She looked so young! So beautiful! As he remembered her, only more so. She'd aged as did most truly beautiful women, in a way that made them look simply more the way they'd appeared as young girls, a way that preserved the magic.
The black magic.
Very much more themselves. Every artifice stripped away by time. Very much more themselves.
The ancient magic.
Mom.
Not in grimy jeans or a housedress with her hair a tangle. Not barefoot. Not bloody.
Not nude and bloody and screaming my name. Not dragging a black plastic trash bag across a wooden floor…thumping black trash bag. Reaching into it…into it…
Sam!
Oh, Christ! Sam!
'You gonna buy that or just memorize it?'
Jarred from the swamp of the past, the Butcher stared at the old man in the kiosk in a way that made the man blink behind his thick glasses and back up a step.
'They're for sale, you know,' he said in a more moderate tone.
The Butcher tucked the folded paper beneath his arm, then worked a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and stuffed it into the man's hand. He then picked up a Times and Daily News. They also made note of the fact that Mom was in New York. They also featured at least one photograph and promised more on the inside pages.
What was he feeling, staring at her Post photograph? He didn't understand. This beautiful woman who'd given him life…
Pride? An insane pride?
Hate?
Rage?
He turned away abruptly and strode toward the intersection, where it would be easiest to hail a cab. He needed to get back inside the protection of his four walls, safe inside the womb, to recline in his chair, almost in the fetal position, with a Jack Daniel's over ice, back to where he could read.
No, to where he could look at the photographs, stare at them, etch them with fire into his memory.
Mom…
'You want your change?'
He ignored the voice calling from the kiosk behind him.
Too late for change.
He understood now that he hadn't escaped the swamp. He never would.
He walked faster and faster, elbowing people out of his way, and finally broke into a run.
Quinn and Pearl were in room 624, two rooms down the hall from Myrna Kraft's. From there Quinn could observe the street and at the same time stay close to Myrna. Fedderman was outside running things at ground level according to Quinn's instructions. He was in an unmarked car, from time to time changing parking spots, while he kept in touch with Quinn or the undercover cop posing as a bellhop and hanging around the hotel entrance with the real bellhop. The undercover cop's name was Neeson and he hadn't liked climbing into a bellhop uniform. On the other hand, he'd garnered some tips just holding the door open for arriving and departing guests. The last time Fedderman had checked on him, Neeson said he was considering changing occupations.
The bearded homeless man across the street, seated on a folded blanket in the shadow of a building recess and holding a cup, was also NYPD undercover. Probably making a little extra money today, too, Fedderman thought, as he sat in the car half a block down and waited for the overheated engine to cool enough so he could restart it and turn the air conditioner back on.
Two more undercovers were in the lobby, looking like a tourist couple, and another-Officer Nancy Weaver- was hanging around Myrna's floor in a maid's uniform. Quinn had requested Weaver. Pearl thought it was maybe to aggravate her, Pearl, because of her short-lived affair with Jeb Kraft. He'd even mentioned he thought Weaver looked cute in her maid's outfit. Pearl told him Weaver should change linens and scrub toilets as part of her cover. (And maybe fasten another button on her maid uniform blouse.)
Fueled by three cups of coffee, Pearl was pacing, while Quinn sat in a comfortable chair he'd dragged across the carpet so he could sit by the window. A set of earphones was draped over the back of the desk chair. Myrna's room was bugged, but she was out now, probably shopping, and being tailed by the rest of the unit Renz had assigned the task of protecting her.
As Pearl paced, she thought she smelled stale tobacco smoke. Every hotel room she'd been in lately smelled as if someone had been smoking in it. Had New Yorkers been driven to skulk like addicts or adulterers and appease their filthy vice in hotel rooms?
'I'm sorry about that Weaver remark,' Quinn said. 'About her looking cute. I was trying to make you jealous.' He was addressing Pearl but continued gazing out the window as he talked.
'You only made it to annoyed,' Pearl said. 'Does it smell to you like somebody's been smoking in here?'
'No. You're always thinking you smell tobacco smoke where there is none.'
'Maybe I do smell smoke, and you can't because you've burned out your sense of smell with those illegal Cuban cigars you suck on.'
'You're testy. Is it the coffee?'
'It's you.'
'What you should do,' he said, 'is only have relationships with other cops.'
We're back on that, are we? 'I'm no longer a cop, except temporarily.'
'Bank guard, then. More or less the same thing.'
'No,' Pearl said. 'If I were a bank guard I wouldn't be here.'
Quinn continued to stare out the window, silently.
Pearl figured she'd better set things straight. It wasn't that she didn't feel something for Quinn. It was more that she knew something about herself. It wouldn't work for them.
Maybe nothing would work for her with anyone. It was easy to think that way after Jeb Jones-Kraft. Her psyche was still bruised and confused. She did know she could no longer trust her emotions. Build a wall around your heart…
'We're friends,' she said. 'Colleagues. That's all, Quinn.'
'I don't want to leave it at that. Not with you.'
If it was supposed to be a compliment, it hadn't worked. 'You've got a hell of a nerve,' Pearl said.
'I won't give up.'
'If you don't mind, I'd like to concentrate on the stalker outside the hotel.'
Quinn turned away from the window just long enough to smile at her. 'I meant I won't give up hope.'
'That's your concern,' Pearl said, 'and none of mine.'
'At this point,' Quinn said, 'I know you're not seeing anyone else.'
'Don't be so sure.'
He smiled again. Didn't turn his head, but she saw his cheek crinkle up just beneath the corner of his eye. She'd seen that enough times to know he was grinning. Anger rose in her.
'Milton Kahn,' she said venomously, as if casting a spell.
Quinn looked over at her curiously. 'Who?'
'Never mind. He's nobody you're ever going to meet.'
Me, either, with any luck.
'I happen to like my life the way it is,' Pearl said. 'Once I get back to the status quo.'
Did that lie even make sense?
Quinn was silent for a while. 'I don't think he'll come tonight,' he said. 'He's more the sort to take his time.'
Pearl knew he wasn't talking about Milton Kahn. 'He's also the sort to spring surprises. We seem to have everything taken into account, Quinn, but I still can't shake the notion that this killer might figure a way around us. You ever get that feeling about him?
'Yeah.'
Quinn's cell phone, lying on the windowsill, beeped the first few notes of 'Lara's Theme' before he snatched
