Killer Move

She reached the head of the line. The server stared at her with bovine insolence. The woman’s eyes flicked up to the menu boards, as they always do, even if you know what you want. She was occupied, for a few moments at least.

I stood up. I walked at a steady, even pace to the doors. I opened them, went outside, and when my feet made it to the sidewalk I started to run.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

What screwed me was trying to be clever. While I was sticking to sensible and semismart, I did okay. Clever was a step too far. I trotted down the sidewalk—and I was starting to get my shit together quickly, because though I wanted to sprint, I didn’t, as who the hell goes haring down the street at nine o’clock on a Friday morning without evident quarry, unless they’re running away from something they’ve done? So I trotted instead, as if in a vague hurry but no more—no need to stare, people, nothing of interest happening, just a guy doing something, going somewhere a little fast. Move along.

Soon as I could I ducked around a corner, however, and then I did ratchet up the pace. I’d like to say this was a conscious decision to put distance between me and the woman before she noticed that I’d gone. It wasn’t a real decision, however. It just happened. I started to run because I was scared. Really scared. Scared of what I’d seen in Cassandra’s apartment. Scared because I didn’t know what was going to happen to me, or where my wife was. And scared perhaps most of all by the fact that the woman I was running away from was frightened, too. If the person who knows more than you do looks freaked out, then you’d better be freaked out even more, on principle.

Eventually I had to stop. I staggered to a halt, gasping for air, and glanced back along the street. I’d been jacking back and forth through the blocks for ten minutes, and there was no sign of the woman on foot or in her pickup. It probably hadn’t occurred to her that I would up and run, that someone in my position would turn down assistance in a time of need. Probably it was an outlandishly dumb thing to do. I didn’t care. Getting away from her felt like the first sensible or active thing I’d done since my first beer at Krank’s the night before—and maybe for far longer than that.

I ran a quick inventory, bent over on the corner as trucks and cars belted past me. I had my phone, with nearly a full charge (courtesy of a dead girl, but let’s not think about that). I had my wallet, credit cards, and around sixty bucks in cash. That was all good news.

I was wearing a creased shirt and battered chinos, drenched with sweat. The lower sections of both pant legs sported red wine stains that dated to when the stuff had been coming back out of me rather than going in. I had a mind-fucking headache, tremors in both hands that weren’t solely due to exertion, and a whole-body nausea that was getting worse by the second. This was all less good.

Then I realized I’d left my USB drive in Cass’s apartment—a disk that had both the pictures of Karren on it (my only proof that I was being fucked with) and copies of letters and documents featuring my name and address—and so could be tied to me in half a second.

Things were actually worse than I’d realized.

I finally convinced myself I wasn’t going to throw up, and started to move again in a ragged half trot. Halfway along the next block I found a minimarket. I bought a bottle of cold water and a pack of industrial-strength painkillers. I washed a handful of the latter down with half of the former before I’d paid for either. My stomach tried to revolt, but I kept it down.

Back outside I considered my options, keeping an eye on the street and sidewalks in case “Jane Doe” had been merely biding her time. I couldn’t get my thoughts to run straight, and the thing that kept popping up with the brightest and shiniest sign was the fact it was now coming up on nine thirty. That meant Karren would be at her desk, wondering where the hell I was. I didn’t care about this from the point of view of ambition, not this morning. But still, I was supposed to be there. Insanely, I couldn’t let this fact lie.

“Karren,” I said, when she answered the phone. My head was pounding so loudly I was afraid she’d be able to hear it down the line.

“Hey, you,” she said affably. “Was wondering where you’d got to. Noticed you weren’t at your desk. Turns out here you are instead, on the phone.”

Her voice was like an audio postcard from better times, bittersweet enough to make me want to cry.

“Yeah. I’ve, uh, I’ve been held up.”

“No big deal. It’s like the grave here this morning anyhow. You sort out your problem?”

I didn’t know what on earth to say. Then I remembered that our last conversation had been about Stephanie and the mystery of her whereabouts. “It’s ongoing,” I said. “But I have hopes of progress.”

“That’s excellent. We like progress, right? So when should I expect you?”