“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?”
2:03 a.m.
Back to the Sheraton
What 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.
“Much obliged.”
“No prob.”
A hotel security officer wearing a black rectangular name tag with VINCENT in white letters.
“What floor?”
2:05 a.m.
Sheraton, Room 702
Kelly started crying again, and all Jack could do was reach over and hold her, and hope she didn’t reward the gesture with another shot to his ribs. She rested her head on his chest. Jack rubbed her back with his free hand while trying to shift his position a little. His left arm was beginning to get that pins and needles feeling.
“I’ve killed many men.”
Jack wondered what you were supposed to say to something like that. Ah, c’mon, buck up. How many is “many”? Couldn’t be that bad, now could it?
“So I’m not the first person you’ve poisoned with luminous toxin.”
“No, Jack. That’s not what I’m talking about. You still don’t believe me.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
She grasped both of his forearms and squeezed.
“Listen to me. I am infected with an experimental tracking device. If I am alone for more than ten seconds, I will die. This was no accident. This was done to me. By my boss. The Operator. Our lab wasn’t raided. It wasn’t sabotage. He did this to me.”
“I thought you said—”
“The past thirteen days,” she said, ignoring him, “I’ve been traveling all over the world, first in Ireland, then here. Kissing strange men, sometimes fucking them. Anything it takes to avoid being alone. But I’m also sending a message to the Operator. I want him to know that I’m still alive, and that I’m going to do everything in my power to bring him down, even if I have to leave a trail of bodies behind me. Because eventually, someone will listen. Someone will come for me. Someone important. Someone who knows the Operator, and who will know how to destroy him. I thought you would help. But you won’t be able to. You’ll be joining the dead, all because you kissed me. No, not because of that. Because you kissed me and you didn’t believe me. Do you believe me now, Jack?”
Later, Jack would look back on this moment and realize that this was the moment his nightmare truly started. Not the moment he was infected.
The moment he started to believe.
2:08 a.m.
Sheraton, Seventh Floor
Kowalski was mildly annoyed when he learned that he and Mr. Vincent, security chief here, were headed to the same floor—seven. Yet another hurdle. Chances were, this guy would be headed down the same stretch of hallway, and to be thorough, Kowalski was going to have to incapacitate this guy. Was this never going to end? This endless parade of victims? It was as if God had looked down and said, Oh, I get it, Kowalski—you like mowing down people left and right. Well, let me give you a few more to deal with. Hope you can keep up!
The car reached seven. Ever the gentleman, Kowalski extended his arm, but Mr. Vincent here wasn’t having that.
“You first, sir.”
Great. Kowalski stepped off the elevator and read the floor key posted on the wall. The room he wanted was to the left.
Mr. Vincent asked, “Can I help you?”
“Just getting my bearings, thanks.”
He was hoping the security chief would shrug his shoulders and go off and do whatever the hell he’d come up here to do. Maybe there wasn’t enough diet Coke in the vending area. Maybe the snack machine was out of butterscotch Krimpets.
“What room you looking for?”
This bastard was persistent.
“It’s right down here. Man, I really should have stopped at three apple martinis, you know? But they’re so damned good. My boss is going to hand me my ass in the morning. He’s down there right now, sleeping like a good boy. Not me.”
Mr. Vincent chuckled and nodded, but he didn’t budge. “You can probably squeeze in a few winks before dawn.”
“Like that’ll help. I need a big glass of water and a fistful of aspirin.”
Another polite chuckle. “After you, boss. Here at the Sheraton, the guests come first.”
Kowalski had no choice but to walk toward 702. He faked a bit of drunken swagger to sell the apple martini line, but he had a feeling that wouldn’t be necessary. It was going to come down to incapacitation. Get this bozo out of the hall and out of his way for at least ten minutes. He visualized Mr. Vincent in his head. Tall and stocky, with close-clipped hair
that screamed ex-military. Creeping up on forty, but not there yet. Possibly a Gulf War vet. An easy smile, but cold eyes. Probably a lot smarter than he ever let on. A simple slap and kidney punch wasn’t going to work on this guy. The rooms ticked down to the left and right: 708, 707, 706.
Kowalski threw an elbow backward. It caught Mr. Vincent in the nose. He followed up with a roundhouse punch to the side of Mr. Vincent’s head, which, if it had been delivered correctly, would blind him for a few seconds. Then Kowalski went for the balls, which made the security chief fold in half and drop to his knees right outside room 705. Now it was time for a little creative asphyxiation. It was a move he’d learned in Bosnia, for when there wasn’t time (or need) to hold a boot to a man’s face and slice open his throat. A minor strangulation that would rob the subject of air long enough to make your escape without killing him.
And killing this guy was the last thing he wanted to do. He was getting way off-mission tonight. Claudia Hunter’s sweet, shocked, strangled face still haunted him. It was all so gratuitous. A man had to draw the line somewhere.
Mr. Vincent, however, still had a little fight left in him. He threw out a punch that caught Kowalski off guard—and pummeled his stomach. The air gushed out of him. He staggered back and bumped up against the wall. He felt his knees weaken. That had been one brilliant shot. Totally unexpected. Superb. A follow-up landed on the side of Kowalski’s knee. There was that military training. Mr. Vincent here was trying to bust his kneecap from the side, where there was little natural protection. It almost worked, too. As he stumbled, Kowalski threw a fist at Mr. Vincent’s neck—one that should rob him of air for a few seconds. He heard the man gasp. Kowalski hit the carpet but then popped up quickly, intending to deliver a roundhouse kick to the head. But Mr. Vincent was already on him, tackling him, hurtling him forward.
Room 704, 703 ...
2:10 a.m.
Sheraton, Room 702
The door burst open. Two men, one in a navy blue blazer, the other in an expensive-looking black suit, came tumbling in from the hall. The guy in the expensive suit hit the carpet face-first, while the beefy man in the blazer sat on his back, like he was riding a horse.
Jack tried to stand up, but the handcuffs pulled him back down to the carpet. He looked at Kelly, but her mouth was hanging open, too. Who were these guys? Did they burst into this room by accident? Or was this hotel security coming to check up on them in some strange roundabout way? The beefy guy in the blazer looked like he was winning the argument, whatever the hell it might be. He was pummeling away at the back of the other guy’s head like he was trying to tenderize a slab of roast chuck.
But the guy in the expensive suit had a trick up his sleeve. He pounded his fists behind him, catching Mr. Blazer on the sides of his ribs. His mouth made a perfect O shape, one that tightened as the guy on the floor delivered a wild kick that struck him on the back of his head. Mr. Blazer’s eyes fluttered.
Jack had no idea whom to cheer for. Mr. Blazer seemed like a safe bet. Then again, he admired the spirit of the guy on the floor. That had been one hell of a kick—part John Woo, part break-dance move.
Within seconds, the tables had completely turned. Mr. Expensive Suit had Mr. Blazer in some kind of painful-looking headlock—not exactly the kind you see on Saturday-morning wrestling shows. Mr. Expensive Suit kicked the hotel door shut with his heel, and for the first time, he looked at Jack and Kelly.
“Good evening, kids.”
Mr. Blazer’s eyes were shut, but he was awake and struggling madly, as if he knew what was happening to him. Consciousness being stolen from him one oxygen-deprived brain cell at a time. His lips trembled.
“Hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”
Kelly stood up, and Jack had enough sense to stand up alongside her.
“I see you two have been busy,” Mr. Expensive Suit said, glancing down at the handcuffs. “Look, I won’t take too much of your time. Just got a question for you. Which one of you bitches is Kelly White?”
This was about her.
“Who are you?”
“Does it matter, Kelly?”
“Who the fuck sent you?”
Jack said, “Let go of him.”
“Ah, don’t worry about Mr. Vincent here—though that’s mighty sweet of you. I’m cutting off his air long enough to knock him out, but nothing serious. He’ll be right as rain.”
This apparently was no comfort to Mr. Vincent, whose body bucked, fingers clawing wildly at his captor’s forearms.
Jack wanted to do something to help the poor bastard, but Kelly was two steps ahead of him. She screamed and threw a fist at Mr. Expensive Suit’s face. Jack felt the handcuffs drag him forward. Oh shit.
Mr. Expensive Suit blocked Kelly’s punch but not her kick, which, unfortunately, caught Mr. Vincent in the leg. No reaction. Kelly threw another punch. It connected. Mr. Expensive Suit let Mr. Vincent fall to the floor, then returned an open-palm slap to the side of Kelly’s head. It dazed her. The handcuffs yanked at Jack’s wrist. Mr. Expensive Suit slapped her again, and Jack heard her shriek, “No.” Whatever this was, this guy was playing for the wrong team. Fuck it. Jack kicked outside and wide, around Kelly, aiming for testicles. At the same time, Kelly slammed her fist, the flat of her hand like the business end of a hammer, into Mr. Expensive Suit’s left eye.
Mr. Expensive Suit was ahead of both of them. He twisted to avoid the groin kick. He ducked so that Kelly’s jackhammer blow merely bounced off the top of his head.
And then he chopped his own hand into the chain links of the handcuffs. Powerfully. Cleanly. The chain hit carpet. Jack and Kelly tumbled to the ground after it.
He slapped Kelly again, as if to wake her up, then grabbed her by the throat. Squeezed. Then he slipped his forearm around Jack’s neck.
“Nighty night,” Kowalski whispered in his ear.
2:25 a.m.
Lordy lordy, thought Kowalski. I’ve got two unconscious guys on the floor of a hotel room. A broken door. A semiconscious woman gagged and handcuffed to a chair. Hey now—add an oversized tube of K-Y jelly, a car battery, and some jumper cables, we could call this a Saturday night.
But back to business.
The two unconscious guys. First: Charles Lee Vincent, hard-ass hotel security chief. A worthy adversary. A lot more worthy than Kowalski would have guessed. Hell, his stomach still trembled a bit. But Mr. Vincent would be out for another twenty minutes or so. And by that time, Kowalski would be a bitter memory.
Second: the mysterious John “Jack” Eisley. Another one of Kelly White’s intended victims, no doubt. Was he infected? Who knew. Better to assume he was until he had instructions from his handler. Kowalski hoped this wasn’t another decapitation job. The gym bag was only so big, and he doubted poor Ed would like sharing his personal space with a stranger. Especially some dope in a black T-shirt and khakis who’d driven away with his pretty little blonde.
Which brought Kowalski to the woman of the hour. The blonde herself. Back at the airport, she’d seemed like just another blonde-from-the-bottle blonde. Crackin’ bust, pretty eyes, not much upstairs. He still couldn’t think of the actress she reminded him of. But it was somebody he’d seen recently.
Up close, though, Kowalski could see that her eyes were fierce. Hunter’s eyes. Oh yes, he thought, She’s seen some things. It would be unkind to call them beady; they were simply focused to a high level of attention. The way she was looking at him now, even though she was clearly beyond exhaustion.
Kowalski dialed the number for his handler, all the while keeping Kelly in his sights. She was secured to the chair with her own handcuffs. The keys were in her bag. “Pleasure Chest, eh?” he’d said, but she’d just stared at him. His handler answered.
“Okay, now you can be impressed.”
“She’s alive?”
“And pissed.”
“That doesn’t matter. Take her by car and drive towards D.C. When you reach Silver Spring, call for directions.”
“That will put me near you by four-thirty or so. Up for an early breakfast? Nothing fancy. Some coffee and eggs. Wait. I just had breakfast an hour ago. Maybe we could order some lunch-type food. A hamburger and potato salad.”
“Listen, because this is important. You need to keep her within ten feet of you at all times, but do not allow her to get too close. Also, avoid any fluid contact—kissing, biting, maybe even scratching. And she’ll probably try.”
“Come on, N—” he began, then caught himself. He’d almost said her name. “What is this, sorority initiation night?”
“Just follow my instructions.”
“This is such bullshit. This is you and me, remember?”
“There is no you and me. There’s you and your employers. Follow my instructions.”
“Your instructions suck.”
Kowalski thumbed the cell off and realized how childish he’d sounded. Whatever. Maybe he’d get more answers out of Ms. White. She was looking more awake by the second. Probing him with her pretty, green, beady eyes.
“What?” he asked.
“Yeah, you’re him. I was wondering how long it would take you to show up.”
“You knew I was coming for you.”
“Hoping for it. For almost a week now. I’m surprised it took him this long.”
“Who?”
Kelly snorted air.
This was what Kowalski hated the most about his job. Sometimes, he felt like the ultimate insider, the man with his finger on the pulse. History’s triggerman, no footnote necessary. Other times, he felt like an anonymous guy in some felt-lined cubicle, pushing staples into pieces of paper typed in a foreign language. They could be documents vital to national security. Or they could be invoices for turkey clubs.
This felt like one of those turkey club moments. Complete with toothpick and olive.
The Blonde Page 8
