“One or two slices?” the counterman asked again.
Bolden glanced at the menu board above the ovens. A plain slice went for $2.25. A slice of pepperoni cost $2.75. “One. Make it a pepperoni. And a Dr Pepper. To go.”
“Next!”
Bolden slid down the counter. The shop was warm and fuggy, the smell of baked tomato, garlic, and hot cheese wafting in the air. Despite the inviting aroma, he had no appetite. A jackhammer was working overtime inside his skull. Grit from the explosion had lodged in his eyes, making them sore and watery. The cashier rang up his total. He paid and took a place against the wall, waiting for the pizza to come out of the oven. On top of the soft-drink cooler, a television broadcast the midday news.
“News Four has obtained disturbing videotape showing the murder of Solomon H. Weiss,” the anchorwoman announced.
Bolden’s eyes shot back to the TV.
The anchor went on, “Weiss, chairman and cofounder of the prestigious investment bank Harrington Weiss, was shot dead this morning in an apparent employment dispute with a longtime executive. We caution audiences that the tape is graphic and has not been edited for broadcast.”
Bolden watched the events of that morning unspool as recorded by a camera planted in the frame above the door. The tape lasted ten seconds and showed Bolden struggling with the security guard, the gun going off, and Sol Weiss falling to the floor. There was one difference, however, between the events of that morning and the scene broadcast on television. The security guard was wearing Bolden’s head and vice versa. To all the world, it appeared that Thomas Bolden had shot Sol Weiss.
The anchorwoman reiterated his views a few seconds later.
“The suspect, Thomas Bolden, aged thirty-two, is at large and considered to be armed and dangerous. If any viewer has information about Bolden’s whereabouts, they are asked to call the number below.”
Bolden’s photograph filled the screen. It was his most recent passport photo and he wondered how in the world they had dug it up. He didn’t stare at the camera so much as glower at it. It had been taken after an all-nighter at an attorney’s office correcting the proofs of an offering memo. He was pale with dark rings under his eyes. He looked menacing. He looked like a murderer.
“Here you go, sir.” The pizza chef handed Bolden his bag.
The cashier, who had been watching the segment along with Bolden, turned toward him, then looked at the television again. Meanwhile, the TV station was replaying the images of Thomas Bolden, murderer, shooting Sol Weiss.
“That’s you,” the cashier said, in a flat voice.
“No,” said Bolden. “Just looks like me.” He turned to leave the pizzeria.
“That’s you,” she said again. “That’s him,” she announced to her customers, this time louder, as if she’d just looked at her lottery ticket and realized she’d hit the jackpot. “Oh my God, that’s him!”
Dr. patel returned to the examining room fifteen minutes later. “I am happy to report that the waiting room is free of all bad guys. No one carrying machine guns, machetes, or hand grenades has been seen.”
“And elephant rifles?”
“I’ll have to go back and check. Actually, I do have some good news. Your brother, Daniel, is here. The police brought him in. He’s quite concerned. “
Jenny felt the ground shift beneath her. “My brother lives in Kansas City.”
“Tall fellow. Blond hair. A handsome chap. I just had a word with him in the hallway. I didn’t know you had a history with dangerous firearms. He told me all about how you shot him in the cheek with a BB gun. I can’t say I see the resemblance, but I’m sure he’ll take good care of you.”
“Danny’s five nine, and weighs two hundred and fifty pounds. He’s bald and can’t jog from the porch to the mailbox.”
“No, but…” Patel looked over his shoulder, then back at her again, confused.
“Where is he?” she asked, standing from the table. She wasn’t sure what frightened her more-that there was someone in the hospital trying to get to her, or that he knew that she’d plugged Danny with a Daisy Repeater… only it had been in the butt.
“At the nurses’ station talking to Dr. Rosen, chief of the ER. I said I’d bring you out in a moment.”
“A shirt. I need a shirt.” Jenny stood bare-chested, the bandage taped to her shoulder.
“But you can’t leave. I need to get you some medicine… a prescription… you need to sign the charges.”
“The man outside tried to kill me and my boyfriend,” said Jenny. “Give me your shirt.”
“What? But…”
She threw out a hand. “Give it to me now! And your jacket.”
“But he’s with the police… they want to talk to you, too. I’m sure it’s all right.” Reluctantly, Patel removed his lab jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. “Here you are.”
“Stethoscope?”
“They’re expensive,” Patel protested, but he handed his to her, all the same.
Jenny threw on the shirt, and the jacket on top of it. “Do you have a rubber band?”
“Yes, I think so.” Patel rummaged in a drawer. “Just one?”
“One will do.” Jenny tied her hair in a knot and put it up. She looked at herself in the mirror. Close up, she wouldn’t fool anyone, but from down the hall she’d look like just another doc. “Do you know a back way out of here?”
“I’ve been living inside this tomb since July fifth of last year. I know ways out of here even the architect didn’t imagine.” Patel caught himself, indecision wrinkling his face. “But really…”
Jenny walked to the door. “Which way out? Not by a front door or the ambulance port. A side exit. Someplace no one uses.”
Patel looked around nervously, mumbling to himself. “Yes, all right then. I know the place. Go down the hall to the vending machines, then turn right. Take the stairs to the second floor. There’s a walkway that connects this building to the one next door, where the pediatric ward is located. Once you’re there, continue to the far side of the building and take the elevator to the parking garage. There’s a food court there. And stairs up to the street. That’s the best I can do.”
Jenny looked at the doctor, thin and naked to the waist. “Thank you,” she said. “I hope we don’t see each other for a really long time.”
“Good luck.”
Jenny opened the door and turned down the hallway, away from the nurses’ station. She saw him out of the corner of her eye. Just for a split second, but it was enough. The white-blond hair. The wind-kissed complexion. She knew him in an instant. The man who’d stolen her watch last night. Thomas had said his name was “Irish.”
She hurried down the hall without a look behind her.
38
Bill Donohue rushed across the floor of Triton Aerospace’s Alexandria-based warehouse. “Is the replacement for the President’s podium ready yet?” he asked the VP of consumer sales.
“We’re getting ready to load it onto the truck.”
“Check the wiring. The Secret Service is pretty steamed.”
“Everything’s up and running. Waterproof and airtight.”
“Where is it? I promised Fiske that I’d have the podium on the Hill by two.” Donohue checked his watch. It was already 2:40. Traffic had been bumper-to-bumper getting out of downtown. With the snow starting to come, it would only be worse getting back. He was on the verge of Excedrin headache number nine.
“Follow me. You can give us a hand.”
Donohue walked toward the loading dock. Forklifts noisily motored up and down the floor, carrying pallets stacked with electronics gear. Men called to one another from atop thirty-foot-high columns of packing boxes. All the while, speakers belted out Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA.” The Alexandria warehouse handled shipments and repairs for all of Triton Aerospace’s nonmilitary products. These included shortwave radios, police band receivers, communications systems, public address systems, and spare parts.