Shockwave by Andrew Vachss

in at two twelve. Probably still hitting the weights. And he was off a prison-food diet, too.
    “So how are they saying he got killed? A crazy man half his size and double his age leaped straight into the air, hit him from behind, and wrenched out a piece of his skull on the way down, like in one of those flying kung-fu movies? And that
same
man couldn’t wait to show the cops the dead guy’s watch?”
    “Still …”
    “I know. Crazy people don’t need a reason for anything they do. But where’s the weapon? The cops must’ve already searched Homer’s room at that ‘residency’ place.”
    “Sure. I know, Dell. But you’re—?”
    “Still going out with Mack? Jesus, Dolly. How many times are you going to get me to say it?”
    “Y ou carrying a gun?”
    “Yes,” I told Mack.
    “I couldn’t tell by looking at you.”
    “They won’t, either, right?”
    “Yeah, I get it. Let’s go.”
    M ack’s car must have been fueled with miracle juice.
    The rust bucket was way past “old.” Both sides had been keyed a hundred times, the right quarter panel looked like asaber-toothed tiger had tried to chew it off, one of the back windows was duct-taped plastic instead of glass, and the engine sounded like a prolonged death rattle. But it ran okay. And we didn’t have far to go.
    Mack pulled in under a bridge. If the average person looked through the windshield from where I was sitting, he wouldn’t see anything but tangles of brush, a couple of dead trees, and various machine parts that looked as if a wrecker had just tossed them out randomly.
    I saw the flickering movements right away. I figured whoever was back there must have seen the car … and then I realized why Mack had never gotten it fixed. Or junked it. I don’t know much about the kind of people he said he worked with, but I knew enough to understand that any visual change might spook them. And that death-rattle sound would reassure them that it was a friendly approaching.
    We got out at the same time. Mack leaned against the front end of his car, standing square. I didn’t try to imitate his stance, but I kept my hands in sight.
    He lit a cigarette without offering me one. If that was supposed to be a message, I didn’t get it.
    “I usually bring a few packs,” he said, as if he’d just seen into my mind. “If I light up, they know it’s okay to come out. If they want the smokes, that is.”
    “And they always do.”
    “Sure. You’ll see them—”
    “I saw them already. Two on my right, three on my left.”
    “Huh!” he grunted. Dolly had told me he was from Chicago. So, doing the kind of work he did, he would have been hard to ambush in a big city. But in this kind of place, he couldn’t read trail signs.
    The guy who came out first moved up on my side. Hard to tell his age, but he was some kind of young. Tall, narrow shoulders,thick reddish hair. Wearing a field jacket that didn’t look so different from mine. It fit him way too loose, so I figured it was scavenged, or pulled from one of the donation bins they have all over this area.
    Either he didn’t know enough to keep his hands in sight—which would explain why he hadn’t read my gesture for anything special—or he did, and thought he’d look more menacing with his own in the outside pockets of his jacket. Maybe that worked on some people.
    The sleeves of my jacket were cut wide: the left held my stubby, carried butt-down in a pouch held closed only with a thin piece of Velcro. I knew I could pull it and empty the magazine before anyone I was likely to come across in daytime would see my hand move. The black-bladed Tanto was clipped inside the top of my right boot—one of the first lessons I’d learned in the jungle. Learned by listening to my … I don’t have the right word for what Patrice had been to me, but I can still hear him speak, inside my head:
    “If you get hit, drop! If the shooter was working single, he’ll probably try and get to you while you’re