one to bring this fugitive in yourself,’ she said. ‘Or … taking whatever alternative action you deem appropriate.’
‘Why?’ I seemed to be reduced to speaking in monosyllables, but it was the best I could manage.
Gleason found a rough edge on her thumbnail and frowned over it, as she said casually, ‘Because you caught the man who killed his son.’
‘That was something of a team effort.’
She shrugged. ‘He still reckons he owes you, for some reason,’ she said. ‘Take some advice – if a billionaire reckons he owes you, don’t argue. I think Mrs Willner may have put a word in for you, too.’
She reached into the seat pocket in front of her and pulled out a plain manila packet, handed it across. It weighed heavy in my hand.
‘The intel reports are all in there – I’d burn the whole lot when you’re done, if I were you,’ Gleason said, conspiratorial. ‘Mr Eisenberg’s private jet is waiting on you. The pilot has a take-off slot booked in about an hour, and a flight plan to the West Coast has already been filed.’ She paused, her tone blandly conversational now. ‘By coincidence, that would take you right over Nebraska. I’m sure no one would object to an unscheduled stop.’
I was silent, staring at the unopened packet in my hand. A real Pandora’s box. What would be let loose if I opened it?
For what seemed like a long time, I sat there and thought about actions and consequences, about scars and grief, about justice and death.
Gleason was looking out of the car window, her head turned away as if to give me privacy. Her body was relaxed, belying the importance of this decision. The thick-necked driver continued to circle aimlessly through the busy streets. The rain continued to fall.
Eventually, I glanced across. Gleason must have caught the movement reflected in the glass, because she turned back to me, nothing but polite enquiry in her face.
‘I’ve always wanted a ride in a new Lear 85,’ I said gravely.
Only then did she allow herself a smile, as if she’d won some small internal bet, but she didn’t make the mistake of allowing satisfaction to creep into her voice. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘It’s a very nice airplane.’
CHAPTER SIXTY
Omaha was deceptively warm. I sat under the awning outside a small delicatessen in the historic Old Market district, drinking espresso and watching a lazy afternoon fade towards evening amid the old brick warehouse buildings and chic boutiques.
I’d been in Nebraska for two days and been pleasantly surprised by the place. It was an area of the States I’d never visited before, and seemed to be somewhere even Americans flew right over on their way from one coast to the other.
It was a good place to disappear.
As soon as I’d made my decision back in New York, Gleason had taken me to Eisenberg’s private plane, with only a brief stop-off at the apartment so I could throw some clothes into an overnight bag. I’d hurried through packing, as though I knew I’d change my mind if given more time to think things through.
Before I left, I’d carefully locked my SIG away in the gun safe in the bedroom – a precaution against being tempted to use it. Almost as an afterthought, I’d placed my cellphone alongside it, but first I’d sent Parker a short text message, telling him I was taking a few days’ personal time, that I’d be in touch, and not to worry about me. I shut the phone off and locked it away before he had chance to send a reply.
Leaving that behind was a harder decision than the gun. I was torn between not wanting to be out of touch in case anything drastic happened regarding Sean, and not wanting to be easily tracked. In the end, head won over heart.
When I’d landed in Omaha, there was a nondescript Ford Taurus waiting for me, rented by one of Eisenberg’s myriad companies, and an open-ended room booked at the Embassy Suites on 10th and Jackson. The hotel had a convention of some description going on over the weekend and was crowded enough that I could move through the public areas with a comfortable degree of anonymity.
There were even ponds full of giant koi in the lobby to further distract people’s attention. I restrained myself from snapping at a group of little brats who were taking great delight in dropping coins onto the fish, watched with apparent indulgence by their parents. With some regret, I decided that slapping their legs for them – adults as well as children – would not help me maintain my desired low profile.
I had performed countless counter-surveillance routines since my arrival, but as far as I could tell, nobody was following me or taking undue interest. I spent most of my time on foot. The Taurus had not moved from the hotel parking garage since I’d checked in.
This evening, I’d been out for early sushi at a place called Blue. I’d always been wary of eating raw fish so far from an ocean, but it was some of the best I’d tasted outside Tokyo. Afterwards, I’d queued for specialty ice cream at Ted & Wally’s, a short walk away, and now I was finishing off with coffee at a third stop. It was a good way to keep a casual eye on the area while I watched and waited.
Gleason’s intel packet had given me the approximate location where there had been sightings of my quarry. It was a relatively compact area of boutique stores and restaurants, and it wasn’t hard to keep an eye on the main drag.
I sat with my back to the building, soaking up the last of the late sun, relaxed. A guy tried to join me, his smile ingratiating and hopeful as he indicated the empty chair opposite. I shook my head.
‘Sorry,’ I said cheerfully, putting on an all-purpose American accent, ‘but I’m just waiting for my boyfriend to finish up teaching his karate class.’
His smile froze a little and he edged away with a muttered apology. I watched him take an inside table in the back, far enough away that he could not be easily pointed out to my mythical boyfriend, when he finally turned up.
My thoughts turned logically to Sean, who’d never been the jealous type, at least not as far as other men were concerned. He had too much in-built self-assurance for that. But trust of all kinds had been a constant issue between us.
He’d felt the difference in our social backgrounds more keenly than I had, not helped by the fact that my parents had gone out of their way to make him aware of it. They had never approved of our relationship and at one point they’d tried actively to drive us apart. They had very nearly succeeded.
And now there was Parker to worry about. An added complication I could do without. When I’d checked my email on the computer in the business centre at the hotel before I’d come out, I found half a dozen messages from him, the subject line of each growing in anxiety. The last one was headed ‘CONTACT ME – URGENT!’
But knowing that Parker – or Bill Rendelson – would probably be able to trace my location if I opened it, I hadn’t done so. I hadn’t opened any of them. I would not lie to Parker about where I was or what I was doing, but that meant not contacting him or he would know, instinctively. It seemed, on some level or another, he knew already.
Unless, of course, he was trying to get in touch to tell me something had happened to Sean. Because, if I didn’t know, maybe I could put off the awful truth for a little while longer.
A horse-drawn carriage rolled past, strangely silent on the brick street. When I looked, I found the horse was wearing clip-on rubber boots to muffle its tread. With the music and chatter going on around me, I wondered who had objected to the gentle clop of hooves.
A fragment of an old WH Auden poem slipped into my mind, something about silencing pianos and keeping the dog from barking with a juicy bone. About believing love would last for ever.
About being wrong.
I took a breath, lifted my chin and stared at the couple taking a ride in the carriage. They were leaning together, heads touching, hands entwined. I looked away sharply, watched the steady nodding motion of the horse instead.
I would miss Geronimo and my morning rides on the beach with Dina, I realised. Maybe she wouldn’t mind if I joined her every once in a while – just until she went to Europe at the end of the summer.
She had finally decided to make her peace with her father, she’d told me. I wondered how Caroline Willner really felt about that. After all, the main reason she had been so keen to get her daughter away from Long Island was to prevent her becoming the fifth victim. Her fears had been both realised and neutralised. But Dina seemed
