and saw someone she recognized, even though she really didn't want to.
Because the someone was Vincent. And he was sitting in a booth with a woman.
A young woman.
Actually, a girl.
Jessica could only see the girl from the back, but that was enough. She had long blond hair, pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a leather jacket, motorcycle style. Jessica knew that badge bunnies came in all shapes, sizes, and colors.
And, obviously, ages.
For a brief moment, Jessica experienced that strange feeling you get like when you're in another city and you see someone you think you recognize. There's that flutter of familiarity, followed by the realization that what you're seeing can't be accurate, which, in this instance, translated as:
What the hell is my husband doing in a restaurant with a girl who looks about eighteen years old?
Without having to think, the answer came roaring into her head.
You son of a bitch.
Vincent saw Jessica, and his face told the story. Guilt, topped by embarrassment, with a side order of shit- eating grin.
Jessica took a deep breath, looked at the ground, then continued up the street. She was not going to be that stupid, crazed woman who confronts her husband and his mistress in a public place. No way.
Within seconds, Vincent burst through the door.
'Jess,'he said. 'Wait.'
Jessica stopped, trying to rein in her anger. Her anger would not hear it. It was a rabid, stampeding herd of emotion.
'Talk to me,' he said.
'Fuck you.'
'It's not what you think, Jess.'
She put her package on a bench, spun to face him. 'Gee. How did I know you were going to say that?' She looked at her husband, up and down. It always amazed her how different he could look, based on her feelings at any given moment. When they were happy, his bad-boy swagger and tough-guy posturing were so very sexy. When she was pissed, he looked like a thug, like some street-corner Goodfella wannabe she wanted to slap the cuffs on.
And, God save them both, this was about as pissed off as she'd ever been with him.
'I can explain,' he added.
'Explain? Like you explained Michelle Brown? I'm sorry, what was that, again? A little amateur gynecology in my bed?'
'Listen to me.'
Vincent grabbed Jessica by the arm and, for the first time since they had met, for the first time in their volatile, passionate love affair, it felt as if they were strangers, arguing on a street corner; the kind of couple who, when you are in love, you vow never to become.
'Don't,' she warned.
Vincent held on tighter. 'Jess.'
'Take… your fucking… hand… off me.' Jessica was not at all surprised to find that she had formed both of her hands into fists. The notion scared her a little, but not enough to unclench them. Would she lash out at him? She honestly didn't know.
Vincent stepped back, putting up his hands in surrender. The look on his face, at that moment, told Jessica that they just crossed a threshold and entered a shadowy territory from which they might never return.
But at the moment, that didn't matter.
All Jessica could see was a blond ponytail and the goofy smile Vincent had on his face when she caught him.
Jessica picked up her package, turned on her heels, and headed back to the Jeep. Fuck UPS, fuck the bank, fuck dinner. All she could think about was getting away from there.
She hopped in the Jeep, started it and jammed the pedal. She was almost hoping that some rookie patrolman was nearby to pull her over and try to give her some shit.
No luck. Never a cop around when you needed one.
Except the one she was married to.
Before she turned onto South Street she looked in the rearview mirror and saw Vincent still standing on the corner, hands in pockets, a receding, solitary silhouette against the red brick backdrop of Society Hill.
Receding, along with him, was her marriage.
54
WEDNESDAY, 7:15 PM
The night behind the duct tape was a Dali landscape, black velvet dunes rolling toward a far horizon. Occasionally, fingers of light crept through the bottom part of his visual plane, teasing him with the notion of safety.
His head ached. His limbs felt dead and useless. But that wasn't the worst of it. If the tape over his eyes was irritating, the tape over his mouth was maddening beyond discourse. For someone like Simon Close, the humiliation of being tied to a chair, bound with duct tape, and gagged with something that felt and tasted like an ancient tack rag finished a distant second to the frustration of not being able to talk. If he lost his words, he lost the battle. It had always been thus. As a small boy, in the Catholic home in Berwick, he had managed to talk his way out of nearly every scrape, every frightful jam.
Not this one.
He could barely make a sound.
The tape was wrapped tightly around his head, just above his ears, so he was able to hear.
How do I get out of this? Deep breath, Simon. Deep.
Crazily, he thought about the books and CDs he had acquired over the years, the ones dealing with meditation and yoga and the concepts of diaphragmatic breathing, the yogic techniques for fighting stress and anxiety. He had never read a single one, nor listened to more than a few minutes of the CDs. He had wanted a quick fix for his occasional panic attacks-the Xanax made him far too sluggish to think straight-but there was no quick fix to be found in yoga.
Now he wished he had stuck with it.
Save me, Deepak Chopra, he thought.
Help me, Dr. Weil.
Then he heard the door to his flat open behind him. He was back. The sound filled him with a sickening brew of hope and fear. He heard the footsteps approach from behind, felt the weight on the floorboards. He smelled something sweet, floral. Faint, but present. A young girl's perfume.
Suddenly, the tape was ripped from his eyes. The grease-fire pain made it feel as if his eyelids came off with it.
When his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw, on the coffee table in front of him, his Apple PowerBook, opened and displaying a graphic of The Report's current web page.
MONSTER STALKS PHILLY GIRLS!
Sentences and phrases were highlighted in red.
… depraved psychopath…
… deviant butcher of innocence…
Behind the laptop, on a tripod, sat Simon's digital camera. The camera was on and pointed right at him.
