'I'm
She saw where he was looking. 'I know you are, honey,' she said, flashing a smile.
He pulled the car into a safe area. Jumped out, held the door for Belle. I lit a cigarette. The kid was so entranced he forgot to glom one off me.
'We don't need it here,' I told Belle. 'Hand it over.'
She pulled the scarf from the grenade, put it in my hand. Terry paid no attention, chattering away, explaining all the features of the junkyard to Belle. I followed behind them.
The Mole was outside his bunker. He tilted his head. We all followed him downstairs, Belle's hand on my shoulder, Terry bringing up the rear. I hoped the view wouldn't stunt his growth.
The tunnel sloped, curved gently back and forth. Lights flicked on each time we came close to a curve. The Mole's living room was always the same. A thin concrete slab over hard-packed dirt, old throw-rugs on the floor. The walls are all bookshelves. Tables covered with electrical motors, lab beakers, other stuff I couldn't recognize. A tired old couch in the middle of the room, easy chairs from the same dump. All covered with white oilcloth. I caught the quiet whirr of the electric fans built into the ceiling, venting to the outside. It looked the same, but it felt different. The Mole built it to live underground - before Terry came along.
I sat on the couch, Belle next to me. The Mole pulled up a chair. Terry sat on the arm. Took his eyes off Belle long enough to ask me for a cigarette.
The Mole took off his glasses, rubbed them with a rag he pulled from his belt. No point asking him if he got into Sin City - he would have said so in front, if he hadn't.
'I found it,' he said.
'You sure?'
His eyes were dim behind the heavy lenses, head solid on his stubby neck. 'In the back, anchor holes. For a tripod. Video camera. Professional quality, heavy. Arc lights over the top. Cross-bolted brace. Beanbag rest.'
'For the shooter.'
'For the killer. The back doors work off a hydraulic valve. One switch - open and close.'
'You understand what it is, Mole?'
'I understand. Killing machine. They go past the girls, hit the switch. Doors pop open. Killer shoots. Door closes.' He took a breath. 'And the camera is rolling. Taking the pictures.'
'Snuff films,' I said. 'Live and up close. The real thing.'
'Who does this?' Belle asked, her voice shaking. 'What kind of freaks?'
The Mole pinned her with his eyes. 'Nazis,' he said. 'They took pictures of us going into the ovens. Pictures of their evil. Treasures of filth.'
'You find anything else?'
'Three more cars. Dark sedans. Another room. More cameras, lights. Drain in the floor.'
That's where the baby pross they snatched off the street went. Down the drain.
I bit into the cigarette. I'd been ready for it, but red dots danced behind my eyes. I waited for the calm. For the hate to push out the fear.
'They have to go down, Mole. Can you get back inside?'
He didn't bother to answer me. Waiting.
'Can you wire it so it all goes up?'
He still waited - I hadn't asked him a question yet.
'Off a radio transmitter? So you push a button and . . .'
'How far away?'
'You tell me.'
'It's all steel and concrete, that part of the city. The basement is deep. No more than four, five blocks to be sure. Easier to wire it to the ignition. They start the van . . .'
'That's no good. There's two freaks left who work the van. The shooter, and the man who wants Max. I think the driver's already dead. The van could sit there for weeks.'
'Okay.'
I got to my feet, stalking the underground bunker. Like they must have done in the Resistance a lifetime ago. 'I got a plan. The shooter's bent - I think I can bring him in. Make him tell me where the other one is. Soon as I know, you can blow the basement.'
'How long?'
'Couple of days - couple of weeks. I need more peopIe,' I said, catching his eye.
He knew what I meant. Didn't want to say Michelle's name in front of the kid. The Mole nodded again.
'I'll call you soon as I'm ready.'
The Mole grabbed Terry's arm, pulled him around so the kid was facing him.
'Remember what I told you? About the Nazis? About our people?'
'Yes.'
'Tonight,' said the Mole, holding the boy's arms. 'Tonight is Bar Mitzvah.'
137
I banked the Pontiac across the on-ramp for the Triboro. Belle was quiet, smoking one cigarette after another, staring straight out the windshield.
'Go ahead,' I told her. 'Say it.'
She turned in her seat. 'You never gave me the grenade back.'
'I know.'
'You don't trust me?'
'I do trust you. I have to get out of the car, I'll hand it back to you.' I glanced her way. 'Okay?'
'Okay.'
'Don't sulk.'
'I'm not.'
'Then you're a hell of an actress.'
She tapped her fingers against one knee, keeping it under control. I lit a smoke for myself.
'What's the rest of it?'
She didn't answer me. Manhattan high-rises flew by on our right, river to our left. Mid-afternoon traffic still light.
'Burke, he's going to take that boy inside with him? Wire up a bunch of bombs?'
'Yeah.'
'He's just a kid.'
'It's his time. Like it was yours once.'
'I wish . . .'
'Don't wish. It's a poison inside you.'
'You don't wish for things?'
'Not anymore.'
We were in midtown, heading for the Times Square cutoff. I rolled on past. Belle craned her neck, looking through the Pontiac's moon roof at the luxury apartments, balconies overlooking the river, high above it all. 'You think it's true? That it's lonely at the top?'
'I've never been there. All I know, it can be lonely at the bottom.'
'But not always,' she said, her left hand resting on my right thigh.
I covered her hand with mine. 'Not always,'
We passed under the Manhattan Bridge. I ignored the exit, taking it all the way downtown.
'Was the Prof really a shotgun bandit?'
'Where'd you hear that?'
'From him.'
'I don't know if it's true or not. Ever since I've known him, he's been on the hustle. Maybe when he was younger, a long time ago . . . Why'd he tell you?'
