mean anything.'
He glared at her, moving his head to keep his face in front of her eyes, so he looked like a snake maneuvering to strike. 'You're nothing. You understand? They give women like you some fancy title like you were hot shit, but you're nothing. The best you can hope for is to be a hostage, just a piece of meat for bait. Don't imagine you're some kind of player in this. It's between us and him. You're already dead, and I'm keeping you on life support for my own convenience until I decide to pull the plug.'
She lay still on the floor with the chair back under her, trying to avoid his eyes by closing hers, until he hit her again. 'Look at me!'
She opened her eyes and kept them open, hoping he wouldn't see that they were unfocused because looking at him terrified her. She was weak with fear. She felt that a horrible, sudden, and unexpected change had happened to her, and it made her ashamed and disgusted with herself. She had never imagined what this kind of fear was like, never had any way of picturing herself being so totally defeated. 'I understand,' she said. 'You're the boss. Whatever you say.'
His face compressed itself into a smirk. 'That's more like it.' He stood. 'Get up.'
With difficulty, she rolled to her side and pushed herself up. She saw a shiny six-inch pool of blood where her head had been and realized her hair was wet. She resisted reaching up to touch it because he might see that as a delay in her compliance with his order, or even a complaint, and he would punish her. The pain in her scalp was no worse than the pain in her jaw or her nose. She got to her knees and then picked up her chair and sat in it.
She brushed the tears out of her eyes and went back to clicking on each of the e-mail updates about the Butcher's Boy, reading through each one slowly, giving him time to satisfy himself that she wasn't tricking him. She didn't dare try a trick. She was afraid of tricks. She only wanted to be alive and keep her children alive. This man was a brute. If she didn't find what he wanted soon, he would kill them all. She felt his impatience, his anger, the growing dread behind it that he might be failing. She slowly came to feel that she understood him and that she could almost read his thoughts. He was nearly out of patience. He needed a clue. If he didn't have a clue soon, she would begin to hear the shouts of her children.
'I've got it,' she said. 'He's been seen in Philadelphia. I know where he's going. He'll be there tomorrow or the next day.'
33
Schaeffer's flight into Baltimore was six hours of sleep. He dreamed that, according to some new set of government rules that made sense in his dream, if he agreed to die voluntarily, he would be permitted to be alive again at a later, prearranged time. The problem was that to his dream self the offer sounded like a con. He was tempted to try it because if what the government said was true, it was the only way he could ever hope to see Meg again. He was trying to construct some test of the government's sincerity when the plane descended a few hundred feet and the change in pressure woke him.
He looked out the window at the grid of lights, the yellow street lamps and blue-white headlights stretching off into the distance and then stopping at the bright edge before the black ocean. The plane swung slowly around to face the west wind and then began its approach.
It occurred to him that he had passed into a new phase of his life now. A year or two ago, Meg had forced him to go to a church for one of the occasions that the local aristocrats were expected to attend. Since the church was the Church of England, it seemed perfectly safe to him. There were no Anglican Mafiosi. The church was in a village outside Bath, where it was unlikely an American visitor would show up. The priest gave a sermon about the 'end times' and what each Christian should expect. The term had stuck with him. These were his end times, the phase after the end of his world had begun but before his death. It was highly unlikely, for instance, that he would be alive in a week and almost impossible that he would last a month.
The bosses of the families had clearly figured out that he was going after all of them, and they had hired specialists to find and kill him. He had seen three specialists. It was possible that there were thirty more ranging the country and waiting for him in likely places, and when the news from Los Angeles spread, there could be sixty or seventy professional killers and hundreds of Mafia soldiers, all hunting for him.
Elizabeth Waring at the Justice Department would soon realize that while she was trying to interest him in being a stool pigeon, he had managed to keep his own schedule of kills going. When she did, her next move would probably be to have the FBI capture or kill him.
He would make the most of his final days. He would still follow the same strategy he'd devised in the beginning of this-kill the shooters and then go up the hierarchy like a ladder, killing the middlemen on the way up until he reached the boss who had sent the shooters.
The advantage he'd had on this visit to America was Elizabeth Waring. They had been using each other. He had given her a chance to solve two or three old gang murders. She had brought his knowledge of the Mafia up-to- date. It was as though without her, he was stuck in the distant past, knowing the enemies only as they'd been twenty years ago. Without him, she had to face bosses who exerted immense power, but did nothing illegal themselves. He had given her the crimes they'd committed before they got powerful.
He would use her again tonight. He couldn't avoid it. The two shooters in Los Angeles had seen him with her at her hotel. There was almost no chance that they hadn't found out which room was hers and what her name was. There were also soldiers from the Castiglione family who had seen her with him in Chicago. Now that he had dropped out of sight again, where were the shooters supposed to go to pick up his trail? They'd go to the place where she was. He was hunting them, so that's where he was going too. If he could make a few kills in Washington to get some of the pros out of the way, it might buy him more time to bag the boss in the next city. If he could get to Boston in the morning, he might be able to hit Providence the same night.
He waited at the baggage claim for his suitcase to come down the chute to the stainless steel carousel. Out of his customary caution he watched for people who looked familiar or who seemed to look past him at something else or watched him in the reflection on the big front windows. He hadn't spotted anyone who worried him before his suitcase slid down onto the carousel. He pulled the suitcase off, swung it to the floor, and extended the handle, then walked off with a purposeful stride. He boarded the shuttle to the car-rental center and settled into a seat facing the terminals.
He looked for the sort of man who might be trouble-a man watching for something to happen, waiting for someone to appear. It was the middle of the night, and the watchers stood out more than they did in the daytime. He saw three as the shuttle moved from one airline's area to another, but he couldn't tell who any of them were. They could have been working for the drug smuggling cartels, the police, federal agencies, foreign governments. It didn't matter, because they weren't interested in him tonight.
The bus left the airport, but he never relaxed his vigilance. After being away from the country for so long, and having returned during a prolonged national security crisis, he knew he no longer had an accurate idea of what sort of surveillance might be focused on people who arrived in the airports around Washington, D.C.
His shuttle reached the lot and he entered the rental center to find it almost deserted. He picked the counter where the night man looked the least exhausted, rented a car with his Charles Ackerman identification and credit card, then drove toward McLean, Virginia. There were a lot of big hotels at Tysons Corners-Westin, Hilton, Marriott, Sheraton-and it was just a couple of miles along Dolley Madison Boulevard to McLean. He pulled into the driveway at the Hilton, left his car with a parking attendant, and said he'd be out in a few minutes.
He went inside and checked in, then took his small suitcase up to his room. He intended to go out tonight to take a quick look around Elizabeth Waring's neighborhood for signs that shooters might have already arrived. He knew that precautions might not be necessary, but he took them anyway. He unpacked his suitcase, took out the external computer drive that held the parts of his gun, and used the small screwdriver he'd packed with it to take off the black housing. He retrieved the parts of his Kel-Tec PF-9 pistol and reassembled them. He loaded the magazine with seven nine-millimeter rounds, inserted it, and put the small, flat gun in his right coat pocket, then shrugged his shoulders to make the coat hang right. He could feel the pistol against his right wrist, where he could reach it in a second. He put his lock-blade knife in his pocket.
He went out to the valet parking attendant to claim his car and drove out to the boulevard toward McLean. He had studied the neighborhood twice before. The first time had been ten years ago, when he had first become
