Footsteps of the Hawk

'Sit down,' she said. 'In the chair.'

I did it.

Belinda circled to my left, as careful as a wasp stalking a scorpion. My eyes followed her, but I held my body straight. 'Put your arms where they're supposed to go,' she said, almost out of my peripheral vision. 'I've got to look through your stuff, and I can't do it while I'm holding a gun on you.

I laid my forearms on the broad flat wood arms of the electric chair as she stepped in behind me. I felt the barrel of the pistol in the back of my neck. 'I'm going to fasten the straps,' she said. 'I can do it with one hand. If you move, you're dead.'

I sat still, breathing through my nose to keep the panic at bay. I heard the metal–on–metal as the restraints snapped into place. She pulled another strap around my waist. I heard that one snap closed too, somewhere behind me.

Belinda circled back in front of me, walked over to where I'd dropped my clothes. She put the pistol on the floor, started pawing over my jacket. 'You got toys, huh?' she said, pulling out the Velcro panel, holding up the handcuff speed key.

'I never leave home without one,' I said, hoping for a smile. I didn't get one— she went back to work, rooting through my clothes.

'No lock picks?' she asked.

'Never use them,' I replied, still trying for flip.

'Don't worry,' she said. 'I've got some.'

Before I could ask her what the hell that meant, she turned back to her task, her face tightened in fierce concentration. I kept it quiet— maybe after she saw I was clean…

Finally, she stood up. 'No wires,' she said. 'No guns either.'

'I'm playing it straight,' I told her, sick of games, scared real deep, trying to sound calm, keep her from spooking.

'Yeah. Maybe you are.' She walked back toward me, pistol in her hand again. 'You've got a nice body for a man your age,' she said. 'Pretty thin, though. You work out?'

'No.'

'Too bad. It can make you feel real, real good, you do it right.'

'I'll have to try it,' I promised. 'Now, how about if you take— '

'Just sit there,' Belinda said. 'It's time you learned what's going on. You have any cigarettes?'

'In my jacket.'

She walked over, found my pack. 'You want one?' she asked.

'Yeah.'

'Okay,' she said, coming close, holding it to my lips, striking one of my wooden matches. I took a long drag, smelling her sweat— a sour, ugly smell. What had Immaculata said? Coarse?

She pulled the cigarette away, went back to where she was standing. Then she carefully placed the burning cigarette in an ashtray.

'That's one,' she said absently, like she was speaking to herself.

'One what?' I asked, trying to keep her talking.

'Sssshh,' she said, bending forward at the waist, arching her back so I was looking directly into her cleavage. 'It's a secret. You be a good boy, maybe I'll tell you about it, okay?'

'Sure,' I replied, trying to sound reassuring without spooking her.

'You want the truth?' she asked, straightening up, hands on hips, looking down at me. 'This is just like the movies, isn't it? Where the detective gets everyone in the room and solves the crime? Well, there's only two of us here. And only one of us knows what's going on. So I guess it's my turn…' She walked a few paces closer, then stopped. 'You want me to solve the crime, Burke?'

'Do it,' I told her.

'I love him,' she said calmly. 'George, I love him. Don't give me any funny looks— I saw how you were looking at that painting in Jon's apartment…the one on Van Dam. I'm not like that— I'm no groupie— serial killers don't get me hot. It's not what George did, it's what he is. My lover. Since we were kids. That wasn't how it was planned, though. You want to know how it was planned?'

'Yeah, I do,' I said, staying in my center, willing her to stay in hers too, stable, calm…pushing that out at her, a cloud I wanted to wrap around her, a mist on her vision, slowing her pulse with mine.

'The way it was planned, we were the entertainment. Did that ever happen to you? Where you go to a party and you think you're going to have fun…and then it turns out you are the fun? That happened to me.

'I loved this guy in high school. I mean, I worshipped him. I'm the kind of woman, I love you, I'll do anything for you. Anything. I was only fifteen. I didn't know…but I should have. When you look back, everything's clear, isn't it?'

I just nodded, wanting her to go on, keep talking until her motor ran down.

She put her hands behind her back, looked down like a bashful kid. 'He invited me to this party. I was so excited. But when I got there, it was just him. And some of his friends. They didn't actually…force me. He said it would prove I loved him. So I did it.

'But that was after…First, they brought us to this big house in the country. All us kids, I mean. This old man was in charge. He was a rich man. A philanthropist, they said. In the foster home, that's what they said. It would be like we were getting adopted. We all went to live there. I was about ten…eleven, I don't remember. George was there too. And a bunch of others.

'We were the entertainment. The old man would do things to us. After a while, he made us do things to each other. Sometimes, he brought his friends in. To watch. At first, just to watch. But sometimes, they would do it to us too.

'I'm going backwards,' she said. 'I do that sometimes. But I'm not crazy— I wouldn't want you to think that. Where was I…?'

'You were the entertainment,' I said. 'First for this freakish old man. Later for some high–school jock.'

'You are listening,' she replied. 'That's good. You're a good listener. Did anyone ever tell you that? I knew you were a good listener, the first time I met you. In Central Park, do you remember that?'

'Yeah. You said you liked my dog.'

'I did like her,' Belinda said, a hurt tone in her voice. 'I knew what you were, even back then. A few months later, Morales told me. He told me what you do. He hates you. So he told me what you did. And I thought, one day for sure, I could use that. A man like you.'

'What did Morales tell you?'

'He told me you were a hit man,' she said, closing to within a couple of feet. 'A paid killer. He said you killed a few people. He said you were a liar and a thief and a killer. I knew I would like you.'

'None of that's true,' I told her.

'Yes it is. I checked. And you know what? Morales, he helped me check. And then…' She walked in tiny circles, nibbling at her lower lip, looking down, the pistol waving aimlessly in her hand. I stayed quiet. Her head came up: 'Where was I?'

'You said you loved George,' my voice gentle and soothing, still trying.

'Yes. I love him. That wasn't supposed to happen. They made us…do things with each other. Me and George, we did it a lot. Even before we…could, like. I mean, before he could even get it up. When he was a boy. That's really when I loved him…when we were in it together. Like brother and sister, so close. If I love you, I'll do anything for you.'

'What did he want you to do?' I asked.

'Kill,' she said, the word as dead as her eyes— a pretty–painted house with no furniture inside. 'The case against George, the one in New York, the woman on University Place, it wasn't really that strong. Fortunato said he could get it overturned if he had something— newly discovered evidence, that's what he called it. I was going to mess up the trial. I had this plan. I'd jerk George off on a visit, into a condom. Then I'd plant it inside one of the others. But that was stupid. George told me it was stupid— the only way you get the same DNA is from identical twins— it would lead them right to me. George wouldn't want that. Besides, he always wore a rubber when he…