a teenage girl laughing hugely, her head thrown back, long hair blowing in a stiff breeze, white iPod wires in her ears, and an old man in baggy tweeds, his head bald as an egg, sitting on a bench, a meatball hoagie in his hand, smiling up into the bright sunlight, a drop of tomato sauce on his mouth.
Jack’s world was eclectic, but entirely his. Here was a big-time FBI agent who was also an excellent photographer, an artist, and owned a house he was fixing up. What were the odds? She was struck, as she had been several times before, how you thought you knew someone, but many times you really didn’t have a clue. Take that gambling son-of-a-bitch former fiance of hers, for example. She sneered at herself for being an idiot. Jerol Springer. She shuddered.
She wandered back into the living room to one of the two big bay windows. His building was vintage 1930s, well maintained, as were the grounds, an amazing example of art deco, with oodles of atmosphere and style. But it was the magnificent views that made it prime, she thought, as she looked toward the Lincoln Monument. There were several photographs of the monument on the wall beside the window, one taken in the winter with snow piled everywhere, two determined, bundled-up tourists trudging up the monument steps, heads down, fighting a strong headwind. She wondered if he took the shots with a zoom lens from his living room window.
Rachael wandered into the guest bedroom, a room she’d only dusted lightly because it had indeed been pristine. It was small, tidy, spare, with a double bed covered with a sleeping bag spread on top, not a spread. She roamed back to Jack’s bedroom with its high ceilings and beautiful art deco moldings. She studied the Diane Arbus and Ansel Adams photographs on the white walls, obviously two artists he admired.
The bed was nicely done, a big king with a navy blue and white quilt, two bright red pillows covered with red sequins tossed against the navy blue shams. Hmmm. The pillows added a nice punch. Who had added the bling? A former girlfriend? Why hadn’t this same person added bling to the living room? Hadn’t she been around long enough?
Rachael sat down on the side of the bed and twitched. She was driving herself nuts, she couldn’t help it. Her mind took her right back to her near drowning, that black water closing over her head as the concrete block dragged her down, then skipped to the very close call at Roy Bob’s garage, that man standing in the bay opening, shooting at her and Roy Bob, Sheetrock raining down on them. And Slipper Hollow, so many bullets, death, raw and ugly in their faces. If not for Jack being such a useful guy, things might not have ended so well. But at Roy Bob’s garage she survived because of her own skill, and she planned to keep reminding herself she wasn’t a helpless victim. She’d survived all three attempts. She supposed the incident at the house the night before didn’t really count because it hadn’t terrified her like being thrown into Black Rock Lake or being shot at. But now she was safe; whoever wanted her dead had no idea where she was. She knew that, knew it—but somehow it didn’t quite reach to her center, where all her doubts and fears crashed about endlessly.
Rachael’s eyes went to a photo sitting on his dresser, obviously his parents, four siblings, and a slew of kids. She said aloud to the empty room, “No one knows where I am. No one. Not even you guys.”
She repeated it. Finally, she accepted it enough to allow her built-up fatigue to get a toehold in her manic brain.
Rachael lifted the blue patterned quilt to find beneath it a blue-and-white striped duvet cover. It was sharp, elegant. This was very serious, very cool coordination. A former girlfriend? His mother?
She lay down and closed her eyes. She’d called Uncle Gillette and told him the plan, about which he was markedly silent, then her mother, lying cleanly yet again. She’d listened to her half brother, Ben, tell her about how buff he was getting for the upcoming football season. She hadn’t known there were grade school football teams. Life didn’t just continue, she thought, marveling, it galloped forward. She remembered Ben at eight years old, tossing a Frisbee to her, rolling on the ground with his dog. The last time she’d seen him, he was fishing with his dad at Lark Creek Lake.
Her own life wasn’t galloping. She was lying in a strange bed with nothing happening, nothing resolved, and no Jack. She closed her eyes and her brain sped up again and she remembered:
Forward it was, she thought. No other direction, really. She was very grateful it might all end tomorrow night at the Jefferson Club. She prayed it would.
Then Greg Nichols had called her cell.
“What about Jacqueline and your sisters?”
“They sent their regrets.”
She was deeply asleep when Jack found her an hour later in his bed, a small smile playing on her mouth, her head turned slightly to the side. Her braid was lying against her cheek.
He eased down beside her and kissed her.
She didn’t jerk away, only turned her head toward him and slowly opened her eyes. She looked up to see him leaning into her, not an inch from her nose. “I’m sure glad you’re not the bad guy,” she said, and raised her hand to smooth his hair, “or I’d be in big trouble.”
“When I was a little kid,” he said, stroking her hair, “I always wanted to be the robber, wanted to be the major badass when we played, but my big brother said I couldn’t snarl and talk jive well enough, so I had to suck it up and be the cop. I guess I got used to it.” He kissed her again. “So that means you’re not in big trouble.”
“Where have you been?”
“I was doing that old-fashioned police work I told you about, and I talked to some people. I stopped off at Feng Nian, brought us some Chinese.”
He saw the spark of panic in her eyes.
“Absolutely no one knows you’re here with me. No one followed me, believe me, I checked often enough. You’re safe. Tomorrow night, this will be over.”
Rachael smiled when he turned to smooth down the covers. Her mom would pronounce him a good man.
“You’ve got a lovely apartment.”
“Thank you. My mom was my interior decorator.”
A mom supplying bling was okay.
“But the photographs are yours.”
“Yes,” he said, “they are.”
“You might not snarl and growl enough for a badass, but you’re an excellent photo artist.”
“Ah, well, not really ... well, anyway, thank you. You should see Savich’s pieces. He whittles.”
She ate the entire carton of kung pao chicken but didn’t read him her speech. “I’m still thinking, and rewriting,” she said.
“As you should. It’s quite an honor.”
She sighed. “Yes, I realize that.”
Jack’s cell rang.
FIFTY-TWO
