“You ain’t alone, home,” the Prof reminded me.
“You want Terry to hear this?” I asked Michelle.
“It’s not up to her,” Terry said, his still-changing voice on man-sound now. “I know how I got my mother,” he said, reaching over to touch her. “And my father,” he said, bowing his head toward the Mole. “I know what you. . . did, Burke. Then, I mean. I’m in this too. Whatever you want to do, I want to do it too. If someone took my. . .”
He didn’t finish. Didn’t have to.
“There’s no way,” the Prof said. “He’s not gonna walk into a room. Motherfucker don’t take no risks. No way you’re gonna get a piece past whatever he’s got set up either.”
“Mole?” I asked.
“If he has the correct equipment, he could pick up any weapon, in any form, just from its composition. Even plastic explosive. Thermal-image scanners could. . . . I have. . . devices. Very small. But they would not be. . . invisible if he were properly equipped.”
Max leaned over, tapped each of my hands, spread his into a question. Could I kill him with my hands if I got close enough?
“I don’t know,” I told him honestly. Max has been training me for years and years, but I never got that good at any of the techniques. I can hit pretty hard, and I can take a shot and keep coming. And if I got my hands on any vital spot—and focused hard on why I was there—maybe. But it could never be a sure thing.
“It will not work,” the Mole announced.
“Mole, I think I can—”
The Mole held up his hand for silence. “He will not let you get close enough. Remember?”
Sure. I knew what he meant. Like Wesley. This killer would keep a safety zone around himself. Wesley usually did it with an Uzi. I don’t know what this guy would use, but the Mole was right—he’d use something.
“We could put a tracking device on you,” the Mole said. “But you would have to discard it before you stepped into his zone.”
“Fair enough,” I told him.
“Not enough,” the Prof said. “This team needs a scheme.”
They all argued for a while. I just sat there, slumped in the chair.
When they ran out of gas, I told them how I wanted to do it.
“I’m not rebuilt yet,” Xyla said. “How could I—?”
“I need a message sent to him. I don’t care if you send it on this machine. Send it the same way you sent the first one. He’ll get it. I don’t need an answer. When he bangs back in. . . when you have this all back up. . . he’ll either go for it or he won’t.”
“I can do that,” she said. “Trixie has a little halfass Mac I could—”
“Sure,” I stopped her.
She grabbed a pen. I waved her away, wrote it down myself, and handed it to her.
not coming alone. bringing woman. she *direct* connect. she *only* one who can validate in certain areas. can *not* make it happen without her. not negotiable. you pick time, place, conditions. . . anything you want. but if can’t bring woman, no go.
“Jesus,” Xyla said. “He might not answer at all now.”
“That’s his choice,” I told her. “Just like this whole thing’s been since he started.”
“This is the only way,” I told her.
“You’re. . . serious?” Nadine asked.
“Dead serious. I’m keeping my promise. But this is the way I’m going to keep it. I don’t trust you. There’s only one way I can—”
“How do I know you’ll—?”
“You don’t,” I told her. “You don’t know anything. Take it or leave it,” I said.
“No!” I whispered to Strega. “No handcuffs. No chains. You have to keep her—”
“She’ll like them,” the witch hissed at me, glancing over at Nadine standing in the farthest corner of the white living room, her back to us. “If she tastes it herself, she’ll know how it feels when she—”
“No.”
“Burke, if I have to keep her for—”
“If you can’t do it, say so. But you can’t chain her, understand? No restraints.”
“How else could I watch her twenty-four-seven?”
“You know how,” I told her.
I didn’t feel guilty about leaving Nadine there. Poison wouldn’t have a chance against Strega—she drank it for nourishment.
I needed the time to get everything ready. And I needed Nadine with me when I went to meet the killer. Needed her to come when she was called, no hesitation. Once he opened the window, I knew it was going to be just a narrow crack. And if I moved wrong, a guillotine.
I kept thinking about my hands. I’d boxed in prison. I wasn’t really any good at it. The Prof got me started. He’d always wanted to train a fighter. Knew how to do it too. But it was a long time before I understood what I was really being trained for. When I first started, I’d be fine until I got hit with a good shot. Then I’d go off. Take three to give one. All I—finally—learned from boxing was self-control. Staying inside myself even in battle. I did learn that much. Max tried to teach me too. And I learned some of his stuff. But I never worked at it. Never. . . got it, I guess. I don’t know.
I don’t like fighting, maybe that’s the problem. I can’t see hitting someone to hurt them. And if someone’s going to hurt me, I can’t see hitting them at all. Wesley told me he once killed a guy in the joint when he was just a kid. The guy was part of a crew, and they’d told Wesley he had a choice: give up some head to one of them, or get gang-banged by them all. Wesley picked the easier one. That made sense to them, but they didn’t know what “easier” meant to Wesley. He got on his knees, but then he rammed the guy in the stomach and got his hands on his throat. And held the guy’s head in place while some anonymous guard at the other end of the tier threw the switch that racks the bars on all the cells. The guy’s skull crumbled like it was papier-mâché.
The reason Wesley did it that way was because there’d been a shakedown, and the hacks had taken the shank he had stashed in his cell. Didn’t matter—he always got it done.
So I thought about dying. But even if I could get enough explosives past whatever security he’d have set up, I couldn’t be sure.
My hands, then. All I had. But not for his throat. To push a button.
I hit the post with a perfect two-knuckle strike, driving through it, not at it. . . the way I’d been taught. I hardly felt my hand. My mind was right.
“That’s mine,” Strega said. “Don’t touch it.”
I turned and saw her in the corner of the shadowy basement. “Where’s—?”
“In the bathtub,” Strega said. “With no towels. And if she steps out of it wet, she’ll fry like an omelet.”
“Jesus,” I said, looking down at my hand.
“I said don’t touch it,” Strega ordered, coming toward me. She was naked, her hair tied back with a black ribbon. She grabbed my hand. It was bloody around the knuckles. “Mine!” she said, like a two-year-old just learning the word. She licked the blood off. Then she squeezed my hand, hard. Some new drops blossomed. She pulled my knuckles into her mouth, sucked until she came, spasming, me with one arm around her to keep her from falling.
The bathroom door on the second floor was standing open. Strega stepped in. I looked over her shoulder. Nadine was in the tub, lying back, her eyes closed. Strega pulled a pair of plugs from their sockets, disconnecting the red-coiled heaters which were standing sentry on the soaked tile floor. Then she tossed a heavy black mat down, dropped to her knees, and started gently rubbing Nadine with a bar of soap, crooning to her.