I/we could feel Sandy inside.
The hawk rose again, flapping for height against the wind, andcircled, giving me the neighborhood, the landmarks. I could find the place fromthe ground. I could feel her thrill, the joy of another successful hunt.
Me, I wasn’t so sure. Sandy hadn’t hidden or ditched her car.If I had gone official with thishunt, a beat cop could have found her the same day that she’d run. She knew me, knew how I thought. She’d knownI wouldn’t dare.
To my paranoid little brain, that battered gray Mercedeslooked a lot like cheese on the trigger of a mousetrap.
XXII
I brought my hawk, my partner, back to the courtyardparapet and a clear view in through my office window before I broke the bond.That helped to remind me of who I wasin our team, showing me the physical body I should live in. She seemeddisappointed, as if she wanted to sink her talons into my prey, taste the bloodand flesh of it. And I wanted her to fly with me. I shivered, thinking of it,feeling the liberation from my lumpish body into sleek deadly muscle, the rushof wind through wing-pinions, the blood hot in my throat and meat torn still twitchingfrom my prey.
She still comes back to the courtyard every week or so,hoping. She recognizes me when I walk in the park. I’ll give her a pigeon orsquirrel when I can, feel the thrill of the stoop, the shock and bite of hertalons once again hitting and sinking into prey. I’m not certain what she foundin our bond, but the best suggestion I can make is this — she lived to hunt.Evolution or God’s hand, your choice, designed her for the chase and kill. Andworking with me made her a better killer. We turned out to be a good team, theeasy unconscious way Maggie and I used to hunt together.
I gave the hawk a new kind of hunt and a new way to see herworld. We shared our brains as well as our eyes, and she wanted to keep that. Ihate to compare a hawk with a dog, given the way so many people use and abusethat animal, but if you’ve worked with hunting dogs, with sled dogs, withherding dogs, you’ve seen how they gain a special living glow when doing thework that they’ve been bred to do. Working dogs nearly belong to a different species than a pampered mini-poodle onlylet out to foul the neighbor’s lawn.
Be that as it may, she seemed to mirror my sense of loss whenI broke clear of her and sat with eyes closed for a few minutes, calming myheart and breathing, letting the sweat dry on my brow, feeling my way back intomy fat and planning my next move. Then I hoisted that weight to my feet, closedthe window on temptation, and walked away from broken laws toward more brokenlaws. I still didn’t dare take this public, take it to the cops and the DA.
I checked my weapons, the SIG and the backup Smith, loaded,with rounds under the firing pins and spare ammo. Taking a deep breath, Itottered down the stairs on one foot and two crutches, getting better at itwith practice, then outside, along the sidewalk and across streets less busy atthis hour, less dangerous, even if I had been carrying the hawk inside my head.I swung along to a phone booth several blocks away, one of the few left in thecivilized world, and called that handicap cab service. I didn’t want to callfrom the office. I knew Sandy had a scanner radio, could pick up cop and taxidispatch. A routing from my office to her neighborhood would set off alarms andcolored rockets.
I still wasn’t sure what I’d do once I got there. Scout theland, I guessed, find out the kind of place where she was hiding, ways in andways out, locks and alarms and angles of view. From there, make it up as I wentalong. That’s one of my favorite plans. I’d learned that old military axiomlong ago — no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy. But I couldn’twait. Sandy would find a new hideout, or whatever she got from John Doe wouldmove on. I couldn’t call for backup, either. Not on this.
I had the cabbie drop me a couple of blocks east of her and Ipaid him off. Good tip again, the man drove safely and helped me in and out. Ifyou work in a service job, ladies, gentlemen, and others, provide service. You’ll make a lot more moneythat way.
The driver looked around and grimaced and asked if I wantedhim to wait. Yeah, seriously downscale neighborhood and the guy cared. Streetslike these, the rats carried backupand patrolled in pairs. I’ve told you that folks in Reverend Fred’s neighborhooddidn’t ask questions. This area, folks didn’t answer questions, particularly questions asked by cops. Talking tocops could get you dead. The walls had eyes and ears, and they did not report to anyone who carried abadge. They probably did report. . . .
I shook my head at the cabbie and thanked him. I could seefive or six different ways this could play out, and only one of them had meneeding a cab again — like, if Sandy wasn’t home. If that number rolled up onthe dice, I could find a phone and call. Or damn well walk out. I’ve been inworse and got out again.
He drove off. I scanned the street and the windows, settingmyself in the place. Coal-sooted brick five-story apartment blocks turned thestreet into a canyon. I guessed they’d been built sometime from the turn of thelast century to the late forties, okay places to live into maybe the sixtiesand a downhill slide from there. That height, that age, they probably never hadelevators. Each building had a courtyard in front that used to have shrubs andtrees and benches, all gone now because they hid things and cast shadows atnight. Hid things like drug deals and muggers
