The other weapon is a.25-caliber Beretta. I have an ankle rig for it, but it fits nicely into the palm of my hand. I do not enter a convenience store without it palmed. I do not walk the streets without my finger on the trigger. When I drive, even through Center City, its weight is familiar on my right thigh. It is always within reach. It is part of me now. I am drinking too much. I am not sleeping. The alarm sounds at six. A shot before I can face the shower, the coffee, the mirror. No breakfast. Remember breakfast? Bagels and juice with Jimmy Valentine? Remember laughter?
All I want is one good night's sleep. I would trade everything I have for one night's sleep. I would trade my life for the sanctity of slumber, the sanction of rest.
Graciella mi amor. I have nothing. Not anymore.
I walk the Badlands, searching, dying, asking.
I am asking to be found.
Find me.
FIFTY
The rain came at midnight. At first it was an unrepentant downpour, thick bulbs of water smashing against the pavement, the buildings, the grateful city. In time, it relented. It was now a thin drizzle. The asphalt steamed. With the pitted road, the rusted and abandoned hulks of old vehicles, the flickering neon, it looked like an alien landscape. Traffic was light on Kensington, the few cars taking advantage of the free car wash, the removal of the dust of a hot, dry August. Five styles of rap pounded in the distance.
Jessica had read more than twenty of Eve Galvez's diary entries. She discovered early on in her reading that the files were not in any order. Eve as a child, Eve as an adult, Eve as a teenager. Jessica read them in the order in which they were scanned. There were still at least a hundred more.
Jessica's tears had come after reading just a few. She couldn't seem to stop herself. Eve was abused. Her father was monstrous. Eve was a runaway.
It was all a continuum of death-Monica Renzi, Caitlin O'Riordan, Katja Dovic, Eve Galvez.
Jessica stood in a doorway, surveyed the area. It was one of the worst parts of the city. Eve Galvez had walked these streets at night. Had she paid the price for it?
Jessica put the earbuds in her ears. She looked at the backlighted LCD screen, scrolled down, selected a song. The beat began to build. She felt the comforting weight of the Tomcat 32 in her pancake holster. Eve Galvez had carried two weapons. It was probably not a bad idea.
Jessica pulled up the hood on her rain slicker. She looked left, right. She was alone. For the moment.
Sophie, my love. Graciella, mi amor.
The music matched her heartbeat. She stepped out onto the sidewalk, and began to run. Into the Badlands.
FIFTY-ONE
The tenth floor of the Denison smelled like wet smoke, wet lumber, wet dog. Byrne was six bourbons into his plot, and should be home. He should be sleeping.
But here he was. At Laura Somerville's apartment. The walls in the hallway were still warm. The wallpaper was peeled and cracked, some of it charred.
He pulled out his knife, slit the seal on the door, picked the lock, and entered the apartment.
The odor of burned upholstery and paper was overwhelming. Byrne put his tie over his mouth and nose. He had an old friend, Bobby Dotrice, who had retired from the PFD fifteen years earlier, and Byrne would swear under oath that man still smelled like smoke. Bobby had all new clothes, a new car, a new wife, even a new house. It never left you.
Byrne wondered if he smelled like the dead.
Even though the tenants of the building had been reassured there was no structural damage, Byrne stepped lightly through the space, his Maglite bouncing on overturned tables, chairs, bookcases. He wondered what had done more damage, the fire or the fire brigade.
He stood before the partially opened bedroom door. It seemed a lifetime ago he had been there. He pushed into the bedroom.
The window had been boarded up. The mattress and box spring were gone, as was the dresser. He saw blackened Scrabble tiles all over the room.
He opened the closet. It was mostly untouched, except for the water damage. On one side was a canvas garment bag. Byrne unzipped it, peered inside. Old dresses. Very old, very theatrical. She — sees the countryside from a cracked and taped truck window… she knows…
Byrne shut his eyes to the pain in his head.
She knows…he looked at the top shelf. The strongbox was still there. He put his flashlight under his arm, took down the box. It was warm. There was no latch. The box was perfectly smooth. He shook it. Something shifted inside. It sounded like paper.
When Byrne left the apartment, just a few minutes later, he took the box with him. Out in the hallway he closed the door, reached into his pocket, took out a fresh police seal. He peeled off the back, smoothed it over the doorjamb, and pocketed the backing.
He drove back to South Philly. As he stepped onto the sidewalk in front of his apartment building his phone beeped. It was a text message. Before reading the message, Byrne looked at his watch. It was 2:45 AM. Just about the only person who sent him text messages was Colleen. But not in the middle of the night.
He retrieved the message, looked at the LCD screen.
It read: 9IOJHOME.
Byrne knew what it meant. It was a little-used code he had established a long time ago with Jessica. JHOME meant she was at her house; 910 meant that she needed him, but it was not an emergency.
That would be 911.
Byrne got back into his car and headed to the Northeast.
FIFTY-TWO
Swann awoke at 3 am. He could not sleep. It had been the same since he was a child. On the night before he and his father were to go on a tour, or even move between venues on a sunrise train, he found the anticipation to be overwhelming. Sleep would not find him. This would be such a day.
He showered and shaved, dressed casually-perhaps an engineer preparing a survey in some wooded expanse, perhaps a junior high school principal about to give a holiday speech.
He parked near Tacony Creek Park, in a small lot off Wyoming Avenue. They would be arriving at first light. Some may have even spent the night in the park.
He looked at the screen of his cell phone. It was dark. Lilly would call. He was sure of it. But still, he had to be prepared if she did not.
FIFTY-THREE
Jessica sat on her porch. behind her, every light in the house was blazing. The stereo inside blasted the Go- Gos.
