Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [131]
I opened the door to the cellar stairs off the foyer and stepped through. Found myself in another small room, set up to resemble a cloakroom—coats hanging on hooks, umbrella stand in one corner. It took another minute to find the door behind the coats. Locked from the inside. I took out a credit card and slipped it between the door and the frame, working it gently, telling myself if there was a deadbolt on the other side I'd have to try another way in. But the loid worked, and the door popped open. Another couple of steps and I was at the top of a curving wrought–iron staircase. I tested my weight against the first step and then I heard a man's voice, high and shaky, like he was near the edge of something.
"Look, you guys are making a mistake, okay? I mean…I know people, understand? Whatever problem you got, I can take care of it. Just sitting here looking at me isn't doing you any good, right?"
I followed the staircase toward the voice. Halfway down, the darkness faded. Indirect lighting bathed the basement floor, coming from some concealed panels. A fat man was sitting in one of those huge beanbag chairs, one hand on each side for balance, staring into a dark corner like it held all life's secrets. The Mole was hunkered down against one wall at the side of the chair, his satchel open in front of him. His big head swiveled to cover the room, a stocking mask stretched over his thick glasses. He looked like a malignant frog.
The man's eyes rolled over to me as I came down the stairs. He watched me approach, relief coming into his face.
"Hey, are you in charge? These guys"
"Don't talk," I told him.
It didn't have any effect. "What difference does it make, man? This whole place is soundproofed, okay? I mean…take a look around."
I did. The walls were lined with dark–brown cork, the ceiling covered with acoustic tile. Even the rug on the floor felt like it was covering a thick rubber mat.
"So nobody can hear the kids scream?" I asked him.
"Hey! What is this?" he yelled at me, trying for a hard edge to his voice.
I cocked the pistol. He winced at the sound. I stuck the gun into his fat face, depressing the skin under his right eye. "I. Don't. Have. Time," I told him, pushing at his face with every word.
"Whaaat?" he moaned. "Just tell me…"
"I want the pictures. I want the film. I want the lists. I want the money."
The fat man wasn't going to bargain like his wife. "It's upstairs. All upstairs. I swear…down here there's just some money…in the workbench….just walk–around cash…It's all in the bank…Tomorrow morning, when the banks open, I"
"Shut up!" I told him, backing away. The workbench drawer had three short stacks of bills. I tossed the money to the Mole. It went into his satchel. The basement looked like a kid's playroom—stuffed animals, dolls, a hobbyhorse, electric trains in one corner. I checked behind the only door, but there was nothing except the oil burner and a hot–water heater. A back door opened into the extension to the house. I walked through it quickly. No windows to the outside, and the floor was concrete like the driveway. All designed so they could pull the van inside and discharge its cargo. And take pictures of kids.
It was time to disappear.
"Your wife is upstairs," I told him. "She's okay—just sleeping. I'm going to give you a shot too. When you wake up, the police will be here. You say whatever you want to say—make the best deal for yourself you can. You mention me or my people, I'll find you again, wherever you are. Understand?"
He nodded, still trying to talk. "Look—you don't need the shot—I mean, I got a bad heart, you know? I'm on medication. Tomorrow I can get you all the money you want"
The Mole took a hypo out of his satchel, pushed the plunger, watched the thin spray, nodded to me. A shadow moved from a corner of the basement, flowed behind the fat man. He was jerked