Two Nights

by Kathy Reichs

  “I doubt she has a choice.”

  Silence in the booth. Garlic.

  “That’s why you’ve agreed to look for her,” Gus said softly.

  “It is.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “You’re here because of my irresistible charm.”

  “And because I’m a silver-tongued devil.”

  I rolled my eyes. But it was true. Where I’m all bluster and sharp edges, Gus has a calming demeanor that draws people to him. You know the type. The guy who’s listening only to you.

  “Drucker knows our story,” Gus guessed. “That’s how she persuaded you to take the case.”

  “She’s a sly old crone.”

  “How’d she connect?”

  “Through Beau. I’m assuming there’s history there.”

  Gus performed a meaningful lift of both brows. Which wrinkled his forehead. Which sent his scalp-buzzed hairline sliding north. I raised mine back.

  Another hiatus as we both chewed on the past, the present. The known and unknown. The possibilities.

  “Where does John Scranton fit in?” Gus, always pragmatic.

  “No idea.”

  “Besides the passports, some toiletries, and clothes, Kerr’s apartment held nothing personal?”

  “Just the laptop,” I said. “Which was purged regularly. She saves few documents, erases her browser history following each online session, deletes her emails right after she reads them.”

  “And uses burner phones.”

  “She does.”

  “Any pics?”

  “No.”

  “Anything to suggest Stella had ever been there? Any link to her at all?”

  “No.”

  Gus finished his food, dabbed his mouth, and leaned back, wineglass elegantly balanced in one hand.

  “So far you’ve seen Kerr with no one other than the figure by the underpass. And there’s been no further attempt to contact you.”

  “Correct.”

  “She aware you broke into her place?”

  “I was careful.”

  “Maybe she should know.”

  “What if they’re serious about burning Stella?”

  “The note wasn’t specific.”

  “Who else could they mean?”

  “You want to keep watching Kerr.”

  I nodded.

  “And you want me to cover your back while you do that.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Kerr the woman in the SUV?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “You’re hoping she’ll lead you to the kid.”

  “And the bombers.”

  “Say she does. What will you do with them?”

  “Hand the pricks over to Capps and Clegg.”

  “They may dislike being handed.”

  “They may.”

  “They may resist.”

  “They may.”

  “And if they do?”

  “My twin brother will have my back.”

  Eight Days

  She has made a decision. She will find proof. More than just overheard words.

  That night the Leader takes her into the office, a dingy room off the kitchen furnished with nothing but a folding chair and gray metal desk. Cardboard boxes line the baseboards, dumped upon arrival and never opened.

  He smells of male sweat. His face is arranged in the way that says he is anxious.

  She knows the Testing will be bad. It is. Two hours of kneeling. He uses random tools from the kitchen drawers. A potato peeler. A fire starter. Skewers meant for kebabs.

  The pain is so intense she can’t escape to the canvas she’s prepared in her head. She focuses instead on the boxes. Each is labeled only with the logo of the product it once held. Del Monte sweet peas. Alpha-Bits. Nestlé Quik.

  She clamps her teeth. Composes a silent mantra.

  Sweet. Bits. Quik.

  Sweet. Bits. Quik.

  Sweet. Bits. Quik.

  At two she is set free.

  Though the house is quiet, she waits a full hour. Counts it out, sixty times sixty. Adds another ten sixties for safety.

  She lifts the covers and eases from bed. Another woman is sleeping in the room. She doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know what name the woman is using.

  She stands in the dark, heart going ninety.

  The woman snores softly.

  She’s tested the floor. Avoids the boards she’s learned will creak. Feels like she’s known these details forever.

  Millimeter by millimeter, she turns the knob, cracks the door, and slips out into the hall. Pauses. Creeps to the stairs and scuttles down.

  Luck is with her. Or fate. Or God. Though she wants no part of deities now. The night is moonless and the house is dark as a crypt.

  This time she has a backup plan. If caught she will say she’s had a nightmare and has come for milk.

  She starts in the office. Rock salt still litters the floor, the white scatter darkened in patches with her blood.

  She searches the desk. Finds only the routine: tablets, paper clips, pencil sharpener, pens. One glove in a bottom drawer. Nothing threatening. Nothing to explain how the upcoming horror will unfold.

  She views the boxes. Each is sealed with tape that has discolored and begun to split. If peeled back it will never restick. She has no idea how to open them without leaving evidence of tampering.

  She moves through the pantry. The kitchen. The dining room. The house seethes with quiet. With a darkness composed of black and pockets of denser black. She strains to see but dares not turn on a light.

  She fears the Leader won’t believe her story. Knows it won’t matter. He will use the infraction as an excuse to torture her. She is certain now. He enjoys witnessing her agony.

  She’s in the parlor when a tiny noise slips into a gap between the heartbeats in her ears.

  Riff!

  Every hair goes upright on the back of her neck.

  Her head whips toward the sound. She sees nothing.

  Her eyes sweep the room. The old green lounger hulks in the gloom, a throne facing wooden chairs arranged like benches in a Roman coliseum. A satchel slumps abandoned beside it.

  She knows the satchel. Knows its owner.

  She moves to the bag and picks it up. The leather smells of hair oil and palm sweat. She takes it to a small end table that has a lamp. She risks the light. Pulls the zipper. The whrrp is like a scream in the stillness.

  Boxes of Remington bullets. Multicolored pages tucked to one side. She tugs the papers free and, fingers trembling, rifles through them.

  Order forms, invoices, receipts. She strains to read the print, makes out little but headers. One company name turns her gut to ice.

  She skims the invoice. Another. A third.

  The ice sends tentacles slithering through her core.

  She knows how the tragedy will unfold.

  We followed Kerr all the next day. She bought groceries, visited the Dancing Dolphin, dropped the black boots off for repair, had lunch at a vegetarian sandwich shop. She met with no one. No one joined her at the apartment. A singularly solitary existence, with no hint as to how she supported herself.

  As I trailed Kerr, Gus floated around behind, ahead, or across the street. His outfit was more innocuous, less country club chic. He had a Luger .22. I didn’t ask how he got it.

  We saw no one from the surveillance video. No one with a double-J tattoo. No one with a Beretta bulge in one pocket.

  Late in the day, Capps called to report that John Scranton was out. We didn’t see Scranton, either.

  By dusk I was radioactive, my thoughts jumping in a thousand directions at once. I suggested that we grab Kerr and beat the truth out of her. Gus talked me down.

  At our final rendezvous Gus told me to act sane for once in my life, his exact words, and stay at the Ritz. Reminded me about the “having my back” thing. About the Luger.

  Reluctantly, I agreed. His room was on nineteen, five floors below mine. I had the motion detecto
r and the Glock. My shoulder was healing well and no one had tried to kill me of late. And hotel hopping was getting old.

  That night, Gus and I had dinner in my suite. Gyros from the food court. Heineken from the minibar. Kerr was asleep on Argyle. Or walking around in the black boots with their brand-new heels.

  “They may be lying low,” I said.

  “You think?”

  “They don’t appear to be watching me.” Ignoring Gus’s sarcasm.

  “You shot one of them and maimed another.”

  “Scranton isn’t maimed.”

  “He won’t be playing mandolin for a while.”

  “You may be right,” I said. “They may be wary.”

  “Wary? They’re scared shitless.”

  “If there is a ‘they.’ ” Hooking finger quotes. “And ‘they’ are the ‘they’ who bombed Bnos Aliza.”

  “Right.”

  We both focused on spiced meat, tzatziki, and pita. Gus got us two more Heinekens from the fridge.

  “You think Kerr knows I’m spying on her?” I asked after a long pull of beer. It could have been colder.

  “I think she’s clueless.”

  “They could have checked to see if I’m still registered here. You know, phoned and asked to be connected to my room, asked to leave a message, something like that.”

  “Have you had any hang-up calls?”

  I shook my head. “But until you arrived, I was rarely in the suite, never at night.”

  “Okay. Say there is a ‘they.’ Say they’re still in Chicago, maybe even planning another attack. They know you haven’t left town. They’ve gone to ground until you do. I’m talking worst-case scenario.”

  “Or best.” I flicked Groucho brows.

  Maybe it was the beer. Or the long day of tedium. When Gus spoke again his words were fringed with something close to anger.

  “Beau’s right, you know. That make-my-day attitude is going to get you killed.”

  “Or paid.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Not intended to be.” It was.

  A few seconds of twisting silence. Then, “Don’t underestimate these people, Sunnie. They want you dead.”

  “So have others.”

  “Because you provoke it.”

  “I should do what? Sit on my ass and get this kid killed? Hasn’t our ineptness caused enough death?”

  “We didn’t know.”

  “We should have.” Sharp. So much history clashing over the same issue.

  “There are others who can find her.”

  “Really? Then why haven’t they?”

  “Stella may be dead,” Gus said quietly.

  “Or she may be alive and taking hits with a rubber hose.”

  Gus’s eyes bored into mine, dark and clouded with frustration. I held his gaze. He looked away first, dipped his chin, and put his index finger to his right temple. The familiar little gesture went straight to my heart.

  Wordlessly, Gus bunched and shoved his wrapper into the bag. I added mine. He raised his empty bottle. I nodded. He got two more Heinekens and handed one to me.

  “After these it’s Bud,” he said.

  “As I told Opaline. The job is rife with hardship.”

  Gus stretched out on the sofa and crossed his ankles. When he spoke again it was as though the timeworn quarrel had not resurfaced.

  “This is their turf. They could wait you out a very long time.”

  “They could. Or they could send me Stella’s ear in a box.” The image kept my stomach in a rock-hard knot. Still, the current course of action was getting us nowhere.

  “I say we goose Kerr,” Gus said.

  “I like it.” I did. Action. “We spook Kerr, she bolts, we follow to see where she goes.”

  “Maybe she leads us to ‘they,’ ” Gus said.

  “Maybe.”

  Maybe she’d lead us to Stella’s bullet-riddled corpse.

  —

  Overnight, a new front barreled into the heartland. The morning dawned clear and sunny. Temperatures were predicted to leap into the fifties.

  I dressed in jeans and boots. Added the Charleston jacket and the Glock. Shades, no wig. Ready for combat, I descended to the Starbucks on level two.

  Gus was drinking a latte and eating a muffin that looked like compacted weeds. I got coffee and joined him. We went over our plan. Then we rode the Red Line north and walked to Argyle.

  I sat in the courtyard. Gus went somewhere. Kerr came out at 12:40 with a large tote hanging from one shoulder. She walked west toward Clark. I crossed the street and broke into her apartment.

  This time my approach was different. I was tidy but left a few hints to suggest she’d had company. A rug corner kicked back. An improperly closed drawer. Signs of a careful but sloppy intruder.

  I noted that the laptop was gone from the desk. Thus the tote? I didn’t take time to ponder the significance. I was in and out in about six minutes.

  My time in the military scored me training in surveillance, tracking, intel gathering. Sergeant Edwin A. Maddux was my first recon instructor. Sadistic little prick, constantly berating our mistakes and cussing us out. But a hell of a spy. Legend had it Maddux could materialize up your butt and you’d never see him coming. Never learned what the A stood for. Maybe asshole.

  I thought of Maddux. Asked myself, What moves would he scorn?

  Kerr returned at 2:15. I was across the street, half-hidden by a tree, but in her sight line as she walked east. Gus was somewhere behind her.

  As Kerr drew near, I turned my face and pretended to fumble in my purse. I wanted her to see me but couldn’t overplay my part.

  If she noticed me, she gave no indication. When she’d entered her building, I moved from the tree to the courtyard. I stood behind the fountain, didn’t sit on the bench, considered using the old newspaper ruse. Decided that would definitely classify as overacting.

  I wondered if the staged B&E would work. If Kerr would be smart enough or observant enough to pick up on the clues. If so, would the ploy spook her?

  No need to wonder long. Minutes after Kerr went through the door, a drape flicked in the bay. And I was worrying about Hollywood clichés?

  I was behind the fountain, face discreetly pointed down. I stepped into the open, turned toward Kerr’s building, and looked up at her second-floor window. Old Sol was shining with gusto. No way she couldn’t spot a six-foot redhead with a scar crawling one eye. And recognize me.

  Kerr had reason to worry. Or Latourneau. At least one of the passports in her possession was a fake, probably stolen and doctored. Forgery of a passport could get her up to fifteen years in a federal prison, maybe a quarter-million-dollar fine. If a prosecutor really wanted to play hardball, a zillion other statutes cover counterfeiting and identity theft.

  But phony passports weren’t enough. I didn’t want just Kerr. I wanted the cold-blooded bastards who’d blown up a school and yanked a kid from her life. Maybe killed her. Maybe imprisoned her to suit their purpose. Kerr was my bait. They were my prey.

  The curtain fell back into place. Time passed.

  I knew Kerr was in there weighing her options. Which were few. Sit tight. Rally the troops. Run.

  For the next two hours I shifted from the courtyard to the tree and back. Kerr stayed in her apartment and watched me do it. In between curtain peeks, I suspected she was making calls, sending emails, firing off texts.

  Maybe there was no one else out there. Maybe, as Gus said, I’d scared them shitless. Maybe Scranton and the guy at the morgue were all the muscle they had. Maybe they were cutting Kerr loose. Maybe Kerr had arranged a meeting place elsewhere.

  Maybe they were dumping Stella’s body into Lake Michigan. Whatever the explanation, no one showed up.

  Kerr should have stayed put. Either she couldn’t bear the stress of waiting or she didn’t know that. She chose option three.

  At 4:25 she came out the front door wearing black pants, a black lightweight jacket, the Sox cap, and shades.
The tote was on her shoulder. A large floral duffel was in her right hand.

  I was at the tree. She passed me, walking west on Argyle, carefully avoiding eye contact. I fell in behind her, far enough back to be believable, close enough to allow her to be aware of my presence.

  I thought of the sarge. Asked myself, What would Maddux disparage?

  For forty minutes I tailed Kerr as she traversed Chicago’s near North Side. West to Clark, north to Foster, east to Broadway, then south, making pointless diversions onto smaller side streets. Always, she could see me behind her.

  At Gunnison and Marine, Kerr ducked into the main entrance of the Chicago Lakeshore Hospital. I stuck with her through the crowded lobby and back out a side door. Everywhere she went, there I was.

  Throughout our travels I spotted Gus only once, at a covered bus stop across the street from the hospital. I was pleased with his look. Tan cargo pants, black windbreaker, no hint of the Luger. Did little to settle my nerves.

  At Lawrence and Ravenswood, Kerr climbed the stairs to an “L” station on the CTA Brown Line. I held back, for effect, then followed.

  A dozen people were on the platform, taking various approaches to waiting. Some were reading, either newspapers or books. A few wore headphones or earbuds and were grooving to their own personal concerts. Most were looking at or speaking on cellphones, or thumbing in emails or texts. One old guy was preaching loudly about Jesus. Or talking to him.

  I positioned myself at the far end of those gathered. Kept my face averted. Two minutes after our arrival, the train clanked and whooshed into the station.

  Kerr got on and stood just inside the door. I got on one car away and did the same. At the last second, as the doors were closing, Kerr hopped off. I watched her go.

  Kerr raced down the stairs leading from the platform. As the train pulled out high above, I caught a flash of her floral duffel on the sidewalk below. Gus was behind her, a grin curling his lips.

  One Week

  She stares at her bowl, stomach curdled with shame.

  Not shame.

  Fear.

  The Leader notices her untouched food. Admonishes her. They must be strong.

  She takes a spoonful. The oatmeal is a cold gelatinous glob in her mouth. She swallows. Feels the glob rise into her throat.