Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [82]
“He’s called Max the Silent. I don’t know his deep past.”
“I only know the name in Japanese. It means Silent Dragon. It doesn’t make sense—he couldn’t be your brother . . .”
“We have the same father.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The same father you had, Flood.”
“The fucking State was my father. I told you.”
“I know.”
Flood said nothing. Just sat there absently patting my face like it was a mound of clay and she was trying to decide on the shape of the sculpture before she really went to work. Finally I nudged her with my shoulder. “Flood?”
She snapped out of it. “What? Oh, Burke . . . Okay . . . I can put it together now. And it’s all right. It makes sense. I just didn’t see it.” She shook her head as though to clear her vision. “I’ll go with you. I’ll do as you say. And I’ll find this devil and I’ll put the stake into his heart like I’m supposed to. You’ll see—it will be the way it should be.” She looked at me, focusing on my face for the first time. “And you can have the picture too, all right?”
I just nodded. The side of my face was beginning to swell—I could feel it growing—and I’d need to do some talking soon. I told Flood to go get dressed and she dutifully went off. I sat there smoking until she was ready to leave. It was still dark as we slipped out her front door and into the waiting Plymouth.
30
AS WE DROVE back toward the office I felt Flood staring at the right side of my face where she’d done her work.
“You’ve had some real training, haven’t you?”
“Why would you say that?”
“It has to be hurting you, but you’re breathing properly.”
“That’s not training—it just hurts to breathe through my damn mouth.”
Flood slid across the seat until she was right up against me and gently squeezed my thigh. “Maybe you’re just a tough guy, Burke.”
I’m not a tough guy. If I could figure out a way to run from pain I’d do it at Olympic speed. I can’t do that so I let it just move through me like I was taught. But I couldn’t do it and drive the damn car at the same time. Actually, I couldn’t do it that well at all.
I put the Plymouth away and walked around to the front with Flood holding onto my arm. When we walked in the entranceway I leaned against the mailboxes like I was dizzy. She immediately threw her arm around my waist and pulled me against her, supporting me up the stairs. When I touched the mailbox the red-and-white lights the Mole had strung all around the office would start to flash in sequence. It was the signal for Pansy to stop whatever she was doing. Her aggressive juices would start flowing when she saw the flashes, she would pad over to her designated spot to the left of the door so she’d be just out of sight when it opened. There’s also a light switch that sets off a monster strobe light the Mole had mounted in what looked like a stereo speaker, blinding whoever walked in the door. If the strobe fired so would Pansy. She’d also fire if I walked in the door with my hands up, strobe or not. But I’d only hit the downstairs switch to keep her working and alert. Any dog will lose whatever conditioning you’ve put into her if you don’t reinforce and reward constantly.
When we got to the top of the stairs I told Flood to take my hand. She did it without questioning—I think she finally understood that my office wasn’t the place to act stupid. I opened the door, pushed the light switch down instead of up and walked in holding Flood’s hand. Pansy was standing to the left—chest out, fangs bared, and trembling with eagerness. She was supposed to wait in silence but a low rumbling growl escaped. Still, she didn’t move and she let Flood and me walk in hand-in-hand. I told Flood to sit on the couch, turned around and told Pansy “Good girl.”
She came loping over to me and I patted her hard enough to make a normal dog lapse into unconsciousness. Her giant tongue slobbered out and covered my face. Ignoring Flood, I told Pansy to stay and went next door to get her a slab of steak—small compensation for not being able to chew on