Footsteps of the Hawk

She pulled the jersey bra up over her breasts, then over her head. She slipped off the shorts, stood there naked. 'You think a man can be raped?' she whispered.

'I know they can,' I said.

'I don't mean by another man, like in prison. Do you think a woman can rape a man?'

'I don't know.'

'You and me, we're gonna find out, honey. Don't go away now.'

She walked down the hall, an exaggerated wiggle to her hips, looking over one shoulder, blowing me a kiss. When she came back, she had a blue washcloth in her hand. She got on her hands and knees and started crawling toward me. When she got right on top of me, she raised her head, licked her lips. 'I'm going to make you come, she purred. 'In my mouth. And I'm going to spit it up on this,' she told me, holding out the washcloth. Her eyes flickered under long lashes, looking up at my face. 'Looks like you're not just a hit man, Burke,' she whispered. 'You're a rapist too.'

'You're out of your— '

'No,' she said. 'No, I'm not. I look good, don't I? Isn't this perfect? I'm going to rape you. You're going to get nice and hard, and you're going to come in my mouth. Even though you know what I'm going to do with it. Even though you know you're going to die. You can't help yourself. Just watch…'

She pulled my cock toward her, stuffed its limpness into her mouth, sucked hard. I felt a tremor.

No!

Another, like a little shock wave. I couldn't…stop it. I felt myself go crazy, right in my own mind. I couldn't— she couldn't make me. But people did make me…when I was a kid. I felt that come back at me…and then the red dots flashed behind my eyes until they merged into a scream inside me and I snapped my head forward, trying to drive my forehead into the top of her skull….It didn't work— the leather straps pulled me up short. She craned her neck, looking up at me from under her bangs, my cock still in her mouth. She winked at me like we were sharing a joke— then she went back to work. I looked down, looked at her mass of chestnut curls covering my lap. And I went dead.

She tried for another few minutes, licking, sucking, making little noises. But I stayed dead.

Her head came up, lunatic eyes shining with joy. 'It doesn't matter,' she said. 'You just sit here, be a good boy. Maybe, if you're real good, when I get back, I'll give you another chance.'

She got to her feet, brought her face down to where we were almost touching, closed her eyes, and spit full in my face.

When I opened my eyes again, she was at the end of the hail, dressed in a yellow turtleneck and black pants, a pocketbook over one shoulder.

'See you soon,' she said, and blew me a kiss.

Strapped in that chair, waiting, I was cold. Not from the temperature, from inside me. I went into that safe place, the place where ice cauterizes, makes you numb. You can think things there, but you can't feel them. I didn't want to feel….The only option on that menu was Terror.

I had a plan going in— I thought it over first. It was a good plan— no way Belinda was going to kill me in her own apartment— too many risks. How could she explain it to the cops?

But after she explained it to me, I could see it happening.

Getting people out of the way, that was the real plan. Hauser was too much of a news hound to let him stay around. No telling what kind of stunt he'd pull if he thought there was a story in it. The Prof and Clarence, they were professionals all right, but they were my family first. The last time I got them in something…that time in the Bronx…I wasn't going to do that again.

I wanted to save Max for vengeance. If it came to that, he could take his time, work around the edges, strike when it was safe. Max isn't bulletproof— but if you don't know he's coming, he can't be stopped.

I had my backup ready: brains and muscle both. The Mole and Frankie. Only the Mole is a lunatic and Frankie's down to one arm.

I rocked in the chair, trying to tip it over. Maybe I could get free that way— maybe the crash would say something to the people downstairs. She hadn't put a gag in my mouth, so I figured yelling would be a waste of time. I shoved hard to my right— the chair didn't budge. I couldn't see where the legs met the floor, but I guess it was anchored somehow.

Calm, stay calm. I tried to remember everything I'd learned about escapes. There was a young guy I did time with once. He could get out of handcuffs like he was greased. The trick was to fold your hands over so they were no wider than your wrist— he was always practicing it. He would let you hold his wrist, tight as you wanted. And then just pull it free. I tried, but it was no good. Something like that takes practice….

There was a little play in the waist strap— I had pushed all the air in my lungs into my stomach when I saw what Belinda was going to do— I'd remembered at least that much. But it wasn't enough…I just had more room to squirm, a worm on a hook.

I could feel the baby spot beaming down on me, a hot, focused light. It was so quiet I could hear my heart beat…faster than I wanted, but still below the panic line. Maybe Morales would get the drop on her…Then all I'd have to worry about was starving to death.

If there's a way in, there's a way out. I said it to myself, over and over again, a mantra that gave me no peace. If only I had…

I heard the deadbolt on the front door snap open. The sound froze my heart. I stopped breathing. A thin beam of light came around the corner.

'Jesus Christ!' It was Frankie, a flashlight in his hand, the lens taped so only a sliver of light came through. He came forward slowly, wary as a stray dog offered food.

'I'm okay,' I told him, willing calm into my voice. 'But hurry it up, all right?'

He moved quickly to where I was strapped in. I saw the Mole materialize over his left shoulder, his leather satchel in his hand. The Mole pushed Frankie out of the way, held up his hand so Frankie couldn't get any closer.

'You wired up?' he asked me, making a sniffing noise like a bomb dog.

'No.'

The Mole nodded, satisfied. He put his satchel on the floor, knelt to open it. Then he carefully examined the straps through his Coke–bottle glasses. He shook his head in disgust, reached in his satchel and came out with what looked like a giant pair of scissors. The scissors had a pistol grip on one side with a wide handle on the other, a spring between them. The Mole worked it under the strap on my left arm, resting the base of the scissors on the chair itself. He leaned forward, grunting with effort, and the thick leather parted. I flexed my arm, working some of the stiffness out while the Mole did the other strap, around my right arm. I could have slipped out then, but the Mole did the waist strap too, and I was free.

'She went out the front door, headed downtown,' Frankie said. 'We couldn't follow her. I mean, not and get in here too.'

'You did the right thing,' I told him, climbing into my clothes. 'It doesn't matter anyway— I know where she's going.'

'Can we— ?' Frankie asked.

'You got a car?' I interrupted.

'We got the Mole's…truck, I guess it is,' Frankie said. 'He picked me up in it.'

I knew what he meant— the beat–up old panel truck with the name of a kosher butcher on the side that the Mole used to get around in.

'Let's go,' I told them.

The Mole drove like he always did, with bat–blind incompetence, like he had a sonar system in his head but it wasn't working too good. The panel truck yawed around corners. Every pothole sent my head toward the roof.

'You have any trouble with the locks?' I asked the Mole.

He gave me a 'Don't be stupid' look, sawing at the big steering wheel to negotiate another corner.

We drove up Van Dam slowly, seeing if…Nothing— the street was quiet. Morales' screaming–red sports car was parked right in front of the loft. I used Frankie's flashlight on its windshield— it was empty. We turned on Greenwich and doubled back, parking on Charlton— the loft on Van Dam was just through the alley.