for a few seconds with pain. She saw in slow motion the killer conceal the knife again in his sweatshirt pocket and then pirouette like a ballet dancer toward the door.
Then he was out the door and into the hall.
Pearl crawled over to where Yancy lay on his back. His throat was sliced almost ear to ear. He was staring at the ceiling, making soft gurgling sounds and desperately feeling with his fingers the edges of the gash in his throat, as if trying to piece himself back together.
Pearl was sure he saw her and that he tried to say something, but he went silent, and the life in his eyes dimmed.
She heard herself whimpering. Her limbs wouldn't move as directed. She managed to stand up and take a few steps before stumbling. The room lurched, and she fell hard on the carpet, bumping an elbow. Fighting dizziness and nausea, she crawled the rest of the way toward her purse on the table. Like an infant who could walk some but still found crawling the easiest and most direct way to a destination.
She wanted her cell phone now, not her gun.
63
Quinn sat on the floor with her, holding her so close and tight that it hurt her ribs.
Pearl was infuriated because she couldn't control her sobbing. Each breath she drew caught in her throat and turned into a deep, wretched moan. Tears tracked down her cheeks so freely she could feel them spatter on her forearm. Grief was so real, like a horrid creature that had taken up residence inside her.
She couldn't help it; she dug her forehead into Quinn's shoulder and sobbed. Fedderman was somewhere nearby. The CSU techs were bustling around, and a couple of paramedics were waiting to remove the body. Remove Yancy. For now, everyone was giving Pearl and Quinn a wide berth.
'It'll be all right,' Quinn crooned to her, his huge right hand patting her back ever so gently. 'All right…all right…all right…'
'It won't be!' Pearl managed to blurt. 'Goddamn it, it'll never be all right!'
'Better, then,' Quinn said, not breaking the rhythm of his patting. 'It'll be better in a while. Better, Pearl…'
I'd settle for tolerable! Oh, God, just tolerable!
She sobbed for a while longer, as Quinn patted and crooned.
Finally, when she'd managed to calm down enough not to completely lose control if she attempted to speak, she told him what had happened. So much more than she'd said over the phone.
'That's all for now,' Quinn said softly when she was finished. 'You don't have to say anything more, Pearl.'
But the words, suddenly freed from her constricted throat, kept spilling out of her. 'Yancy came home early,' she said in someone else's voice. Grief was pulling her strings. 'Came home early and didn't know what he was walking into. Didn't know…'
Is this the new me? Forever?
'He came home early and saved your life,' Quinn said. 'He was a good man, Yancy. Worthy of you.'
'Oh, Quinn, damn it! Will you stop with the Hemingway bullshit? Yancy's dead. I want him alive!'
'We all do, dear, but that's impossible.'
God! Oh, Jesus!
She heard and felt Quinn sigh. The heft and heat of his body shifted. 'There's nothing I can say that will help enough, Pearl. We both know that.'
Pearl nodded and pushed away from him. He leaned toward her, and she felt him kiss her forehead, the furnace heat of his breath.
'But you helped,' she said. 'I'm grateful.'
She was speaking in her own, familiar voice now.
Quinn noticed the change, too. Her voice was so calm it was jarring. But it didn't surprise him.
He understood Pearl. She was in hell. She wouldn't burn for an eternity, but the embers would never really die.
Quinn looked at her seated next to him, so small, so crushed, and yet somehow more vivid than ever. It was as if she were lighted in some ghastly way from within.
He felt a chill and thought about pulling her close to him again, but he didn't. He knew what she was thinking. Knew the world she was in. In some ways they were like twins. He knew her reactions by blood and by brain. Knew her passions and obsessions.
If the Carver didn't have something from hell after him before, he did now.
The killer sat on the end of a bench in Washington Square Park, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed. His hands seemed to be steady enough except for the tips of his fingers, which were trembling.
It had been so close. All his planning, his reading of fate, and then a door opened and everything had spun out of control. It was frightening that this sort of thing could happen to him.
Of course, he knew that it happened to other people who made no mistakes.
They cross with the light and are struck and killed by a car. They get on a plane, and it reaches the end of the runway and rams into the ground. They take a bite of food they anticipate enjoying, and a heart attack kills them before they taste it.
That was the sort of thing that had almost happened to him. That, in fact had happened to the man whose throat he'd cut.
You open a door and step inside and you die.
Not that he could complain about his reaction to the intruder. He'd identified the new and unexpected threat immediately. Body obeyed mind. Blade obeyed body. So fast had he been moving that not a drop of blood had gotten on him.
He rocked back and forth for a moment on the bench.
Pearl. He'd so wanted Pearl.
She'd been concerned about her lover. So concerned with him that she hadn't given chase.
He knew that for a while, anyway, he'd have to leave Pearl alone. She and his other pursuers would be on their guard. Continuing to stalk Pearl wouldn't be smart. Besides, his failure to claim her as one of his victims would dull the pleasure of having her.
He found solace in the knowledge that the assault on Pearl hadn't been a complete failure.
If his pursuers' time and anxiety would now be wasted protecting Pearl instead of hunting him, that was fine. The attack on her had at least served a purpose.
The bench bounced slightly, jouncing him out of his thoughts. Its iron legs weren't resting on level ground, and someone had sat down on the opposite end and created the seesaw jolt.
He looked over and saw a small woman with dark hair and eyes. Her hands were working to open a white paper sack that was tightly wadded at the top. She was wearing jeans and a sleeveless pink T-shirt. Her arms were smooth and tan and strong looking. Her breasts were ample.
She got the sack open, dipped in a hand, and, with an arm motion as if she were sowing seeds, tossed an arc of popcorn out in front of the bench. Pigeons appeared immediately and began flapping and strutting about, pecking at the unexpected feast. The woman tossed out more popcorn, causing more pigeons to materialize. Feeding them seemed to please her immensely, judging by her smile.
Then she glanced over, and the smile was for him.
Something in his heart moved. The woman was not unlike Pearl.
Not unlike her at all.
He smiled back and introduced himself with the name he was now using. 'I'm Gerald Lone.'
She seemed a bit surprised by his impulsive introduction. After all, this was New York. He could see her appraising him. He might have been jogging in the park and was resting on the bench. He looked respectable enough. A handsome man (or so he saw himself) in a big and lonely city. This was the way lives casually
