The Blonde (9 page)

The reporter ran with that, verbatim. They didn’t check a damn thing. It was amazing. The media would print anything.

But Ed, I did it for a reason. I wanted them to know why they were dying. That I was coming after them. All of them.

You understand, right, Ed?

Sheraton, Room 702

S
he pressed a corner of a blanket to his nose. “Keep your head back and the bleeding will stop.”

“I’m bleeding? Oh, fuck, you made me bleed!”

“Shhhh, you big baby. It’ll be fine. I didn’t break anything. If I had, you’d know.”

“Fuck.”

There were three sharp knocks at the door.

“Oh, fuck,” Kelly said.

A muffled voice through the door: “Hey, sorry to bother. I’m one of your neighbors from across the hall, and I thought I heard something. Everything okay in there?”

“We’re great!”

“Somebody
help me
”

Kelly squeezed tighter, and the fresh agony in Jack’s ribs took his breath away. She clamped her free hand—the one that wasn’t handcuffed—over his lips and pressed down hard. Her eyes were daggers.

“My husband’s kidding. We’re doing a little
rough play
. You understand, right?”

“Are you okay, miss? Look, how about you open the door and let me know.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I can assure you, we’re completely fine. Go back to bed.”

“Open up for a second. Let me see you.”

“With all due respect, sir, we paid quite a lot of money for privacy in this hotel. Didn’t we, dear?”

Jack considered this. Yeah,
he
had paid quite a bit for this room. Donovan Piatt had offered. Wanted to pick up the plane fare, too. But Jack had refused. If he was going to be castrated, he was going to pay his own way.

Kelly removed her hand from Jack’s mouth and reached back to cup it around his testicles. Pressure was immediately applied.

“
Tell him
.”

Jack nodded.

Then he threw himself to one side. Kelly’s legs slipped off his chest. But not the hand clenching his balls. Despite the handcuffs, this seemed to be Kelly’s true lifeline; weakening her grip would mean a fall into the abyss. She squeezed
hard
. Jack tried to curl up into a defensive fetal position, but the pain was too intense. He couldn’t move. Or speak. It looked like they were engaged in an S-M version of Twister.

“Come on, miss, just open this door for a minute? I’d feel a lot better, and we can all get back to sleep.”

“Sir, don’t take this the wrong way …”

Kelly finally let go of Jack’s testicles. He again tried to curl into a ball, but she remounted his chest before he had a chance. She pointed an accusatory finger at him and moved it back and forth.

“… but why don’t you fuck off and leave the consenting adults alone?”

Jack found that he couldn’t breathe, both from the agony in his groin and the pressure on his chest. So in that instant, he decided to suspend one of the rules of chivalry hard-wired into his brain since he was a child.

He punched her in the stomach as hard as he could.

So hard, she was lifted up above his body for a brief moment and was thrown backward, clear away from him. If she hadn’t been handcuffed to him, she might have been thrown halfway across the hotel room. Instead, the links between the cuffs snapped tight, and Kelly dropped to the floor.

Jack flipped himself over and used his free hand to claw at the carpet, dragging himself forward, and his captor along with him, toward the door. He could hear her gasping for air, but that wasn’t his problem. The events of the past few moments had convinced him of one thing: her insanity. Her fucking wild stories, her kidnapping, her threats, her steel grip on his balls … Who the fuck does stuff like that but a crazy woman?

“Have it your way. I’m going back to my room and calling security. You can explain it to them.”

“Sweet Jesus Hallelujah. At long last.”

The fight wasn’t out of Kelly, though. She recovered from the stomach punch enough to pounce on Jack’s back. He heard her coming, though, and rolled at the same time she made impact. A flip later, Jack was on top.

On top of a pretty blonde, to whom he was handcuffed, in a fancy hotel room in a strange city.

Oh, would this make quite an image for the wife.

And while he was here, why not complete the image?

And
prove to this woman that she was, in fact, fucking certifiable.

“Hey.”

She was breathing hard; her bottom lip trembled. Jack cupped his free hand around the back of her neck and drew her close and pressed his lips to hers. He forced his tongue inside her mouth, just like she’d done with that middle-aged guy at the airport.

She probably thought he’d forgotten about that.

Mary Kates, my ass
.

If she were
that
contagious with these things, that kiss would have killed that guy.

She fought, but he gripped her neck tightly and didn’t stop until she clamped her teeth around his tongue.

Jack yelled and broke the embrace, then rolled off her. He chose the wrong side. Her handcuffed arm yanked over him. On the floor, they looked like two mimes who had made violent love and were hugging an invisible pillow.

“Jack. You don’t know what you’ve done,. You really don’t.”

Little Pete’s

K
owalski’s cell rang. Someone dictated a number to him, and he scribbled the number on a Little Pete’s napkin. Added his PN, used his prepaid calling card, hit a pay phone, reached his handler. She spoke fast and furious. Things were moving.

So much for chitchat.

Anyway: Based on preliminary evidence from Professor Man-chette’s head—CI-6 thought it was best to have someone closer expedite the removal, the handler explained; like Kowalski fucking minded?—it was top priority to locate Kelly White and take her into custody.

“I’m on it.”

He’d planned ahead for this. He had the license plate sequence of the cab she’d taken from Philly International; he knew the cab company. A quick call, a bit of “Homeland Security” strong-arm stuff, and he’d have their drop-off location. That wasn’t a worry. What worried Kowalski was the bag between his feet.

“Hey—what about the, um, other head?”

“Store it somewhere safe for now.”

He wanted to ask his handler, Like where? Ask Little Pete if I
can stick it in his deep freezer for a while? Right next to the hamburger patties and pork chops? Kowalski knew he was better off taking it with him. His experience with the tree house in Somerton had spooked him. The bag seemed to be in too much demand. The only risk was a cop stopping him, asking to see what was in the bag. But if it came to that, and Kowalski was unable to incapacitate the cop, he knew he had a safety net out there. It might mean some jail time, but not forever. Homeland Security had an infinite number of Get Out of Jail Free cards.

“Where’s your guy? The one who’s supposed to pick it up?”

“He’s unavailable.”

“Mad scientists usually busy at two in the morning?”

A pause.

“Discretion would serve you well.”

“Oh, I’m discreet. How could I not be? I don’t know a thing. Except that I’m the guy who’s stuck holding the bag. And I meant that literally as well as metaphorically.”

Another pause.

“Is that all?”

“I guess so. Unless you’re want to wish me luck.”

“Good-bye.”

“Bye …” he said, then silently mouthed her name. He felt dirty saying it.

Security Office, Sheraton Hotel

W
hen the phone rang, Charlie Vincent jolted. He had nodded off with a book in his lap. It was a small paperback sampler of Japanese
manga
his kid had given him, published by some company called Tokyopop. Charlie had been giving him
money for these things for a few weeks now, and during weekend visits he’d steal glances at some of the art. Looked like Asian porn stuff he’d seen on the Skinternet, but his kid reassured him they were just stories—mystery, sci-fi, romance, comedy, fantasy, action. He gave Charlie the sampler to check out, and Charlie was confused as shit until his kid told him they were meant to be read back to front. Like that made any fucking sense. Charlie wondered if his kid was going to tell his mother about it, give her a good laugh.

Charlie put the book on his desk, picked up the phone. It was the front desk.

“We got a call about a domestic dispute in seven oh two. From the neighbor across the hall. Can you check it out?”

“Christ. What’s the name?”

“Jack Eisley. Like the Eisley brothers, I guess.”

Charlie paused, then decided he had to ask. “Is the guy black?”

“Does that matter?” asked the desk clerk, who was also black.

“C’mon. You know what I mean.”

“I’m looking…. Here’s his license. Nah, he’s a white dude from Illinois.”

“Okay. I’ll be right up.”

“One thing you should know.”

“What’s that?”

“I think we got a case of woman-on-man violence. Guy upstairs said it sounded like it was the dude who was getting beaten.”

Now that’s something different, he thought. “Okay, I’ll be gentle.”

Charlie hung up the phone and wondered if he was suddenly living in a backward world. Comic books you read in the opposite direction, women smacking around guys. What was next? His ex-wife being nice to him?

J
ack and Kelly lay on their backs on the carpet, joined at their wrists by Pleasure Chest handcuffs. Jack’s tongue was throbbing; Kelly was crying softly. Once again, Jack found himself in the strange position of feeling guilty about how he was treating his captor. Never mind that she’d head butted him in the face, cracked a rib, squeezed his chest, and bit his tongue nearly in half. He felt awful about kissing her. As if he’d tried to date-rape her.

“I don’t know why you’re crying.”

“You didn’t believe me. You lied, and listened to me like you believed me. But if you believed me, you wouldn’t have done that.”

Jack sat up and looked at her. Kelly moved her free hand up and placed it on his chest, almost as if she were expecting another kiss.

“Don’t worry—I’m not trying that again. There’s no need for a restraining order.”

She stared at him, through him. Her eyes were rimmed with tears, and her face was racked with exhaustion. Her lips trembled slightly.

“Wait. You’re worried I’ve poisoned
you
in return. When I kissed you. That’s it, right?”

“No,” she said softly.

“What is it?”

“You
still
don’t believe me. You were my last hope. I can’t keep running anymore. I’m so tired of running, talking, plotting … every second of every single fookin’ minute of the day….” Kelly’s Irish accent was returning. “Don’t you know what I’ve done to you?”

“What are you taking about? ”

“The Mary Kates are inside you! Right now! Multiplying! I killed all of the others to make a point. But you were supposed to
be the one who would vindicate me, who would explain it all.” She touched his cheek. “Now we’re both dead.”

But Jack didn’t seem to hear.

“Killed all of what
others?
”

Back to the Sheraton

W
hat do you know. Call the newspapers, alert TV and radio: Ol’ Kowalski catches a break. Old City Cab gave him the drop-off point, and it was the Rittenhouse Sheraton, literally around the corner, and up one block on Locust. Too good to be fucking true. That, or Philly was one absurdly small town. As he walked, he got an idea. He dialed his handler.

“I’m about to be extremely impressed.”

“Not yet. Can you cross-reference passengers on all flights to Philadelphia this evening and the occupants of the Sheraton?”

“Hold on.”

“Then eliminate everyone except white men traveling alone who checked in after—”

“Already ahead of you. Hold on.”

Kowalski walked up Locust. Nice block, which ended at the edge of Rittenhouse Square itself. One side of the street was taken up by the Sheraton, but the other side retained some of its nineteenth-century charm. And hey, look. The Curtis Institute of Music. If he wasn’t mistaken, that was where they’d shot
Trading Places
with Eddie Murphy and Dan Aykroyd. As a teenager, it had been one of his favorite comedies. Today, he would explain that he’d been fascinated by the film because of its smart examination of class warfare and the mutability of identity. But as kid, he liked it because you got to see Jamie Lee Curtis’s tits.

His handler returned.

“John Joseph Eisley, goes by ‘Jack.’ He’s in room seven oh two.”

God, what did we do before the Patriot Act? By the time he’d pressed the button to end the call, Kowalski was already through the front doors and making his way to the reception desk.

“Hey, buddy. Hang on to this for me, will ya? I’ve got a guy upstairs who needs to be on the radio over in Bala Cynwyd in … oh, Christ on a cracker, an hour or so. I might need two hands to drag him out of bed.”

The clerk nodded without making much eye contact. He stashed the gym bag behind the front desk.

“Back in five for that. Along with a very sleepy real estate expert. Man, the people they drag on this show at this hour. Who’s up listening, right?”

Kowalski caught a pair of elevator doors closing, stuck his hand in there. But the occupant of the car had already pressed a button; the doors opened.