For a full-bodied gal, she had the tiniest, most weightless lingerie-
Vicki was stalling, he realized. She was shuffling a few papers, staring at her terminal with frightened eyes.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. The screen’s frozen. It’ll clear.”
The cops by the ATM were looking his way, talking into their radios.
Will snatched up his IDs from the counter. “Vicki, let’s finish this up later. I’ve got to hit the restroom.”
“But…”
He sprinted. The cops were a good sixty yards away and the floors were slippery. He had a quick shot straight out the door to the curb, and he was out of the building in three seconds. He didn’t look back. His only chance was to move and think faster than the cops following him. A black Town Car was dropping off a passenger. The driver was about to pull away when Will opened the back door and plunged through it, tossing his travel bag onto the seat.
“Hey! I can’t pick up here!” The driver was in his sixties with a Russian accent.
“It’s okay!” Will said. “I’m a federal agent.” He flashed his badge. “Drive. Please.”
The driver grumbled in Russian but smoothly accelerated. Will pretended to search through his bag, a ruse to lower his head. He heard shouts in the distance. Had they made him? Did they get the tag number? His heart was pounding.
“I could get fired,” the driver said.
“I’m sorry. I’m on a case.”
“FBI?” the Russian asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I got son in Afghanistan, where you want to go?”
Will quickly ran through scenarios. “Marine Air Terminal.”
“Only other side of airport?”
“You’re a great help. Yeah, only there.” He switched off his mobile phone and tossed it in his bag, swapping it for the bulkier prepaid.
The driver wouldn’t take any money. Will got out and looked around: moment of truth. Everything looked normal, no blue lights, no pursuers. He immediately joined the short taxi rank in front of the terminal and hopped into a yellow cab. When it drove off he used his prepaid phone to call Nancy and fill her in. The two of them urgently hatched a small plan.
He figured they’d be motivated and resourced, so he had to put on a good effort, multiple transfers, zigzags. He had the first taxi drop him off on Queens Boulevard, where he stopped at a Chase Bank and withdrew a few grand in cash from his account and hailed another cab. The next stop was 125th Street in Manhattan, where he boarded a Metro North commuter to White Plains.
It was early afternoon and he was hungry. The rain had stopped and the air was fresher and more breathable than earlier. The sky was brightening and his bag wasn’t heavy so he set off on foot in search of food. He found a small Italian restaurant on Mamaroneck Avenue and holed up at a table away from the window for a languorous three-course time-killer. He stopped himself from ordering a third beer and switched to soda for his main course of lasagna. When he was done he paid in cash, let his belt out a notch and walked into the sunshine.
The public library was nearby. It was a grand municipal building, some architect’s concept of neoclassical design. He checked his bag at the front desk, but because there was no metal detector, he kept his weapon in its shoulder holster and found a quiet spot at a long table at the far end of the air-conditioned central reading room.
He suddenly felt conspicuous. Of the two dozen people in the room, he was the only one wearing a suit and the only one with a clean table space. The large room was library quiet, with an occasional cough and the scuff of a chair leg on the floor. He removed his tie, stuffed it into a jacket pocket, and set off to find a book to kill the time.
He wasn’t much of a reader and he wasn’t sure he remembered the last time he wandered the stacks of a library-probably at college, probably chasing a girl rather than a book. Despite the drama of the day, he was postprandial and drowsy and his legs were heavy. He weaved through claustrophobic rows of tall metal bookcases and inhaled the stale cardboard smell. Thousands of book titles blurred into one another and his brain started getting fuzzy. He had an overwhelming desire to curl up in a dark corner and take a nap, and was on the brink of going fully numb when he snapped back to alertness.
He was being watched.
He sensed it first, then heard footsteps, to his left in a parallel row. He turned in time to see a heel disappearing at the end of the stacks. He touched his holster through his jacket then hurried to the end of his row and made two quick rights. The row was empty. He listened, thought he heard something farther along, and crept quietly in that direction, another two rows toward the center of the room. When he wheeled round the corner, he saw a man scuttling away from him. “Hey!” he called out.
The man stopped and turned. He was obese, with an unruly speckled black beard, and was dressed as if it were winter, in hiking boots, a moth-holed sweater, and a parka. His upper cheeks were pocked and irritated and his nose was bulbous and textured like an orange peel. He had wire-rim glasses with a thrift-shop pedigree. Even though he was in his fifties, he had the petulance of a child caught doing something wrong.
Will approached him cautiously. “Were you following me?”
“No.”
“I think you were.”
“I was following you,” he admitted.
Will relaxed. The man wasn’t a threat. He pegged him as a schizophrenic, nonviolent, controlled. “Why were you following me?”
“To help you find a book.” There was no modulation. Every word had the same tone and emphasis as the last, each one delivered with complete earnestness.
“Well, friend, I can use the help. I’m not big on libraries.”
The man smiled and showed a mouthful of bad teeth. “I love the library.”
“Okay, you can help me find a book. My name is Will.”
“I’m Donny.”
“Hello, Donny. You lead, I’ll follow.”
Donny joyfully hurried through the stacks like a rat who had mastered a maze. He led Will to a corner then down two flights of stairs to a basement floor where he burrowed deeply into the new level with a sense of purpose. They passed a library assistant, an older woman pushing a cart of books, who smiled slyly, pleased that Donny had found a willing playmate.
“You must have a really good book for me, Donny,” Will called out to him.
“I got a really good book for you.”
With plenty of time on his hands, Will found the escapade diverting. The man he was chasing had all the hallmarks of chronic schizophrenia with maybe a touch of retardation thrown in, and by the look of him, was on big- time meds. Deep in a library subbasement, he was in Donny’s house playing Donny’s game, but he didn’t mind.
Finally, Donny stopped midway down an aisle and reached over his head for a large book with a worn cover. He needed both sweaty hands to wriggle it free before offering it to Will.
The Holy Bible.
“The Bible?” Will said with a fair bit of surprise. “I’ve got to tell you, Donny, I’m not much of a Bible reader. You read the Bible?”
Donny looked down at his boots and shook his head. “I don’t read it.”
“But you think I should?”
“You should read it.”
“Any other books I ought to be reading?”
“Yes. One other book.”
He scooted off again, Will following, lugging the eight-pound Bible under his arm, pushed up against his holstered gun. His mother, a meek Baptist who endured his son of a bitch father for thirty-seven years, read the
