Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [5]
Nothing. Then a snake's hiss, amplified a dozen times, penetrated my foggy brain and I knew Max was close by. It took me another half–minute to spot him, crouched motionless not ten feet from my blind. I pointed over to where the freak was parked and Max nodded—he knew.
I held up one finger to Max, telling him to wait a minute before he moved. Then I used the same finger to draw a half–circle in the air, made a motion as if I was getting to my feet, and grabbed my left forearm with my right hand. Circle around behind the freak, I was telling Max, wait for me to show myself, and then make sure the target doesn't move. I had grabbed my forearm instead of my throat for good reason—I wanted the freak to stay where he was until I could talk to him, not get planted there forever.
Max vanished. The park was still quiet—we had some time, but not much. How long does it take a woman protecting her cub to run a half–mile?
We both heard her before we saw her again, just like the last time. I knew where the redhead had left her gym bag, up ahead of where she rounded the corner. This would be the last time we saw her, but maybe the freak didn't know that. He had missed the first circuit—maybe he thought there was another lap still to come.
The redhead jogged past us exactly like before—a reluctant machine unable to overcome its programmer. I could feel the freak's eyes burning.
I waited a couple of seconds after she rounded the bend, watching carefully, but the freak didn't start his engine. I knew Max was in place. No point in trying to be quiet about this—it would take me ten minutes to slither out of the blind without giving myself away.
I grabbed both knees, rocked back until I was flat on my back, and kicked out with both feet. The blind went flying, the birds started screaming, and I heard the freak trying to start his car. His engine fired into life just as I was charging across the road to where he was hidden, but he never had a chance. His rear tires spun in a frantic dance, but his car never moved. It wouldn't go anywhere, not with the concrete wedges Max had stuffed in front of each front wheel.
The freak saw me moving toward him; his head was whipping wildly on its thin stalk of a neck looking for a way out, and then Max materialized at the side of the car. Another split–second and he reached into the car and pulled out the freak, the way you'd pull a dead fish out of a tank. The freak started to say something and Max twisted his neck—the something turned out to be a scream. Max flashed his spare hand into the freak's belly, palm out, and the scream turned to silence.
The Pontiac was a coupe, so I went around to the passenger side and climbed into the front seat. Then I pushed the driver's seat forward and Max climbed in too, holding the freak at arm's length until I shoved the seat–back forward to give him room. He deposited the freak next to me on the front seat, keeping his hand on the scrawny neck.
We all sat there for a minute. Nobody spoke. Three strangers at a drive–in movie with nothing on the screen. When the silence got too much for the freak, he opened his mouth—it only took a slight pressure from Max's hand for him to realize that talking would be painful. I reached over and snatched the mirror lenses from his sweaty face—I wanted to see his eyes. They darted around in their sockets like half–drunk flies on a Teflon pan.
"Give me your wallet," I told him, in a calm, quiet voice.
The freak hastily fumbled open his camouflage suit and handed me a billfold. Just what I expected—a miniature police badge was pinned to one side, almost two hundred in bills, an honorary membership card from the PBA, credit cards, and other assorted crap. The driver's license and registration were my targets, and I found them soon enough.
"Mark Monroe," I said, reading from the license. "That's