“I want them to remember that too. You understand what I’m saying.”
“You want to scare the old men? Has it been that long? You don’t remember who they are?”
“If they kill me, they get nothing. If they leave me alone, they can forget about me. I’m not working anymore.”
“You did Talarese and Mantino and Fratelli. Three medium-big fish in one week.”
“Talarese is the one who found me. Mantino had a specialist waiting for me when I tried to get out on a plane. Fratelli had people looking for me. I guess he was doing Balacontano a favor.”
“That ain’t the story they’re telling.”
Little Norman could tell that this wasn’t what the Butcher’s Boy had expected to hear. “What are they saying?”
“Talarese was wearing a police wire when you got him.”
“Talarese? Bullshit.”
“You wanted to know what they’re saying. That’s it. A lot of people think somebody who had problems with what was on the recording hired you to get all three of them. Some people think you just went crazy from hiding: you figured it wasn’t enough to put Carl Bala in jail. You had to cut down the ones he left in charge, so his family would fall apart.”
“I did them because it was the only way they left me to stay alive.”
Little Norman watched him for a reaction. “Then you made a mistake. If Talarese was wired, Mantino would be on the recordings. He’d be glad Talarese was dead.”
“I didn’t imagine that guy at the airport. When I left the cops were moving in on him.”
“Did you know his face?”
“No. A tall guy with blond hair and a mustache.”
“Did you ever let anybody take your picture?”
“No.”
“Couldn’t Mantino have found somebody who saw you in the old days? Think about it. You sure he wasn’t one of the cops?”
Wolf didn’t have to think. “Who did the wire belong to?”
“I won’t know unless they arrest somebody. Maybe they won’t. Maybe you killed everybody worth jail space.”
“I’m leaving now,” said the Butcher’s Boy. He stood up, the gun still trained on Little Norman. “Tell the old men what I said. Make sure they know what they’re doing if they decide to come after me.”
“You think Carl Bala’s going to leave you alone?”
“Carl Bala can’t do anything unless they let him.”
“What about the police?”
“I’m worried about the old men.”
“How do I give you their answer?”
Wolf shook his head. “This is the last conversation anybody’s going to have with me. If somebody is looking for me, watching me or waiting for me, I’ll know where they came from.”
“All you’re offering is that if they leave you alone, you’ll leave them alone?”
The Butcher’s Boy gave a little shrug. “It’s not a bad deal.” He stepped backward out the door and closed it behind him. Little Norman strained to hear his footsteps, then listened for the squeaking hinge on the front door, then waited for the rattle of a car’s starter. He heard none of them.
“No,” he said aloud. “Not a bad deal at all.”
Elizabeth cradled the baby in her arms. Amanda was asleep, but every time Elizabeth tried to ease the bottle out of her mouth, she would suck on it a few times to reassure herself that it was still there. Elizabeth stared across the baby’s room at the wall. It had occurred to her a few seconds ago that if she were the Butcher’s Boy, right about now she would be on her way to Boston to get Giovanni Bautista. It would have to be done right, though, a virtuoso performance, because Bautista would be expecting him. He was the last of Balacontano’s old stalwarts, and if the Butcher’s Boy killed him now it would accomplish two things: it would cut off, at least for the moment, Carl Bala’s most potent remaining means of finding him; and it would scare the hell out of everybody outside the family who might consider hunting him. This was the part that nobody else had ever understood about the Butcher’s Boy ten years ago: in order to survive, he’d had to remind people of their mortality. That would be what was on his mind now—surviving by convincing people that if they didn’t leave him alone he would kill them. What else did he have?
Now she slipped the bottle out of Amanda’s lips, jammed it upright beside her in the padding of the chair, then carefully eased her weight forward and straightened her legs to stand. So far, so good; Amanda was still limp and sleeping, a little gurgle in the back of her throat coming in slow, regular intervals, like a snore. Elizabeth stepped carefully on the boards of the hardwood floor that she remembered didn’t creak much, and made her way to the crib in her stockings. She leaned over the bars with Amanda in her arms, setting first the little heels, then the bottom, then the back, and only then, very slowly, the head on the mattress. She pulled the soft blanket up to the baby’s armpits, and was turning to sneak out of the room when she heard the telephone down the hall ring. She froze and looked at Amanda, then tried to step toward the doorway more quickly, each step now landing unerringly on a board that cracked like a rifle shot, and the phone growing unaccountably louder.
She slipped out, quickly closed the door and skated on her stocking feet to the telephone in the office. “Yes?” she said into it. She knew her voice sounded angry, and how could they know?
Richardson’s voice had a stupid cheerfulness. “Hi, Elizabeth. Hope I didn’t get you up.”
“No,” she said. “You know, I never asked you. Do you have any kids?”
“Sure.” She could hear him beaming, probably looking at a picture that he kept somewhere out of sight. “Dan’s twenty-two and Brenda’s nineteen. She just transferred to Northwestern.” Of course the question had been a mistake. She had wanted to know whether he had any idea what time one-year-olds get up, or whether he had simply forgotten, but the instant she had asked she realized that Richardson wouldn’t have been the one to get up with a baby.
“Actually, I was going to call you before work anyway. I’d like to have the Boston office watch Giovanni Bautista as closely as possible, starting now-I know it’s expensive—and also get the people who watch airports and borders to step up security on the major routes from Boston into Canada.”
“Why Canada?”
“That’s in case the ones who are watching Bautista make a mistake. The Butcher’s Boy is ready to leave. I can feel it. He’ll do something to get them off his back so he can disappear. Killing Bautista is one possibility. There are others, of course, but that one just struck me. Can you do it?”
“I’m not sure what we can do. We’re going to have a meeting. The deputy assistant wants to talk about the case.”
“Which one?”
“Hillman’s in charge of us. How soon can you get here?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve got to get Jimmy up and give him his breakfast; then I’ll call the baby-sitter and ask her to come early. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
As soon as she let the receiver’s weight press down on the button it rang again, as though it were alive. She snatched it up. “Yes?”
It was Hamp. “Hi, Elizabeth. I’m sorry to call you before work, when the baby’s probably getting ready to nod off.”
“How did you know? Do you have kids?”
“I just have a knack for waking people up. Can you talk?”
“Yes. Where are you?”
“Cleveland. They found the car he was using. I can see it from where I’m standing. He abandoned it in the parking lot of a big project. He left it clean.”
“I hope you’re not waiting for me to sound surprised. Did you get anything out of it?”
“Dead end,” Hamp said. “He rented it on the Ackerman credit card. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t let anybody run the card through a machine since then.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Great. Jack, I think the place he’s going might be Boston. He could be after Giovanni Bautista.”
