"What did McGowan say when you brought him the kidTerry?" I asked her.
She didn't answer-I saw something in her face, her mouth set and hard.
"Michelle?"
"I didn't bring him to McGowan," she said.
"What did you do with him?" I asked her, keeping my voice level.
"Burke, he couldn't go home. His father's an evil pig-he's the one who started him off."
"That's why he ran away?"
"He didn't run away-his father sold him to that pimp."
And people think it's going to be air pollution that kills us all someday.
"What did you do with him?" I asked her again.
"He's my child now," she said. "I'll take care of him."
"Michelle," I said, my voice patient but my mind screaming trouble!, you can't keep that kid in your hotel. Sooner or later somebody's going to…"
"He's with me," the Mole said.
"In the junkyard?"
"I fixed up a place for him," the Mole said, a hurt tone in his voice.
"The Mole's teaching him, Burke," Michelle said. "He's learning all about electronics and stuff. He's real smart. You wouldn't believe how much"
"Jesus Christ!"
"Burke, he's my boy, okay? We take him to SAFE. Lily's working with him. He's going to be fine."
"What if someone comes looking for him?"
"What if they do?" she challenged.
"Michelle, listen for a minute. You're in the life, baby. What kind of a mother could you be?"
"Better than the mother you had," she said, her voice quiet.
I lit a cigarette. Maybe the kid would never get to prep school, but the state makes the worst mother of them all.
"He's one of us," the Mole said, looking at Michelle.
I gave it up. "Just don't expect me to be his goddamned uncle," I said.
Michelle gave me a kiss on the cheek. "When I have my operation, I'm going to adopt him, Burke. He can go to college and everything…you can scam up some papers for him…I started to put money aside already…"
"I know," I said. "And the Mole's going to buy him a puppy, right?"
"He has lots of dogs," the Mole said in a serious tone.
My fingers twisted into the sign for "Okay," aiming at Max. He was gone. I peered into the corner where he had been working with the black paste, wondering how he did that-and then I saw him. He hadn't moved at all-the black cloth ate the light until he was nothing but a puddle of shadow. They'd never see him coming.
The Prof came over and stood beside me. "Burke, if that old woman doesn't talk, you going to walk?"
I thought of what Mama said not so long ago. No rules. "I'm coming out with that picture, Prof," I told him. "It's the jailhouse or the graveyard. If it goes sour, do what you have to do."
"I know what I have to do," he said. I took one last look around.
"Let's do it," I told them.
93
I LED THE two-car convoy carefully through Manhattan, me in the maroon Cadillac sedan the Mole had welded back together, Michelle following in the Plymouth. The Prof was crouched down under the dash on the passenger side of the Cadillac, keeping up a steady stream of chatter. He didn't look uncomfortable-for a guy who spent half his life pretending to have no legs, hiding under the dash was no big thing. The Mole rode next to Michelle in the front of the Plymouth. Max was in the trunk.
The City Planning map showed the cul-de-sac at the end of Cheshire Drive, but I'd gone over the ground in person a couple of times to be sure of the layout. The back of the house was separated from a little park by the same wall that went around to the front. I brought the Cadillac to a stop, checking the mirrors. Michelle pulled in behind me, getting out to pop open the Plymouth 's hood as if she was having engine trouble. I took out the jumper cables, preparing to hook them up in case anyone watching got to wondering what we were all doing.
All clear. I opened the trunk of the Plymouth and Max flowed out.
He was a black blot against the white wall for a second; then he was gone.
"You remember where the phone booth is?" I asked Michelle.
Her disgusted look was all the answer I was going to get.
A black rope flew over the wall. The Mole shouldered the strap of his satchel, got a grip, and heaved himself up. The Prof and I each grabbed a leg and shoved too-the Mole isn't exactly agile. Max would probably throw him over the wall on the way out.
"You make the call-you hang up-you cruise slowly back here and wait for Max and the Mole to come over the wall, okay? If there's trouble, it'll be at the front of the house."
"I'll be here," Michelle said.
The Prof and I got back in the Cadillac and motored quietly away, Michelle right on our tail. I drove her past the phone booth just to be sure, waiting until I saw her brake lights flash. I checked my watch-eleven-twenty-five.
The Cadillac turned into Cheshire Drive, cruising past a black Ford with two men inside. Wolfe's people were real subtle. I thought how easy it would be for anyone to block off the street on our way back, checking the manicured front lawns of the expensive houses on each side. Plenty of room.
I used the short driveway in front of the big house to turn around, leaving the Cadillac's nose pointing back out.
"It's time," I whispered to the Prof.
I closed the door of the Cadillac quietly. The front gate was locked. I jumped up and grabbed the top, pulled myself up in a second, dropped down on the other side. I covered the path to the front door quickly, my ears hurting from listening for sirens.
The door was black-a dramatic counterpoint to the fieldstone front of the house. I couldn't see a knocker or a bell. Soft light flowed from a large bay window, but the house was quiet. I eased away from the door, peering into the front window. It was a living room that nobody ever lived in-plastic covering the furniture, every piece sharply aligned, not a cigarette butt or an old newspaper in sight. Ringing the front-door bell would be a mistake. Maybe they were all asleep, maybe even sleeping right through Michelle's phone call.
I slipped off the front step and around to the side of the house, checking through each window for humans. Nothing. The joint was as quiet as a Russian civil-rights meeting.
A double-wide driveway continued from the front around the side, sweeping in a gentle curve to someplace behind the house. I followed it along, feeling the smooth pavement under my feet, checking the string of floodlights angling from the house. They were dark now, but there had to be a switch somewhere inside. The driveway ended in a teardrop-shaped slab of concrete behind the house-a schoolbus-yellow van sat next to a dark, anonymous sedan. A sloping extension had been built off the house. It looked like a garage, but it had to be the entrance to the basement.
I did another slow circuit before I returned to the most likely prospect-the window at the back corner of the house where it was pitch-dark. There was no alarm tape around the border-I couldn't see any wires either. I put on a pair of gloves before I tried to raise the window. The wood looked pretty old-I didn't want to get splinters. It was latched. I took a roll of heavy masking tape from my coat and carefully covered the pane nearest the latch. I used three layers of tape, leaving the ends free, smoothing it down from corner to corner. Then the little rubber mallet, softly tapping, working from the corners toward the middle of the pane. My heart was beating hard, like it always does when I work, but I breathed slowly through my nose, keeping it under control. You get too impatient doing one of these jobs, you get a lot of time to think about it in a place where the windows don't have glass.
I put my hand flat against the windowpane, working the cracked glass carefully, easing it away from the frame. It made a tiny crackle, like when you crumple the cellophane wrapper from a pack of smokes. I slipped my hand inside and pushed against the tape; the broken glass clung to its other side. I found the latch. Gently withdrew my hand and started to work the window up. Every couple of inches or so I sprayed some liquid silicon into the channel to smooth the way.