No answer.
But Baker could feel Abel pacing inside his brain while the soft one with the blank face sat silently in his corner. If there was any furniture in there, Abel would be kicking chairs and tables out of the way. Kicking. Smashing. His eyes locked all the while upon the steel door that only Baker could open. Baker could feel the door shaking, bulging. Abel had his shoulder against it now.
“No, Abel. Not this time. These are mine.”
“Don't!” The woman choked. More cloth was tearing.
A bolt of pain seared Baker's eye and tears flooded over it.
“No, Abel. All by myself, without you. I'm more than just your legs. More than just a stable boy who's here to let you out every time you snort and kick.”
The shape of the one with the knife changed. His buttocks raised higher as he reached to his underside and tugged at himself, pulling loose his clothing. Baker tossed his head violently.
“That's it, dirt bag,” Baker heard his own voice explode through the park as he stepped forward into a slant of light. “Get your filthy hands off—”
A battering ram struck from inside his head and both eyes erupted in a wash of salt water. “Oh, damn you. Damn you, Abel. I can't see.
The one with the knife made a spinning leap and then scrambled to his feet. The big one rocked sideways on his knees, fumbling at his pocket.
“Who the fuck are . . ” The voice of the smaller man trailed off into silence. He saw at once the anguish on Baker's face and the gleam of tears and now he caught a scent of fear. Confidence sprang back. He stretched to his full height and breathed deeply. A smile came as he let it out. With deliberate slowness, he reached for the zipper of his trousers and pulled it shut. Next he fingered his belt buckle as if deciding whether to clasp it, then he let it fall undone. His message to Baker was clear. This would not take long.
“They have knives,” the woman shouted. She tried to rise as the bigger man eased away from her, but he seized her hair and slammed her head against the grass.
“And look what we have here,” the shorter one said almost pleasantly. “We have a concerned citizen.” As he spoke, he circled to a spot between Baker and the bridle path. Baker's back was now to a thick wall of privet.
“Concerned citizen,” the young man said through his teeth, ”I want to explain this problem you have.” But his eyes had still not focused fully on Baker. They darted around and past him, not yet ready to believe that one man alone would have faced them. Not without a weapon already aimed. But this one was alone. “Your problem is you have only two ways to go.” He raised his knife for Baker to see. “If you come at me, or run, or anything like that, I'm going to cut out your fucking heart.” He raised the index finger of his other hand. “However,” he said brightly, “it happens that you have another choice.” The young man slowly tilted the raised finger and pointed it at the base of the nearest dogwood. “If you'll just ease over to that little tree there and sit down, what I'll do is strap you to it with your belt. Your pants will get a little dirty, but the good part is you don't die. The even better part is you get a front row seat while we play with Hollywood over there.”
Baker's fingertips brushed across his eyes and returned to his temples, keeping his face in shadow. He heard few of the young man's words as he struggled painfully to will Abel back and away from the door. It was no use.
“Hey Jace,” the big one called, “this guy's cryin'.”
Baker's head was pounding so badly he could hardly think. He had only to lean forward an inch or two and the battering ram would crash against the door. Abel could not get out unless he let him out. He knew that. But now he knew that Abel could stop him too. Abel would not let him fight.
Baker cleared his throat.
“I'm going to give you once chance,” he said hoarsely. “Leave now, and no one will stop you.” Baker knew as he said the words that they were useless. These two would not leave. He said them to spite Abel, but he knew in his heart that that was just as useless.
The face of the shorter man clouded in confusion. “What is this 'leave'? You got a gun? You're a karate freak? What?”
“Something like that,” Baker answered wearily. “Please get out of here.”
The young man threw up his hands in pretend frustration. “See that?” he said toward the sky. ”I tried to be reasonable. Hey, Sumo. Didn't I try to be reasonable? But he took advantage. He got me remembering things. Things like him coming in here without saying excuse me. And he called me a bad name, just like Miss Hotshot did.”
Crouching again, the knife swaying lazily from side to side like a cobra's head, the man advanced on Baker.
Baker only shrugged. He let his hands fall to his sides.
The young man hesitated, again confused. His eyes danced on Baker's body as if looking for some sign that would explain how this man could not be afraid. He was tall but not that tall. Close to forty, the young man would have guessed. Beneath his brown suede sportcoat and sweater, behind the pilot's glasses, there was no hint of particular power. But the fear was gone. There wasn't anything. Not excitement. Not worry. Not even confidence. The man was just looking at him in a tired way, as though he was something the man had picked up on his shoe. To his mind, the tall man's lack of fear could only mean that he had a stronger weapon or that he was not alone. He knew this must be true when he saw Baker's lips part again to say the words: “Abel. He's all yours, Abel.”
“Hey, look out, Jace,” the one called Sumo whispered. “This guy's got somebody with him.”
Jace's eyes darted to the shadows behind Baker and then back to the bridle path. He kept the knife pointed at arm's length toward Baker's chest as if to pin him in place while he searched the darkness.
“You got a friend, citizen? Where's your friend?” His eyes had still not returned to Baker. “Maybe your friend will come out if I cut you up a little.”
“Come and get it, pig”
The voice had come from Baker, but it was not the same man's voice. Jace backed away a full step when he saw the face that now moved into the light. The sound coming from it had started deep within the chest. It hissed and spat like escaping steam. The face seemed broader and more deeply lined and the lips were spread flat across the teeth. But it was the eyes that frightened him most. They were an animal's eyes. A stalking animal.
Jace, on impulse, took three quick steps to his left and then backed away. In part, to be closer to Sumo. In part, to give this man room. To let him leave. But the man also moved, turning his back to the open bridle path.
“You're going to make me hurt you, man,” Jace blustered, backing still farther.
“You're not going to hurt me, Jace,” came the words through a terrible smile. “I'm going to hurt you. And then I'm going to hurt your friend.”
On Central Park South, the balding man in the blue Oldsmobile cursed as he rolled down his window and extended an antenna into the light drizzle. He slapped his transceiver uselessly and cursed again at the atmospherics that scattered the voice struggling to get through it.
A police cruiser drifted into his peripheral vision. Barely moving, Connor Harrigan allowed the radio to slide onto his lap and collapsed the antenna as it cleared the Oldsmobile's rain gutter.
The two policemen took no notice of him. Their attention was on a pair of hookers who tugged at the businessman between them as he waved for a westbound taxi. The hookers were gesturing toward the park. They preferred to transact business there.
“Don't you do it, bucko,” Harrigan muttered. “Not if you want to see Des Moines again.”
A taxi slowed and stopped, inviting the out-of-towner and his companions. The streetwalkers exchanged looks, shrugged, and climbed in behind the businessman. The police cruiser made a U-turn and followed.
“Good lads.” Harrigan nodded. “At least the old rascal will make it to his hotel lobby. And speaking of rascals .. ” Harrigan tried again to raise Michael Biaggi and again he failed.
Inside the park, M
ichael Biaggi angrily folded his own transceiver and jammed it onto his belt. He cupped an ear, searching for the sounds he'd heard before. It had to be Baker. There was no time for him to be anywhere else but in the park. Except that the sound was like a woman's voice. He followed it anyway, gambling that this new voice and Baker would come together and that Baker would not simply pass it by. That he would not lose Baker.
A new sound, a squeal, cut through from his right. It came from over a knoll past what smelled like a horse trail. Staying low beneath the dogwood branches, he ran silently toward the dim outline of a boulder that topped the hill. Reaching it, he ducked quickly as the weak glow of a distant streetlamp washed across his face. But he'd seen them. Four of them. Even in the bad light, he could see the terror on the woman's face as her head was twisted toward him by the heavyset man holding her. There was something familiar about the woman, but he put that thought aside. Baker was there. Not twenty feet away, he calmly faced another man, who held a knife at the end of an outstretched arm. The man with the knife was looking beyond Baker, into the black underbrush. From his position behind the rock, Biaggi couid not see what attracted him there, so his attention remained on Baker. What he saw caused his mouth to fall open. Baker was changing. He was changing in ways that were indesribable because they were so subtle. His body seemed to expand in all directions, and yet it filled no greater space. It was more of a coiling and bracing and a slow sucking in of air. His shoulders curled forward and his arms drifted out from his body in almost a wrestler's stance. It reminded him of...he wasn't sure what. The more remarkable change was transforming Baker's face. The mouth broadened, stretching across his lower teeth, and his eyes took on a shine that hadn't been there before. They locked upon those of the man with the knife as he turned back to Baker. He sees it too, Biaggi realized. He sees the change and he's stunned by it. Biaggi saw the rush of fear that clouded the younger man's face. He knew the fear was there before he felt it too. In that instant Biaggi understood, at least in part, the interest of Duncan Peck and Connor Harrigan. The man was a monster.
“You're going to make me hurt you, man,” he heard the one with the knife say. The words were spoken without confidence.
“You're not going to hurt me, Jace. I'm going to hurt you. And then I'm going to hurt your friend.”
The voice shocked Biaggi. It was not the voice he'd heard on Baker's wiretaps. And the words themselves carried no glimmer of bluff or doubt. Biaggi believed them. He believed them as he knew that the sun would rise in the morning.
Baker raised his right hand with an almost mocking slowness to the level of his shoulder, then reached inside his jacket at his chest. Jace flicked the knife toward the hand nervously but did not move forward. Baker ignored his feint. The hand came free again, holding a plastic, felt-tipped pen. This Baker held up for Jace to see. Confusion clouded Jace's face and he lowered himself into a wary crouch. Baker smiled. Still slowly, he twisted off the cap and snapped it in place on the pen's butt, then displayed the result for the man with the knife. The smile widened.
“Cut him, Jace,” came the big one's voice. “He's gonna stick you with that.” Jace's shoulders trembled once and he lunged, bringing the blade in low toward Baker's abdomen.
In the same instant he snapped back violently, like a tetherball at the end of its string. He gave a short cry of surprise, and his free hand pressed hard against his cheek. What had happened was almost too fast for Biaggi to follow. Jace dropped his hand and stared at his palm. There must have been blood there because the agent could see two black punctures, one just beneath each of Jace's eyes.
Rage and pain blunted Jace's fear, and with a scream he leaped forward, slashing backhanded at Baker's chest. Baker barely moved. It was more that he sucked in his body as the blade flew past. Easily, he snatched the passing wrist with his left hand and jabbed twice more with the right. Baker's left hand gave a twist, and the smaller man slammed heavily to the ground.
He looked up at Baker, disbelieving, helpless, waiting for the attack that would follow now that he had fallen. An attack with feet and knees. That's what he would have done, he knew. No one ever got up once he put them down. But his hand made no move. Jace backed away slowly, crablike. Then, out of reach, he scrambled to his feet. With both hands, he brushed over the holes on his face. There were four of them now, and they neatly bracketed his eyes.
“Do you begin to get the picture?” asked the man who was Baker.
“Hey ... Hey, shit, man” was all Jace could manage. The truth struck him like a blow from an ax. This man meant to put out his eyes. This man could have put out his eyes already. But he was toying with him. Jace felt his bowels go flaccid. He wanted to break and run but he couldn't. Not with Sumo watching.
Abruptly the man tensed and straightened. The animal eyes fluttered shut and his lips quivered at the edge of forming words. “Stay there” is what Jace thought he heard among the whispered sounds that came. “Stay theref Baker” came now more clearly. Baker. The young man's eyes widened. Baker! He knew that name. But this couldn't be...
“Baker?” he whispered.
The tall man seemed startled. Jace saw the man's body sag, bewilderment on his face. The face and the body had softened. For the briefest moment, the man had the look of prey again, and Jace attacked even as another word was forming on his lips. The knife lanced up between arms that hung still. He had him. The tall man had blown it, and now he was going to be the one who took Jared Baker and he was going to do it by himself. Jace had time for a cruel grin of triumph to curl at his mouth before a bear trap crushed down on his wrist. He did not see the pen that slid up through his nostril and tore it away from his face. The scream rising in his throat became a fractured squawk as the pen rammed through the tissue of his cheek and pinioned his tongue against his upper jaw. Jace heard a dim snap somewhere below. He knew it was the wrist of his knife hand even before the message of pain reached his brain. He knew that hands had seized the thick hair at his temples, forcing his head down without effort, and he knew that something was rising toward his face. He remembered nothing more.
Biaggi watched as the man turned toward the one called Sumo. Sumo seemed stricken. He was standing now, above the woman. One foot lay heavily across her neck and pressed her face into the wet grass. The man, once more in his wrestler's crouch, advanced on Sumo. One hand snatched Jace's knife from the grass as he swayed past it. He stopped then and seemed to make a show of examining the knife thoughtfully.
“It's a pig-sticker, Sumo” came the voice that hissed. “And you fre a pig. does that suggest anything to you, Sumo ? ”
“Stay away, man.” Sumo's voice was hoarse. He turned his own knife in his hand and held it by the blade in a throwing position.
Biaggi reached beneath his gray raincoat and groped for his pistol. Drawing it free, he raked its barrel across the plastic of his radio case, making a soft zipping sound. No more. Baker seemed to hesitate and half-turn. Biaggi lowered himself farther. He was sure the sound could not have been heard. It was barely a whisper, which would have been lost amid the rustle of wet leaves. With both hands he sighted the pistol on Sumo's chest, sweating, trying to blot out all other fears except his fear of Duncan Peck if he allowed Baker to die this way.
He waited too long. Sumo threw himself to his knees and with one hand dragged the woman's body against his own. She gasped and looked pleadingly at the shadow that was Baker, then went rigid as Sumo's knife pressed a spot beneath her breast.
The man stopped. He seemed first to be studying her face and then for a long moment he studied Sumo. Sumo is about to panic, a voice told him. One stupid impulse and the woman could be dead. But the man with the animal eyes didn't care. The woman was the woman and Sumo was Sumo. He wanted Sumo. But he could not shake the voice away this time. All right, Baker. We'll give him some room. We'll try it your way, but do not stay long, Baker.
“Try it. Baker,” he said. The woman heard the words and she too glanced around her, looking for t
he man who had been called.
“Sumo,” came the new gentler voice. ”I want you to pay attention.”
”Wha... ?” He swallowed.
Baker held up Jace's knife and tossed it far to one side. ”I have no knife, Sumo.”
The big man breathed heavily but said nothing.
“Sumo, I want you to let her go and then back away. Go away and wait until we're gone and then come back for your friend. Do that, Sumo, or you'll be hurt just as terribly.”
Sumo rocked as the words sank in. He seemed to consider running, backing off. But he was feeling better too. He was not afraid of this man now. He didn't know why he'd been afraid of him at all. It's the guy who's afraid, not him. He wouldn't try to deal if he wasn't afraid.
”I saw what you did to him, you bastard.” It was something to say.
“The woman, Sumo. Let her go.”
“You want her?” Sumo's voice was becoming shrill. “How bad do you want her?”
“Now, Sumo. There's no more time.”
The big man turned his knife again so that the cutting edge rested on the underside of the woman's breast. “How about one piece at a time? How about if I cut off one of her tits for you, you want her so much.” Sumo tightened his forearm viciously across her throat as he said this. The woman went limp against him.
Once again, Baker studied the woman. Her breathing was slow and labored. She would see nothing.
“Abel,” he said.
The man in the gray raincoat watched a second time. He watched across the sight of his pistol until it began to shake. He was trembling almost to the point of spasm. Biaggi pressed the gun flat against the grass with both hands, and he heard this different Baker say, “Recess is over pig”
Sumo went white. Making animal grunts, he staggered backward to his feet. The woman's torso fell heavily to the ground. Off balance, he whipped the knife cross-handed toward Baker's body. The knife spun once and hit. It stuck, he realized hysterically. He could see it dangling from the flesh of the man's hip below his open jacket. In almost joyful relief, he realized that the man was crippled. And he had no knife. Not even the thing he used on Jace. He could take this man, he realized. He could rip the arms off almost anyone who fought him barehanded. Then he'd pull the knife out of this fucker's hip and cut off his pecker with it and leave it in his mouth. Jace would like that. That would make Jace feel better except. . . except. . . Something felt wrong with his face ... so fast. . . something hit his face ... all numb and wet, and he was falling backward against a rock and someone was holding him . . . turning him around and . . . ooohhhh, he heard a faraway scream when the kidneys on both sides exploded inside of him and... my ass ... what's the matter with my ass ... Sumo fainted.
Abel Baker Charley Page 2