No, it’s best to wait. Now isn’t the right time. Let Jack lose a few more people she cares about first.
Alex doesn’t believe in destiny. Fate is a future you didn’t try hard enough to change. If you want things to go your way, being smart and being strong are helpful, but you still have to work your ass off. Ways and means plus determination.
Jack is smart and strong and determined. She’s also lucky. But she keeps making a key mistake. The same mistake that loses ball games, and fights, and wars. Jack is reacting rather than acting. And as long as she keeps doing that, she’s not going to change fate.
Alex pulls off the highway to grab something to eat, and after a greasy fast-food meal that will probably go straight to her hips if she doesn’t schedule a workout later, she wanders into a chain store and picks up a few supplies. Focusing on the next victim. Staying one step ahead of Jack. Calling the shots.
Back in the car, the Midwestern great plains blurring by on both sides mundanely, hypnotically, Alex lapses into a very old habit.
She daydreams.
“Daydreams aren’t practical,” Charles used to tell her. “Escaping reality is bullshit. Confront reality. Kick its ass. Make it what you want it to be.”
Easier said than done, growing up with Father. A fantasy world offered a brief vacation from the horrors.
Alex never imagined she was a princess, or owned a unicorn, or any magical shit like that. Her imagination was closely tied to reality. The only difference was that in her daydreams, Alex had absolute control.
Daydreaming now, the endless miles of brown fields morphed into the farm where she grew up. She and Charles are children, and have placed a bushel basket on the hood of Father’s truck, playing a makeshift game of basketball. Father comes out of the house. Normally he’d scream at them, preaching some biblical nonsense mixed with his own par tic u lar brand of paranoia, self-hatred, and psychosis. That might lead to Alex being punished, or almost as bad, Alex being forced to punish Father, wielding some of the awful implements he employed for the task.
But in the daydream, Alex is all-powerful. She prevents him from acting crazy. He stands there and watches, hands on his hips, his face neutral. Then, incredibly, he smiles, and asks to join the game.
A painfully obvious, incredibly pathetic scene. Alex knows this, but it pleases her anyway. In this insipid little fantasy, Alex has everything that was taken from her. Charles. Her face. Her childhood. In having total control, she can give up total control, and the feeling brings a real-life smile to her face.
Well, half a smile.
Which forces reality to return.
Alex then lapses into another childhood habit. When in pain, the best way to take your mind off it is to cause pain. She locates her cell phone on the passenger seat of the Prius and calls Jack.
“I hope you’re close,” she says. “By my watch, you’ve got less than a half an hour.”
“Fuck you, Alex.”
“That’s probably what your husband is thinking about you right now. About how you fucked him by marrying him. I guess it doesn’t pay to get close to you. If we were friends, I’d fear for my life.”
Jack doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t hang up either. Maybe she’s hoping Alex will give her something. Alex plans on it, but there’s no rush.
“He still loves you, Jack. Did you know that? He even called out your name while we were making love. He likes it on the rough side. Ever try cutting him before? He screamed, but I think he enjoyed it.”
“Is that Alex?” Phin, in the background. “Tell her to drop dead for me.”
“I always liked Phin. What is it about bad boys, Jack? Not that you’d know. You like falling for wimps. Does it make you feel stronger, being with men that you can manipulate? Or does their neediness fill some maternal urge?”
“Are you going to get to the point, Alex?”
“No time for girl talk? I understand. You’re on a tight schedule. Another man you love is going to die. Tough to concentrate on idle chitchat.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“No you’re not. You’ll listen for as long as I want you to, hoping for a precious clue. Well, here it is, Lieutenant. I’m sure you’re heading to Iowa now, but you probably don’t know where I’ve got your husband stashed. There are a few dozen hotels in Dubuque, and trust me, I’ve made it hard for you. So if you need a little hint, ask Jim Hardy. And here’s some good advice, woman to woman. If you find Alan, and he’s all lit up like a Christmas tree, keep your hands to yourself.”
Alex hangs up, pleased. The hint is obscure-a lot harder than the “Stairway to Heaven” clue. But it’s just cute enough that when Jack figures it out, she’ll kick herself.
Having enemies is so much fun.
Alex pulls off the main highway, into the nearest town, looking for a coffee shop, bookstore, or Internet café. Something with WiFi access.
The next show is about to start.
CHAPTER 39
AS SOON AS I GOT off the phone with Alex I called Harry.
“How are you doing with Alan’s credit cards?”
Phin, talking about his past while we were in the motel, reminded me that the easiest way to find someone is to track their latest credit card purchases. If Alan listened to my warning and checked into a hotel, he probably made the reservation using a card. Harry, given the nature of his business, had sources with all the big banks.
“It’s not good, sis. Ah, Christ!”
“What? What is it?”
“Slappy just puked beer all over the place. He can puke farther than he can piss. This is even messier than a brass clown. Good fucking suggestion, Phin.”
“Focus, McGlade! Can you get his usage history?”
“I’ve got his complete history. But Alex must have known we’d do this. I’ve got hotel charges for eight hotels in Dubuque, Iowa, all made within the last twenty-four hours. She must have made the reservations using his card.”
Shit.
“Can’t you tell which one came first? Or which is the most active? Maybe he had room ser vice, or watched a movie.”
“Negativo. All I’ve got are pings, not actual charges. Billing doesn’t happen until hours, sometimes days, after a card gets authorized. That’s why it doesn’t appear on your statement right away.”
“Give them to me.”
Harry read the list. I wrote the names and addresses down on the back of the donut bag.
“How far are we?” I asked Phin.
He had the accelerator pinned, and we were flying so fast that even seat belts and air bags wouldn’t save our lives if he made a mistake.
“Ten minutes from Dubuque. What’s the destination?”
Alan had eight minutes left. “We don’t know yet.”
“We’re going to hit traffic when we reach the city. There will only be time to try one hotel.”
“How about Jim Hardy?” I asked Harry. “Anything?”
“The main Google hits are for a pro golfer, an old-time newspaper comic, an NFL quarterback from the fifties. But the golfer gets the most.”
“Those eight hotels. Do any of them have a golf course nearby?”
“I can check. Aw, Jesus!” Harry made a gagging noise. “Right in the mouth! Do I gotta buy a goddamn hockey mask to protect myself from flying monkey dung?”
My call waiting beeped. Tom Mankowski. “Call me back,” I said, and clicked over to Tom. “Please give me some good news.”
“The Dubuque cops are calling all the hotels, searching for an Alan Daniels, and so far they’ve found six reservations.”
“Any check-ins?”
“All six. They’re sending out teams, but they’re not a big department. The town only has sixty thousand people in it, and there was some big shoot-out at a department store, so they can’t spare many men.”