Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [129]
I walked toward the open door at the other end, toward the music and I didn't know what else. When I got close, I could see the door was at the far corner of the room; everything else was off to the left. I took the pistol in both hands, holding it high above my head over my right shoulder; my back was against the wall. Then I stepped inside with my left foot, pivoting and bringing the pistol down and across my chest, sweeping the room.
A short, stocky woman was sitting on a stool at a white drafting table, peering at something under an architect's lamp. The light came from behind her—I couldn't make out her face. She was wearing a pink quilted bathrobe, orthopedic shoes on her feet. She didn't even look up, concentrating on something. I was almost on top of her before she looked up.
"Don't scream," I told her, my voice calm, showing her the pistol.
She opened her mouth wide, gulped in a ton of air instead, her eyes bulging. "Oh my god!" she said, like she'd been expecting this.
"Just keep quiet and you won't get hurt," I said, still calm and quiet, gently reaching out toward her.
"What is this?" she asked, her voice shaking.
"It's about a picture, bitch," I told her, grabbing the front of her robe with one gloved hand, my voice filtered through the nylon mask. "I want a picture you have. Understand?"
She tried to pull away from me, plucking at my arm in a feeble gesture. I slapped her lightly across the face with the pistol. I put my face as close to hers as I could. "I got my orders—I bring the picture or your fucking head!"
The woman's eyes rolled up and she slumped against me—I jerked her face up again—she was breathing in gasps but she wasn't going to faint.
I grabbed her by the back of the neck, holding the pistol in front of her face with the other hand, pulling her off the stool, dragging her toward a chair near a butcher–block desk in the corner. A gooseneck lamp was shining on some papers. I shoved the woman into an oxblood leather chair and stepped back.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"I'm a man with a job, understand? I don't have a lot of time."
I tossed the picture Strega gave me on the table in front of her. Her eyes flicked over to it but she didn't make a move.
"That's the kid," I told her. "You got a picture of him somewhere in this house. I want it."
"Why would I have a picture…?"
I stepped forward and backhanded her across the face, not too hard—just enough to make her focus on what she had to do.
I started pulling things out of my pocket—a small coil of piano wire, a little glass bottle of clear fluid, a strip of leather. And a straight razor. The woman's eyes were huge.
I stepped to her again—she cowered, covering her face with her hands. No rings on her fingers—no polish on her nails. I slipped the leather strip past her clawing fingers, fastening the gag in her mouth. She jumped forward—I jammed the heel of my hand into her chest—she let out a burst of air and fell forward from the waist. It only took me another minute to lash her wrists to the arms of the chair with the piano wire.
Her mouth was silent but her eyes were screaming. "You got two choices," I told her. "You see this bottle? It's ether. To knock you out. If I have to do that, I'm going to chop off the fingers on your hand. One by one. And I'm going to wait for you to wake up, bitch. You'll wake up screaming, understand?"
Her face was coming apart behind the gag.
"You understand!" I snarled at her.
She nodded her head hard enough to make it fall off her neck.
"I'm going to take the gag