Part 61 (2/2)
Jack lifted his jersey and began unwinding a length of nylon cord from around his waist. Where'd that come from?
He handed Lyle the free end of the rope and whispered, ”Tie this to that vent pipe over there.”
Lyle was more used to giving orders than taking them, but this was Jack's show, so he deferred to his expertise. Jack seemed to know what he was doing. With somebody else this sortie might have turned into a male-bonding experience, but Jack had changed after leaving the house. He went silent and into himself. The easygoing manner had fallen away, replaced by cool crisp efficiency behind an impenetrable hardsh.e.l.l exterior. A man on a mission, determined to bring home the goods at whatever cost. Lyle found him a little scary. As if he'd locked all the gentler human emotions in a small back room, leaving his dark and raw side unfettered.
”Tie why?”
”I'm going over the side.”
Lyle's chest tightened. He stepped to the parapet and peeked over. He stood atop a three-story building. Falling from here would be like jumping out a fourth-story window. A surge of vertigo gripped him and threatened to pull him over, but he hung on until the spinning pa.s.sed. He expected to see a brick wall; instead he saw smooth beveled surfaces and ornate columns.
He turned back to Jack. ”You're crazy. There's nothing to hold on to.”
”Yeah. These old ironclads can be a b.i.t.c.h.”
Lyle felt a seismic tremor start from his center and pulse out to his extremities.
”I don't think I can do this, Jack.” Actually he was absolutely positive he could not go over that ledge.
Jack gave him a hard look. ”You backing out on me?”
”No, it's just... heights. I'm-”
”You thought you were going over that wall?” He shook his head. ”Not a chance. You're here to watch the rope and make sure that pipe doesn't start to bend.”
Lyle sighed with relief. That he could do.
Jack pulled on a pair of work gloves and took the rope from Lyle. He tied it around a steel pipe jutting vertically from the roof, tested the knot, glided to the parapet, and sat on the edge.
”How do we know this guy's even home?”
”We don't. But the third floor-where I a.s.sume the bedrooms would be-is dark. The second floor is all lit up and a television is on.”
”How can you tell?”
Jack looked impatient. ”Different kind of light. And besides, he hasn't been very mobile since our last meeting.” He glanced down. ”Here's the plan...”
Lyle listened, nodded a few times, then helped Jack ease over the edge. s.h.i.+fting his attention between Jack and the vent pipe, Lyle watched him ease down the iron facade and stop next to the window directly below. Further down, Lyle saw pa.s.sing cars and strolling pedestrians.
Please don't look up.
Jack placed a foot on the ledge and eased up the window. Great. It was unlocked. But then, who locks a third-story window? Especially in summer.
Jack disappeared through the opening and seconds later the free end of the rope sailed back out. Lyle quickly hauled it up and untied the other end from the pipe. He coiled the rope as he padded back to the roof door, then shoved it into Jack's gym bag. As instructed, he pulled on a pair of latex gloves and was ready and waiting when Jack opened the door from the inside.
As Jack exchanged his work gloves for a latex pair, he whispered, ”Here's where it could get dicey. If Bellitto's alone, we're golden. But if that big guy I told you about is here...”
He reached into the bag and pulled out a pistol with a dark matte finish. Lyle didn't know much about guns, but he knew a semi-automatic when he saw one, and a.s.sumed it was a 9 mm. And he knew that fat cylinder stuck on the end of the barrel was a silencer.
The sight of it, and the casual way Jack handled it, made him queasy.
It had seemed like such a good idea back at the house, a simple, straightforward plan: Trade Tara's killer for Charlie and Gia. But the farther they'd traveled from the surreality of Menelaus Manor into the rea.s.suring hard reality of Manhattan, the more the idea of kidnapping a child murderer-suspected child murderer; they had no real proof-from his own apartment seemed downright insane. child murderer; they had no real proof-from his own apartment seemed downright insane.
And now... a gun.
Lyle swallowed. ”You're not really going to use that, are you?”
Jack's voice was flat. ”I'll use whatever I have to. He's no good to us dead, so I want him alive, if that's what you're worried about. But I'll do what needs to be done to get him.” His cold dark eyes, the ones that had seemed such a mild brown this morning, bored into Lyle. ”Maybe you should wait here.”
”No.” That was Charlie trapped in that house back there. His brother. His blood. Lyle would help Jack and worry about law and morality later. ”I've come this far. I'm in.”
Jack nodded once. ”Want the Glock?”
Glock? Oh, the gun.
”I'd better not.”
”Well, no way you're going in empty-handed.”
He reached back into the gym bag and came up with something Lyle recognized: a black leather sap.
”Comfortable with this?”
Lyle could only nod. He wasn't comfortable at all, and doubted he could crack that weighted end against anybody's skull, no matter who they were, but he took the heavy thing and stuck it in his pocket.
Next Jack pulled out a roll of duct tape and began tearing off strips, some long, some short. These he stuck to the front of his jersey.
Then they were ready. Jack worked the slide on his pistol, picked up the bag, and started down the stairwell.
”Hey, wait,” Lyle whispered as something occurred to him. ”Shouldn't we be wearing masks? You know, like stockings or something?”
”Why?”
The reason was so obvious he was surprised Jack hadn't thought of it. He seemed to have thought of everything else.
”So this guy doesn't see our faces.”
”Why should we care?”
”Because what if Tara doesn't want to trade? Then we're left with a guy we've kidnapped who knows what we look like. He can go to the cops-”
”He won't be going to the cops.”
<script>