Andrew Vachss - Sacrifice

"You know what he is," I said, daring her to deny it.

"Yes, we know. But we don't know why. He wasn't born like this."

"So you want to make a deal. For treatment or something."

"That's a job for a lawyer. We can get him a lawyer. We have to know why. That's for you."

"I'm not a psychiatrist."

"We know what you are."

I started thinking like what I was. "Did the foster parents see you take the kid out of there?"

"I was there first," Storm said. "I called Lily. She came over with some more people. We talked to the foster parents while the others took Luke out. They didn't see a thing. Don't know where he is."

"Wolfe…?"

"Doesn't believe it for a second," Lily said. "She said she's got the kid on the books as missing. APB running for him. Said if he doesn't turn up by tomorrow, she'll get a search warrant. For SAFE. For Storm's house. For wherever."

"It's like that, huh?"

"Just like that."

I lit a cigarette, buying time. The woman warriors watched me, waiting. "Remember that time Wolfe had this case…girl about twenty-five…she'd been molested when she was eleven, long time ago? So she charged the guy, even though the statute of limitations was long gone? Remember, Lily? You testified that the girl had been in a psychiatric coma…couldn't even remember what had happened to her until she'd been in therapy for something else."

Lily nodded, waiting for the punch line.

"It went all the way up to the appellate courts, but they let the indictment stand. Said this freak, it was no different than if he hit her in the head with a tire iron and she just woke up years later. The girl couldn't remember because of something he did, so he wasn't off the hook."

"I remember. We all do. It changed the law."

"Yeah. Well, Wolfe likes that kind of stuff. Making people pay."

We sealed the bargain without another word.

52

I pulled the Plymouth into the warehouse. It looked deserted, like always. Max closed the garage doors behind us. Metal stairs to the next floor, narrow landing. Max's temple to the right, living quarters to the left.

"I don't think you really understand…." Luke's voice.

He was sitting in a straight chair, facing the door. Talking to a young Chinese. Flower crawled around on the floor, gurgling happily.

The young Chinese stood up as we entered, bowing to Max. He was wearing a baggy bright-white T-shirt that came to mid-thigh over black parachute pants, billowing wide at the knees and tied at the ankles around white leather high-tops. His glossy black hair was sleeked straight back, glistening under the gel.

Max pointed two fingers straight down, moved them apart, drawing a circle as they met again.

The young man nodded. Bowed to Immaculata and left, ignoring me.

I didn't know his name but I knew his game. The loose T-shirt covered a pistol, the soft shoes wouldn't make a sound. And he'd have people all around the building.

"Hello, Burke," the boy said.

"Hello, Luke."

"Am I going to live here?"

"For a while, okay?"

"Okay."

53

The basement is full of tunnels. We stepped through, under the building next door, the one occupied by a team of Chinese architects. I hooked the alligator clips to the telephone junction box, connected the field phone. Listened for a minute: it was after hours, but Orientals aren't clock-watchers.

All clear. I dialed Wolfe's private line. No answer. Then I tried her home number. The one Lily had given me. It was picked up on the third ring.

"Hello." Man's voice, neutral.

"Could I speak to Ms. Wolfe, please?"

"Who is this?" The voice shifting down a gear, harder.

"A friend."

"You got a name, friend?"

"Ms. Wolfe will recognize my voice. I'm working on something for her."

"Hold on."

Muffled noise in the background. A dog yapped.

"This is Wolfe."

"It's me," I said, soft-voiced, going on quickly before she could say my name. 'I apologize for calling you at home— it's kind of an emergency. Is this phone okay?"

"My housekeeper is especially good at sweeping. What do you want?"

"To talk to you. Face to face. About what you're looking for."

Sound of Wolfe muffling the phone, murmurs of talk.

"Tell me where you are— I'll come to you."

"That wouldn't work. I'll meet you. Wherever you say."

"When?"

"Now. As long as it takes me to get there— I'm in Westchester, just north of the city."

"You know where I live?"

"No."

More muffled conversation at her end.

"I'll give you an address. There's no number on the door. Just tap on it. Lightly. And don't go around to the side of the house…the dog's there."

"Okay."

"You're coming alone?"

"Yes."

"I'll be waiting," she said. And gave me the directions.

54

The Plymouth's exhaust bubbled softly as I made the turn into Forest Hills Gardens, the ritziest section of Queens, not far from the courthouse. I entered the neighborhood from Queens Boulevard after I exited the Grand Central. As if I'd come over the Whitestone Bridge from Westchester, in case she had people watching.

Beautiful homes, set way back from the narrow, winding streets. Brick, stone, exotic wood…they looked like little castles. I wondered how Wolfe could crack this kind of real estate on her DA's salary— maybe she had a rich husband.

The house was the whole corner lot of the street, surrounded by a man's-height stone wall, electronic sensors set at irregular intervals along the top. The gate to the driveway was standing open. Three-car garage at the end, just around a curve. Its door was closed, the driveway clogged with cars, mostly econoboxes except for Rocco's Firebird and a red Buick Reatta two-seater. Wolfe's Audi was nowhere in sight.

I closed the Plymouth's door just as spotlights snapped to attention all around the house. A patch of darkness to the side. Behind a flat-black grid, a dog's eyes blazed.

I tapped on the front door, like I'd been told, watching my reflection in the one-way bronze-glass panel. Lola opened the door, wearing an electric-blue shantung silk dress, party makeup still on her face.

"Come on," she said, walking away so I'd follow, "she's out back." Hardwood floors, polished. Almost no furnishings. The living room had a vaguely Japanese tone to it, but I didn't get a chance to stop and look, feeling the presence of someone behind me.

The backyard was huge. A giant cherry tree stood in one corner, its branches blocking the sky. A hammock in the open space, brick barbecue, a padded weight lifter's bench. Bird feeders were suspended from the tree limbs that ran parallel to the ground.

I walked onto the fieldstone patio. Wolfe was seated at a butcher-block table, an overflowing ashtray at her elbow. The woman who'd been behind me walked around to my side, guiding me to the table without touching me.

"This is Deidra," Wolfe said. A big woman, more curvy than hefty, with short-cropped dark hair and a winsome face. Black Irish, Italian, Jewish— couldn't tell, it was all there. "She works with us too. You've met the others." Waving her hand around, eyes not leaving my face.

I sat down. A thick shadow moved in against Wolfe's hip. "Sit, Bruiser," she said, sweetness in her voice.

"Beautiful place you have here," I said, lighting a smoke, waiting for the others to step back, give us room to talk privately.

"I like it," she said, even-voiced. "Nice days, I can walk to work."

"You like birds?" I asked, looking around.

"They're really Bruiser's birds. He was raised with them. In the backyard, when he was just a tiny puppy, he used to lie in the sun. And the birds would come. They got used to him. I even have a picture somewhere of a sparrow perched on Bruiser's head. When a cat comes into the yard, his birds scream for him. And out he comes."