The Blonde (19 page)

But no. Look. Angela edging even farther away. He couldn’t let her wander too far away. He needed to be able to make up the distance within a few seconds, before the pain grew too great. What
could he say to make her believe his story? Now he understood Kelly’s sales pitch. The whole poisoning thing, designed to get him alone in a room. Ready to listen.

Thing was, he hadn’t believed her. Not until it was far too late.

What chance did he have of convincing Angela?

The sun, a red circle at the end of a fat cigar, came rising over the horizon. Out on the riverfront, the half-constructed frames of two tall buildings were bathed in light. The air was heating up considerably. The humidity coaxed beads of sweat on Jack’s forehead.

What would he say to her?

He’d figure it out. The important thing was to move closer to her. Not freak her out, but get closer. A polite distance—little less than ten feet. The length of an SUV.

She saw him out of the corner of her eye and started moving farther away.

Jack didn’t want to die here on this humid El platform.

Angela moved even farther away now.

What could he say to her?

Pennsylvania Hospital

M
ovement now, in the real world. Doctors trying to hook her to machines, trying to figure out why she wasn’t responding. Sterile needles plunged into her flesh. Maybe they’d hook her up to a smart machine. A machine that would see the Mary Kates in her blood. Probably not, though
.

Then her eyes, forced open by fingers. Cold fingers, rough skin. The brightness was an assault, but when her vision cleared, she saw his face.

The Operator, looming over her
.

“Oh. You dyed your hair.”

The Hot Spot

K
owalski sat in the mutual-masturbation club, waiting for Jack Eisley’s wallet, and he thought about a Raymond Chandler line he’d read last December: “You know how it is with marriage. Any marriage. After a while, a guy like me, a common no-good guy like me, he wants to feel a leg. Some other leg. Maybe it’s lousy, but that’s the way it is.”

At the time, he’d been holed up with Katie, his dead fiancée, in a bed-and-breakfast in Stockton, New Jersey, about ninety minutes south of New York City. It was a favorite of hers, but it was the first time they’d been there. It was the first time they’d slept in the same room, in fact, since they’d met in Houston a month earlier. Her brother was there to pull a payroll heist, some sports nutrition company fresh off a fund-raiser, and she was sitting in a place called the Saltgrass, sipping a Chivas Regal on ice. A beautiful lady drinking scotch in a Houston bar. And Kowalski had thought he’d seen it all.

Her brother, Patrick, was weird about her dating people, so they’d started seeing each other on the sly. Their weekend in
Stockton was their first real date: time alone to pick each other’s brains a bit, and drink Chivas and strip out of their clothes on the pretext of body massages.

So Kowalski had been sitting back, thumbing through a copy of
The Lady in the Lake
that Katie’d packed, and he read that line aloud, and she said, “You feel some other leg, expect to draw back a bloody stump. And then you’ll be next.”

Kowalski completely agreed. From then on, it was understood that they were going to be together for the long haul.

This club? It was all about the other leg.

But hey, who was he to judge? He’d never ended up getting married. Never had the chance; never even assumed he was the kind of guy who would marry.

But he hated the thought that he would end up in a place like this, doing the five-finger knuckle-shuffle in front of some inner-city burnout whose daddy didn’t hug her enough.

“Here you go.”

Kowalski took the slender black wallet, flipped it open with one hand. Not much in here. Illinois driver’s license, a gasoline credit card, a Capital One Visa card. There was a single photo in the laminate insert: a pretty blond-haired girl, maybe four or five. Kowalski had never been good about guessing children’s ages. He slid it out of the insert. Stamped on the back:
Paul Photography
. Written in pen: “Callie.”

They’d never gotten as far as baby names. It was too soon. She was barely two months along when she died. But
Callie
. That was a beautiful name. That might have made it to the short list.

If Katie hadn’t been killed, they’d probably be working on the short list right about now.

Okay, Mr. K, Mr. South Philly Slayer. Enough of that.

Shut that shit down.

Find this Jack guy, make him spill, then prepare your next
move. His handler was going to force his hand sooner or later, and it was always better to be prepared.

“When did he leave?”

“Brett threw his ass out of here—when, Gary?”

“About twenty minutes ago. I’m telling you, you just missed him.”

“Guy was an asshole. You should have seen the girl he got paired with. She looked like she couldn’t wait to get rid of him.”

Kowalski couldn’t keep one close-cropped skull distinct from the next. Like it mattered, right?

Jack came here in a cab, left by himself. Let’s assume he needs to stay near other people. Leaving with somebody doesn’t seem likely; he was unceremoniously escorted from the premises. Couple of possibilities: caught another cab, hot-wired a car, carjacked somebody. Wait. Scratch those last two. Jack isn’t up for any hard stuff. Anything else?

“Any public transportation nearby?” Kowalski asked.

“Frankford El’s two blocks down the street.”

“In fact,” somebody else said—Gary? Gerry? Who the fuck knew?—“the first train of the morning is at the Spring Garden station right now.”

Half of the room turned to look at him.

“Oh, fuck you guys. My brother-in-law’s a SEPTA cop. He’s always bitching about his hours. That’s how I know.”

Kowalski processed it. Cab or El. Only one easy way to find out. Scanned the crowd. Yeah, at least one of those neighborhood knuckle-busters had to own a hog.

“Okay, boys,” he said, puffing out his chest and flipping open his Homeland Security badge with his right hand. The movement hurt; his wrist was getting worse. “How would one of you like to do the U.S. government a favor and make five grand in the process?”

Spring Garden Station

T
wo bright lights, coming out of the tunnel and up the tracks toward the concrete platform. The El. For the first time all night, Jack felt like he was on familiar turf. He knew Chicago and its El system cold; how hard could Philadelphia’s be to navigate? The train rumbled and hissed to a stop. The doors opened.

Eastbound Frankford train maki?ig all stops
, an automated voice said.

First disappointing development: The El car was empty. The train was headed eastbound. Guess nobody went eastbound this time of the morning.

Second disappointing development: Angela made her way to the opposite end of the car. Which meant he had to follow her.

The doors closed behind him.

Okay, this can’t be that tough. Wait until she sits, then sit two rows behind her. That had to be within ten feet, easy.

The train bucked forward. Jack almost lost his footing. He reached out and grabbed a steel pole, then made his way forward. He could feel a throb in his temples already. He was too far away.

The steel cars accelerated along the track, then dipped down below the eight lanes of 1-95, hanging a soft left along the side of an old church—one that had probably been here before the highway cut along one corner of it, and the El alongside it—before settling in for a straight shot until the next station. According to the map, that would be Girard. Jack counted up the line. Quite a few stations, at least a dozen, before the end of the line. Hopefully, Angela was going to the end of the line. It would give him time to think.

He chose the double seat two rows behind Angela. She’d pressed herself up against the window and was busy looking out at the tops of the buildings speeding by.

The track made a sharp turn. The train jolted violently. Jack almost fell again.

He sat down. The blue striped fabric of the seat was stained in places, and worn to beads in others. It sagged in the middle, as if someone had removed a central support. The entire cushion was loosened from its moorings, too.

Philadelphia. Fucking shit town.

The train pulled into the next station. Girard. Several people were waiting on the opposite platform, headed back downtown. Nobody stepped into their car.

Here’s the thing, Angela. I’ve got an experimental tracking device in my blood, and …

Look, Angela, I know we got off to a bad start, but I have this weird mental condition where …

Yeah. Mention a mental condition. See where that gets you.

Jack looked at his watch. It was …

Under the El

K
owalski thought it would be a simple matter of following the tracks, but that wasn’t easy at first. They popped out of a tunnel from beneath the city and led into a station that was tucked between eight lanes of an interstate. Then they dipped down again, and it was tough separating the columns of the El from the support columns of 1-95. Then he saw the church, and the tracks, and it all made sense. Kowalski turned off the engine of the chopper for a moment. Below the din of the early-morning highway traffic, he thought he could hear the rumble of the train.

First train of the morning, according to his new cop buddy. Gary? Gerry?

And a fat chopper between his legs, courtesy of his other cop buddy.

Philadelphia. Such a friendly town.

If this indeed were the first train of the morning, and his quarry were indeed on it, then all he had to do was overtake it, hop on board, then do a car-by-car search. Convince Jack to go along with him to Pennsylvania Hospital. He didn’t think he’d have to resort to his break-your-finger routine. Telling Jack Eisley that his life could be spared would be enticement enough.

Jack didn’t want to end up like Ed Hunter, after all.

No offense, Ed.

The bag was hooked to the side of the chopper, bouncing a bit with the bumps in the asphalt.

Hang in there, my friend. Soon we’ll have some answers.

Pennsylvania Hospital, Room 803

I
can understand why you’d do something like that, Vanessa— you being on a mission of vengeance and all that. But I miss your red hair. So beautiful, especially after sex. It always had this airy, wild look to it.”

Silence.

“Oh look. You did your eyebrows, too. Though they’re not perfect. Still, I’m impressed. You must have convinced someone to go shopping in a drugstore with you. Where on earth did you find a man to do
that
with you? Oh, I tease you.”

Silence.

“Did you dye everything? Let’s see.”

Silence.

“Interesting. See, I thought that kind of thing would give you
away. Maybe you haven’t been quite the slut as I’d imagined. Did you talk them into staying with you? I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall for that one. You never were much of a talker.”

Silence.

“Thing is, I don’t know if you can even hear me. You could be a piece of broccoli lying here in this bed. Broccoli with red pubic hair. Ah, that would be a shame.”

Silence.

“We’ll find out soon enough, though. See, Vanessa, they’re bringing up a machine that will let me check out your brain waves. If they’re stable enough, I’ll bring you out. I’m not going to lie to you. It’ll probably hurt. Might even make things worse. But we’ll be able to talk for a little while at least.”

Silence.

“If you can hear me, let me ask a favor in advance. Spare me the cursing and the threats. You and I already know that you’d like to see me die screaming and all that. I get it. I’d want me to die screaming, too, if I were you. But we can save ourselves a lot of useless drama if you tell me a few simple things. Like who, exactly, you told about our work.”

Silence.

“So yeah, give that a little thought. Not like you have much else to do.”

Silence.

“Ah, here comes the machine I was waiting for.”

Silence.

Whispering now: “Brace yourself. This is going to be more painful than you can possibly imagine.”

T
he couldn’t move a muscle, but she heard every word. This son of a bitch wasn’t going to die screaming. He would be too busy choking on his own blood.

Frankford El, Approaching Allegheny Station

T
he El train bucked again, then slowed down. Fucking train. Jack was amazed that more people didn’t puke during their morning commutes in Philadelphia.

Jack was running out of stations.

Only a few left after this one. Tioga. Erie-Torresdale. Church. Margaret-Orthodox. Bridge-Pratt. That was it. And his car was still relatively empty. An old guy a few rows back. A young girl with a schoolbag behind him.

He’d wasted the last few minutes staring out the windows, his mind tumbling around like a dryer sheet. He was tired. So tired. The contact lenses in his eyes felt like they were dried and permanently affixed to his eyeballs. Yesterday, he’d gotten up early to pack and make last-minute arrangements: phone calls, E-mails. So that meant he’d been up how long now, with the hour time difference? Twenty-four hours straight?