Footsteps of the Hawk

'There's more,' Hauser said, his voice tightening. 'One of the reasons she got such a short sentence was she rolled over. She named— '

'Short sentence?' I said. 'Twenty years? What was the beef, triple homicide?'

'Indecent liberties with a child,' Hauser told me. 'Forty–seven counts. Forty–seven. She was part of a ring, recruiting little girls for…movies. The oldest one was thirteen. It was a professional operation— they had a house rented near the state line. She was a dance teacher, modern dance— the kids were her students. When they popped her, she was looking at Natural Life. No question about the kids testifying like there usually is— the cops had the movies, and even an ACLU judge high on marijuana wouldn't have suppressed that evidence.

'There were four other people, three men and a woman. She turned them all in. And they all got forever sentences, Life Plus. She got to go to minimum security and then— '

'They got all of them?' I interrupted.

Hauser nodded, like he was glad I was finally with the program.

'All but one,' he said. 'One of the men took off just before they came for him.'

'And the cops think he might have…?'

'I don't know. Me, I don't see how it could be. Why would he wait a dozen years? And why would he risk his own freedom just for revenge— the FBI's looking for him too. Besides, it's not like those kind of people have any loyalty….'

'You're right. And when they dusted…?'

'Nothing. Only the prints that should have been there. Whoever did it, he was wearing gloves, I guess.'

'So this Barclay woman, she— '

'Not Barclay,' Hauser interrupted. 'Her real name was Thomchuk. Barbara Ann Thomchuk.'

'Yeah, okay. Thomchuk. There's no way her husband could have done it? Even if he was out of town, alibi'ed to the hilt, he could have paid…'

'He wasn't playing around on her,' Hauser said. 'The cops checked. And even if he was, they had a pre–nup, a solid–gold one, drawn up by a top matrimonial firm in White Plains. He could just pay her some money, walk away clean. He wasn't having business problems, didn't owe money to the sharks. He didn't have a drug habit, wasn't a boozer. And her life wasn't insured at all, only his.'

'So you think the answer's in her past?'

'Got to be,' Hauser said. 'Tomorrow morning, I'll be on it. I already got plane reservations for Chicago— that's the closest airport.'

'Let me know,' I said, getting up to go. 'I think you're on the right track.'

When I was doing time— after I hooked up with the Prof and stopped being stupid about my life— I studied this one guy real close. The Prof told me to do that. 'Keep a tight rein on your game, schoolboy. You want a clue, watch those who do.' The thing about this guy, he was a skinner. A tree–jumper. Slash–and–burn rapist. And he only did kids. I studied him because he could say anything, anything at all, and it would come out like he was telling the truth.

What really impressed me was him passing a lie–detector test. The cops came up to the prison— they wanted to question him about some missing kids. This guy, he told them he could lead them right to the kids…he said they were all snatched by the same ring of freaks…but he'd have to be out to do it. Let him out, no surveillance, and he'd call in as soon as he learned where the kids were hidden. It should have been a slam dunk NO from the cops, right? I mean, who'd take that kind of chance? But what made it hard for them was the way this freak breezed through the test— when he said he knew who had the missing kids, it came up No Deception.

Finally, they decided not to go for it…even though they half–believed him. I thought he had some trick, something I could use myself when I was out in the World again. But he told me it was no trick at all. If you don't feel things, you can't show them. You stop feeling deep enough— all the way inside you— and you never bounce the needles.

But it wasn't like he was a pure stone–face. He could laugh— even when he didn't see anything funny. He could cry too— Doc told me he used to do it in group all the time. Did it in court too, faking remorse the same way he faked laughter.

He tried to explain it to me. He said you could cry on cue— all you had to do was think of something bad that happened to you when you were a kid, something that made you feel real sad inside.

I tried it. Alone in my cell. Just to see if it worked. I went back, in my head. Went back to being a kid. But then I started shaking so bad I couldn't stop. My teeth were chattering, but the crying wouldn't come. All I got was those red dots behind my eyes, the red dots merging into a haze until I was looking through it…a red filter over my eyes. It made me afraid, that haze. Because the only way to make it go away was killing.

And I could never kill the right ones. Could never find them.

So I went dead myself. Went dead instead. At least I tried— I don't always pull it off. But when it comes to flat–faced, no–react lying, I'm an ace.

That's why Hauser didn't know what he'd really said— didn't know he'd given me the code–breaker.

And it wasn't in Indiana.

I knew it then— I was on the spot. Marked.

Judas–goated right into the clearing. If I walked away, it wouldn't be safety, it would be proof. Proof for the survivor.

I couldn't cover all the bets, not by myself.

I drove to the Bronx before morning light. First stop, the Mole's junkyard. He listened, his eyes somewhere else, absently fumbling with some electronic gadget he was working on. But when he nodded Okay, I knew I could take that to the bank.

Next stop, Frankie. I waited outside the two–family house he lived in. Actually, he lived in the basement, off the books. That's the kind of thing the city would bust a Bronx homeowner for…while ignoring the after–hours joints with no fire exits. When Frankie rolled out to do his road work, I pulled alongside in the Plymouth. He climbed into the front seat.

'I want to ask you a favor,' I said.

'Okay,' he replied.

'What I need— '

'I meant, Okay I'll do it, not Okay, you can ask me,' the kid said, his voice low and steady.

'It's not crew business,' I told him. 'It's just me. And there's nothing in it for you— this isn't about a score.'

'I never had no family before,' Frankie said. 'But I always knew what I would do if I did. I used to dream about it Upstate, the way other guys dreamed about pussy. I can get pussy, you understand what I mean? But family…? I know what I'd be if it wasn't for the Prof. A fucking drunk, with no respect, not from anyone. Specially not from myself. I'd rather die like I am right now than live like I was, okay?'

'Okay, kid,' I told him, holding out my hand.

After he shook it, I told him what I wanted.

'Let's get off first,' the Prof said to me. It was later that night. I was in the passenger seat of Clarence's Rover. The Prof was in the back, his upper body between the two front buckets.

'Can't do that,' I told him. 'I know it's one of them, but it could be both.'

'If murder's the crime, one or two, it's all the same time, schoolboy. I don't feature this decoy shit.'

'It's the only way,' I said. 'Here's what I know. They may both be in it, but they're not together.'

'Who gives a flying fuck about that?' the Prof challenged, one hand on my upper arm. 'Remember where you come from, son…same place as me, see? You know the rules. Hell, I taught you some of them. Listen to me. You been…messed up for a while. Ever since the…'

'I know,' I told him. I did know. That house in the Bronx, The kid. The dead kid. 'Don't you ever feel…bad about it?' I asked.

'You don't mean bad, you mean guilty,' the Prof replied, eyes holding me as hard as his hand was. 'I feel bad.