Two Nights

by Kathy Reichs

  “I do know things.” Clawing free of her blanket cocoon. “Not the things you were asking, but other things. And I’ll remember more. When I’m not tired. Not scared.”

  “You scare her,” Gus said.

  “I don’t like her.”

  “You said that.”

  “I told you Bronco was planning something. And I told you about Landmine. And Lew. And Tibby Icard.”

  “She did,” Gus said.

  “You can’t leave me here.” Eyes on Gus.

  “Yes we can,” I said.

  “Noooo!”

  “Why not?”

  “Bronco will—”

  “Bronco will be in Louisville.”

  “There are others. He’s not really—”

  I cut her off. “Give me something I can use.”

  A beat, then, “Bronco got tickets from some guy in New York. Two-day passes. Pricey seats.”

  “Where are they?” Gus asked.

  “The tickets?”

  “The seats.”

  Kerr didn’t answer.

  “The bitch would say anything to save her ass.” Tightening my grip on the Glock.

  “It’s true,” Kerr wailed. She was definitely a wailer.

  “What’s the guy’s name?”

  “I’ll think of it. Chuck. No. Chip. No—”

  “Give it a rest.”

  Kerr’s mouth opened, but I scowled it shut. “Once more. Tell me what you know about Stella Bright.”

  “I don’t know who she is.” The intensity of the denial sent her eyes skidding.

  “Don’t screw with me!”

  “Maybe I heard the name, all right? But I never met her.”

  “Heard the name where?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Where?” Dragon fire.

  “Chicago. Maybe L.A. I’m not sure. It was ages ago.”

  “Fucking hell!”

  Deep inhalation. Settle down.

  Could Kerr help find Stella? Maybe, maybe not. But what the hell, it was Drucker’s dime. If there was one chance in a billion, I wanted her close. Under my control. But why did she want to stay with us?

  Not optimistic, I got online to book travel. Yep. The whole world was going to Louisville. Using an airline industry search engine, I finally found a 2:12 P.M. flight on American with one open seat, another at 4:57 with two seats in first class. Grateful for what were probably cancellations, I grabbed them.

  “I’ll get my stuff.” I held out my hand.

  Gus gave his Glock to me.

  When I returned, both guns disassembled and packed with my few belongings, Gus and Kerr were ready. Her eyes tracked me like one of those trick paintings that appear to follow your every move. I didn’t ask what he’d told her.

  We took a taxi to Union Station. As we walked around, killing time, Kerr kept stopping to hike the waistband or reroll the cuffs of the jeans. Spotting a women’s apparel shop, I told her to choose something fast. Kerr flipped through a rack, disappeared behind a curtain, came out wearing baggy black pants. Wordlessly, she handed me my jeans. I paid, hoping she’d also been wearing my undies.

  Another taxi took us to terminal A at DCA. We made the long trek to the American counter and got our boarding passes. I checked my bag. After clearing security, Gus and Kerr headed off in search of a restaurant.

  It was standing room only at my gate. I stood. The flight boarded fifteen minutes late. My seat was in the middle of row eighteen. The aisle and window were occupied by blond belles wearing the full line of some designer’s makeup. I wondered where they’d stowed their bonnets. Or if they’d shipped them ahead by ground.

  Two hours after takeoff we touched down at SDF, Louisville International. I collected my luggage and went in search of a rental car. Forty minutes in line brought me to a frazzled-looking clerk at the Hertz counter. Another thirty and he’d managed to locate a red Nissan Maxima in some outer reach of the galaxy. Another twenty and I was finally behind the wheel. Or Susan Bullock was. By then it made sense to wait for Gus and Kerr.

  Just before seven, my mobile vibrated. I checked the little screen, then answered, puzzled. Listened. Gave noncommittal responses. After disconnecting, the moths were jitterbugging in my chest.

  Gus called ten minutes later. I told him what to look for, then drove from the cellphone lot to the arrivals area. A distance of meters that took a quarter of an hour.

  Gus put his bag in the trunk, Kerr in back, got in next to me.

  “Nice color,” he said. “Shows restraint.”

  “My options were limited.”

  “Where to?”

  “While waiting for the car I managed to find a room.”

  “I note your use of the singular.”

  “This place is a zoo. We’re lucky to have that.”

  After exiting the airport, I followed signs to the Kentucky Exposition Center. Opposite the center’s main gate, I hung a left on Phillips Lane, then a right on Crittenden. In less than a mile, the Four Points Sheraton appeared on our left. I pulled in.

  “You sure this is necessary?” Gus, skeptical.

  “You want to put a bullet in Stella Bright’s head?” Too sharp.

  Gus looked at me with an expression I couldn’t decode. Did he think I was deluding myself? That Stella was dead?

  “Twenty minutes.” I got out and grabbed my bag. “In back.”

  Gus slid behind the wheel and roared off.

  I entered the hotel and asked for a room. No reservation? Barely hiding his amusement, the clerk explained that they’d been fully booked for months. Derby week, you know. Sad smile.

  I returned his smile. Silly me, what was I thinking? Then, wheeling my case behind me, I found a rear entrance and went back outside. Gus pulled up eight minutes later.

  “The Hilton Garden Inn,” I said. “Just past Central, on the right.”

  The hotel rose from a small island of green in a sea of black asphalt. Red brick walls, green roof and trim, covered drive-through, patios bounded by well-mannered hedges. It could have belonged to any of a dozen chains.

  Gus parked around to one side, got out, and collected both bags. I circled the hood and dropped into the driver’s seat. Kerr did nothing until Gus signaled her to join him. Together they rounded the corner to enter through the main door.

  I waited until my mobile buzzed.

  “Six twelve.”

  I disconnected. Checked Google. Put the car in gear and drove off. An hour and a half later I was back with peanut butter, bread, and a new burner phone.

  The room was clean, the décor unmemorable. The washcloths were pleated like little white tutus. Nice touch.

  Gus was on one bed, catching a basketball game. Kerr was on the other, doing nothing. She was good at it.

  We made sandwiches and ate in silence, Gus and I watching the hoops. Everyone was tired and hungry. At least I was. They’d probably munched and napped on the plane. When the game ended, Gus helped me drag a mattress off one of the beds. I tossed a blanket onto it and looked at Kerr.

  “I need to use the bathroom.” Sounding all of five.

  “Go,” I said.

  While Kerr was doing whatever toilette she could sans unguents and lotions, Gus and I discussed strategy.

  “Opaline Drucker called while I was waiting for your flight.”

  Gus’s brows floated up in question.

  “She wants to see me.”

  “In person?”

  “Yes.”

  “Think she plans to shut it down? You’ve delivered what she paid for.”

  “Not her granddaughter.”

  “Stella may be dead.”

  “It’s a possibility.” I didn’t believe it. “But Bronco ordered the Chicago bombing and he’s still out there.”

  “You agreed?”

  “Not yet. But I think I need to go.”

  “Work the old Sunnie charm?”

  “Something like that. We’ve got three days until the Derby, two until the Oaks.”

&nbs
p; “If a race is the target.”

  “Yes. How about I do a quick hop to Charleston. You stay here, get a feel for the layout.”

  “What about Kerr?”

  “Keep her with you.”

  “She and I just waltz into Churchill Downs?”

  “Let me work on that.”

  I moved to the bare box spring and, back against the headboard, opened my laptop. A six A.M. flight through Atlanta would get me to Charleston by 9:38. Returning, there wasn’t a seat to be had. I decided to worry about that later.

  Kerr emerged as I was closing the Mac. Her hair was center-parted and braided. She was wearing the new black pants and the tunic in which she’d been chained to my sink. The latter didn’t look good. Avoiding eye contact, she scurried to the floor mattress, dropped, and executed her cocoon maneuver.

  Another pity-hate moment. I shelved both feelings.

  After setting up the remaining motion detector, I phoned Gus so he’d have my new number, transferred everything from the old burner to the new, and blocked my caller ID. Then I dug a spare blanket from the closet and crossed to him.

  “I’ll leave my Glock with you.”

  “Yowza!” Dual-finger firing.

  “Catch a ride to the airport?”

  “When?”

  I told him, then pulled five twenties from my pocket and held them out. “Take Kerr shopping.”

  “Why?”

  “She needs things.”

  “Whatever. Drucker’s money.”

  I waggled the bills. “Make sure those things include panties.”

  “What? I should check?”

  “Your call.”

  Three Days

  She has no idea where they are. Has ridden in the back of a panel van, wedged among suitcases, boxed linens, and the cardboard cartons from the office baseboards. The hours of bumping and swaying have made her sick. She’s slept most of the way.

  It’s just past dawn when they arrive. The air is sticky warm and the hardwoods are in full leaf. The forest mix is different. She has studied her plant book. Can identify magnolia, sweet gum, and rhododendron. The pines seem to shoot straight up to the sun.

  She hears the trilling of mockingbirds. The peeping of frogs. A complex recital by some unseen rooster.

  The older ones go inside. Like ants, the younger ones begin hauling their possessions to the new nest.

  When the office boxes are directed to the basement, she volunteers. Four trips. On the fifth, she is alone. One by one, she rips the tape and peers inside. A lightning glance into each.

  Three of the boxes are filled with bundled cash. Lots of it. A fourth holds jewelry and a collection of mail bound with a rubber band.

  Footsteps continue to thunk overhead.

  She slips the envelopes from their binding and checks the front of each. All are addressed to a person she doesn’t know, sent to a street and city she’s never visited. Or has she? No letter is marked with a return address.

  She opens a flap. The envelope holds a single snapshot. A Polaroid. She slips it out.

  The image shocks her. The distorted mouth. The unseeing eyes. The flesh the color of bleached concrete.

  She recalls the Leader’s words. Imagines her own death portrait.

  She feels she is about to unravel.

  Heartbeat jamming her throat, she restores the terrifying photo to its place, sets her jaw, and turns all the breached tape to the wall. Adrenaline zinging, she hurries upstairs.

  It’s hard to get him aside. After their meeting in the clearing, he is dodging her again. In the late afternoon, she catches a break.

  She lays it all out. He listens, eyes wary, index finger worrying a temple. She is tired of his wariness. What more does he want? The invoices. The corpse. The constant talk of death. The Leader’s plan for her.

  They figure the jewelry was surrendered by newcomers, the required yielding of worldly possessions. Neither of them can explain why cash would be hidden in boxes.

  That night, lying in bed, she thinks she may truly be coming apart. But in some cool, undamaged recess of her brain, she is now certain. The Crossing is the product of an irrational mind.

  Her fingernails rake her skin, turning her forearms into a battleground of angry red streaks. The death of children cannot benefit the world. It’s all a monumental delusion.

  A delusion that she must prevent from happening.

  She pictures the dead woman. Was she a trial run? An impediment that had to be removed?

  She pictures her mother. It’s too late for Mama. But they must save themselves.

  The next night, the Leader’s rhetoric includes a terrifying new urgency.

  Our once-free lives cannot continue. I can no longer do my work. We have killed. We cannot turn back.

  The photo of the dead woman is passed around. When it reaches her, she shrinks from it, fearful lest such evil contaminate by touch.

  Our children will suffer. Only one option remains.

  Listening to the rant, she is certain they are all caught in a web of insanity.

  Out of choices. Out of time. Saturday night.

  The words jackknife into her chest.

  The Crossing is upon us.

  She has to stop the slaughter.

  They have to escape.

  It was pitch-dark at 4:30 in the morning in Louisville the first week of May. The streets were deserted.

  We were at SDF in a heartbeat. Gus dropped me with a mumbled comment I didn’t catch. Kerr remained an inert shadow in the backseat.

  Despite the upcoming equine lollapalooza, the airport was calm. At dawn, few people were leaving town. No one was arriving.

  We took off late, landed so late in Atlanta I missed my connection. The next flight with availability was at one P.M. Fuming, I accepted a boarding pass.

  I used the layover to phone Peter Crage at the mobile number on his card. He answered after seven rings, suggesting my call was probably kick-starting his day.

  “I’m en route Louisville to Charleston,” I said. “All four bombers are accounted for.”

  “I’ve been in communication with Layton Furr and the detectives in Chicago, so I’m aware of your progress. As is Mrs. Drucker. She was pleased to learn of the fourth. This encounter happened where?”

  “L.A.”

  “The gentleman is…?”

  “Dead.”

  “Assuming all is verified, you’ve completed your task and we can cut you a check quickly. I’m sorry. Did you say Louisville?”

  “Advise Drucker that I’m on my way.”

  “Of course.” Glacial. “May I have your number?”

  “No. I’ll call again when I land.”

  During the hours that I paced and checked and rechecked the board at Hartsfield, a mongo weather system rolled over the south. Lots of delays and cancellations, lots of dejected passengers standing in lines. My flight finally took off at 2:15.

  Bumping and rumbling at thirty-two thousand feet, I thought about Bronco, Selena, and Landmine. About the identity of Infidel567@gmail.com. Mostly, I thought about how to stop the bloodbath the bastards had planned.

  To keep myself sane, I ponied up for Gogo and did some research. I learned the following.

  The Kentucky Derby isn’t a single happening. It’s a bonnet, bow tie, and bourbon extravaganza spanning several days and many races. The Oaks is for three-year-old fillies and, that year, would be one of twelve races on Friday. The Derby is for three-year-old colts and fillies, though the girls rarely run. It would be one of thirteen races on Saturday.

  The Oaks boasts the fourth-highest attendance of any horse race on the planet, roughly 112,000. The Derby packs in closer to 170,000. Godolphin Thoroughbreds were entered in both.

  Would Bronco strike early, hoping for easier access, more maneuverability, better odds at slipping under the radar? Or would he wait for the main event, for what was labeled the greatest two minutes in sports? Would he hit when the carnage would be maximum and millions would be watching?r />
  Would Bronco target Godolphin specifically—the horses, the trainers, the jockeys, the owners? That might mean the stables, the paddock, the track itself. Or would he focus on the fans? That might mean the stands, the boxes and suites, the clubhouse, the infield. Would the sheikh host his party in an owner’s box?

  The more I considered, the more convinced I became. Bronco and his freak show wanted maximum media attention. The Derby was the perfect opportunity to deliver their message of hatred and fear.

  I debated contacting the Louisville cops. Heard that conversation in my head. Terrorists from Chicago are planning an attack on Churchill Downs? And you are? Sunday Night, a one-eyed ex-cop out of Charleston? The Jewish girls’ school was a miscalculation? The group is anti-Muslim and opposes Arab-owned horses at American tracks? Thanks for your concern, Miss Night. We are always on 100 percent alert at Derby time. Stay out of our way.

  Sounded wild, even to me. The cops were undoubtedly fielding dozens of crackpot tips. And they were stretched to the limit. I didn’t want to stay out of the way. No. Gus and I would do it ourselves. Which meant we needed tickets.

  Again and again, I thought about Stella. Was she huddled, alone and frightened, in some dark place? Was she broken, mind warped by abuse, isolation, and a constant onslaught of terrorist propaganda? Would she be in Louisville?

  Was she dead?

  As the wheels kissed the tarmac, I was already dialing.

  “Mrs. Drucker has sent a car,” Crage said. “She will receive you.”

  “Of course she will.”

  “You are a very confident woman, Ms. Night.”

  “Comes with the height.”

  After disconnecting, I phoned Gus.

  “How’s it going?”

  “You’re right,” he said. “She’s lousy company.”

  “I’ll be meeting with Drucker in about an hour. I’m hoping she has the grease to get us Derby passes.”

  “And the inclination.”

  “That’s where the charm comes in. In the meantime, you and Kerr scope out the track. Hang around, check entrances and exits, watch for Bronco and his pals.”

  “Got it.”

  “Watch for Stella. And be discreet. We don’t want to get her killed.”

  “Maybe I could score tickets from a scalper.”