Andrew Vachss - Sacrifice

The Mole handed me the glasses. I narrowed in on the cars parked along the side of the building, behind the chain link fence. Five of them, parked parallel to the building. One a Mercedes coupe for sure, but no hope of getting a license number from that angle.

182

"Their roof edges make a trapezoid," the Mole told us. "No way to get a grip. The top is smooth— even a grappling hook would come loose. And if you hit the skylight, broke the glass, it might be wired. Some kind of sensors all around the building, about chest high. Maybe infrared, motion detectors…can't tell."

"Which leaves what?" I asked him.

"Tunnel through to the basement, punch through the front door, or land on the roof."

"It's the door, then. They have to be getting electricity in there, right?"

The Mole nodded.

"And you could take it down?"

He nodded again.

"Okay, next thing is to make sure it's them. I got their mug shots, from when they were arrested. Had some blowups made. They have to come out sometime…it's a tough neighborhood to hang out in, but maybe we could…"

"I can watch for them, mahn," Clarence said. "Just get me an old car to drive."

Max tapped me on the shoulder, pointed at Mole, touched his mouth, patted his fingers against his thumb in a talking gesture, made the sign for "what?"

I translated, standing over a silent jackhammer, digging with an invisible shovel, moved my hand in a reverse parabola to show coming up from underneath. Shook my head "no." Then I locked my thumbs, fluttered my hands like flapping wings, showed a takeoff and a landing. Shook my head again— we'd need a helicopter. Then I mimed pushing down the T-bar on a dynamite detonator, threw my hands apart in the sign for an explosion. Made the sign for "okay."

Max looked only at the Mole. Got to his feet, pointed. They walked away together.

183

"He is still missing, mahn."

"He can't stay missing for long, Jacques. He doesn't have but one way to earn a living. And Wolfe's people are on his case."

"Yes. And if they find him, what happens? He will go to jail for killing the baby?"

"Maybe. Who knows? He'll say it was an accident…or maybe that the mother did it. There's no sure things."

"A sure thing if we find him first, mahn."

"Yeah, I know. That's not why I came. I need some stuff"

"What, then, mahn? You have only to ask."

"Two shotguns. A semi-auto and a double-barrel. Both twelve gauge. And a Glock with a long clip. Straps for the scatterguns, shoulder holster for the Glock, butt down. Okay?"

"A Glock? That is not like you, mahn. You are my only customer who will never use an automatic— always complaining that they could jam no matter what I tell you, huh?"

I just shrugged, thinking about what I'd learned in Indiana.

"You need that much firepower, maybe you could use a couple of men, yes?"

"No, I'm okay. It's just in case, you know?"

"I know. Clarence is still working with you? Looking for that man, Emerson?"

"Yeah."

"He is a good boy. Maybe his temper is too quick, but he is young yet."

"He is that. How soon could you have the stuff?"

"Just a day or so, mahn. I will have them all tested, in perfect order. When you're done, you may leave them wherever you work, ice-cold clean, all right? Anything you want done to them first?"

"Cut down the barrels on the scatterguns."

"Of course, mahn. Modified choke, yes? Twelve-gauge, three-inch shells, double-O?"

"Perfect."

"Tomorrow night, then."

184

I was teaching Luke how to play casino when one of the pay phones rang at Mama's. She came to the table, pointed at me.

"It is her, mahn. The woman in the photo. A dead ringer."

"Get out of there. Now."

The phone went dead in my ear.

185

"How many cards left?" I asked Luke, pointing at the pile between us.

"Twelve."

"How many cards have you already collected?"

"Nineteen."

"How many spades?"

"Five."

"How many cards loose?"

"Four in my hand, four in yours, two on the table. Ten."

"How many cards have I collected?"

"Eleven."

"Okay, now what do you do when…?" Max sat down next to Luke, made a "come on" gesture to me, impatient.

"We'll finish this later," I said to Luke.

The kid bounced in his seat, eyes pleading. "Can't I come too?"

I looked at Max. He grabbed Luke's belt, hauled him out of the seat like a briefcase. The kid's laughter trailed through the restaurant as Max carried him to the back.

186

We got in the Plymouth. Max made the sign for the Mole. Late afternoon. We slogged our way north on the FDR, Luke sitting between us, eyes bright with the prospect of seeing his pal.

Terry let us in the gate. He and Luke ran off together, Simba circling them, yapping like a pup. Max pulled me ahead.

The Mole was a good distance from his bunker, hunched over a U-shaped metal bracket maybe twelve feet wide. It was anchored to what looked like metal rods, running at forty-five degree angles from halfway up the bracket arms to the ground.

"What's this, Mole?"

He ignored me, looping a thick ribbon of rubber over one end of the bracket, then the other. It looked like a giant slingshot. From the bottom of the U-bracket, he unfolded a pair of metal tubes, about three feet apart. Placed them against the back of the rubber band. Then he pulled on a lever. Ratcheting noise with each pull. The rubber stretched. Stretched some more. He nodded at Max. The Mongolian picked up two sacks of dry cement mix lashed back to back, placed them in the notch formed by the rubber. The Mole pulled the switch and the cement sacks blasted off like the Space Shuttle, flying in a high arc, smashing against the top of a wrecked car maybe two hundred feet away.

"You're fucking insane," I told the Mole. He bowed. Max grinned.

"It's impossible," I said. "Max'll get killed."

"It's not impossible," the Mole said. "It's just a ratio. Thrust to weight, height to distance. It's got way too much power now. All we need is an arc, Max can float down."

"Float? You're a maniac. And he's a bigger one.

Max was pulling black silk out of a duffel bag when Luke and Terry walked over to us.

"What's Max doing?" the kid asked.

"Making a fool of himself."

"Max wouldn't do that…Can I see?"

The warrior climbed into his costume. He was encased in silk: a hood fit tightly over his head, Velcro closures at his wrists and ankles. Standard night-stalker stuff— I'd seen it before. Then he spread his arms in a crucifixion gesture and he sprouted wings— ribbed silk billowed from his wrists to his ankles.

"It's wonderful!" Luke clapped his little hands, delighted at the game.

"Jesus!" Terry said.

I didn't say anything.

187

The Mole carried his launch device in one hand. "Aluminum," he said when I looked a question at him.

"Why don't you just shoot him out of a cannon?"

"He's not going that far. The drop is about forty-five feet roof to roof. The launch building is much higher than the target."

Ask a lunatic a question…

We walked over to where junked cars were piled into a mountain about twenty feet high. The Mole slowly made his way to the top, set up his launcher. He climbed down, paced off a distance, took a can of spray paint from his jumpsuit, made a white X on the hard ground.

"About four clicks," he said. Climbed back to the top. It took a while.

Max went up the mountain like it was a ramp. Leaned back into the notch, nodded once. The Mole pulled on the lever.

"Max is gonna fly!" Luke said.

I held my breath.

A sproong! sound and Max was airborne. He shot straight up, jack-knifed his body like a diver, popped open his wings with a loud snap. His body went up like he'd caught a gust, righted itself, and floated to the ground like a butterfly landing on a flower. Right on the damn X.