Apaches Part 7

"Not unless one of you got a corkscrew in your pocket," Russo said, standing up from the table.

"Hey, Cap," Johnson said with a smile. "Whatta we get if we each put a bullet into Russo right here and now?"

"A raise," Jo Jo Haynes said.

Mrs. Columbo and the detectives ended their night of victory over death on a loud laugh.

MARY PARKED HER car four blocks from her Whitestone row house. The rain had stopped and the air was cool and clean, early morning smells wafting down from the trees. Overhead lights cast broken shadows across cars and patches of lawn. It was closing in on three car four blocks from her Whitestone row house. The rain had stopped and the air was cool and clean, early morning smells wafting down from the trees. Overhead lights cast broken shadows across cars and patches of lawn. It was closing in on three A.M A.M. and the streets were empty as she walked with a slow step, head down, her purse hanging from a strap off her shoulder. Sated with drink, she let her mind ease past the events of the day.

The emptiness of Alison Walker's life had rubbed a nerve. The woman had money, comfort, and a certain status. But none of those could fill the vacuum of years built around set routines and nights spent alone. Alison wouldn't die broke, but the odds were strong she would die bitter.

Mary lacked all the luxuries of Alison's life. Her status came courtesy of the gold shield in her purse. Her money traveled on a biweekly spin cycle and her comfort was a small house with a leaky roof, bad plumbing, and two bedroom windows long painted shut. But Mary knew, as she walked down the cracked sidewalk of Thirty-seventh Avenue, that she had Alison beat by a record mile. She had what the other woman would give everything to attain-a husband in her bed and a son in the next room.

Maybe her marriage wasn't such an uneasy fallback after all, and watching Frankie grow had given her plenty of reasons to smile. It was far better than sitting in a room alone, staring at an antique vase filled with a single red rose, knowing no phone would ever ring to a voice that cared and no door would ever open to let in a warm hug.

Mary Silvestri crossed against a flashing red light and picked up the speed of her pace, suddenly eager to get home. She never saw the man with the knife hunkered down in the alley, alongside the shuttered gates of Sergio's Deli. He stood perched on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, watching as she approached, waiting to time his leap and score the purse dangling against her hip.

When she was directly in front of him, he jumped.

The man, wiry and muscular, wrapped his right arm around Mary's throat and wedged the blade of a six-inch knife between her shoulders, hard against the soft wool of her camel's hair J. C. Penney blazer.

"You breathe, you die," the man said. His breath against her neck reeked of alcohol.

He tightened his grip around Mary's throat and gave the edge of the knife a rough twist. He took backward steps, dragging Mary with him, pulling her away from the light and into the blind darkness of the alley.

Mary relaxed her body and let the man's strength do all the work. She kept her hands free, loose, waiting to make her move. The arm around her throat was wrapped in bandages, blood flowing through the white gauze as his fingers gripped thick clumps of her hair. She shifted her face away from him, brushing against the rough skin of his cheek as she moved.

They were in the alley now.

"What you got for me?" the man asked, leaning her face forward against the red brick wall. "How much?"

"Take it all," Mary said, forcing the words out. "In the purse. Take it."

He yanked her head back with a forceful grip of her hair and slammed her face against the wall.

"Don't tell me what to take, b.i.t.c.h. I take what I want. Understand me?"

"Yes," Mary said, tasting the blood dripping down from her forehead.

He moved his arm from her throat and ripped the purse off her shoulder. He leaned her hard against the wall, the blade of the knife keeping her in place. Mary closed her eyes, took in a few deep breaths, and tried to think with a clear head. She knew she didn't have much time and was angry at herself for leaving her gun in the office, something she always did when she went out drinking with the squad.

She heard the man rifle through the purse and knew exactly what he would find-sixty dollars in cash, Visa and MasterCards, one overdue and the other at its limit, a few coins, her father's pocket watch, and an NYPD gold-shield detective's badge.

The man took the cash, missed the badge, and tossed the purse into a corner of the alley. He shoved the money into a front pocket of a pair of soiled jeans and leaned closer to Mary. He rested his head on her shoulder and put his lips to her ear, the knife still in its place.

"Like the way you smell," he said, his tongue stroking the edges of her ear.

"You got what you wanted," Mary said, fighting to keep her voice calm. "You got enough to get a fix and make it through the night."

She heard the man slide his zipper down and push himself closer.

"You gonna be my fix," he said. "You and me, we gonna make it through the night."

The man was rubbing himself against her leg, free hand pawing at her skirt and panties, trying to reach flesh. Mary struggled to free herself from his grip, using the wall as a brace, balancing her feet for leverage.

"That's it, baby," the man said. "Fight me. C'mon, trim, fight me."

Mary turned her face from the wall, moving the man's arm away from her thigh. She looked in his eyes, brown, glazed, and empty, and saw in them what she had seen in the faces of so many killers over so many years. It was in that fragment of a second that she knew what awaited her. It wasn't just s.e.x he wanted. Or drugs he needed.

It was blood.

Her blood.

The man with the knife needed a fix that only the blade could bring him. He was laughing as he stood and watched her blood flow past his legs like melted Jell-O, moving down the cracked path of a dark alley on an empty street in Queens. Laughing and staring into Mary's eyes, watching as the life ebbed out of them.

It was the rush of the killer.

No one understood that feeling better than Mary Silvestri.

SHE WOKE UP three days later in the intensive care unit of Mission Hospital. Doctors had removed a portion of her lung, sliced beyond use by the man's knife. Her stomach had also been slashed, requiring forty-seven st.i.tches to close. There were welts and bruises up and down her body, and her right arm and left foot were broken and in casts. One eye was closed shut, and the side of her right cheek was bandaged. three days later in the intensive care unit of Mission Hospital. Doctors had removed a portion of her lung, sliced beyond use by the man's knife. Her stomach had also been slashed, requiring forty-seven st.i.tches to close. There were welts and bruises up and down her body, and her right arm and left foot were broken and in casts. One eye was closed shut, and the side of her right cheek was bandaged.

Mary looked around the room, pale blue walls floating like waves, shards of sunlight warming the left side of her face. She saw an IV hanging off to the side, fluid slow-dripping into her arm. The inside of her mouth felt crusted, and there were two small plastic oxygen tubes in her nose. A set of rosary beads was wrapped around the fingers of her left hand.

She turned to her left, past the glare of the sun, and saw her son, Frank, sitting in a chair, wearing a New York Yankee jacket and cap, hands folded in his lap, staring back at her. She gazed at him for several seconds, read the concern etched on his youthful face, saw the tense way he leaned his body forward, and studied the eyes of a teenage boy terrified that his mother would die.

"Shouldn't you be in school?" she said, each word weighed down with a pain that reached into her chest.

"It's Sunday," Frank said, surprised to hear her speak.

"Church, then," Mary said, managing a slight smile. "I could use a couple of prayers thrown my way."

"Went this morning," Frank said. "With Dad."

"Here alone?"

"No," Frank said. "Dad went down to the cafeteria. To get some coffee."

"How's he doin'?"

"Scared," Frank said. "Stays here all day. Sleeps in the bed next to you at night. Leaves just to check on work and pick me up from school."

"How about you?" Mary asked, wishing she could sit up, lean over, and, for the first time in many years, take her son in her arms.

"I'm not as scared," Frank said.

"Why's that?"

"Dad forgets how tough you are," Frank said. "I don't."

"I'm not as tough as the guy I ran into," Mary said. "Otherwise, we'd be sending him flowers."

"They caught him," Frank said.

"Who made the collar?" Mary asked.

"Not sure," Frank said. "Russo and some of the other guys started chasin' him down while you were in surgery. By the time you were in recovery, they had him."

"I can't wait to see him in court," Mary said. Her throat was dry and raw, and her jaw ached whenever she spoke.

"He won't be in court," Frank said.

She didn't have to say anything. She just looked at him, first curiously, then knowingly.

"Russo told me and Dad the guy put up a fight." Frank went on in a matter-of-fact tone that would have made any seasoned cop proud. "Came at them with the same knife he used on you. Russo and Johnson stopped him."

Mary nodded and turned from her son. She lifted her head slowly, eyes scanning the flowers and baskets that filled the room.

"I'm glad you're alive, Mom," Frank said, standing up and moving closer to the bed.

"I am too, sweetie," Mary said.

"Dad says now things are gonna be different," Frank said. "Better, you know, than they used to be."

"Because I can't be a cop anymore?" Mary asked. The sound of the words hurt more than saying them. A tear formed at the side of her good eye.

"You'll always be a cop, Mom," Frank said, touching her hand.

WHEN SHE WAS finally alone, she leaned her head back against the pillow, closed her eyes, and, for the first time since she was a child, began to cry. Her tears went beyond pain and past anger. They were filled with a sense of loss and a knowledge that something besides blood had been left back in that narrow alley. finally alone, she leaned her head back against the pillow, closed her eyes, and, for the first time since she was a child, began to cry. Her tears went beyond pain and past anger. They were filled with a sense of loss and a knowledge that something besides blood had been left back in that narrow alley.

The man with the knife had ripped away at more than just her body. He had torn into the deepest parts of her soul and walked out into the darkness holding what mattered most to the woman who loved being called Mrs. Columbo.

He had stripped off her badge.

Mary Silvestri was no longer a cop.

4.

Geronimo DELGALDO L LOPEZ SAT under the altar of the church, staring at twelve sticks of dynamite. They were taped to a marble slab and set to a one-hour timer that was wound around a blasting cap. All about him, members of the Brooklyn Bomb Squad raced through the church, laying down heavy detainable mats and moving aside statues and votive lights. The front and back doors to the church had been sealed minutes before, and a dozen uniform cops in heavy vests and pith helmets stood guard. under the altar of the church, staring at twelve sticks of dynamite. They were taped to a marble slab and set to a one-hour timer that was wound around a blasting cap. All about him, members of the Brooklyn Bomb Squad raced through the church, laying down heavy detainable mats and moving aside statues and votive lights. The front and back doors to the church had been sealed minutes before, and a dozen uniform cops in heavy vests and pith helmets stood guard.

Lopez ran his index finger alongside the dynamite sticks, checking their moisture level, careful as h.e.l.l not to nudge the array of red, green, and blue wires wound around the hardware store timer.

"How much time?" Gerry Dumane, the Bomb Squad commander, asked as he knelt down next to Lopez.

"Not enough," Lopez said, eyes never moving from the device. "Closing down to twelve minutes."

"How strong?"

"Could take out half a block. Maybe more. Depends how fresh the dyno is and what else he packed in there."

"Jesus," Dumane said.

Lopez turned away from the bomb and looked over at his commander.

"Don't have to look too far," Lopez said, pointing to a large crucifix hanging above the altar. "He's right behind you."

AT AGE THIRTY, Delgaldo Lopez had already put in six years of service on the Bomb Squad. He joined the PD after an eighteen-month tour of army duty, where he earned his Special Forces stripes as a munitions expert. Delgaldo had always been fascinated by explosives, from his earliest years. His father, Carlos, a Puerto Rican merchant seaman, would help satisfy his son's curiosity by bringing home books and different forms of fireworks from his various travels. His mother, Gloria, a half-Cherokee, would keep her only son up past the midnight hour, telling him folk stories and battle tales pa.s.sed down by her grandfather.

When he was ten, Delgaldo built his first explosive device out of rubber bands, baking soda, the face of his father's old Timex, powder from two boxes of firecrackers, and blue strands of wool from his mother's knitting basket. He brought it into science cla.s.s, set the timer at two minutes, and dismantled the piece in less than thirty seconds. His teacher gave him an A for the project and two days of detention for frightening the entire cla.s.s into silence.

In his teens, Delgaldo gave some thought to going on to college and studying to be a chemist. But a laboratory was too tame a place to spend a life. It wouldn't be enough for him just to know all there was about bombs and devices. Delgaldo was not meant to be a bystander. He had warrior blood and felt a desire to carry on what his mother had always called a family tradition.

He also needed to see the bombs in action. He wanted to be there when the ticking was down to the quick, where one slip of a cutter would mean victory for the bomber and destruction for everyone else. It made Delgaldo Lopez, a tall, muscular young man with thick black hair and eyes so dark that staring into them was like looking at a blank screen, the perfect candidate for the Bomb Squad. He was the one who took the danger calls, who didn't sweat the risks, who never flinched as the final ticks of a timer echoed through an empty room.

To the other members of the Bomb Squad, Delgaldo Lopez, the cop they called Geronimo, was indeed a warrior.

"HOW YOU WANNA play it?" Dumane asked, rubbing the back of his neck, looking around the boarded-up church. play it?" Dumane asked, rubbing the back of his neck, looking around the boarded-up church.

"It's a simple mech," Geronimo said, still studying the bomb. "Won't take more than two minutes, three at the outside, to shut down."

"So what's the problem?" Dumane said. "Do it and let's get the h.e.l.l outta here."

"It's too easy," Geronimo said. "Guy goes to all the trouble of putting one in a church. Even calls it in, lets us know where it is and how much time is left. Then he leaves this, something a kid with a scope and scissors could take down?"

"Whatta ya sayin', G?" Dumane asked. "Maybe he's just not that good."

"Or maybe he's better than we think."

Geronimo was on his feet now, scanning the empty church, searching for the shape of a bomb, the scent of the powder, his mind no longer that of a cop, but of a lone man bent on destruction.

"The crew peel through the church?" Geronimo asked, eyes looking up at a silver organ in the balcony.

"They stopped when they found the device," Dumane said. "Why?"