I was proud of the lie— so proud to be his brother.
17
Nobody clapped Max on the back on the way out of the dojo. It wasn't that kind of joint.
The warrior touched the face of my wristwatch, moved his hand in a "come on" gesture. Wherever we were going, we were running close.
In the car, Max made the sign for SAFE. Lily's joint on the edge of the Village.
I made a "what's going on?" sign. He held up one finger. Patience.
We motored through Chatham Square. A flock of gray pigeons clustered around the monument set in a tiny triangle of concrete at the intersection of East Broadway and the Bowery. A white pigeon landed in their midst, bulling his way through to the best scavenging. A hard bird, honed by the stress of survival in a world where his color marked him.
18
I stashed the Plymouth in back of Lily's place, followed Max inside. Her office is at the far end of the joint. The door was open. Lily was at her desk, her Madonna's face framed by the long black hair. Another woman was with her, a young woman with dirty-blonde hair, big eyes, a sarcastic mouth. Sitting straight in her chair with an athlete's posture. Maybe eight months pregnant. They were deep in conversation. Max clapped his hands— they looked up.
Max bowed to the women, they returned his greeting. He held up my wrist so they could see the watch.
"Thank you, Max," Lily said. "Right on time."
"What is this?" I asked Lily.
She ignored my question. "You know Storm, right, Burke?"
"Sure." Storm was the head of the Rape Crisis Unit at the downtown hospital. Another of the warrior women who made up Lily's tribe. They come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. They're all some kind of sweet, and they can all draw blood.
"You really want to know?" Lily asked Storm. "You're absolutely sure? Burke's never wrong…about this."
Storm nodded.
"Show him," Lily said. Storm extended her hand, palm up.
I sat on the desk, held her palm in my hands. "This is the hand you write with?" I asked her.
"Yes."
I looked closely. Saw the clear triangles emerging from the lines. Like the gypsy woman told me a long time ago. Intersecting triangles for female, open spikes for male.
"It'll be a girl," I told her.
"Good!" Storm said. Then: "Thank you. I didn't want the amnio, but Lily just had to know. It was making her crazy."
I lit a cigarette. Lily made a face. Storm smiled. She smokes too. One cigarette a day, usually right after supper. No more, no less.
"What's the rest of it?" I asked Lily.
"How do you know there's more? Don't you think Storm's question was important?"
"Storm doesn't even think it's important," I said. Watching her eyes, knowing I was telling the truth. "And Max wouldn't have a tight time limit for what I just did."
"I'll show you," Lily said.
19
The small playroom has a window of one-way glass— it's a mirror on the inside. I looked through it and saw Immaculata, her long hair done up in a severe bun, wearing a bright orange smock. Max's woman, part Vietnamese, part she'll-never-know. I was there when they met. In the fallout from combat. A chubby baby crawled on the carpet in one corner. Flower, their little girl. Named for another little girl. One who hadn't survived. A tribute to Flood, the little blonde karateka who fought to avenge the baby's death. And left when her work was done.
Left me.
Half a dozen kids in the playroom. Running, jumping, scrawling with crayons on a giant piece of white poster board.
"That's him," Lily said at my side. "He's talking to Mac now. Luke, his name is."
The boy looked about eight. Light brown hair, thin face, dark eyes. He was holding a pocket calculator in one hand, pointing at the display window, like he was explaining something.
I felt Storm slide in next to me on my other side. "The police found him. In a room with his baby brother. Two years old. The baby had been hacked to death with a butcher knife. There was blood all over Luke, but he hadn't been touched, just a few surface scratches."
"His parents?"
"They weren't home. Left him in charge of his brother. Said they were only gone a few minutes."
"Anyone popped for it?"
"No. No arrests. No suspects, even."
"We don't treat only direct child abuse victims here," Lily put in, anger edging her voice, like I was a politician questioning her program. "Children who've witnessed horrible violence to a loved one…a rape, a murder…they're as traumatized by it as if it happened to them. That's why Luke's here."
"He lives at home?"
Storm answered me. "No. His parents were convicted of inadequate guardianship. Turns out they were gone almost two days, not a few minutes like they'd said. And they were very secretive, hostile. Wolfe's unit found out the dead baby wasn't really theirs. Not legally theirs. One of those private placement adoptions, but it never went to a court. The lawyer who handled it got indicted for baby-selling. Luke's been in foster care for about two months."
"And you still don't know who killed the baby?"
"Wolfe says she knows." Something in Lily's voice.
"So what's for me?"
"Last week, we had a TV crew here. They were filming a documentary about child abuse. We gave them permission, under strict conditions. Told them which rooms they could work in, which rooms to stay out of. One of them, this real smart young man, some producer-something-or-other, he took a cameraman into the back, where Luke was playing. When Luke saw the camera, he went catatonic. Froze. The paramedics stuck a hypo in his arm and he didn't even flinch."
"What happened?"
"He came out of it. Maybe an hour later. When I told him he'd been in a trance, he got very angry. Denied the whole thing. Even told us what he'd been doing during that time. Like it never happened."
I watched the kid, adding it up.
"Burke, you know what it means, don't you?" Lily asked.
I ignored her question. "Can I talk to him?"
"Let's try," she said, opening the door to the playroom.
20
They worked it like a drill team. Lily flashed something to Immaculata, who immediately drew Luke close to her as Storm muscled the other kids out of the room.
"Hi, Mac," I said. "Who's your pal?"
"This is Luke," she said gravely, one hand on his shoulder, the long, lacquered nails spilling against his chest. Talons, guarding.
The kid's eyes were pearly darkness. "What's your name?" he asked me, trembly thread in his voice.
"Burke."
"How do you spell that?"
I told him.
The kid's eyes went thoughtful, rolled up into his head, snapped right back. "Our names are linked," he said.