Predator's Waltz

by Jay Brandon

  “Shut up,” Rybek said.

  His partner shrugged. “I did hear it.” A little while later he interrupted Rybek’s loud questioning again to say “Hey, did you ever think maybe the husband just offed her himself? That happens, I hear.”

  Rybek said, “How’d you get to be such a prick? You take a correspondence course?”

  But he’d already been thinking the same thing himself.

  When Raymond Hecate got on the elevator on the fortieth floor, he had too much on his mind to notice the delivery boy who got on with him. Some guy wearing a white T-shirt and carrying something. Hecate turned his back on him, punched the button for one of the parking levels below the lobby, and thought about the car he was descending toward. Raymond Hecate was not the kind of man to employ a chauffeur. Even if he was a billionaire he’d still drive himself. He’d never settled for one of those geezermobile Lincolns or Cads that other rich men in Houston drove either. His car today was an XKE. Hecate still loved it, still loved the looks it drew. But he was thinking about moving on. If every Joe Schmo ice-house clerk recognized what you were driving, it wasn’t exclusive enough. Hecate was starting to think Excalibur. The trouble was if you got too exotic people might think it was one of those kits built around a Volkswagen engine.

  The elevator continued to plummet. People got on and off. Half of them spoke to him. He’d give them the big grin and backslap, on automatic pilot, but he was glad when the elevator began to empty. Nearly every­one got off at the lobby, no one else got on, and the last passenger who had called him by name got off at the first underground parking level. The doors closed again, leaving him alone with his pleasant automotive thoughts. As the elevator doors opened on his level, he took one step when the arm came from behind and the hand toward his face.

  “Get the hell away from me,” Hecate said irritably. It wouldn’t have occurred to him to be frightened.

  “Don’t you even recognize your daughter?” said a voice.

  Hecate realized that the hand before his face was holding a photograph. Without even looking in the direction of the voice, he took the picture and studied it. It was Carol, all right. She was blindfolded. It was too much of a closeup to pick out any details of the back­ground. She was holding something in her hands, dis­playing it.

  “That’s today’s Chronicle, ” said the voice. “You may recognize the headline.”

  Hecate felt an involuntary thrill race across his shoul­ders and down his arms. He had expected this moment since before his daughter was born. In fact, it was almost insulting that no one had ever kidnapped her before. He stayed very calm. “All right,” he began. “What—”

  He looked for the first time at the source of the voice and jerked back. It was the kid in the white T-shirt. His head was completely obscured by a Ronald Reagan mask, one of those that fits over the whole head. Hecate had to look up to see it. He was awfully tall for a kid. Maybe not a kid at all. Hecate didn’t have the slightest memory of his face.

  “Let’s get away from the elevator” came the voice, muffled by the mask. He took Hecate by the arm and led him into the recesses of the parking level. Hecate jerked his arm away and marched. His face was grim. No despair in it, only determination. When they reached a wall he turned and stared into the eyes behind the mask.

  “This is the only time you’ll ever see me,” the kidnap­per said. “I’m just here to bring the message. I don’t know where she is or who has her. This’ll be the only contact. You do what they want, you get your daughter back: She just turns up at home one of these days. You don’t, you never see her again either.”

  Hecate was thinking he could take him. The guy was taller and his T-shirt revealed a body that worked out, but if Hecate got in the first punch, put his fist right through this guy’s belly back to his spine, it’d be all over. Hecate stood there calmly with his arms folded, letting the guy play out his spiel.

  “And how much is it you want, and where?” he asked.

  The mask turned side to side. “Not money. We want somebody arrested.”

  He handed Hecate another photograph. This one showed a stolid Asian in his fifties. The hand turned the photograph over to show the information on the back: a name, an address, more.

  “Chou Lee Tang?” Hecate said. He was flabbergasted. Now he thought it was a joke. One of his cronies had put the kid up to this. Some damn Democrat, he guessed from the mask, except he didn’t know any Democrats. “What the hell? Who the hell is he?”

  “He’s a Vietnamese gang leader. He’s responsible for the car bomb that killed that couple this weekend. More too. You won’t be sorry when you have him in jail.”

  “And what the hell makes you think I can arrange something like that?”

  “Maybe you can’t. That would be a bad break for both of us. Because that’s the price to get the girl back.”

  “City councilmen don’t pull any weight with the police, you know.”

  “Forget city councilmen.” The voice behind the mask was persuasive, more a collaborator’s than a kidnapper’s. “If I was a man who’d lived in this city all my life, rich as Mick Jagger, and had enough pull to get myself elected to office besides, I’d have some kind of contacts that could get it done. I’d know what strings to pull.”

  Hecate stared at the wall for a moment. His voice came more slowly. “What happens after he gets ar­rested?”

  “Nothing more from you. But if I was you I’d manage to take credit for it. Because after that the gang violence stops. No more Houstonians get killed. We can even provide you with evidence Tang was behind it. You think there’ll be any glory in it for the city councilman who stopped the gang war?”

  Hecate had a faraway look in his eye, like a bewildered man, but his mind was racing. He was on his own ground now, making a deal. Everybody comes out of it thinking he’s a winner. But the big winner would be Raymond Hecate. He could see now who was behind this. Not a specific person, but he could find out. Other things aside, it wouldn’t be bad to have such a man on your side in the future.

  Raymond Hecate had a marvelous capacity for believ­ing that whatever he wanted was the best thing for everyone involved. He was riding that facility now like a champion steeplechase jockey, hurtling over obstacles. He had to do it for Carol, of course. But Carol had already moved off into an alcove of his thoughts. He was thinking about his own future. The only way to end the gang violence was for one side to win it. Hecate liked winners. He was always a lifelong fan of whatever team had most recently won the Super Bowl. Of course, no one would know that he had backed this particular winner. They would just know that he had put a stop to innocent Houstonians being caught in the crossfire. And afterward he would have a line into a large, profitable subculture. Raymond Hecate knew about strings, all right.

  “All I care about is my daughter,” he growled.

  “Of course.”

  “If anything happens to her, nobody’ll be safe from me. Not you either, Mr. Go-Between.”

  “You don’t have to talk tough, Mr. Hecate. Nothing’s happening to your daughter. She’s sleeping like a prin­cess.”

  “She fucking well better be.”

  Raymond Hecate put the picture of Tang in his pocket and stalked off to find his car. John Loftus waited until he was out of sight, then turned the corner and opened the door of the seldom-used staircase. Beside the door was the door of a trash chute. He dropped the mask down it, straight into the furnace below. In the staircase as he climbed he opened the briefcase he carried. Inside was a white dress shirt with a tie already loosely knotted around its collar. He pulled the shirt on over his head, tightened the tie, and tucked in the tails. He slipped on the jacket from the briefcase as well. When he emerged from the staircase into the lobby of the bank, he was one of hundreds of men in downtown Houston wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase.

  When he emerged onto the sidewalk Raymond Hecate raced past him in his XKE. The light was barely green behind him and Hecate was already speeding. Loftus grin
ned after him.

  “Get ’em, Tiger,” he said. He was thinking of the old man’s little princess.

  Thien had been in the shop for two hours and Daniel Greer hadn’t spoken as many words. He watched the window like a hunted man. Thien was more than curi­ous. Something was in the offing. The neighborhood was astir with speculation. As yet there had been no retalia­tion for the car-bombing of Tang’s men Friday night. Khai’s men had all but withdrawn from the streets. They were waiting. The curious thing was that Daniel ap­peared to be waiting too. But he couldn’t possibly know what was happening. What did he know, or suspect? What was his role?

  “Is Mrs. Greer picking you up today?” Thien asked.

  Daniel whirled on him. “What?”

  “Mrs. Greer. Is she picking you up today as she did Friday?”

  “Oh. No. She’s—already home, probably. I haven’t, uh—” He gave up trying to make a sentence and just shrugged.

  Thien nodded and turned away. What did this mean? It was after six, past closing time for the pawnshop, yet there Daniel lingered. He had not picked up the phone to make any calls. Thien was usually in the store in the late afternoons. He tried to remember when Daniel had not either called his wife or received a call from her before closing time.

  Knowledge was the only power Thien had. He studied his world as thoroughly as he studied algebra. He knew which men worked for Khai, which for Tang, which merchants paid whom, the dates of collections. Thien’s family was one of the many at the bottom of the pyramid, helpless, preyed upon. They had no champion. Thien could not be their savior—not, at least, through physical strength. But he watched, he learned. He waited for his chance to penetrate those layers above. He had been serious when he had told Khai’s thug he wanted to join. He had seen no other way up.

  When he started hanging around the pawnshop, he had hoped that Daniel Greer might somehow offer a solu­tion. Now he wondered if instead Daniel had been pulled into the problem. Thien’s background, while acquainting him with murder and extortion, had not familiarized him with more mundane domestic problems. Families stayed together no matter what. When he saw a worried man missing his wife Thien didn’t think of arguments and separations.

  He looked across the street at the other pawnshop. Linh was there, waiting, beginning to crack. He had been all through the neighborhood asking how he could con­tact Khai. He had begged for help. People shied away from him as if his touch were fatal. Now Linh had retreated to his own lair.

  As had Daniel Greer, Thien realized.

  It was dark by the time Daniel stirred himself. The world matched his thoughts. He seemed startled to see Thien.

  “What are you doing still here? What’ll your parents be thinking?”

  “And your wife.”

  Daniel turned away from him to find his coat. “That’s right. We’d both better be getting home.”

  He ushered the boy out, turned on the burglar alarm, and locked all three locks on the front door as Thien watched. The air was brisk but not brisk enough to carry away all the odors from the restaurants. The atmosphere was foreign to Daniel, home to Thien.

  “Good night,” they said, parting on the sidewalk. Thien looked back to see Daniel turn the corner. Thien wished he had a car.

  Knowledge is power. He went to find a phone book and look up Daniel’s home address.

  Chapter 6

  CAROL

  She had slept and pretended to sleep for so long she was no longer sure of the waking world. Especially when dusk filled the room so that she could no longer see its edges, she could imagine herself in a hospital bed or even the bed she’d slept in as a girl. She only half opened her eyes, afraid it would turn real.

  At least her headache was gone. How long had she slept from the drug and how long had it taken for the drug’s aftereffects to wear off? She could be days from home now.

  She lay atop a worn coverlet on a narrow bed, on her back. Her arms were stretched up and back and hand­cuffed together through one of the brass rails at the head of the bed. She had already tested the strength of that rail and found it greater than her own. Later, in the dead of night, she would see if it could be loosened. For now she just lay quietly, wishing dreams would enfold her. She hadn’t cried. In some ways she was her father’s child. But it wasn’t her father she was thinking of. It was her husband. If she did cry, it would be from thoughts of Daniel.

  The door opened softly, as if he didn’t want to disturb her. The first time she had seen him she had screamed. It had been twilight, like now, and he had looked like a monster. In the dim light it had looked like real flesh that sagged at his jowls and neck, real oversized teeth that thrust toward her. Not only had the man been unrecog­nizable, but so had his mask. She would never be able to look at Jimmy Carter again without a twinge of that first fright. She wondered if the mask was a collector’s item.

  “Dinner,” he said. He set the tray on a night table and bent over her to unlock the handcuffs. Carol stared up at his jeans and green T-shirt. The hair on his arms was blond.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said.

  “I’ll arrange it,” he said. “Eat first.”

  That was just what he’d said the last time: “I’ll arrange it.” As if a trip to the bathroom required enormous preparations.

  Dinner was potato chips and a sandwich, bologna on white bread. Lunch had been soup out of a can and saltines. Carol offered neither criticism nor thanks. She existed as minimally as possible, almost pretending not to be there.

  The man in the mask sat watching her as she chewed. His forearms rested easily on his thighs. So far he had spoken as little as she, but there was something creepy about him. His stare made her feel her blouse was unbuttoned.

  Before she finished eating he went out. By the time he stepped back into the room her plate was clean. “All right,” he said, and she knew he was referring to the bathroom, because they’d done this routine already. She got up and walked toward him but he stopped her before she reached the door. He twirled his finger in a circle. Carol stood there for a moment, thinking about refusing, but what good would it do? She turned around and presented her back to him.

  Being blindfolded made her feel that a silent crowd surrounded her, reaching, their fingers almost touching her skin. Her shoulders hunched inward and she was tom between stretching her arms ahead of her to feel her way and wrapping them around her chest. The man in the mask had a hand on her elbow. She resented his touch, but it was her only guide in the dark world.

  After a short passage he pushed her forward and the door closed behind her. She removed the blindfold immediately. The first time she had done that she had found that he was in the bathroom with her. He planned to stay. “No,” she had said firmly. “I’ll turn my back,” he had offered. “I can’t,” she had said, refusing to elaborate. Finally, reluctantly, he had left her alone in the bath­room. She had immediately gone through all the doors and cabinets. They were empty. It was like a bathroom in a cheap motel. They had anticipated her.

  And there was no window. This time she didn’t bother to search. When she emerged she had put the blindfold back in place. He adjusted it. He took her elbow but she stood her ground for a moment.

  “Could I have a shower this time?”

  Again she felt that silent crowd. She stood up straight, forcing her shoulders back. She felt his disapproval. She was causing trouble.

  “Tomorrow,” he finally said.

  Back in her room, he removed the blindfold and picked up the handcuffs. She looked at them dully. She didn’t offer resistance but she didn’t immediately throw herself down on the bed either. He looked at her. It was impossible to tell anything about his expression behind the mask.

  When he took her arm he pushed her not toward the bed but instead to a chair by the window. There was an old-fashioned radiator under the window. He hand­cuffed her to it.

  “I’ll give you a change of scenery for a while.”

  “Thank you,” she said.
It slipped out before she could stop it.

  He nodded and picked up her tray. “I’ll come back to put you in bed.”

  She turned away and looked out the window. As she had suspected, she was on the second floor.

  “Don’t scream or break anything or I’ll have to hurt you.” He said it matter-of-factly and even as if the hurting her wouldn’t be his own idea. Carol didn’t look at him. When the door closed she turned to make sure he was gone.

  Khai wouldn’t like that, leaving her by the window. But Khai’s plans and John Loftus’s did not entirely coincide. Besides, Khai would never in a million years step into that room. He planned for her to be released unharmed at the end of this, and he wanted her to have no memories of Vietnamese faces.

  Loftus pulled off the mask and dropped it on the tray. At the end of the hall he saw Chui watching him.

  “Here, boy, take these to the kitchen,” Loftus called. Chui sneered and turned away. Loftus smiled to himself.

  Her fare was simple because he made it himself as well as buying the groceries. There had been no American food in the house and Khai didn’t want her fed Vietnam­ese. Loftus prepared her meals with tenderness, almost with love. He felt the privilege of being the only one who saw her.

  John Loftus had found America too complicated when he returned to it. There were too many levels of society, people wanted too many different things. In Vietnam everything had been easy. There were only us and them. Even though some of us were officers and not to be trusted, they were still basically us, and though some of them were supposedly on our side, they were still basical­ly bugs. You could do what you wanted with them.

  Now in a sense he had returned to Vietnam. He lived in a morally uncomplicated world because for him it was unpopulated. The only people he ever saw were Vietnam­ese, and they didn’t count. What they did to each other or thought of him were matters of indifference.