Two Nights

by Kathy Reichs

“It be,” Gus said.

  I scoped out options. Irving Wine and Spirits sat diagonally across the intersection from Kerr’s building. Maybe Kerr’s building. At our backs were a Chinese restaurant called the Mayflower and another Latin eatery called Ercilia’s.

  “How about this?” I said. “You get a window table in Ercilia’s. Order. While you eat, I’ll rotate between the bank and the liquor store. When you finish, I’ll go into the Mayflower and have some lo mein. You move to the bus stop, then shift to the stretch of Mount Pleasant north of Irving.”

  “Why can’t I hang at the corner liquor store?”

  “Don’t force me to say something racist.”

  “That’s racist.”

  “We keep rotating, never going to the same place twice, never staying the same length of time. If Kerr comes out, one of us will have eyes on her right away.”

  “If she’s in there.”

  “If she’s in there.”

  “If she’s even in D.C.”

  “If she’s even in D.C.”

  “Take a peek inside the foyer?”

  “Don’t want to risk that yet. Maybe later.”

  “What if she makes us and slips out a back door?”

  “Good point. Revised plan. While you enjoy your tacos I’ll poke around the building, see if there’s a rear or side entrance. Then, depending on what I find, I’ll take up position at the bank or elsewhere.”

  “What if I spot her while you’re elsewhere?” What Gus was saying but not saying was he wanted backup.

  “If Kerr comes out and I can’t reach you or you can’t reach me, the tail stays with her, finds out where she’s going. Then we meet back at the hotel.”

  “Sounds solid.”

  I found a street-level entrance in back. The metal door was secured by a chain looping the handle and connecting to a bolt in the exterior wall. I guessed the improvised arrangement violated every fire reg in D.C. I also guessed the building’s residents had endured one break-in too many. Didn’t matter. Kerr wasn’t coming out that way.

  Gus and I tacked and jibed until midnight, then returned to the hotel. Uninterested in amenities, I showered in a bath two doors down from my room. It was clean and had a tub enclosed by a plastic curtain with black fish and bubbles in a rosy-pink sea.

  Five Days

  It hurts!

  It hurts!

  It hurts!

  Too much.

  She loses control and begs him to stop.

  A few seconds. A few more. The Leader lets go and steps back.

  Tears run down her cheeks. Her scalp aches where his grip has knotted her hair.

  An image slices through. A different face in the dark of the woods. A kind face. The memory triggers a tug in her gut.

  She hears the whisper of fabric. The Leader’s agitated breathing.

  She looks up.

  The Leader is watching her, smiling that hideous smile.

  I’m sorry, she says.

  You must prove yourself.

  How?

  She can’t imagine she hears him right. Stares, disbelieving.

  The Leader says it again, voice louder. A sheen of sweat now coats his forehead.

  She is not mistaken.

  Blood thuds in her ears.

  A sudden terrifying thought. This is all wrong.

  I can’t, she says.

  The Leader’s eyes go dark. His hands ball into fists.

  Blind with tears and terror, she backpedals away. He follows, close.

  Her shoulders slam a corner. She presses herself into it, cringes, waits for the blow.

  The Leader’s fingers wrap her throat. His thumbs dig into the hollow at its base.

  He says it again.

  He wants her to die.

  My alarm went off at six the next morning. Too early for our free breakfast, Gus and I got coffee and croissants at Flying Fish on Mount Pleasant, were circulating by seven.

  We spent our time shifting from one vantage point to another. Observing Kerr’s building. If it was Kerr’s building. Or Bronco’s. Or spearhead2021@yahoo.com’s. Or loyalc2020@aol.com’s. We stayed out of sight in case anyone was watching from a third-floor window. Difficult not knowing the exact location of the apartment.

  Mount Pleasant Street was relatively calm until mid-morning, busier throughout the rest of the day. The crowd seemed local and multiethnic. Diligent and conscientious. Lots of eco-friendly bags, dogs, long hair, Birkenstocks. D.C. cruisers patrolled frequently. No one hassled Gus or me. Kerr never appeared. Nor did Bronco.

  Throughout the long, tedious vigil, my heart beat a rhythm faster than normal. Stella sat center stage in my consciousness. Was I below her prison? Waiting to spot the monsters who held her? Who’d killed her?

  By evening I wanted to storm the place. As usual, Gus persuaded me of the folly in that.

  At eleven P.M. I was in the laundromat. A young woman with sallow skin and questionable hygiene was running three loads simultaneously. A cooking competition was playing on a small TV high up in one corner. She was watching, blowing bubbles that popped and clung like pink jellyfish to her face.

  The woman had sneakers in two machines, and the thrumming and banging had my already jangled nerves on edge. Not to mention the gum. I was also hungry, despite a day of boredom munching.

  I texted Gus, begging that we take action. He suggested we meet at a place called the Diner on 18th Street. It served late and was close to the Morgan Inn. Reluctantly I agreed.

  The Diner had outdoor seating under square blue umbrellas, at that hour folded and belted tight. Inside, booths ran along the left, tables filled the center, and a counter ran down the right side of the room. Tiny hexagon tiles formed black-and-white patterns on the floor.

  Gus and I chose a booth. A waiter appeared with water and menus.

  I ordered the grilled cheese and a Heineken. Gus went with the patty melt and a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.

  I watched the waiter retreat. He looked good in his jeans.

  Gus’s burger came with Swiss and sautéed onions. That seemed okay. On rye. That seemed wrong.

  I tried but couldn’t force myself to eat. Gus watched me lift the sandwich, replace it on the plate again and again. I waited for the lecture, but he said nothing.

  The waiter and his jeans took forever to deliver the bill. Bored, I played with my phone. Noted an anomaly that goosed my pulse.

  “The motion detector’s dead.”

  “Since when?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Batteries?”

  “I replaced them yesterday and checked to be sure the thing was working.”

  “Could be nothing.”

  “Right.”

  Gus slapped bills on the counter and we bolted.

  The nice old fella wasn’t working the desk. No one was. We flew past it and hit the stairs running. Stopped on the second landing, both breathing hard. Gus at my back, I craned around the corner.

  The hall was empty. The DO NOT DISTURB sign was hanging on my knob. The wood beside the lock appeared freshly gouged. A sliver of yellow oozed from below the door.

  “You leave a light on?” Gus whispered.

  I shook my head.

  We drew our guns and crept forward.

  Gus went shoulders-to-the-wall on the right. I went left. We both listened, breath suspended. The hotel was absolutely still. Too still?

  I leaned in and put my ear to the wood. Heard no muffled conversation. No running water. No squeaking floorboard.

  I turned to Gus. He tipped his free palm. Now what?

  I’d put in my time staking out hotel corridors. No way I’d do a repeat of my stint at the Ritz.

  I circled a finger in the air. Gus gave a thumbs-up. As I drew back, he stepped forward and dropped to a crouch, Glock double-fisted beside his nose.

  Staying to the side of the jamb, I inserted and turned the big brass key, twisted the knob, and pushed. The door swung inward. Gus remained low, knowing an assassin would expect a ve
rtical target and go for the kill shot—torso or head.

  “Jesus flipping Christ.” Gus rose slowly, Glock still aimed into the room.

  I peeled from my position to peer past him.

  The old wooden chair had been repositioned. Kerr was in it, ankles duct-taped to the front legs, wrists cuffed to pipes looping under the sink. She was gagged with a length of black and white fabric that looked like a scarf. The motion detector lay shattered at her feet.

  With the restricted movement her bindings allowed, Kerr had twisted her head toward the door. A red furrow on her forehead suggested hours facedown on the edge of the basin. Her eyes were wide and dark with terror.

  Kerr was wearing a long black skirt, a black tunic, and the newly repaired black boots. On seeing us, her lips flattened against her gums and a keening whimper escaped her throat.

  I circled Gus and entered, gun and gaze sweeping the room. He followed, mimicking my actions. I heard him kick the door closed with one foot.

  I checked under the bed. The room offered no other cover. No closet, no bath. The window was closed and latched. No figure lurked in the yard below.

  “Clear.” Holstering my Glock.

  Gus kept his weapon drawn and trained on Kerr. She was moaning and yanking the cuffs as high as they’d go, then letting them drop. Repeating the action again and again. Her wrists were bruised and abraded. I crossed to her but maintained a safe distance.

  “I’ll untie the gag,” I said. “But any loud noise or sudden move would be a bad idea.”

  Kerr moaned and overnodded. Air was moving in and out of her nostrils in short wet sniffles. Her cheeks were slick with tears and snot.

  Gus stepped to my side. I frisked Kerr. She didn’t object. I found no hidden weapon, and she wasn’t wired with explosives. I untied the knot and removed the scarf. It was soggy with drool and blood. I let it drop to the floor.

  “The caminet.” The corners of Kerr’s mouth were angry and raw. She was having trouble with consonants. “—lease.”

  The keys to the handcuffs lay on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet. Using a tissue from my pocket, I lifted them down.

  While freeing Kerr’s wrists, I noticed a dark flash on one of the bracelets. I straightened to inspect it. Black lettering, probably made with a Sharpie.

  “—lease.” If not hysterical, Kerr was close. “I’ve —een like this all day.”

  I handed the tissued cuffs to Gus and squatted to release Kerr’s ankles. A whiff of urine suggested she’d peed herself.

  “Don’t leave that chair.” Pointing a stern finger.

  Kerr brought her legs together and gingerly straightened her spine. I rose and turned to Gus, dreading.

  “Hurryhome407@gmail.com,” he read aloud.

  “It’s the Gmail account I set up before leaving Charleston.”

  “Check it,” he said.

  I did.

  The mailbox held a single message, from a sender whose username I hadn’t seen before. Included with it were seven attachments. I opened the email.

  It was unfortunate that our meeting ended so abruptly. Particularly for my colleague who is no longer with us. Were I at liberty to follow my own path, I would find and kill both you and your dark little partner. It would be challenging, but I would succeed. You are skilled, but not as skilled as I. Sadly, for the present, my mission demands my undivided attention. But who knows what the future will hold?

  I have sources. Through them, I have learned what it is you want. And, truth be told, I am disappointed to find your motivation so base. Money, the great corruptor. In the end, human nature is what it is.

  A price has been put on the head of each member of the Chicago team. To date, you have killed two. To save both of us time and energy, I am delivering the remaining individuals to you. One is my own personal gift. Credit for the other must go to a malignancy of the pancreas. These deaths should satisfy the requirements of your contract. I have left the young lady in your room as a bonus. Do with her what you will. She knows nothing, means nothing to me.

  I hope this will suffice. And that I can now continue my mission unmolested. Should that not be the case, consider yourself warned again. I have been merciful to this point but will not hesitate to carry through on my threats. I have retained my little “bargaining chip” for just such a possibility as this. Thus, in good faith, I include the final photo.

  Sorry about your little toy. Really. So amateur.

  — Bronco

  Barely breathing, I right-clicked to open the attachments. Each was a jpeg file. The images appeared one by one, unfurling slowly from the top to the bottom of the screen. The colors were vibrant, the details disturbingly sharp.

  The seventh photo froze my respiration altogether.

  “What?” Gus’s voice seemed to come from a long way off.

  Skin prickling, I displayed Bronco’s message, then held out the phone.

  Gus read. Kerr sat in her chair, shoulders slumped, gaze on the hands that had landed palms-up in her lap.

  “Dark little partner?” Brows floating as high as they’d go.

  “Jesus, Gus!”

  “That’s racist.”

  “Look at the pictures.”

  Gus scrolled. Then his eyes rolled to mine.

  “Sonofabitch,” he said.

  “Sonofabitch,” I said.

  The woman was sitting on a concrete floor in a corner, slumped like a rag doll against one wall. She was wearing a pink hoodie, black leggings, and pink high-top Chuck Taylors. Her jaw was slack, her legs extended, right knee twisted at an impossible angle. A sneaker lay upside down at her right hip. Propped on it was a copy of the Chicago Tribune, front page purposefully displayed.

  The woman’s forehead had a single hole directly above her nasal bridge. Blood darkened her face and hoodie. Gore spread from a point on the wall where her head had once been. A smear led down to where it had ended up.

  The woman’s expression showed nothing. No anger, no fear, no surprise that her life was about to end. I saw no signs of rigor or livor. Save for the bullet hole, the blood, and wrenched leg, the woman might have been sleeping. Deduction: The photo had been snapped immediately after she was shot. The newspaper documented the date on which that had occurred.

  I studied the lifeless face, the slim neck, the snarled hair. Had no doubt. The woman had been the front seat passenger in the Subaru Forester outside the Bnos Aliza School.

  The second image showed the woman lying prone. The hoodie was a war zone, the back of her skull a yawning cavern. I knew the missing bone and brain matter were the gore spraying the wall.

  The third picture was a close-up of the Tribune’s front page. The date roared up and slammed me like a fist to the chest. The woman had been killed the previous day. The day Gus and I arrived in D.C.

  Fingers ice, I scrolled to the next shot. Centered in it was a headstone. Inscribed in the rose granite was the name BRIAN LEE HARKESTER. Below the name were the dates 1973–2015. Beyond Harkester’s plot, I could see other graves, one with a tall monument sculpted in the shape of a vine-wrapped tree.

  The fifth photo captured a castle façade, the architectural style similar to that of the Chicago Water Tower. Chiseled above the drive-through entryway were the words ROSEHILL CEMETERY.

  Next was a head-and-shoulders portrait of a man in camo cap and fatigues. The camouflage pattern said he was army. A Velcro patch said his rank was sergeant. Another patch on his breast said his name was Harkester.

  Harkester’s brim was low and skimming his brows, his chin cocked with a defiance that also showed in his eyes. A line drizzled from the base of one ear onto his cheek. I stared at the scar, thinking of my own.

  The seventh image showed a girl with bound wrists and a leather belt wrapping her throat. Her head was tilted, her features half-hidden by tangled red hair. Still. I recognized the face.

  Hot lava was erupting in my chest.

  “I need to —ee.”

  The whiny voice broke through
. I looked up.

  I’d shown Gus the boardwalk photo of the Brights. His eyes told me he recognized Stella, too.

  “You don’t know when that picture was taken.” Understanding the fury short-circuiting my thinking. Talking me down. “It could be a bluff.”

  My mouth was a desert. I couldn’t speak.

  “Focus on the present.” Indicating Kerr. “What to do here?”

  My mind kept swapping Stella’s face with that of the woman in the hoodie.

  “Sunnie!” Sharp. “Breathe.”

  I did.

  “For now, let’s hold Kerr in my room,” Gus said.

  “Why?”

  “I have two beds.”

  “Why bother? Why don’t we just—”

  “She might prove to be our bargaining chip.”

  “He says he doesn’t want her.”

  “She knows them. She can help lead us to Stella.”

  Deep breath. Another.

  Of course Gus was right.

  I nodded. Wordlessly dug out spare jeans and panties, and slung my purse strap over my shoulder.

  “Move,” I said, leveling the Glock at Kerr.

  Gus’s room was one floor up. As we climbed, I noticed that Kerr was limping. Being shackled had taken a toll. Or maybe she was playing for sympathy. I didn’t care.

  When Gus’s door was closed, I handed Kerr the clothing. “We don’t want to smell your stinking pee.”

  She scuttled to the bathroom and locked herself in. I heard a flush, then the sound of running water.

  “The last two bombers?” Gus cocked his chin at my phone.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Think the pics are legit?”

  “I’ll run them by Capps. But, yeah. I do.”

  “Why give up Kerr?”

  “To make us go away.”

  “Risky,” Gus said. “Though he claims she knows nothing.”

  “Pol Pot claimed he was saving a culture.”

  “He’s threatening to kill Stella if we don’t back off.” A beat, then, “Why would they have kept her alive this long?”

  “Leverage. The man is an animal.” I heard the squeak of faucets, then the steady purr of a shower. “I’ll take first shift.”