Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [146]
They both got to their feet. Bowed. Bowed again. Flood’s face was flushed with joy—Max’s eyes were bright with approval. He held out his hands, palms up. Flood put her hands in his and he turned them over, examining closely. Max drew his hand across his waist, patted his legs, nodded emphatically. Then he held out his hands, nodded again, but with reservations.
Flood said: “I know. My kicks are better. My teachers have told me that I’m lazy. That I work with what works for me, not with what doesn’t.”
Max pointed to my wristwatch, and Flood understood. It was too late to learn new tricks—she’d have to fight the Cobra with what she had. Flood was ready. She went back to the duffel bag and brought out the picture of Sadie and Flower, the piece of silk, and the candles. I handed over a copy of the Cobra’s mug shot, and her quick flashing smile told me I was on her wavelength. For a change.
Max left the room and came back with a low red lacquered table that had tiny dragon’s claws for legs. He placed it in the far corner so the mirror would reflect the icon no matter where you stood.
I left Flood and Max in the temple and went downstairs to hook up the field phone and check in with Michelle.
53
MICHELLE ANSWERED THE phone on the first ring, her voice all breathy and excited, not like her at all. “Burke, is that you?”
“What is it?”
“He hit the hook, baby. He sent a kid—”
“Don’t say anything more. I’m on my way.”
I ripped the phone from the connectors and sprinted for the Plymouth. Flood would be safe with Max, and if anyone hit the top floor looking for Michelle they’d have to get past the Mole. Everything was locked in place now, and phone conversations weren’t going to help.
The Plymouth slipped through the light traffic like a dull gray shark. The smaller fish moved aside, and it took only minutes for me to get back uptown. I rolled into the parking spot, waved my arm to attract the attendant, and slipped him the ten bucks as I was locking up. The lobby was deserted—the indicator said one elevator car was on the eleventh, the other on the ninth. I hit the Down switch for both cars and charged up the stairs.
Still quiet—still empty as I went along. I timed my breathing so I had a burst of oxygen left at the end of each flight—you don’t want to be out of breath if you meet unfriendly people. I sucked in a nasal blast before each flight, let it out as I was climbing. I stopped at the top floor, waiting for my blood to settle down and listened. Nothing. I approached the door, tapped softly. Not a sound. I tapped again, said, “It’s me, Michelle,” and the door swung open.
I moved inside and found myself facing the Mole hunched over some kind of plastic box glowing ruby-red from its insides, a slim metal cone pointed directly at the door. The Mole looked at me, blinked, took his hands out of the box.
Michelle was sitting in a corner, a petulant expression on her face, like she was being punished for something she didn’t do. She opened her mouth to say something and the Mole held up his hand to silence her before she got a word out. “She went out,” the Mole told me in his soft voice.
“You what?”
She bounded off her perch, came over to me, glaring over her shoulder at the Mole. “He sent a kid, Burke. A little kid. We got the whole thing on this hookup the Mole has here. Some little kid walks in downstairs and tells them he needs the phone number for his older brother. Like his older brother doesn’t want to