The Blonde (12 page)

No wonder the handler wouldn’t tell him anything. This kind of thing went beyond spurned ex-lover territory.

What was CI-6 messing around with now?

Kowalski ignored the desk clerk and walked over and punched the up button. He knew he’d probably find a dead body up on five, if she’d made it that far. Which, okay, was not a great situation. He’d rather have Kelly tell him more. But if need be, he could liberate her pretty head from the rest of her body, give her a little reunion with Ed in the Adidas gym bag, and search for answers elsewhere. His handler and CI-6 weren’t the only people in the United States with access to a laboratory.

“Sir?”

Kowalski turned, smiled, and waved at the desk clerk with his bad wrist. It hurt like fuck; he’d really torn something in there.

But given the circumstances, it was simply the badass thing to do.

Sheraton, Room 702

J
ack was amazed at how easily the lies slipped out of his mouth. He knew Mr. Charles Lee Vincent—that was the guard’s name; another mystery solved—wouldn’t believe the crap about
the Mary Kates and nanomachines and Ireland and San Diego. Jack still hardly believed it, and he’d almost had his brain explode inside his skull.

So he needed to tell Mr. Charles Lee Vincent something he’d believe. Something that would keep him around.

“Listen, I have an extreme anxiety disorder. You saw an example of it a few minutes ago.”

Ah, you silver-tongued devil, you. Pile it on thicker.

“My psychotherapist told me that being alone for more than a few seconds could lead to stroke.”

Charles Lee Vincent’s brow furrowed. “Okay, sir. I hear you.”

“You have to understand. You can’t leave me alone. Not for a second.”

“I understand. But
you
need to understand that I have a job to do. And that includes calling the police, so we can catch the guy who did this.”

The police. A few hours ago, Jack would have thrown his arms around the idea, French-kissed it. But now he followed it through to its natural conclusion. Jack in an interrogation room. Jack being offered a cup of station house coffee. Jack saying, “Officer, I’d like to report a murder.” Officer saying, “Whose?” Jack saying, “My own.” Jack watching the detective leave the room, close the door. Jack counting ten seconds before his brain exploded like a pinata.

And even if he were able to keep detectives in the interrogation room with him, what could he say to them? He had no proof that Kelly White existed. Wherever she’d gone, or had been taken, her bag was along for the ride.

“Okay, buddy, we believe you. We’ll be right back with that coffee,” the cops saying.

The door of the interrogation room closing.

Ker-bloooie
.

“Just take me downstairs,” Jack pleaded. “Let me sit with the guy at the front desk, and you can do what you have to.”

That was his only chance. And from there, find a place with a lot of people. A crowded bar. Wait—it was close to three in the morning. Bars were closed. So were coffee shops and malls and post offices and food courts…. Oh Christ. This was Philadelphia in the middle of the night. A town where they reportedly rolled up the sidewalks after 6:00
P.M
.

“Okay I can do that. Come on. Let’s get down there. That son of bitch took my cell—wait. Give me a sec to use the room phone, okay?”

Jack nodded, but then he realized what he was doing. The nightstand with the phone was on the other side of the room. Oh fuck. Was that more than ten feet away?

F
or the past hour, nothing in Charles Lee Vincent’s world had made a goddamned bit of sense. From Tokyopop and backward comics to tough guys who liked to choke people to this guy now … following him across the room, sitting close to him. Extreme anxiety disorder? Yeah,
extreme anxiety
that your wife is going to find out you had a hot blond hooker up here in your room. Tough titty said the kitty. It wasn’t Charlie’s problem. This guy had the bad luck to be in the wrong room at the wrong time. That’s all.

Charlie told the front desk what he knew, rattled off a quick description, told them to seal the front doors until he got down there. He’d get the police over here now, and they’d go room to room if they had to.

Until they found the guy who liked to choke the air out of people. Charlie hoped he’d be with one of his ex-brothers on the force
when they found this guy. They’d let him alone in a room with the fucker for a few minutes. Let
him
see what oxygen deprivation feels like. He also asked the details of the occupant of this room. Yep, as he’d figured. Married. Married, and damn near sitting on top of him in the bed. Like, hello? Ever hear of personal space?

“Um, ready to go downstairs, Mr. Eisley? There are plenty of people down there to keep you company.”

Sheraton Elevators, Right Bank, South Side

J
ack worked out a plan on the ride down. More or less. Once he got to the lobby, he’d play up the anxiety disorder, make someone sit with him. Then he’d map out a plan. All he needed was proof that Kelly White’s crazy story was true. The fact that hotel security saw some big bastard in a suit jacket show up to abduct her wasn’t enough. He needed proof.

Those files in San Diego, specifically. He had to catch a cab, hop a plane to San Diego, go to the Westin Horton Plaza, grab the files, then call the police, the FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, and anybody else who would listen.

Except that he would be dead by 8:00
A.M
.

The poison.

The
luminous toxin
.

He was most likely the only guy in Philadelphia with
two
things racing around his bloodstream—Mary Kates and luminous toxin—with the potential to kill him. Unless you counted AIDS-ridden crack whores. But even those sorry fuckers didn’t have a time limit of five hours.

Think, Jack, think
.

Even if he were in a plane that was taking off at this very minute, there was little chance he could be in San Diego by 8:00
A.M.
Local time, sure, but the poison in his blood didn’t care about time zones. When it did whatever it was supposed to do, Jack would be dead.

And that’s even if he managed to stay within ten feet of a person the entire trip.

What if he had to use the bathroom?

With all of this racing around his head, he hardly noticed the elevator doors open. Charles Lee Vincent led him by the arm across the lobby, telling the desk clerk, “He needs someone to stay with him at all times.”

And then the desk clerk was saying something about the Philly PD being on their way. “Christ, what a night. There’s some lady passed out up on five, bleeding from her nose.”

And then Vincent was responding, saying that he was going back upstairs to start looking for this son of a bitch. “Seal the front doors…. Jesus, didn’t I tell you to seal the front doors?”

“I’ve never locked down completely. Where are the keys?”

“In my office, top drawer, lockbox marked with a black
X
in Magic Marker. You’ll see the master key on the left. Says ‘master’ on it. Hit the revolving door, then the two on the sides.”

“You got it.”

Jack realized what was going on.

“Wait! Don’t leave me!”

“That’s right. You’ve got to stay with him.”

“I’m just going to your office.”

“He’s got…” Charles Lee Vincent started to explain, then decided against it. “Look, I’ll lock up. Stay with him, okay?”

As Vincent walked away, Jack realized that locking the front doors meant he’d be trapped in here. And then the police would arrive, and then, sooner or later, he’d be locked in a room for questioning. They wouldn’t buy the anxiety stuff. In fact, they’d probably
gather around the two-way mirror, passing around bags of potato chips, waiting to see him pop.

And that would be the end of Jack.

Sheraton Hotel, Fifth Floor

D
iet Coke guy had Kelly’s head in his arms, and he was surrounded by other guests who had popped out of their rooms to see what the screaming was about. He looked up at Kowalski. Disappointment washed over his face when he saw that Kowalski wasn’t an EMT. That quickly turned to rage when he recognized him.

“Hey! What did you
do
to her?”

Kowalski knelt down to examine Kelly. She was still breathing, but unconscious. Blood had spurted from her nose, ears … and yeah, he could see a little rimmed around the bottoms of her eyes, too. Diet Coke guy had some of it on his hands and lips.

“What’s your name?”

“Brian.”

“Brian, did you give her mouth-to-mouth?”

“She wasn’t breathing. I saved her. And I asked you, What did you
do
to her?”

Kowalski sighed. “Spare me.”

Brian tried to shove Kowalski backward, and it would have been impressive, had he connected. But Kowalski caught him by the wrist, taking care not to touch any of the blood, then twisted. Kelly’s head bobbed in the guy’s lap as he jolted.

“Ow!”

“See this? My girlfriend here’s got AIDS. She’s maintaining, but she passes out like this all the time when her T-cell count gets
low. Wash off all of the blood you can. Scrub hard. Rinse your mouth out, too. You’ll also want to get tested.”

Brian turned white. Good, let him be afraid. Might be the thing that saves his life.

Truth was, whatever Kelly White was carrying, he’d probably already picked it up with the mouth-to-mouth thing. That’s what chivalry gets you these days.

Kelly’s head was gingerly lowered to the hallway carpet. Brian stood up, trying not to touch anything else, himself especially, then backed up and elbowed the up button on the elevator.

“Go ahead, wash up. I’ve got it from here.”

Kowalski looked around the hallway.

“Go back to your rooms, folks. She’s going to be okay once she gets hooked up to an IV.”

He had a decision to make: Take her now, or later? He wasn’t sure Kelly had a chance of making it down to D.C., as planned, without medical attention. Her breathing was shallow, and that much blood from the head was never a good sign. With the multiple distress calls of the past few minutes, the Sheraton was going to be swarming with uniforms. It was going to be tough carrying her out of there, past all of that. And his most recent instructions from his handler covered bringing her in alive, not dead.

The only chance she had was to let the EMTs take over from here. Hook her up, get her breathing stabilized. He wasn’t equipped for any of that.

Kowalski could come back for her later. From the hospital or the morgue, if it came to that. Either would be easier to breach than this hotel in the next ten minutes. City EMT response times varied; he remembered reading that Philly had arguably the worst in the nation. Tonight, he hoped to be proven wrong.

S
he wanted to cry. He’d fought hard to force his air into lungs she couldn ‘t feel. His lips mashed against hers, and she couldn ‘t feel those, either. Maybe she was already crying. She wouldn ‘t have been able to feel the drops on her cheeks
.

She couldn’t feel
anything,
but she could see and hear and think. That was the worst part
.

She knew exactly what had happened
.

Back in the lab, she’d overheard them speculating
.

Partial engagement.

When the self-replicating supramolecular assemblies
—
oh, how the Operator hated the nickname Mary Kates, even from the beginning
—
were faced with a choice, they reset to zero. That’s what must have happened to her. The doors of the elevator may have opened a full second, or a fraction of a millisecond, in time; that didn’t matter to the Mary Kates. They reset to zero
.

Leaving her brain-damaged in this oh-so-creative way
.

This was not how she’d imagined it. She thought it would have been quick and efficient. And she hoped she’d live long enough for a bit of revenge
.

Not to look up into the eyes of another man she’d doomed to the grave
.

Her Diet Coke-loving savior
.

Pressing his lips to hers, genuine concern in his blue eyes
.

And then the other one showed up. The one the Operator sent
.

“What’s your name?”

“Brian.”

“Brian, did you give her mouth-to-mouth?”

Yeah, this guy knew the score. But he wasn ‘t a complete dick. Here, he was warning Brian
—
her savior had a name
—
to wash up, rinse out his mouth, like that would help. At least it was a gesture of humanity
.

And then the Operator’s man looked into her eyes, and somehow
sensed she was still in there, because he touched her chin with his index finger and spoke to her
.

“Now that wasn’t very smart.”

Sheraton Lobby Eighteenth Street

T
he security guy, Charles Lee Vincent, had locked the front doors, much to the displeasure of a curly-haired guy in a tuxedo, who was missing his tie and had his cummerbund slung rakishly over his shoulder. Vincent didn’t seem to give a shit. He pressed the master key into the desk clerk’s hands and said, “Only for the cops and EMT guys. Got it?” He got it. And for the next nine minutes—Jack watched them tick by on the clock mounted above a shimmering koi pool in the middle of the lobby—they stayed locked. The curly-haired guy threatened all kinds of violence, both physical and legal. The desk clerk didn’t seem to give a shit, either.