be a scream. Max flashed his spare hand into the freak's belly, palm out, and the scream turned to silence.

The Pontiac was a coupe, so I went around to the passenger side and climbed into the front seat. Then I pushed the driver's seat forward and Max climbed in too, holding the freak at arm's length until I shoved the seat-back forward to give him room. He deposited the freak next to me on the front seat, keeping his hand on the scrawny neck.

We all sat there for a minute. Nobody spoke. Three strangers at a drive-in movie with nothing on the screen. When the silence got too much for the freak, he opened his mouth-it only took a slight pressure from Max's hand for him to realize that talking would be painful. I reached over and snatched the mirror lenses from his sweaty face-I wanted to see his eyes. They darted around in their sockets like half-drunk flies on a Teflon pan.

"Give me your wallet," I told him, in a calm, quiet voice.

The freak hastily fumbled open his camouflage suit and handed me a billfold. Just what I expected-a miniature police badge was pinned to one side, almost two hundred in bills, an honorary membership card from the PBA, credit cards, and other assorted crap. The driver's license and registration were my targets, and I found them soon enough.

"Mark Monroe," I said, reading from the license. "That's a nice name…Mark. You think that's a nice name?" I asked Max, who said nothing. The freak said nothing too. I took my.38 from one pocket and the silencer tube from another. He watched as I carefully screwed them together, assembling a quiet killing machine.

I made a gesture to Max and his hand vanished from the freak's neck. "You made a big mistake, Mark," I told him.

The freak looked at me. He tried to talk but his Adam's apple kept bobbing into his voice box. "Just calm down," I told him, "take it easy, Mark." It took a while before he could speak.

"Wh…what do you want?"

"What do I want, Mark? I want you to leave people alone. I want you to stop threatening their kids. I want you to stop getting your kicks by torturing people like you did this morning."

"Could I explain this to you…could I tell you about…?" he wanted to know.