BACK IN her apartment. Candy sitting on her couch, the leash a dark line between her breasts inside the bright yellow sweater.
'You'll get her back for me now?'
'Yes.' I took her key out of my pocket, running my fingers over it, rubbing hard. I tossed it to her. It bounced off her shoulder. She never took her eyes from me.
'I always loved you,' she said.
125
I TOOK THE stairs down with Max.
The Prof was waiting in Morehouse's car. I handed him the soft plastic block from my pocket. The key to Candy's apartment was sharply outlined on its face.
'Tell the Mole I need two, okay? He can leave them in one of the cars for Monday night.'
'It's done, son.'
126
MONDAY, MIDNIGHT. Max and I pulled off the FDR, leaving the car to the darkness. Michelle was in the back seat. Max waited while I walked along the riverbank with Michelle. She leaned into me, her hand on my arm.
'Here's the papers you wanted,' I told her.
'This is pretty thick for just a passport,' she said, putting the packet into her purse.
'The rest is from the Mole.'
She stopped in her tracks. Slit the envelope with a long thumbnail while I lit a smoke. I saw a wad of greenbacks. And a note on the graph paper the Mole uses for stationery. I left her to herself, smoking in silence. When she turned her face to me, tears streaked the perfect makeup.
'After tonight, I'm gone from here.'
'I know.'
'When I come back, I'll be me.'
'Yeah.'
'I love you, Burke,' she said. Pulled my face down to kiss my cheek. 'You watch out for my boy- you take care of him.'
I didn't ask her who she meant. 'Come back at one, okay?' I told her. 'You'll hear some kind of a big bang. Wait five, ten minutes. We're not here, go. If we're coming, we're coming fast. You see us coming toward you, just walk away, leave the keys in the ignition.'
'I'm not running around in this mess in my good shoes.'
'I mean it, Michelle. Don't wait. We don't need a driver.'
She gave me another quick kiss. 'Take care of Max,' she said.
The ground felt squashy under my boots as we made our way down to the river. Manhattan is a big island; the East River separates it from Queens, dotted by smaller islands. Welfare Island. Roosevelt Island. Once they used them for insane asylums, hospitals, leper colonies. Now they use them for luxury co-ops. Other islands too. Real small ones. Just clumps of dirt and trees sitting in the river. You could get a good view of the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge from them.
Michelle would wait on the Manhattan side. We couldn't just stash a getaway car in that neighborhood- it wouldn't be there when we needed it. The Prof was in place on the Queens side. When the pressure came, we'd move away from it. If we could.
Wesley was waiting. A darker-than-night shape near the water. He handed me the Uzi. A soft hiss as the rubber boat inflated. He pointed to a pair of duffel bags and a large tool chest with a handle on top. Max took the two duffels in one hand, the tool chest in the other. Wesley didn't seem surprised. We boarded the boat. Wesley sat in front, steering. Max and I alternated strokes with the paddles. The river's only about a quarter mile wide where we were working, with the island sitting in the middle. It didn't take long.
We beached the boat. Wesley set up a pair of tripods in the soft ground, pressing down hard to make sure they were firmly seated. He bolted a spotting scope on top of one, a rifle onto the other. No talking- sound carries over water. No smoking. He pointed to the sniperscope, pointed at me. Blew a sharp puff of air. I nodded. Wesley settled in behind his rifle, making himself at home. He swept the bridge with his scope, nodding in satisfaction. He pulled a bullet from his jacket pocket. Long, slender bullet. A soft snick as he chambered the slug. I was inside his mind. Target rifle. One target, one bullet.
Wesley sat behind his rifle, eyes somewhere else. Nothing to do but wait. A foghorn sounded far down the river. The Harbor Patrol had passed almost half an hour ago. They hadn't even swept the island with their searchlights.
I saw the line of humans moving. Walking the bridge. The spotting scope picked them out. Three up front, a man in the middle, three behind. I swung the scope to the Manhattan side. Four men, walking together. I blew a sharp puff of air, imitating Wesley. He settled in behind the scope, moving the barrel in tiny circles. A snake's tongue. Testing. Waiting. Fangs sheathed.
The two groups came together. The man who'd been in the middle from the Queens side stepped forward. One of the men from the Manhattan side detached himself. They walked on the outside of the bridge, safe from traffic. The two men met near the middle of the bridge, slightly to the Queens side. They stood with their backs to the girders. Then they switched places. I blew another puff at Wesley. 'I saw it,' he whispered. So low it might have been only inside my head.
I saw what Wesley saw.
The target's eyes were shielded by his hat. I zeroed in on the lower cheekbone- the bullet would travel up, climbing all the way till it met his brain. And blow it out his skull.
They were talking. I heard Wesley take a deep breath. Let it all out in a smooth stream. Felt him go coma- calm. So he could squeeze the trigger between heartbeats. The don's lips stopped moving. He cocked his head slightly. Listening to the underboss.
The don fell forward a microsecond before the earsplitting
Wesley was on his feet, breaking down the tripod. Max grabbed my scope and tripod in one scoop. Wesley pointed to the Queens side- standing dark and quiet in the distance. No time to argue. We threw everything in the boat. The muscles in my back screamed trying to match Max's strokes. Sirens shrieked somewhere behind us. I knew Wesley would be working the spotlight in front of the boat, watching for the answer. The boat veered left toward my side, where Max's strokes would do most of the work. We ran aground. Wesley popped the release. The air hissed out of the boat as Max made the run to the car.
I took the wheel. Wesley and Max loaded the stuff into the trunk, climbed into the back seat. I pulled away smoothly, heading for the empty factory district of Long Island City.
'Thanks, Prof.'
'It's been fun, but my piece is done,' the little man said. Meaning he didn't want to stay along for the ride. I stopped within sight of the IRT. Held out my hand. He grasped it, let go. Opened the door and split. Never looked into the back seat.
