Andrew Vachss - Safe House

“Your mother knew how to do it,” I said.

“I thought that too. For a long time. Then my father told me the real story. My mother was afraid of heights herself. Where she was raised, it was all flat. Going up scared her. My father said she didn’t even like to go in elevators.”

“She had a lot of guts.”

“Enough to give me some. I know how to jump into things now,” she whispered.

Then she reached down and tugged at my hair, pulling me up to her.

“Got him,” the Prof’s voice barked over the cellular.

I cut the connection. Pryce was about four blocks away, rolling toward the meet in the same white Taurus he’d used at the airport. I’d told him the meet was coming a couple of days ago, told him to have a cell phone handy and to get me the number. I rang him an hour ago, asked him how long it would take to get to an address in East Harlem. He said to give him an hour. We had a spotter up there too. I rang in on his cellular as soon as the Taurus turned into the street I’d given him, told him about the change of plans. It was just a short hop over the Willis Avenue Bridge to the new address, twenty minutes ETA.

Finding an abandoned warehouse in the South Bronx is no great feat. Securing the premises was another matter, but we’d had people in place since noon the day before, thirty-four hours ago.

From my vantage point on the second floor, I could see the white Taurus pull up. Pryce was all-in now—he couldn’t know this wasn’t a hit, but he couldn’t get to the baby unless he ran the risk. One of the Cambodian trio stepped out from the shadows and walked toward the Taurus, right hand in his coat pocket. He motioned with his empty hand for the window to come down. It did. He walked right up to the driver’s side, leaned in and said something. Pryce and Lothar got out. The Cambodian slipped behind the wheel and the Taurus took off.

I looked over to where we’d rigged a pool of light, using a generator to drive a single hanging overhead fixture. The floor had been swept in a ten-foot circle. Two milk crates were the only furniture in the artificial island. One of the Cambodians came up the stairs first, nodding to me to indicate the speed-search had gone okay—no weapons. Then Pryce. Then Lothar. Then the third Cambodian. “That’s for you,” I said to Lothar, pointing at one of the milk crates.

“I thought you were gonna take us someplace to see my—”

“Just sit down,” I told him. “Be patient.”

Max the Silent came out of the darkness. With a baby in his arms.

“Gerhardt!” Lothar yelled, reaching out for the infant.

Max shifted his body, throwing his shoulder as a barrier.

“Sit down,” I told Lothar. “We’ll hand you the kid, okay?”

Lothar looked at Pryce. Getting the nod, he took his seat. I made a motion to Max. He closed the gap, handed the baby down. From his shoulder, Max unslung a blue cloth bag, placed it at Lothar’s feet. Lothar held the child at arm’s length, as if examining him for defects.

“He looks thin,” he said to no one in particular. “That cunt had better be . . .” He turned to face me. “Where is she, anyway?”

“That wasn’t the deal,” I told him. “You wanted to see the kid, there he is.”

“I thought—”

“Nobody gives a fuck what you thought,” I told him, hardening my voice. “That’s your kid, right?”

“Yeah,” he said resentfully. “But I thought—”

“It’s what you asked for,” Pryce said to him, like he was a pizza-delivery guy. You asked for anchovies, you got anchovies. You changed your mind, too bad.

“I want to be alone with him,” Lothar said. “I don’t like all these . . .” He left it blank, but I didn’t need a translator. “. . . standing around watching me.”

“It doesn’t matter what you want,” I told him, no-flexibility ice in my voice. “I had to make some promises in order to borrow the kid for a few hours. One of them was that you wouldn’t be alone with him. And I keep my promises.”

“A promise to a cunt don’t mean—”

“I drove for almost six hours to set this up, and I got a long ride to take him back,” I lied. A professional habit, planting barren seeds. “And I made a deal too. You’re not getting off that box. In that bag there’s a bottle with some formula, a clean diaper, everything you’ll need. And everybody’ll step back, okay?” I waved my hand and Max did just that. Lothar’s eyes swept the room, but the harsh overhead lighting kept him from seeing anyone. Even his wife, not thirty feet away, probably holding her breath.

I tugged gently at Pryce’s coat, drawing him back deeper into the dark. He came along without protest. We moved along until I found the stairs. Then I went up one flight, Pryce right behind.

We had the next floor lit too. One room, anyway. Another pair of milk crates with a plank across them made a little table. On that table, a bowl of tepid water, an aerosol can of shaving cream, a thick white hotel towel, and a disposable safety razor in plastic shrink-wrap. Plus a half-dozen maroon-and-white sealed packets marked CORTABALM on the sides.

“Your turn to deliver,” I told him.

“What’s the other stuff for?” he asked.

“You have to shave the ankle before you attach the cuff. Like you would before you’d tape it up to play football, same thing. Otherwise you can sweat under there, the itch can be awesome. That’s what the cortisone patch is for. It keeps the area fresh and clean for the whole thirty days.”

He took the monitoring anklet—the one I’d let him take with him the last time—from a coat pocket. Without saying another word, he pulled up a cuff on his dark slacks, took off his shoe and sock and wet the ankle thoroughly. His hand was perfectly steady as he shaved.

No reason for him to be nervous. He’d had plenty of time to have an expert look at the cuff, tell him that there was no thread of Semtex wound through it. And that the wafer-thin battery would be damn lucky to last the thirty days.

When he was finished shaving, he toweled off the area. I handed him one of the cortisone packets. He tore it open. “Make sure it’s flat,” I told him. “Once this cuff gets clamped on, any bumps are going to stay there until it comes off.”

The white cortisone pad was thin and moist. He smoothed it down with the fingers of both webbed hands. “Okay,” he said.

I locked it on.

Fifteen minutes later, Lothar was done. The baby was getting antsy—he knew his mother was close and he wanted that comfort back—and Lothar finally figured out the kid’s only response to anything said to him was to gurgle a few times.

Besides, Lothar had shown the cunt who was boss. He wanted to see his kid—he saw his kid. He handed the baby back to Max. The warrior’s face didn’t change, but I could feel his contempt all the way across the room.

It was as lost on Lothar as Max’s ki had been.

“Tomorrow you get the letter in your box,” Pryce told him. “There’ll be a number there. Pay phone. You call. Meet with Hercules. And then you bring him in.”

“I know, I know.”

“Go downstairs with Alexander,” I told them, nodding toward one of the Cambodians. “He’ll stay with you until your car gets brought back around.”

“Alexander?” Lothar said. “What kinda name is that for a gook?”

“It’s a secret society,” I said to him quietly. “They always take the name of the last man they kill. This is his fifth one.”

Lothar looked at me, started to open his mouth. Shut it. He glanced over at the Cambodian, who showed him a brilliant smile. Half his teeth were the color of lead. The rest were missing.

They went downstairs. I watched as the white Taurus came up the street, watched the first Cambodian get out. They climbed in and took off. I didn’t insult Pryce’s tradecraft by writing down the license number.