The Blonde

“Wait. You’re worried I’ve poisoned you in return. When I kissed you. That’s it, right?”

“No,” she said softly.

“What is it?”

“You still don’t believe me. You were my last hope. I can’t keep running anymore. I’m so tired of running, talking, plotting … every second of every single fookin’ minute of the day….” Kelly’s Irish accent was returning. “Don’t you know what I’ve done to you?”

“What are you taking about? ”

“The Mary Kates are inside you! Right now! Multiplying! I killed all of the others to make a point. But you were supposed to be the one who would vindicate me, who would explain it all.” She touched his cheek. “Now we’re both dead.”

But Jack didn’t seem to hear.

“Killed all of what others?”

2:03  a.m.

Back to the Sheraton

What do you know. Call the newspapers, alert TV and radio: Ol’ Kowalski catches a break. Old City Cab gave him the drop-off point, and it was the Rittenhouse Sheraton, literally around the corner, and up one block on Locust. Too good to be fucking true. That, or Philly was one absurdly small town. As he walked, he got an idea. He dialed his handler.

“I’m about to be extremely impressed.”

“Not yet. Can you cross-reference passengers on all flights to Philadelphia this evening and the occupants of the Sheraton?”

“Hold on.”

“Then eliminate everyone except white men traveling alone who checked in after—”

“Already ahead of you. Hold on.”

Kowalski walked up Locust. Nice block, which ended at the edge of Rittenhouse Square itself. One side of the street was taken up by the Sheraton, but the other side retained some of its nineteenth-century charm. And hey, look. The Curtis Institute of Music. If he wasn’t mistaken, that was where they’d shot Trading Places with Eddie Murphy and Dan Aykroyd. As a teenager, it had been one of his favorite comedies. Today, he would explain that he’d been fascinated by the film because of its smart examination of class warfare and the mutability of identity. But as kid, he liked it because you got to see Jamie Lee Curtis’s tits.

His handler returned.

“John Joseph Eisley, goes by ‘Jack.’ He’s in room seven oh two.”

God, what did we do before the Patriot Act? By the time he’d pressed the button to end the call, Kowalski was already through the front doors and making his way to the reception desk.

“Hey, buddy. Hang on to this for me, will ya? I’ve got a guy upstairs who needs to be on the radio over in Bala Cynwyd in … oh, Christ on a cracker, an hour or so. I might need two hands to drag him out of bed.”

The clerk nodded without making much eye contact. He stashed the gym bag behind the front desk.

“Back in five for that. Along with a very sleepy real estate expert. Man, the people they drag on this show at this hour. Who’s up listening, right?”

Kowalski caught a pair of elevator doors closing, stuck his hand in there. But the occupant of the car had already pressed a button; the doors opened.

“Much obliged.”

“No prob.”

A hotel security officer wearing a black rectangular name tag with VINCENT in white letters.

“What floor?”

2:05  a.m.

Sheraton, Room 702

Kelly started crying again, and all Jack could do was reach over and hold her, and hope she didn’t reward the gesture with another shot to his ribs. She rested her head on his chest. Jack rubbed her back with his free hand while trying to shift his position a little. His left arm was beginning to get that pins and needles feeling.

“I’ve killed many men.”

Jack wondered what you were supposed to say to something like that. Ah, c’mon, buck up. How many is “many”? Couldn’t be that bad, now could it?

“So I’m not the first person you’ve poisoned with luminous toxin.”

“No, Jack. That’s not what I’m talking about. You still don’t believe me.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

She grasped both of his forearms and squeezed.

“Listen to me. I am infected with an experimental tracking device. If I am alone for more than ten seconds, I will die. This was no accident. This was done to me. By my boss. The Operator. Our lab wasn’t raided. It wasn’t sabotage. He did this to me.”

“I thought you said—”

“The past thirteen days,” she said, ignoring him, “I’ve been traveling all over the world, first in Ireland, then here. Kissing strange men, sometimes fucking them. Anything it takes to avoid being alone. But I’m also sending a message to the Operator. I want him to know that I’m still alive, and that I’m going to do everything in my power to bring him down, even if I have to leave a trail of bodies behind me. Because eventually, someone will listen. Someone will come for me. Someone important. Someone who knows the Operator, and who will know how to destroy him. I thought you would help. But you won’t be able to. You’ll be joining the dead, all because you kissed me. No, not because of that. Because you kissed me and you didn’t believe me. Do you believe me now, Jack?”

Later, Jack would look back on this moment and realize that this was the moment his nightmare truly started. Not the moment he was infected.

The moment he started to believe.

2:08  a.m.

Sheraton, Seventh Floor

Kowalski was mildly annoyed when he learned that he and Mr. Vincent, security chief here, were headed to the same floor—seven. Yet another hurdle. Chances were, this guy would be headed down the same stretch of hallway, and to be thorough, Kowalski was going to have to incapacitate this guy. Was this never going to end? This endless parade of victims? It was as if God had looked down and said, Oh, I get it, Kowalski—you like mowing down people left and right. Well, let me give you a few more to deal with. Hope you can keep up!

The car reached seven. Ever the gentleman, Kowalski extended his arm, but Mr. Vincent here wasn’t having that.

“You first, sir.”

Great. Kowalski stepped off the elevator and read the floor key posted on the wall. The room he wanted was to the left.

Mr. Vincent asked, “Can I help you?”

“Just getting my bearings, thanks.”

He was hoping the security chief would shrug his shoulders and go off and do whatever the hell he’d come up