Silent Treatment

behind him, actually managing a smile at the new definition of 'policelock.'

Now, she sat back and watched reruns ofthe interviews with MMC officials, nurses, police, the electrician victimizedby the gunman, and Max Garabedian. The only news was the old news that thebogus Garabedian had been neither apprehended nor identified, but thatfingerprints lifted from the hospital room were being analyzed.

Go Ray, she silently cheered.

She was pleased that at no time during thedifficult, stressful night had she felt the urge to drink. But she also knewthat she needed to sleep. She set the alarm for 8:30, turned off the ringer onall the phones in the apartment, and positioned the answering machine not farfrom her head. If Harry did call with a change of plans, she at least wanted achance to hear his message. Finally, she picked up one of the phones.

'You guys get some rest,' she said. Thenshe slammed the receiver back down.

At eight A.M., a message from the producerof Inside Edition worked its way into her consciousness. He waspromising Harry enough money to hire a first-class defense team in exchange foran exclusive on his story. She showered, made some coffee, and glanced out thewindow. Cloudy, but no rain. C.C.'s Cellar wasn't all that far from the co-op,but she wanted to allow an hour to get there. She would take a cab across townand down to somewhere near the UN. Then she would cut back by foot to a subwaystation. Then another cab and perhaps a trip through a store with multipleexits. And finally, a third cab to within a block or two of the club. It seemedto her that in a place as crowded as Manhattan, with subways and so many storesto duck into, it shouldn't be that hard to ensure that she wasn't beingfollowed.

She dressed in jeans, sneakers, and aplaid button-down shirt, and then selected a deep cloth bag from a collectionof them in Evie's closet. She dropped in her wallet, the dark wig she had wornin the hospital, and a white shirt in case she needed to change her look. Then,just in case, she threw in a shirt, jeans, and sneakers for Harry. It wasdoubtful he was going to be returning to the apartment in any hurry. Therevolver she kept strapped in front of her in her leather fanny pack. Thesecurity of having it at hand felt greater than the fear of being arrested forcarrying an unlicensed handgun.

She took the stairs down six flights,startling Rocky Martino when she came through the stairway door behind him. Hebolted to his feet and stepped back, but not before Maura caught a strong whiffof alcohol. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands slightly tremulous, but hemade a laudable stab at decorum.

'Miss Hughes, you gave me a bit of afright,' he said, moistening his lips with his tongue. 'What can I do for you?'

Maura wondered how many times she had doneas ineffectual job at covering up her intoxication as Rocky was doing, all thewhile thinking, as he probably was, that she was pulling it off.

'Could you please call me a cab?' shesaid, fumbling through the bag for her wallet.

'Yes, ma'am,' Martino said. 'No problem.Any word from Dr. Corbett?'

'No, Rocky. Nothing.'

'Well, my fingers are crossed that he'sokay.'

He stepped back from the desk. Withexaggerated broad-based steps, he shuffled outside and waved up the street.Moments later, a cab pulled up. Maura handed Rocky a one, hesitated, and thengave him a five as well.

'Take a break and have breakfast on me,Rocky,' she said.

He jammed the bills in his pants.

'Oh, I will, ma'am. I will.'

Something about his smile made Maura feeluneasy. She hurried past him into the cab.

'The UN,' she ordered, immediately lookingbehind them as they pulled away. 'I'll tell you how I want you to go. Don'tworry if it's not the most direct way. I'll pay.'

The cabby nodded.

If there was someone following them, theywere damn good. Within a block, Maura was convinced that the street behind themwas clear. It was possible that someone was driving in front of them with aradio, but she could take care of that soon enough. They passed a newsstand.She could see Harry's photo on every front page. Hey, read all about it!Doctor Death Strikes Again! There was nothing the least bit witty orromantic or adventurous about any of this anymore. For a time last night,perched in that tree by the landfill, thinking everything was about to work outfor them, she had felt like Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief or AudreyHepburn in Charade. This morning she felt deflated, exhausted, andfrightened. She tried to imagine how Harry had felt when he lifted up the trunkof his car.

They were on Broadway now, heading south.She counted off three more blocks.

'Turn right here,' she ordered. The cabcontinued going straight. She rapped on the Plexiglas shield. 'Hey, I said,turn right here.'

The cab made a sharp left, heading for thepark. Halfway down the block, it began to slow. Maura stopped pounding on thePlexiglas. Desperately, she tried to figure out what was happening. She thoughtabout the gun in the pack strapped around her waist, but she sensed that whatshe needed was just to get the hell out of this cab. She reached for the doorjust as the electronic locks snapped open. The cab was still rolling. Suddenly,her door was snatched open. A man jumped in almost on top of her. He was agiant, perhaps six-six, and broad across the shoulders. He shoved her asidewith one hand as if she were a doll. Her head struck the window, just behind herhealed incision. Without a word of instruction, the driver accelerated, cuttingback west, toward the Hudson.

Maura recognized the behemoth immediately.He was Perchek's thug — the survivor from the pack. Snarling, she leapt at him,pounding at his face with her right hand as she tried to unzip the fanny packwith her left. Her first blow, with her fist, caught him on the bone just abovehis eye. He cried out, pawing at it with one hand, lashing out at her with theother. She ducked under his first blow and felt her hand inside the pack closeon the grip of the revolver. In one motion, she pulled it out, jammed themuzzle into his ribs, and fired.

Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. Theone chance she might have had was gone. The killer snatched the gun away andslapped her viciously across the face. Her lip split and tore against herteeth. Her head snapped back against the window. Then she pitched face-forwardalmost on to his lap.

'Safety, safety,' he teased, his voicesurprisingly high-pitched. 'We mustn't try to shoot our little gun until werelease the safety.'

He grabbed her by the neck and pulled herupright. She spit at him, spattering his shirt and face with blood. He wipedoff his cheek with the back of his hand, slowly, furiously. And then he hit heragain, as forcefully as the first time. Now, she was limp. He pushed her downto her knees and roughly pressed her face on to the seat.

'We're looking for your pal Corbett,' hesaid.

'I don't know,' Maura managed. Her facewas throbbing and his grip on her neck was hurting as well. But she wasdetermined not to give him the pleasure of making her cry. 'I don't know wherehe is or even if he's alive.'

The killer pulled Harry's shirt out of herbag. He jerked her face up to show her.

'Sure you don't,' he said.

'Even if I did know where he was, I'dnever tell you.'

He pressed her face back into the seat.

'The Doctor will be pleased to hear that,'he said.

The most sought-after fugitive in New Yorkcarefully maneuvered the huge Winnebago Luxor through the streets of Manhattan,trying not to attract any unnecessary attention. He was sticking as much aspossible to the broad, north-south avenues, terrified of turning on to acrosstown street that was narrowed with trucks or construction. Spending mostof his life in the city, where his car often remained in the parking garage forweeks at a time, his driving was rusty. Backing up the BMW often presented achallenge. Backing the motor home out of a narrow city street lined on bothsides with cars would be potential disaster. His picture was all over theplace. A fender bender, a cop, an arrest. It would probably be that simple.

It was ten minutes of ten. Harry waseasing his way down Columbus Avenue, trying to time it so that he turned on toFifty-sixth at exactly ten. Once he had Maura, they could get out of the cityand find a place to stop and sort things out. There were those who knew, or atleast believed, he was innocent — Maura, Tom Hughes, Mary Tobin, KevinLoomis, Steve Josephson, Doug Atwater, Julia Ransome, Phil, Gail. Harry glanceddown at the console-mounted clipboard and the pad on which he was writing downthe names, and added Ray Santana to the list. He had a number of friends, workassociates, and even patients who would be hard-pressed ever to believe he wascapable of any crime, let alone murder. But the question was who