Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [109]
A gull swept by low over the East River, screeching his anger at the humans who kept snatching pieces of his river to build luxury apartments. I turned the phone conversation with James over in my mind and nothing really computed . . . I didn’t know if I would ever need him and his faggot friend again. My mind was wrestling with dancing images, but Goldor kept cropping up every fifth frame or so. Wearing his mask. I was way past choices.
I turned away from the river and Flood fell into step beside me, matching me stride for stride. After a block or so she put her hand on my arm, gently. As we walked I slipped my hand around her waist, moved it down and patted her hip. “Behave, okay?” She nodded that she would.
The Volvo was where the Mole said it would be. My key fit, a clean set of papers was in the glove compartment. I got onto the East Side Drive, getting the feel of the car and heading for the bridge and Route 95. The idea was to drive north of Scarsdale, then drop down back into it. We had plenty of time but I wasn’t anxious for visibility and we couldn’t hit Goldor much before nine if the alibi was to work. I told Flood we would have a picnic first—as soon as we got into Westchester County I changed jackets with her and sent her inside a deli to buy some cold cuts and soda and cigarettes.
With my jacket covering her, Flood looked like a rich-bitch teenager playing some silly game, the kind you would never notice in the suburbs. When she got back I drove to what was left of an old industrial park in Port Chester and we sat in the front seat and nibbled at the food. We weren’t too hungry. I lit a smoke, leaned back against the seat cushion.
“Is this our last chance?” Flood wanted to know.
“No, but it may be our last good chance. Wilson can’t hide forever, but we don’t have forever either.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know.”
“That I have to go back . . .”
“To Japan, am I right?”
“You know that,” Flood said.
“Yeah . . .”
“Burke, do you want—?”
“Right now—right now I want Wilson.”
“Yes.”
“That’s enough for now.”
“I understand,” she said, then asked, “Burke, are you afraid?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not.”
“I know.” And I did.
“You know what that means?”
“It means you’re still a virgin,” I snapped at her.
And Flood slid over next to me and just held my hand until I saw it was time to go.
40
THE VOLVO HAD been the right choice for this run. It was old and dull and anonymous-looking, all right, but it still fit into the neighborhood somehow. Kind of quiet and substantial looking, an appropriate second car for the kind of mouth-breathers who wouldn’t live in the city but still sucked their living from it.
I knew exactly where to find Goldor’s house—I hadn’t wanted to cruise around the area drawing attention to us so I’d checked with the street maps in the City Planning Office. But the maps hadn’t told me he lived on top of a short hill or that the semicircular driveway in front of the house would be lit up like a Christmas tree. My watch said 8:47, no time to modify anything. The Mole was already in place, getting ready to do his work—now I had to do mine. I’d gone over the thing with Flood a dozen times and I’d just have to rely on her to act right.
I pulled the Volvo into the drive, rolled just past the front door so it was on the driveway’s downward slope, cut the lights, and killed the ignition. There was no reaction from the house to our approach. I opened the car door, walked around to the passenger side, and held the door for Flood in case someone