The Doll (36 page)

Neeva half stood and, with the cup in her hand, hesitated. “It’s not disposable,” she said. Munroe took Neeva’s elbow and guided her upward so that Neeva had no choice but to stand upright.

“Take it anyway, we need to move.”

Neeva put the glass on the table and, with head down and no protest, followed Munroe to the door. There, with another scan up and down the street, Munroe slipped back in among the pedestrian traffic.

“Why did we go there?” Neeva said. “Not for food.”

“Money,” Munroe said. “Options.” And left it at that.

They’d need to move quickly to turn this stop into one of many so that Lumani, knowing she was working toward a plan, would be forced to check each lead in his own attempt to put the pieces together and try to jump ahead of her.

Another several minutes of walking and Munroe spotted a clothing store. While perhaps not specifically the one the aproned man had in mind, it would suffice.

Inside, she pulled items off of racks, held them up to Neeva for size, and draped them over Neeva’s outstretched arm until she’d combined two full sets of clothing for the girl and another for herself, then headed toward the checkout—they didn’t bother trying anything on for fit because they didn’t have the time, but once the items had been paid for, she tore tags off several pieces and sent Neeva to the changing room.

“Take off everything you’re wearing,” she said. “Down to your bra and panties—leave nothing that came from the bad people—bring it all to me because I need it.”

Neeva grimaced. “Even the panties? I’ve been wearing this stuff for two days.”

“Everything,” Munroe said.

“What about the shoes?”

“That’s our next stop.”

Years in a job that required the ability to blend seamlessly from one environment to the next had taught Munroe well in regard to clothing. The human subconscious filtered out the familiar, and as such, the fastest way to become invisible in any city was to acquire and wear what could be had locally.

Neeva returned from the dressing room and handed Munroe a ball of textured color, and Munroe stuffed the lump into the shopping bag. The new outfit, combined with hat and sunglasses, had effectively turned Neeva into one in a crowd. Munroe nodded approvingly.

“What about you?” Neeva said.

“No time, we need to keep moving.”

“I thought you got rid of the tracker.”

“I got rid of some of them,” Munroe said. She took Neeva’s arm and nudged her toward the door.

“So they’re still following us?”

“I hope so,” Munroe said. Heat along her neck, like breath, a finely attuned sense long developed by hunting and hiding, told her Lumani was close.

Imagined or not, she could feel him, watching, breathing in her ear.

Out of the store and down a side street, flattened against the wall, heart slowing into the reptilian calm of narrowed focus, Munroe waited, watching traffic, finally spotting a vehicle, which, although only one of many, was traveling particularly slow.

She saw no faces, only the shadows of two people in the front. Couldn’t know if the car belonged to Lumani or one of his people, only that intuition had spoken, and she had learned through long, hard experience to trust her instinct and allow the inner tempo to lead where logic failed.

T
HEY FOUND A
shoe store and repeated the procedure, allowing no time to dally, and were on their way again in minutes with directions from the shopkeeper for a grocery store, where along aisles a tenth the size of what she’d have found in Dallas, Munroe filled a basket haphazardly and at random with packaged food and bottled drinks.

Outside Munroe handed two of the bags to Neeva. “I know you’re tired, but you’re going to have to help me carry some of this stuff,” she said, “just a couple more stops and we can rest.”

Last came a drugstore, where Munroe searched out the closest items she could find to hair wax, eye pencils, and lip products. Added hydrogen peroxide, nail polish, and mascara and grabbed a backpack off a circular rack—a shopping foray that would have made most males proud: items procured with indifferent efficiency. Neeva grabbed soap, shaving cream, and a packet of razors and held them up for approval before adding them to the pile.

From the drugstore Munroe led a zigzagged course toward the nearest tramline, reaching the bus-stop-size platform at the same
time a streetcar arrived. Didn’t matter where the tram was headed, only that they would move away from the area faster than they could if they remained on foot.

The doors hissed shut and Munroe studied passersby through the windows. Caught sight of a familiar figure—not Lumani, Arben the second, the nameless silent man who’d been with them in the cells—running, so foolishly running, as if to say
Here I am, notice me
, through the crowds.

He’d clearly not spotted them, as he had headed for the tramline as if following a map, as if he’d known where to look. Then missing the tram, he turned from the platform to the street, and the car Munroe had spotted earlier slowed only long enough for the man to climb into the passenger seat.

The tram stopped at a light, and Lumani’s car, pointed in the wrong direction, was forced by traffic to continue on its way. With Bradford’s phone, Munroe utilized online maps and based on location searched out nearby hotels.

Eye on the traffic, she waited another stop and then, last minute, nudged Neeva toward the door and maneuvered to be last off the tram. Left Neeva’s old shoes on the floor by the feet of an elderly man as they moved off, and if anyone noticed the subtle deposit, no one called attention to it.

They’d only traveled four stops, but because of the direction and route, and the ebb and flow of traffic, Munroe had gained more time. They moved on foot again, following the directions from her phone, the streets darker now, the lights reluctantly turning on to replace the fading daylight.

The hotel, when she found it, was a boutique establishment, modern and clean and upscale, with a proprietor who gladly accepted cash, courtesy of the aproned man, and travel documents, courtesy of Lumani. He didn’t question the absence of luggage and led them up one floor and down a short hall to their room. Opened the door courteously, and when Neeva entered, Munroe stopped in the hallway to tip the man but, more specifically, to prevent the potential
loss of innocent life that her presence might cause, to warn him, to caution against those who would undoubtedly come hunting for her. The man looked at her quizzically and then turned to go.

Munroe entered the room and closed the door. Neeva stood quietly with eyebrows raised, as if saying
What now?
but what came out of her mouth was “You speak a lot of languages.”

Munroe nodded. “I do.” She shed the weight of the bags onto the bed and dumped out the contents of the satchel.

Neeva stared, mouth agape, and Munroe held up one of the firearms. “You know how to handle one of these?”

Neeva nodded. Munroe released the magazine and checked the chamber. Tossed an empty magazine at Neeva, then handed the gun to her. “Show me. I don’t want to wind up with a bullet in the back of my head.”

Neeva snapped the magazine into place, ratcheted the slide, and taking a wide stance, two-handed, as if she’d spent considerable hours at a firing range, pointed the weapon at the window and pulled the trigger for the click.

Munroe handed her a box of ammunition, then turned toward the room’s one window along the far short wall and approached from the side, peering out with a quick glance and retreat, an instant assessment of potential threat. The room was one floor up, fronted by a small garden and a wide street that faced three- and four-story buildings. Not much available for a sniper’s hide, but if one was to be had, Lumani would certainly find it.

Staying away from the window, Munroe tugged the drapes closed. The room went black and Neeva flipped on a light.

“Keep it off,” Munroe said. “We don’t want to cast shadows.”

“Were you trained by the CIA or, like, some military special thing or other?”

Munroe smiled. “No.” Picked up the second empty magazine and, until her eyes adjusted to the dark, loaded bullets by feel.

Neeva said, “How do you speak so many languages and know about the things you know? How did you get this”—she paused—“stuff?”

Munroe tapped the magazine to seat the bullets, pulled the weapon from her waistband, and swapped out magazines. “It’s a long story,” she said. She put the contents of the satchel back in the bag and moved everything to the floor.

The one bed in the room was queen-size and welcoming, and her nearness to it, and the darkness, heightened the gravity of the need for sleep. She pulled back the linens, shoved the mattress off the bed, and propped it, like an A-frame, up against the wall near the bathroom door. “I need your help moving the desk,” she said.

Calculating trajectory and strategy, Munroe pointed and mapped with her fingers so that Neeva understood, and together they rearranged the pieces. “Will they come for us?” Neeva said.

“They have to,” Munroe answered. “Every change of direction we’ve made, we’ve dropped a tracker and kept on. They know we know we’re being followed, so for us to stop moving is counterintuitive. They won’t know if our bread-crumb trail was just a way to lead them to a trick where we pretend to be holed up but we’ve really dumped the rest of the trackers and split. They’ll have to come to find out.”

“So you want them to come?”

“Yes.”

“And when they do?”

Munroe ignored the question and pulled the ball of the doll dress and the rest of Neeva’s clothes from the bag, shook out the dress, and laid it flat atop the empty bed frame. “What are you doing?” Neeva asked.

“Teasing them,” Munroe said.

Her fingers hunted among the folds and seams for the small electronic piece she knew she’d find eventually. Grimaced when she grabbed hold of the plastic and used her teeth to cut through the threads that kept the strip fastened between layers of clothing. And then, having freed the device, held it out for Neeva to examine. “It sends a signal so they can locate you.”

When Neeva handed the thin piece back, Munroe took it to the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet.

Now came the waiting. Could be half an hour or thirty hours; the move was Lumani’s to make and she hated that this gave him the advantage. She was a hunter, not a hider, a predator not prey; hers was meant to be the position of seeking, discovering, gathering information, and controlling the elements.

Not this.

And this was all she had.

In the bathroom, where there were no windows, Munroe unscrewed all but one bulb, and this she allowed as their only source of light. Unwilling to shut the door and chance being cut off from the main room if the attack came sooner than expected, she stripped out of the Doll Maker’s collared button-down and T-shirt, and Neeva stared at her in a way that defied all rules of common etiquette. Finally the girl turned away.

From beneath the tight sports bra, Munroe pulled at the bandage that wrapped her chest. Drew the length out until she was free, balled the elastic up, and tossed it in the garbage. At the sink, she ran cold water, then using the hotel’s small bar of soap and a hand towel, washed her torso and arms, her face, neck, and hair.

She needed a shower. Desperately. But couldn’t risk getting caught compromised when the hunters arrived, and even this was pushing her luck.

Munroe stepped from the bathroom, towel around her neck, and Neeva stared slack-jawed. Munroe didn’t need to follow her line of sight to understand the reaction. The scars were ugly, and there were many, always prompting questions to which she rarely provided a truthful explanation.

“If you want to use the bathroom, now’s a good time,” Munroe said. “I have no idea how long we’ll be waiting, so if you’re hungry, help yourself to the food, too.”

Neeva nodded, silence instead of conversation, avoidance instead of questions, while she rummaged through the shopping bags, pulled out a few items. All the way from one side of the bed to the bathroom door, with the same stupefied lack of etiquette, her eyes remained on Munroe’s torso. “I might be a while,” she said, and Munroe answered with a dismissive wave.

When Neeva had shut herself inside, and Munroe no longer had a gawking audience or light for that matter, she stripped down and removed every bit of the Doll Maker’s clothing in the same way she’d had Neeva remove her own in the clothing store. Redressed in the items she’d purchased: boots, black cargo pants, and a black camisole layered beneath the jacket she’d kept with her since Dallas. As long as the jacket was zipped, the outfit remained if not quite androgynous, not exactly gendered, either, and would allow
her flexibility when the time came to move again. At the moment, returning to being female was the better bet considering every visual record of her movement over the last forty-eight hours would show her as male.

Clothing, hair, shoes, accessories: these were props, visual cues, that people used to filter information and make instant assessments out of random connections, to categorize and assign value to those who populated their world. And layered beneath the props for sight came those for smell, and hearing, and more, that sense of intangibility that allowed people to read nuance and body language and interpret what the other senses didn’t grasp directly; cues that together formed a picture that matched perceptions based on expectations and that, when adjusted one way or the other, filtered past the gatekeepers of the mind, allowing Munroe to become whatever she needed to be.