It hit me then— where it had all started for Luke. I stepped close to them, pulled the trigger again and again, squeezing them off the count. Charged down the stairs, flying now, feeling Max behind me.
The basement door was locked— felt like steel. I stepped aside. Max's leg shot out like a pile driver, rapid-fire hammering all around the knob. A final kick took it off the hinges. Gunfire answered, bullets whined up at us. I dropped to my belly, unhooked the baseball-sized grenade from my belt, pulled the pin with my teeth, tossed it in. A white flash just ahead of the bang. I crawled inside, flying blind.
Lights on— they must have had a generator. A bullet chipped the wall near my face. I emptied the Glock, sweeping in a Z-pattern, hosing them down, slithered back outside, snapped in a new clip.
All-dead silence now. I crept down the stairs. The far wall was cracked open from the grenade— I could see clear out to the night. Pair of heavy videocams on tripods, cross-firing at a black-skirted platform standing in front of an inverted cross. Foot-high numbers sprayed in red on the wall above: 666. The platform stood untouched by the explosion, waiting for the show to start. I walked over, looked down. The surface was gleaming hardwood, an upside-down pentagram carved deep into its face, like a butcher's drain. The pentagram stared back at me, a leering goat's head.
Two bodies down there. One wearing a black hood, peaked at the top, some weird symbols on it in white, a .45 in its hand. The other was a woman, black hair, heavy white makeup, black lipstick. They were both stitched with bullets from the Glock. I spun around to go when I saw it…in the corner. I made myself look. A little boy. Handcuffed behind his back, tape across his mouth, naked. Bullet holes along his spine. I turned him over with my hand, gently too late. The exit wound had taken off his face.
My mind blanked off the child's body, rejecting the image, a pure white screen with black numbers, counting: Nine, the woman upstairs said. We are the Nine. I'd taken out two with the scattergun before I dropped her and her pal. Max left one coming down from the roof. Two in the basement. The little boy wouldn't count— he wasn't one of them. Two more, somewhere. I held up two fingers to Max. He took the point to the back door. It was standing open, swinging softly in the night air. I snapped my last flare, tossed it outside, rolled out in its wake, Max right behind. We started toward the van, keeping low. I saw a woman's body lying face up in the weeds. We were about fifty feet away when the shots came. I caught one in the shoulder— a hard punch from an ice pick. White wires ripped through my arm, my eyes starbursted with pain as I went down. Max dove on top, covering me with his body. Double blast from the Prof's shotgun, snapping string of killer hornets from Clarence's automatic.
"The motherfucker's down, bro'! Run for it, we got your back!"
On my feet now, Max's arm around me bracing, trying to run. Heard the van's engine roar into life, felt myself lifted inside.
It all went black then.
190
I rested up in the junkyard. Hadn't lost much blood with the pressure bandage they'd slapped on. Got lost in the painkillers for a few days.
I was okay about it, the dead time. Talked to Terry, watched some TV. Max fed Pansy every day, finally went back and brought her over to me. She was in heat. It took me fifteen minutes of one-handed sign language to convince him I wanted him to take the dog to Elroy's for a while.
Clarence came by, sat next to my cot in the bunker.
"I saw him take off The Silent One. Like a skate, a devilfish flying. Right after you blew the front door. Seemed like he was up there so long, floating."
"You stand there gawking at him?"
"Oh, that is what the Prof said, mahn, I finally get around to the back door with him. I didn't even see the first one come out. It was the Prof who took her— a young girl. She was almost on me with that long knife, screaming like a mad witch, when I hear the shotgun speak. Cut her right down. I would not have thought the little man could do like that."
"Yeah. He's a fucking wonder."
"He's a man. Like I never knew. Quiet, after that. Then we hear shots from inside. And the explosion. I ask him, how long we gonna wait? He says, until you come out. I ask him, what if you don't come out? You know what he says to me, mahn? He says, then the cops find us when they come. And we die right there. Die like men. I wish my mother knew a man like that."
"Me too."
The bullet never touched bone. The bandage was a few inches from the Queen's amulet, still around my neck. I was healing, waiting my time. Staying inside, icing up.
When they brought Luke to see me, I started crying.
He was gone by the time I stopped.
191
In Wolfe's backyard, dark out.
"They identified the bodies," she said. "No tapes. They must have just gotten started when it happened."
"I guess.
"Storm had her baby. A girl. They named her Sunny."
"That's nice."
"And we arrested Emerson. Took him down yesterday. Hanging around outside the Welfare Center. He's on the Rock. And this is one indictment that'll stick."
"Yeah."
She threw away her cigarette. "Burke…"
"Yeah?"
She stood close to me, held my hand. Her kiss was soft. "You and me, it's not going to be."
"I know."
192
I stood alone on my rooftop, looking down into the zero. I never knew the name of the last sacrifice— didn't know who I was crying for anymore.
Thought about what I didn't have until the list got too long.
Clarence's voice, from long ago. "What would be justice, mahn? So the baby may sleep in peace?"
He was older now.
I can't make babies. Can't fake love. I finished with my tears. Back to what I had left.
193
At Mama's, in the back booth, drinking my soup, making my plans.
"You had call," Mama said. "Yesterday."
"He leave a name?"
"Not a man. Woman. Said to tell you Belinda called. She say you have her number."
194
They brought Silver to the attorney's conference room at Rikers. We shook hands. I felt the power of his grip all the way through my wounded shoulder.
He leaned forward, jailhouse whisper. "Helene told me. I owe you, brother."
I reached in my attaché case. Showed him the picture of Emerson, ran my thumb along the razor-sliced edge. Said the baby-killer's name softly. He'd be in the same joint as Silver, awaiting trial— Rikers holds city-wide.
Silver stared at the photo for a long minute, nodded, handed it back.
195
I'm here now. Waiting for my spirit to walk.
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Sacrifice b-6 Page 27
