pop up later, guaranteed, trying to put a bullet in your back. But on the other hand, I couldn’t tell how she would respond to seeing me do it. If she panicked I wouldn’t be able to take her with me. She’d been upstairs. She might be useful. And if I had to leave her behind, I couldn’t see her getting out on her own.
That wasn’t really a problem. I’d only just met her. It was too soon to say I really liked her. But this whole thing had started because I’d tried to help someone. The old tramp in the alley. Or the agent, as he’d turned out to be. I was too late then, but there was still a chance with Julianne. I didn’t want to walk away without at least telling myself I’d given it a decent shot.
I took a careful look at her. She was trembling. Her breathing was fast and shallow. I decided I couldn’t take the risk. She was too close to hysteria already.
“Kill him?” I said, sliding my hands smoothly around to find his carotid artery. “Are you joking? I’m doing first aid. I’ve got to check his pulse. And breathing. Make sure he’s not hurt.”
I got off the driver’s back, picked his keys up off the floor, and opened Julianne’s door. She took two quick steps back. Her arms were out as if to fend me off and her hands and fingers were rigid. I went back to the bodies. She stayed in the cage.
“We need to search them,” I said. “Come and give me a hand.”
I rolled the driver onto his back.
She didn’t move.
“We need a knife,” I said. “Or scissors. Something sharp. To get these ties off our wrists.”
She came to the cage door.
“We haven’t got long,” I said. “Someone will come looking, soon.”
“What do you want me to do?” she said.
“Start with him,” I said, nodding toward the driver. If she was hesitant already, seeing the passenger’s blood wasn’t going to encourage her any. “Turn out his pockets. Put the stuff in a pile on the floor. I’ll do the same with the other guy.”
She came out and moved cautiously away from the cage. She knelt down next to the driver, stretched out her hands, and touched him delicately on the hip. Her hands hovered there for a moment and then slid slowly toward his pants pocket, but as her fingertips reached the opening she snatched them back as if she’d been stung.
“Can’t do it,” she said. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t feel right.”
“You can,” I said. “One pocket at a time. Pants and jacket. Just stick your hand in, grab whatever’s there, and pull it out.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she had another try.
The passenger’s pockets were disappointing. Apart from three cable ties and $400 in notes there was nothing I could use. Julianne had similar luck with the driver, except that he only had $260 in his wallet.
Neither had anything with a blade.
“Not very impressive,” I said. “Put the average ten-year-old to shame, where I grew up. But never mind. We’ll find something upstairs. We’ll start with the kitchen. There are bound to be knives in there.”
“Good thinking,” she said. “Let’s go. I know the way.”
“Hold on. I need to put these guys where they won’t cause trouble. We’ll use the cages.”
The driver’s legs were blocking the door to the cage I’d been in so I grabbed his pants at the ankles and heaved them to the side, out of the way. His body bowed awkwardly from the waist, but his jacket didn’t follow the curve. It didn’t fold properly. There was still something inside it. I looked at Julianne. She looked away.
“Well?” I said.
“Well, what?” she said.
“I told you to look in his jacket.”
“I did. I thought I’d got everything.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Don’t start. I never wanted to search him, anyway. That was your genius idea. So if I missed something, big deal.”
“Unless it’s a knife…”
I checked his pockets again, myself. All were empty except the one inside his jacket. It held a brown envelope. It was folded over in both directions to form a little package, about two inches by three and a half. I unwrapped it. It was A5 size, unsealed, with no name or address. There was no marking of any kind.
“What’s inside?” Julianne said, curious now.
I opened the envelope and shook the contents into my hand. It was a Social Security card. About a hundred years old, judging by the creases and stains. It was hard to read. I could just about make out a name-Charles Paul Bromley-and a number, 812-67-7478.
“What do you make of it?” I said. “Does it look normal?”
“Well, yeah, pretty much,” Julianne said. “But I wonder why he kept it in an envelope, not his wallet? Seems a bit unusual.”
I wrapped the card up and put it back in the driver’s pocket.
“Maybe it wasn’t his,” I said, thinking of the one in Agent Raab’s jacket. “We’ll figure it out later. No time now.”
Julianne halfheartedly guided the driver’s feet while I dragged him into the cage, attached his wrist to the back wall with a cable tie, and went back for the passenger. I put him in Julianne’s cage and secured him to the side wall, well out of the driver’s reach.
“Happy now?” Julianne said. “Can we go?”
I took the padlock from Julianne’s cage and fixed it onto my door.
“What are you fiddling around with now?” she said.
I picked up the other padlock and hooked it onto Julianne’s door.
“You’ve already beaten the crap out of them and tied them to the walls,” she said. “Who do you think they are? A pair of Houdinis? Let’s just get out of here before someone comes.”
I locked the padlocks and tossed the keys into an open box on one of the shelves. It wasn’t a perfect solution-those guys were still breathing-but at least it would slow them down. And sometimes, you just have to go with what you’ve got.
Julianne went up the stairs like a greyhound out of a trap. She didn’t waste any time in the hallway, either. It was a spacious, rectangular area with tall white walls, quarry tiles on the floor, and a dramatic angled ceiling above a galleried landing. There were two internal doors to our left, an external door on the far side-I could see bushes and a brick path through a window-and a wide arch in front of us leading to a formal living room with two low white sofas, several abstract paintings on the walls, and a variety of tall bookcases overflowing with hardbacks.
Julianne ignored all these and headed through another, narrower archway to our right. It led to a combined kitchen/family room. The center of the space was taken up with a large blue L-shaped sofa and a glass coffee table on wheels. It sat on a rug with a Picasso-style design woven into it, and was piled high with all kinds of magazines and catalogues. Fashion, design, music, cars, art, you name it. A long bookcase ran all along one wall-hardbacks at the bottom, paperbacks at the top, except for one section that held five small trophies. Next to that was an elaborate wood-burning stove, and in the far corner there was another doorway. I couldn’t see where it led.
The kitchen was separated by a peninsular unit that housed some cupboards and a dishwasher. The worktop was black granite, immaculate, uncluttered by kettles or toasters or other utensils. The sink was under a small window that looked onto a screened porch. It was empty. There was another archway in the wall to the left leading to a dining room, as well as some more units and a gas cook top. Next to the cook top was a wooden block holding five steel-handled chef’s knives.
“Grab one of those,” I said. “The center one.”
“A knife?” Julianne said, disappearing through the archway. “Scissors would be better. There must be more cutlery somewhere. I’ll check through here.”
I had no idea what she was thinking, turning her nose up at a chance like that, but there wasn’t time to argue. I put the driver’s gun down and took out the knife. It was solid and heavy with a gleaming five-inch Sheffield steel blade. There were five drawers under the cook top. I opened the top one a couple of inches and wedged the knife inside, sharp side up. But before I could get enough pressure on the blade to cut the tie, I heard footsteps from the dining room.
Two sets.
