Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

She tried for another few minutes, licking, sucking, making little noises. But I stayed dead.

Her head came up, lunatic eyes shining with joy. "It doesn't matter," she said. "You just sit here, be a good boy. Maybe, if you're real good, when I get back, I'll give you another chance."

She got to her feet, brought her face down to where we were almost touching, closed her eyes, and spit full in my face.

When I opened my eyes again, she was at the end of the hail, dressed in a yellow turtleneck and black pants, a pocketbook over one shoulder.

"See you soon," she said, and blew me a kiss.

Strapped in that chair, waiting, I was cold. Not from the temperature, from inside me. I went into that safe place, the place where ice cauterizes, makes you numb. You can think things there, but you can't feel them. I didn't want to feel….The only option on that menu was Terror.

I had a plan going in— I thought it over first. It was a good plan— no way Belinda was going to kill me in her own apartment— too many risks. How could she explain it to the cops?

But after she explained it to me, I could see it happening.

Getting people out of the way, that was the real plan. Hauser was too much of a news hound to let him stay around. No telling what kind of stunt he'd pull if he thought there was a story in it. The Prof and Clarence, they were professionals all right, but they were my family first. The last time I got them in something…that time in the Bronx…I wasn't going to do that again.

I wanted to save Max for vengeance. If it came to that, he could take his time, work around the edges, strike when it was safe. Max isn't bulletproof— but if you don't know he's coming, he can't be stopped.

I had my backup ready: brains and muscle both. The Mole and Frankie. Only the Mole is a lunatic and Frankie's down to one arm.

I rocked in the chair, trying to tip it over. Maybe I could get free that way— maybe the crash would say something to the people downstairs. She hadn't put a gag in my mouth, so I figured yelling would be a waste of time. I shoved hard to my right— the chair didn't budge. I couldn't see where the legs met the floor, but I guess it was anchored somehow.

Calm, stay calm. I tried to remember everything I'd learned about escapes. There was a young guy I did time with once. He could get out of handcuffs like he was greased. The trick was to fold your hands over so they were no wider than your wrist— he was always practicing it. He would let you hold his wrist, tight as you wanted. And then just pull it free. I tried, but it was no good. Something like that takes practice….

There was a little play in the waist strap— I had pushed all the air in my lungs into my stomach when I saw what Belinda was going to do— I'd remembered at least that much. But it wasn't enough…I just had more room to squirm, a worm on a hook.

I could feel the baby spot beaming down on me, a hot, focused light. It was so quiet I could hear my heart beat…faster than I wanted, but still below the panic line. Maybe Morales would get the drop on her…Then all I'd have to worry about was starving to death.

If there's a way in, there's a way out. I said it to myself, over and over again, a mantra that gave me no peace. If only I had…

I heard the deadbolt on the front door snap open. The sound froze my heart. I stopped breathing. A thin beam of light came around the corner.

"Jesus Christ!" It was Frankie, a flashlight in his hand, the lens taped so only a sliver of light came through. He came forward slowly, wary as a stray dog offered food.

"I'm okay," I told him, willing calm into my voice. "But hurry it up, all right?"

He moved quickly to where I was strapped in. I saw the Mole materialize over his left shoulder, his leather satchel in his hand. The Mole pushed Frankie out of the way, held up his hand so Frankie couldn't get any closer.

"You wired up?" he asked me, making a sniffing noise like a bomb dog.

"No."

The Mole nodded, satisfied. He put his satchel on the floor, knelt to open it. Then he carefully examined the straps through his Coke–bottle glasses. He shook his head in disgust, reached in his satchel and came out with what looked like a giant pair of scissors. The scissors had a pistol grip on one side with a wide handle on the other, a spring between them. The Mole worked it under the strap on my left arm, resting the base of the scissors on the chair itself. He leaned forward, grunting with effort, and the thick leather parted. I flexed my arm, working some of the stiffness out while the Mole did the other strap, around my right arm. I could have slipped out then, but the Mole did the waist strap too, and I was free.

"She went out the front door, headed downtown," Frankie said. "We couldn't follow her. I mean, not and get in here too."

"You did the right thing," I told him, climbing into my clothes. "It doesn't matter anyway— I know where she's going."

"Can we— ?" Frankie asked.

"You got a car?" I interrupted.

"We got the Mole's…truck, I guess it is," Frankie said. "He picked me up in it."

I knew what he meant— the beat–up old panel truck with the name of a kosher butcher on the side that the Mole used to get around in.

"Let's go," I told them.

The Mole drove like he always did, with bat–blind incompetence, like he had a sonar system in his head but it wasn't working too good. The panel truck yawed around corners. Every pothole sent my head toward the roof.

"You have any trouble with the locks?" I asked the Mole.

He gave me a "Don't be stupid" look, sawing at the big steering wheel to negotiate another corner.

We drove up Van Dam slowly, seeing if…Nothing— the street was quiet. Morales' screaming–red sports car was parked right in front of the loft. I used Frankie's flashlight on its windshield— it was empty. We turned on Greenwich and doubled back, parking on Charlton— the loft on Van Dam was just through the alley.

"You got a piece?" I asked Frankie.

"No. I mean, you didn't— "

"That's okay," I said. "Mole?"

"I have some grenades," the lunatic replied. In his world, the subject of individual targets doesn't come up much.

"Stay here," I told him. "Frankie'll be back in a minute. Then take off, okay?"

The Mole nodded, as miserly with words as always. I took off down the alley, Frankie right behind. He may not have been a world–class burglar when he was doing houses, but he knew how to move: quick and careful. I located the building, eye–checked it, taking stock. A rusty fire escape ran up the back of the building. The loft was on the second floor. I looked to the rooftops. The buildings were so close together you could travel the length of the block and never touch the street.

No way I was going to ring that bell, ask Belinda to throw down the key. I knew what she'd throw down if she saw me coming.

Frankie saw the look on my face. "What can I do?" he asked, hard truth in his voice.

"One more thing, brother," I told him. "I gotta get on that fire escape. Get on quiet, understand? And it's too high for me to jump."

"I'm with you," Frankie said, planting his feet, bending at the knees, cupping his right hand. I stepped into the cup with one foot, jumped off with the other one just as Frankie heaved up with all his strength. For a second, I was floating….Then I grabbed the base of the fire escape with both hands and hauled myself up. I turned from my perch, looked down at Frankie. I made my right hand into a fist, held it right next to my face. Frankie made the same gesture from below, answering. I moved both hands in a "Get the hell out of here!" gesture. Then I turned my back on Frankie and went to work.

I took a black shadow–marker out of my pocket, smeared it over my face in a random pattern. I pulled a black wool watch cap over my hair, slipped the black gloves on my hands. The window into the loft was closed, pitch black from years of city soot— I couldn't tell if it was dark inside or if I just couldn't see through the glass. No bars on the window— strange in this neighborhood. I got my hands under the frame, shoved up slowly. Nothing. I braced myself, shoved with all my strength. It didn't budge. I pulled a black silk handkerchief from my jacket, spit on it and rubbed a clear circle on the glass. Still couldn't see anything.