Years ago, I worked Vice. I knew narcotics. Phin was high.
I didn’t want to get involved with a drug addict. I didn’t want to get involved with a bank robber either. But I was more than involved-besides sleeping with him, I’d enlisted him to help me find Alex. To back me up. I was entrusting him with my life.
And he was offering to help me. Willing to risk his own life, and asking for nothing in return.
Except, possibly, free sex and money for coke.
I wondered why I couldn’t fall for a normal guy, then remembered I had, and just went to his funeral yesterday.
Jesus, what a mess.
“You like chocolate?” Phin asked.
I managed a nod. He handed me a chocolate frosted. I took a token bite, but my appetite was gone. The right thing to do was tell him I appreciated everything, but I didn’t need him anymore. I wasn’t even sure if that was the truth.
“Phin-”
The phone cut me off. Alex’s phone. But it wasn’t her-no 555 number. It was Harry again.
“Hiya, sis. I’m in Gurnee. When can you meet me?”
I stared at Phin. Was this the time and the place to make a big scene? Phin had the car. Would he drop me off in Gurnee after I told him to take a hike? Should I ask Harry to pick me up here? Could Harry and I handle Alex on our own? And was I willing to lose one of my closest friends just because he had some issues? A close friend who was great in the sack?
“An hour,” I told Harry.
“Call me when you’re close.”
I hung up. Phin was working on his second donut.
“We’re meeting Harry in Gurnee,” I said.
He nodded, stood up, grabbed the backpack, and stopped at the door. The moment stretched.
“You okay?”
A ridiculous thing to ask, considering everything.
“Look, Jack, you’ve probably figured out I’m not good with this intimacy thing. I’m out of practice. Hell, when I was in practice, I wasn’t very good at it.”
He paused. I waited.
“I want to tell you…I don’t think this morning was a mistake. And I’d like to know if you feel the same way.”
He’s giving you an out, Jack. Tell him it was a mistake.
“It wasn’t a mistake,” I heard myself say.
“I’m glad to hear that. And there’s something on my mind. If it’s okay we’re talking.”
“It’s fine,” I said to his back. “Say what you need to say.”
“When I took the money from your purse…”
Here we go. He was going to open up about the drugs. About stealing from me. How should I react? Ask him to rob another bank to pay me back? Offer to pay him to help me with Alex? Lecture him about the dangers of drug abuse?
“I know it’s none of my business,” he said, “but I saw it.”
“Saw what?”
“The pregnancy test.” He turned around, his face serious. “You want to tell me what’s up?”
CHAPTER 34
ALEX CLIMBS OFF THE BED. Naked. Satisfied. Bloody.
The blood isn’t hers.
Jack’s husband held up pretty well. The erection pills probably helped, but twice in an hour was more than Lance ever managed.
“Not bad, loverboy. If you enjoyed yourself, don’t say anything.”
Alan stays quiet. The duct tape gag has a lot to do with it, but it makes Alex feel good just the same.
In the shower, she lathers up and plans her next few moves. Alex is good at planning. Thinking things through. Anticipating problems. It’s one of the reasons she’s been such a successful killer, caught just one time in a career lasting well over two de cades. Being careful doesn’t just happen. It requires deliberation. One must consider every possible contingency, and then predict probable outcomes.
Though genetically she’s a predator-something she got from Father-she can also thank him for her plotting capabilities. Growing up in a house hold ruled by fear and abuse can turn the most innocent child into a cold, calculating machine. Alex never learned how to play chess, but guesses she’d be good at it.
She playfully swishes a toe through the blood-streaked suds swirling down the drain, and decides to find some time in her busy schedule today to paint her toenails. She likes how the red looks.
The hair dryer is even worse than the one at the Old Stone Inn-Alex bets her hair is growing faster than it’s drying. She gives up after a few minutes, putting it into a ponytail while still damp. Makeup is a chore. She’s going out in public, so that means caking on the thick scar cover. The product comes with a tiny spatula, and it goes on like flesh-colored Spackle. Alex fusses with her bangs, letting them hang down over the bad half of her face, and then chooses to walk away before she starts to get angry again.
Back into the bedroom, naked. No real room for any serious exercise. But then, she probably got enough exercise in the last hour. She dresses in the cop uniform again, pleased that Alan is watching her. He’s gone from looking scared to looking devastated. Like a kicked dog.
“I’ll be back soon, dear. Don’t wait up for me.”
He doesn’t answer. She spends ten minutes online, giving Alan’s credit card a little workout. She remembers his e-mail address from his Web site, but she does have to give him a few gentle slaps to get him to spill his preferred Internet password. It gives her tremendous plea sure to hear his password is Jacqueline. What a sap.
When she’s finished with the computer, she sits on the bed and opens up the defibrillator, pretending to press a few buttons.
“I’ve activated the automatic motion sensor. So if you struggle, or try to scream, it will give you a nasty jolt. Plus, it will make me really angry. Trust me, I’m much easier to get along with when you’re on my good side.”
She runs a finger along his forehead, wipes the blood off on a pillowcase, and leaves the hotel room, making sure to put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door.
It’s a bright day, bright and painfully sunny, a sharp contrast to the cool wind chilling her scalp. Alex stands in the parking lot, pretending to search her pockets for her keys but actually getting the lay of the land. No one loitering. No parked cars with tinted windows or with the engines running. She knows that the authorities have by now found the Hyundai’s own er, dead in the ditch, and are looking for his car and his murderer.
She heads on to the car, climbs in, and drives twice around the parking lot. No tails.
Using the onboard GPS, she searches department stores in the area, and heads for the closest. She finds the superglue, the floss, the half-inch screw eyes, the inkjet printer and specialty paper, the socket set, the road flares, and the five-gallon gas canister easily enough, but has to walk up and down several aisles before finding the outlet timer. In the cosmetics department, she chooses a fire engine red nail polish. Standing in the checkout line, Alex notes that people are avoiding looking in her direction. She’s used to that-people tend to be repulsed by deformities, and after one glance they turn away. But in this case, people aren’t even giving her that first look.
It’s the uniform. People naturally distrust cops. In a weird way, it’s almost like being invisible. Alex watches a mother in line ahead of her, repeating over and over that she isn’t going to buy her son the toy he’s clutching and whining about. It reminds Alex of Samantha, the stripper with the little girl from yesterday, and Alex digs out her cell.
“Sammy? It’s Gracie.”
“Gracie?” Samantha sounds groggy. It’s lunchtime, but dancers work late hours.
“We met yesterday at the bookstore. You offered to take me clothes shopping.”
“Oh, hi! Glad you called.”
Alex’s eyes flick to a woman, Caucasian, mid-fifties, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt that she probably bought at this store. Short hair, brown with blond streaks. Gym shoes. Strangely, no purse. She’s beelining in this direction, face frantic, arms pumping.