the big ad agencies. He’s single, 27, looks a little like Matt Damon. I pulled this photo off the agency’s Web site.” She tugged a folded page out of the stack, pointed the flashlight at it. The man didn’t look like Matt Damon to me, but what the hell.
“Seems like a genuinely nice guy when you talk to him. But forget that. The crucial point is that this past weekend he was in Las Vegas at something called the ‘iMedia Brand Summit.’ I don’t think he flew an extra ten hours back and forth to come back here and kill Dorrie.”
Probably not. Brian Vincent was also the one who’d sent Dorrie that e-mail to check up on her after seeing the story in the paper. He’d sounded genuinely surprised, even concerned. No, I could believe this wasn’t the man who’d killed her.
“What about the other three?”
“I only heard back from one. Our Civil War general, Robert Lee.”
“And?”
“Couple of e-mails back and forth. He’s scared. Scared to meet, scared not to meet. I’m guessing he’s married, thinks I’m going to blackmail him. I’m playing it innocent. Meanwhile I sent him some photos to bait the hook.”
“Photos?”
“Just some shots I grabbed off Voyeurweb,” she said. “Some girl with big tits. No one can resist big tits.” Maybe I just imagined it, but I thought I heard a catch in her voice. When she’d been in the hospital, they’d removed her implants, one of which had been slashed in the attack. I’d thought she looked better afterwards but she’d been self-conscious. It’s one of the things we’d disagreed about.
“I’ll get him,” she said. “He’s starting to come around. Maybe even tomorrow. I’ll try. But John...do you really think it’s smart for you to wait—”
“Don’t, Susan,” I said. “Don’t. I need to do this. When it’s done, I’ll turn myself in, I promise. But I’ve got to do this first.”
She looked at me, and in the dark I couldn’t make out her expression. She didn’t say anything. Then she leaned in and kissed me, softly, on the side of my mouth. Not quite on my lips. Not quite not.
“The shaved head,” she said. “I wouldn’t have recognized you.”
“That’s the idea,” I said.
She nodded.
“I’ve got to go, Susan.”
We stood up. I handed her her handbag.
“Don’t get yourself killed, John.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Where are you going to go now?”
“Better if you don’t know,” I said.
“You could stay with me,” she said. “The police have already been over. They’re not going to come back tonight. At least you can take a shower, shave, eat something—”
I shook my head.
“Why, John?”
I ignored the question. “Tomorrow,” I said. “We’ll need to get together again. I need to know what you find out.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Susan, please. It’s very important.” I thought for a second. “You know the place we used to go, in the Ramble? Where the big boulder is? Meet me there at—” I thought about where I was going to be tomorrow morning, how long it would take to get back. “At two. Okay?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Tomorrow at two. No matter what happens in the meantime. Please, Susan.”
“Thank you,” I said, but she’d turned away.
I walked off, to the west.
When did she notice it was gone? Maybe minutes later; maybe not till the following morning. I felt lousy for doing it. But I needed a train ticket, the machines at Penn Station require a credit card, and I couldn’t use my own. I could have asked her, but what if she’d said no? And it really was better, for both of us, if she didn’t know where I was going.
I returned the credit card to her wallet, slipped the wallet into my jacket pocket, alongside a disposable razor and a tiny can of shaving cream I’d bought at the 24-hour Duane Reade in the station. I’d also used her card to get some cash. She’d understand or she wouldn’t. She knew my situation.
The tickets had Susan’s name printed on them and I signed where I was required to with an illegible scrawl that conveniently covered part of the word “Susan.” I could only hope the conductor wouldn’t look too closely at them. Or at me.
The big board rattled, numbers and letters spinning into place, announcing the tracks for upcoming departures. I found my train listed, and headed off to the gate for the 11:15 to Philadelphia.
First there were the train yards, then the truck yards, each lit a burning white by sodium vapor lamps at the top of tall poles. Then we were passing the water and all I could see in the window was my own reflection staring back at me, bristling with a day’s growth of stubble. I fingered the can in my pocket. I decided to save it till we arrived. Shaving on a moving train might not be suicide in this era of safety razors, but I didn’t want to draw attention by emerging from the bathroom with a bloody throat or scalp.
A voice welcomed us to Amtrak’s service from New York’s Penn Station to 30th Street Station in Philadelphia, making stops at... I didn’t listen to the list. There was no danger I’d miss Philadelphia when we got there.
What I almost missed was the last part of the announcement. “The conductor will be coming through the train in a moment to collect your tickets and conduct random ID checks for your security. Please have your tickets ready and your ID out. Thank you.”
A squeal of feedback whistled as the microphone went back into its cradle.
I looked around. Most of the seats were empty. There was a woman in a business suit working her way through a stack of what looked like annual reports, a man in a down coat with his long legs sprawling into the aisle, another man talking quietly into his cell phone, and a third man, directly across the aisle from me, reading an issue of
Who would I check, if I were the conductor? I ruled out the woman—what are the odds Ms. Executive Suite was packing a bomb or smuggling hashish into Philly? The man across from me was clean-cut and in his sixties. That left three of us and one was as good as another. The shaved head probably didn’t serve me well here—my stubble was too short to make me look military, and that missing quarter inch could make the difference between signaling ‘good guy’ and ‘bad guy’ to some people.
I thought about heading into the bathroom after all, trying to stay in there till after the conductor passed, but it seemed unlikely that that would work—the conductor was bound to pass through more than once, and could I stay in there for the entire hour and a half of the ride? At some point one of the others would have to go, and Murphy’s Law said they’d knock just in time for the conductor to catch sight of me coming out—or would summon the conductor if I didn’t come out.
I might still have tried it if the door hadn’t opened right then. I glimpsed a woman in a blue uniform and billed cap at the far end of the car and immediately turned away. It was too late to get up; too late to do anything, really, except play the odds.
I set my ticket on the empty aisle seat next to me where she’d be sure to see it, and nestled my face in the corner between the seatback and the window. I slipped my glasses off and into my shirt pocket. Closed my eyes.
