Footsteps of the Hawk

'Canceled until further notice,' Helene said. 'That's what I had to tell you.'

'Okay, thanks. Can I do— ?'

'Goodbye,' she said. I heard the receiver come down at her end.

Hunting humans has its own blood–rhythm, linking predator and prey so deep each can feel the other's pulse. I know— I've been both. That's the jackpot question you ask a little kid who says he's been sexually abused, the one question that brings out the truth— not what did they do, but how did it feel?

I know how it feels.

When you're being stalked, it's not your feet that get you trapped, it's your mind.

I know that too.

It's a dance, a dance with rules. The rules don't kick in until you hear the footsteps. When that happens, when you're in it, you can feel the animal part of you trying to take over and call the shots. That's the right part of you, the part that can save you. Manhunting isn't a chess match— that only happens in books.

But you can't let survival instinct be the boss. When you're up on the high–wire, speed means nothing— balance is everything.

Fear is good. It sharpens your vision, keeps your blood up, forces all your sensors on full alert.

Terror is bad. It shuts you down, closes your eyes tight, freezes you in place.

If you break cover too soon, you're an easy target. But if you rely on your camouflage, you could end up frozen in the headlights.

The worst place to be is in the middle. When elephants fight, the grass gets trampled. I wanted to go to ground, play my trump card— patience. But that wouldn't work now. Belinda and Morales were dancing to the death and I had only two choices: pick a partner and cut in…or stand away and be cut down.

A little past five in the morning, the city still dark. Transition time: too late for the muggers, too early for the citizens.

'She's rolling, not strolling,' the Prof's voice, on the cellular phone I held to my ear.

I cut the connection, slipped the phone into my army jacket, looked over at Max. The warrior was sitting in the passenger seat of the Chevy Caprice Arnold Haines had rented, breathing so shallow you had to look real close to see it, like a computer in wait–state. I settled back, waiting for the next piece.

It wasn't fifteen minutes later when the phone purred again. 'Bitch just touched down, safe in the pound,' the Prof reported.

'Mary, she lives there?'

'Yeah. Looks like she's home, but she's not alone.'

'Little weasely guy, mustache?'

'That's him, Jim.'

'Okay,' I said. 'We're moving.'

'If she don't sing, give me a ring,' the Prof said, promising backup. Then he gave me the address.

The building was off Third Avenue, mid–scale enough to sport a lobby, but no doorman. Maybe one of those co–ops that went all to hell, jacking up the maintenance costs to cover the empty units— first thing that goes in joints like that is the doorman.

We wanted 8–F. I looked at the name next to the bell: Johnson. Maybe that was Rudy the Weasel's sense of humor.

There's lots of ways to bypass a buzz–in system like they have in most apartment lobbies, but the easiest one is to just follow right behind someone who got the green light himself. Too early in the morning to wait for that to happen. Too early to run a UPS or FedEx hustle either. I was about to call it off, go back to the car and wait for a citizen, when Max pointed to the inner doors. I followed his gaze. A pair of heavy glass doors designed to open in the middle, pull–handles on each side. The glass was smudged, like it hadn't been cleaned in a long time. I made a 'So what?' gesture. Max took a couple of steps to the doors, put one hand around each handle, and pulled. There was a lot of play in the doors, they bowed outward as Max pulled. I nodded my head, whipped out a flexible plastic strip and worked it into the opening. The 'loid slid in like it was greased, covering the slip–lock, forcing it back inside. The doors popped open.

We walked across the lobby to a pair of elevators. The whole place looked neglected, downtrodden. Maybe they fired the maintenance crew too. I looked up at the floor indicators, rectangular plastic with numbers painted on the inside. Only one of the elevators was working and its number 8 was lit— probably the last time it was used.

I pointed to an EXIT sign to my left. We walked over. I pushed gently, and the door gave way. A staircase, just like I figured.

We started up, me in the lead, Max behind. I walked slowly, testing each step. I went first because I could hear someone on the stairs before Max could feel them. And because I needed to set the pace: if you climb stairs too fast, you could be winded at the top— it wouldn't happen to Max, but I was a good candidate.

The stairwells were dirty, littered with cigarette butts too old to be yesterday's. Half the lights were burned out. I spotted a broken wine bottle on 4, a dead condom on 5.

I pushed open the door on 8, stuck my head out and looked around. The hall was empty. It was quiet— a stale quiet, just this side of rot.

The doors were all painted a uniform cream color. A bad choice— the parts that weren't chipped were mottled with hand–prints. 8–F looked sticky to the touch. I dropped to one knee, slipped a self–sealing white #10 envelope under the door.

We waited a couple of minutes. No reaction from inside. I pushed a little black button on the door jamb, heard it buzz softly inside the apartment. I stood back so whoever came to the peephole could see me easily. Max flattened himself to my right, his back against the wall.

I could feel somebody at the peephole, but I wasn't standing close enough to be sure. It wasn't my face I was counting on to get me inside, it was the envelope. An envelope with ten C–notes inside, wrapped in a piece of paper that said:

This is business. There's a lot more of this in it for you. I need something done, and it has to be today

I heard the rattle of a door chain, then it opened. Rudy stood there, bare–chested, his right hand behind his hip. 'You sure you— ?' he said just as Max flowed through the opening like white–water over river rocks, pivoting on his right foot, the heel of his left hand cracking just below Rudy's breastbone. Rudy doubled over, airless. Max did something to the back of his neck and Rudy slumped to the floor, out. On the carpet next to him, a switchblade, still in the closed position.

I pointed to the hallway. Max glided over to the side of the opening. I knelt next to Rudy, quickly wrapped a length of duct tape twice around his head, covering his mouth. I razored the tape free, then I turned him on his stomach, pulled his hands behind his back and used another piece on his wrists. I looked up just as Mojo Mary came around the corner, naked except for the pistol she held in one hand. She opened her mouth wide, raised the pistol, but Max had her from behind. The pistol dropped to the floor and Mojo Mary stopped struggling.

Max hauled her over to the couch and pulled her down next to him. He held her in place with one hand, his thumb behind her neck, fingers splayed around her throat.

I pocketed the white envelope, then slid the clip out of the little automatic Mary had dropped, worked the slide to see….Sure enough, a cartridge popped out— there'd been one in the chamber. I walked over to the couch and pulled up a chair so I was facing Mary. Max still held her, but his eyes were on Rudy.

'Just stay easy,' I said to her, my voice matching the words. 'Nobody's going to hurt you,' I promised, leaving the unless hanging in the air between us.

Mojo Mary took a deep breath through her nose, displaying her high round breasts and showing me she wasn't going to scream all in the same move. Like the Prof said, a pro ho'.