Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [30]
“Why do you try to sound sarcastic, Mr. Burke? I was willing to kill to live, not for the pleasure of it. You killed those three vermin just to kill them. They couldn’t have come after us.”
That knocked me over. “What? I didn’t kill anybody. What the hell are you talking about?”
“Those people we put into that room—you fired the gun so many times, right at them. You must have killed them.”
And that started me laughing. I must have kept laughing for a while, because the next thing I remember was Flood holding the lower part of my face in one hand and pressing the other against my stomach. I looked up at her—she was only inches away. She asked, “Okay now?” and I let out a breath and tried to explain.
“I was just laughing because . . . well, it’s not important. But I didn’t kill anybody in that room. The pistol was full of a special mixture a friend makes up for me. Look,” I said, and pulled out the .22 and the spare clip. “Here’s the gun I used, and here’s the bullets.” I popped them out of the clip one at a time and showed her the tiny mini-flares, the teargas cartridges, and the flat-faced slugs with the birdshot inside. Flood opened her mouth slightly in concentration as I explained.
“Watch. First you use a couple of the mini-flares so it looks like rockets are going off inside the room, then some birdshot for the stinging effect, which they think is shrapnel. They usually hit the floor and use up all their air holding their breath or screaming. Then you fire some teargas to start them choking and then some more mini-flares and birdshot to keep them down. It turns any closed space into hell, but it’s all in the mind—you can’t die from it. I wouldn’t kill anybody like that—that’s not my game. You couldn’t kill anybody with this gun anyway, loaded the way it is, even if you blasted them right in the face. It’s just to keep people where they are for a while, that’s all.”
Flood fingered the cartridges carefully, then smiled. “You’re just a man of peace, aren’t you, Mr. Burke?”
“That’s me. I’d have to be damn scared to kill anyone—it’s not worth it. I survive. I’m not looking for a whole lot more.”
“Was the other gun loaded with this stuff too?”
“No. With .38 specials—two wad-cutters, two hollow points, and one high-pressure load.”
Flood gave me that chuckle again. Maybe she thought she had me figured out, but I was way ahead of her. I noticed her breasts only bounced when she chuckled, not when she shrugged—very appropriate.
“I have to start looking,” I said.
“Is it safe for you?”
“I guess so. But I need some sleep first and to get a few things from my office—make a few calls—you know.”
“I know.” Flood shifted out of that damn lotus position so she was sitting next to me. She reached out that death-dealer of a hand and brushed my cheek with the back of it. I knew it was time to go.
10
THE OUTSIDE OF Flood’s studio was deserted, no action in the halls. I rang for the freight elevator and went to the stairs when I heard it start to move. Checked the elevator entrance, nobody around. The Plymouth was sitting untouched where I’d left it. I didn’t expect anything else—any fool who tried to take off the tires would have to be wearing razor-proof gloves, for openers.
I got back to the office just as the sun was breaking over the Hudson. A few solitary men were standing on the piers with fishing tackle, setting up for the day. The fish in the Hudson aren’t much to look at, never grow too big or have bright colors. But the guys who fish down there tell me they put up a hell of a fight. I figured that any fish who could survive the Hudson River would have to be tough, like a dog raised in the pound. Or a kid raised by the State.
I put the car away, making a mental note to do some cosmetic surgery on it before this case with Flood made it too visible. Went upstairs, deactivated everything, and let myself in. Pansy gave me a halfhearted growl just to let me know she was on the job, then charged over, wagging her stump of a tail. Even without the security systems