Mama nodded gravely, a gesture of complete support. Immaculata bowed her gratitude for the recognition.
“It doesn’t matter!” Michelle said sharply. “He’s not a threat to us. There’s no reason to get. . . involved with him. It’s over. Let him do whatever he—”
Max bowed slightly. Put his two fists together, then made a snapping motion. Volunteering to do the job if I could get him close enough.
I bowed my thanks, knowing it was impossible. “Both true, Mama?” I asked her.
She pointed at the Prof, then at the Mole.
We waited, but she was done.
“Me first,” the Prof said, stepping up to the challenge. “If this guy found the Gatekeeper, he’d have to bring a whole bunch behind what Wesley did, right?”
Nobody moved. It hadn’t been a real question.
“And he did that, right?” the Prof continued. “Ain’t no question but the motherfucker’s qualified.”
“If that would work,” the Mole said, his mild voice throbbing with the one electrical current that always hit his circuits, “the Nazis could. . .”
“To bring Hitler back, they would have to kill six million people,” Clarence said. “If they could do that, why would they need. . .?”
His voice trailed off into the silence as we all let it penetrate. But it took the Prof to say it out loud: “You all just heard the word. You got it, Schoolboy?” he asked me.
“Anyone who could kill six million people wouldn’t have to bring Hitler back,” I said slowly. “He’d be Hitler.”
Immaculata looked up. “Yes. And this killer, he wants to be. . .”
“Wesley,” I finished for her.
“Why?” the Mole asked. “Wesley was. . .”
“No,” I told them all. “Wesley is. Check the whisper-stream. He’ll never die. They never found a body. You say his name, people start to shake. It’s not some ghost they’re afraid of.”
“You think if he kills enough he will have the same. . . respect Wesley has, mahn?” Clarence asked. “That is insane. It is not the count of the bodies that—”
“My son just got it done,” the Prof said. “No way you take Wesley’s name just by playing his game.”
I saw where he was going, and cut him off. “Everything he did, it’s like an improved version of Wesley,” I said. “Every hit tied to Wesley, this guy copied. He works just like Wesley did. Wesley wasn’t just a sniper. Neither is this guy: he uses bombs, poisons, high-tech. That’s why he wanted that damn. . . ‘assignment.’ When I challenged him. Told him that any freak can be a random hitter. Wesley took contracts. He was a missile. All he needed was a name. This guy, he took a name from me and did the job because he wants a name. He wants Wesley’s.”
“Never happen,” the Prof said. “Nobody could take Wesley’s place. Wesley’ll never die. And the only way to never die is to die, right? No matter what this guy does, no matter how many fucked-up letters he writes to the newspapers, you know what they’re gonna say: it’s Wesley’s work. He can’t change that.”
“He’s a shape-shifter,” I told them. “But that’s not the whole thing. I understand what Mama meant now. You too, Mac. All of you. It is all true. If this guy starts doing Wesley’s work—taking contracts, making people dead on order—then he is Wesley, see? When people whisper Wesley’s name, they’re talking about him. And he’ll know that, wherever he is.”
“But you said his. . . journal was all about kidnapping children and—” Immaculata said, dropping her voice, eye-sweeping the place to make sure her little girl wouldn’t hear what lurked past her circle of love.
“At first,” I told her. “But I get the impression that it’s old. He did it a long time ago. He’s an. . . artist. And he finally decided that the highest art was homicide. As a kidnapper, he was the best there was. No contest. He didn’t need his name in the paper, he knew. He probably thought he was the greatest killer too. I think that’s what he said his new art was going to be. Not killing child molesters, killing mobsters. Or. . . maybe both. I don’t know. But I figure, he started doing it. And kept it up, same way he did the kidnappings. For the ‘art,’ right? But when he snapped to it. . . when he figured out that there was someone ahead of him. . . that he was in a contest he couldn’t win. . . that’s when he figured out he had to be Wesley. That’s his art now.”
“Motherfucker’s way past crazy,” the Prof said.
“Sure,” I said. “So what? He can’t be Wesley except through me, understand? Gutterball thought he was dealing with Wesley when he sent out that hit. That’s why I sent this guy right back at Gutterball. There’s nobody left to—what’s that word you always use, Mac?—validate him. Except me. Gutterball was an idiot. That’s not news. But me. . . If I go into the street and say I saw Wesley, who’s gonna deny it? Everyone knows how we. . . were.”
“And with all those baby-rapers getting hit, it just reeks of you, honey,” Michelle said, nodding her head in agreement.
“He said it right at the beginning. Of that freakish ‘journal’ he sent me. ‘Folie à deux,’ remember? I told him I could get him mob contracts, but I’d have to say I saw Wesley, get it? He made me send him all this stuff, prove I was the real thing. That I was with Wesley. All the way back to the beginning. I don’t know where he got some of his info, but it was on the money, all of it. So now, the way he figures it, if I see him, I did see Wesley. He is Wesley now—the way he figures, he’s proved that. Taken over. So he’s going to meet me, I’m sure of it.”
“But, honey, what’s the point?” Michelle asked me. “He can’t do anything to you—not if he wants you to. . . do what he said. If you don’t do it, he’s on his own. Why meet with him?”
Max grabbed Michelle’s hand to get her attention. With his other hand, he reached over and tapped my heart. Pointed to himself, then to Immaculata. Finally, he made the sign of a man shooting a pistol.
“Oh God,” Michelle gasped. “You mean—?”
“It was him,” I told her. Told them all. “If he’s the one Gutterball talked to on the phone, then he’s the one who did the hit in Central Park. Did it the same way Wesley would have. A couple of flunkies to lay down cover fire, make a diversion, then a surgical strike. And wipe out the witnesses. Gutterball must have known it was gonna cost him those two other guys. Maybe he wanted them gone anyway—got three for the price of one.”
Immaculata cleared her throat, threading delicately, the way she always does. “But, Burke, if that’s true. . . this. . . killer, he wasn’t the one who shot Crystal Beth.”
“He made it happen,” I said flatly. “He knows a thousand ways to kill. If he’d used any other one, she’d be here today. Right here. With me.”
Something must have happened to me after I said that. When I came around, I was in a chair in the basement, my family all around me. I didn’t ask how I got there—Max could carry me as easy as a wino could lug a bottle wrapped in a paper bag.
I opened my eyes. Looked at the only people I loved on the whole planet. “I don’t know if you can make up for things,” I told them, calming down. “He killed a lot of little kids. Then he stopped. And killed a lot of scum. I don’t know if they were child molesters or mob guys or both. . . at first. Then it was fag-bashers. Then pedophiles. Maybe whoever’s keeping count thinks his scales are balanced. But not me. Michelle was right. What do I care if he was planning to kill every last freak on the planet? Because now he’s. . . stopped. He’s going to be Wesley now. A contract hitter. And you know what? It doesn’t matter anyway. He killed Crystal Beth. Got her killed, same difference. He wants to be Wesley so bad—I’m going to send him someplace where he can talk to him face to face.”
“You ain’t alone, home,” the Prof reminded me.
“You want Terry to hear this?” I asked Michelle.
“It’s not up to her,” Terry said, his still-changing voice on man-sound now. “I know how I got my mother,” he said, reaching over to touch her. “And my father,” he said, bowing his
head toward the Mole. “I know what you. . . did, Burke. Then, I mean. I’m in this too. Whatever you want to do, I want to do it too. If someone took my. . .”
He didn’t finish. Didn’t have to.
“There’s no way,” the Prof said. “He’s not gonna walk into a room. Motherfucker don’t take no risks. No way you’re gonna get a piece past whatever he’s got set up either.”
“Mole?” I asked.
“If he has the correct equipment, he could pick up any weapon, in any form, just from its composition. Even plastic explosive. Thermal-image scanners could. . . . I have. . . devices. Very small. But they would not be. . . invisible if he were properly equipped.”
Max leaned over, tapped each of my hands, spread his into a question. Could I kill him with my hands if I got close enough?
“I don’t know,” I told him honestly. Max has been training me for years and years, but I never got that good at any of the techniques. I can hit pretty hard, and I can take a shot and keep coming. And if I got my hands on any vital spot—and focused hard on why I was there—maybe. But it could never be a sure thing.
“It will not work,” the Mole announced.
“Mole, I think I can—”
The Mole held up his hand for silence. “He will not let you get close enough. Remember?”
Sure. I knew what he meant. Like Wesley. This killer would keep a safety zone around himself. Wesley usually did it with an Uzi. I don’t know what this guy would use, but the Mole was right—he’d use something.
“We could put a tracking device on you,” the Mole said. “But you would have to discard it before you stepped into his zone.”
“Fair enough,” I told him.
“Not enough,” the Prof said. “This team needs a scheme.”
They all argued for a while. I just sat there, slumped in the chair.
When they ran out of gas, I told them how I wanted to do it.
“I’m not rebuilt yet,” Xyla said. “How could I—?”
“I need a message sent to him. I don’t care if you send it on this machine. Send it the same way you sent the first one. He’ll get it. I don’t need an answer. When he bangs back in. . . when you have this all back up. . . he’ll either go for it or he won’t.”
“I can do that,” she said. “Trixie has a little halfass Mac I could—”
“Sure,” I stopped her.
She grabbed a pen. I waved her away, wrote it down myself, and handed it to her.
not coming alone. bringing woman. she *direct* connect. she *only* one who can validate in certain areas. can *not* make it happen without her. not negotiable. you pick time, place, conditions. . . anything you want. but if can’t bring woman, no go.
“Jesus,” Xyla said. “He might not answer at all now.”
“That’s his choice,” I told her. “Just like this whole thing’s been since he started.”
“This is the only way,” I told her.
“You’re. . . serious?” Nadine asked.
“Dead serious. I’m keeping my promise. But this is the way I’m going to keep it. I don’t trust you. There’s only one way I can—”
“How do I know you’ll—?”
“You don’t,” I told her. “You don’t know anything. Take it or leave it,” I said.
“No!” I whispered to Strega. “No handcuffs. No chains. You have to keep her—”
“She’ll like them,” the witch hissed at me, glancing over at Nadine standing in the farthest corner of the white living room, her back to us. “If she tastes it herself, she’ll know how it feels when she—”
“No.”
“Burke, if I have to keep her for—”
“If you can’t do it, say so. But you can’t chain her, understand? No restraints.”
“How else could I watch her twenty-four-seven?”
“You know how,” I told her.
I didn’t feel guilty about leaving Nadine there. Poison wouldn’t have a chance against Strega—she drank it for nourishment.
I needed the time to get everything ready. And I needed Nadine with me when I went to meet the killer. Needed her to come when she was called, no hesitation. Once he opened the window, I knew it was going to be just a narrow crack. And if I moved wrong, a guillotine.
I kept thinking about my hands. I’d boxed in prison. I wasn’t really any good at it. The Prof got me started. He’d always wanted to train a fighter. Knew how to do it too. But it was a long time before I understood what I was really being trained for. When I first started, I’d be fine until I got hit with a good shot. Then I’d go off. Take three to give one. All I—finally—learned from boxing was self-control. Staying inside myself even in battle. I did learn that much. Max tried to teach me too. And I learned some of his stuff. But I never worked at it. Never. . . got it, I guess. I don’t know.
I don’t like fighting, maybe that’s the problem. I can’t see hitting someone to hurt them. And if someone’s going to hurt me, I can’t see hitting them at all. Wesley told me he once killed a guy in the joint when he was just a kid. The guy was part of a crew, and they’d told Wesley he had a choice: give up some head to one of them, or get gang-banged by them all. Wesley picked the easier one. That made sense to them, but they didn’t know what “easier” meant to Wesley. He got on his knees, but then he rammed the guy in the stomach and got his hands on his throat. And held the guy’s head in place while some anonymous guard at the other end of the tier threw the switch that racks the bars on all the cells. The guy’s skull crumbled like it was papier-mâché.
The reason Wesley did it that way was because there’d been a shakedown, and the hacks had taken the shank he had stashed in his cell. Didn’t matter—he always got it done.
So I thought about dying. But even if I could get enough explosives past whatever security he’d have set up, I couldn’t be sure.
My hands, then. All I had. But not for his throat. To push a button.
I hit the post with a perfect two-knuckle strike, driving through it, not at it. . . the way I’d been taught. I hardly felt my hand. My mind was right.
“That’s mine,” Strega said. “Don’t touch it.”
I turned and saw her in the corner of the shadowy basement. “Where’s—?”
“In the bathtub,” Strega said. “With no towels. And if she steps out of it wet, she’ll fry like an omelet.”
“Jesus,” I said, looking down at my hand.
“I said don’t touch it,” Strega ordered, coming toward me. She was naked, her hair tied back with a black ribbon. She grabbed my hand. It was bloody around the knuckles. “Mine!” she said, like a two-year-old just learning the word. She licked the blood off. Then she squeezed my hand, hard. Some new drops blossomed. She pulled my knuckles into her mouth, sucked until she came, spasming, me with one arm around her to keep her from falling.
The bathroom door on the second floor was standing open. Strega stepped in. I looked over her shoulder. Nadine was in the tub, lying back, her eyes closed. Strega pulled a pair of plugs from their sockets, disconnecting the red-coiled heaters which were standing sentry on the soaked tile floor. Then she tossed a heavy black mat down, dropped to her knees, and started gently rubbing Nadine with a bar of soap, crooning to her.
Nadine’s eyes never opened. I couldn’t tell if she even knew I was there.
After a minute, I wasn’t.
I spent a lot of time waiting, some of it at the joint where Xyla had her war room in the back. I watched Rusty draw, wondering how he could do that and scan the room at the same time. Listened to the table-talk around me. Drifted. Knowing the answer was somewhere in me. Knowing I couldn’t force it out.
I went back Inside. When we were all doing time together. Maybe not together. I mean, Wesley was in there with us, but he wasn’t with us. Wesley wasn’t with anyone. But we were close enough so that we wired anything back to him that he’d need.
That’s when we found out this guy was looking to take Wesley off the count. Tower. I don’t kno
w if that was his name or his handle. Didn’t matter—his true ID was tattooed on his forearm, the swastika dripping blood. That was years ago, before they announced their kills with the spiderweb on the elbow. He wanted a shank, and he wanted it from Oz. That’s because Oz made the best shanks in the whole joint. Only problem is, he wanted it for five cartons of smokes, and the going rate was ten. Oz was a very pale guy. Not prison-complexion pale, his natural color. Even his hair was almost white. He was some kind of Scandinavian, about as Aryan as you could get, but Tower didn’t see him that way. Tower wasn’t bargaining—although that’s what it would sound like to you if you only heard the audio and didn’t get the implied threat in the way he loomed over Oz. That’s when the Prof stepped in:
“Where you been, chump?” the little man asked Tower. “You know nothing’s on sale in the jail. You want a shank, you tap your bank. Far as I’m concerned, ten crates for one of my man’s pieces—hell, that price is nice, Jack.”
Tower looked down at the Prof, making up his mind. Big mistake. I was in position by then. And I’d already paid my ten cartons. “Tomorrow, motherfucker,” Tower said to Oz, saving face. “Bring the best you got.” Then he stalked away.
Oz was there the next day, but Tower never showed. That stirred the whisper-stream, but it wasn’t until later that I learned the truth.
“Damnedest thing I ever heard of,” Doc mused in his office. He liked an audience. And I liked to listen. “They find him dead in his cell. Looked like he went in his sleep. Not a mark on him. But the tox was bad—I mean, deadly bad.”
“So he OD’ed?” I asked.
“Not on curare!” Doc snorted. “But once they saw that, then they really did the job. They found it in his ear.”
“What?”
“A little dart. Beautiful piece of work, fluted and everything, like you’d make in a lab.”
“Somebody threw—?”
“No way, Burke. It was deep. Cruz said he recognized it. You know what he said it was? A fucking blowgun dart! Can you believe that? Last time I checked, we didn’t have any rain-forest pygmies here.”
Choice of Evil Page 30
