The Blonde

a public outcry: SHOCKING MURDERS, MEN FOUND ACROSS THE COUNTRY, BRAINS EXPLODED IN THEIR SKULLS. Once the nation was horrified, and Anderson Cooper was talking about it on CNN, she planned on turning herself in to the New York Times.

But nothing.

Where the fuck were the reporters?

If these men were buried with the Mary Kates inside them, her tour of vengeance was for nothing.

She became increasingly desperate. Tired. Her body revolting against irregular feedings and physical abuse. If she hadn ‘t lost it already … well, her mind was overdue for a serious vacation.

Then a day ago, she’d been on a plane from Houston to Philadelphia and overheard someone say, “Oh, you ‘re a journalist?”

This was a man she had to meet.

Journalist Jack Eisley.

Her Jack, her savior, her last hope.

4:42  a.m.

Third and Spring Garden

Jack spat blood on the sidewalk and wondered why he wasn’t already dead. Not that he hadn’t tried like hell to avoid it. He’d screamed and begged and held on to the molding in the stairway, for Christ’s sakes, but the Aryan Man was stronger, and the begging had only seemed to piss him off. He’d been unceremoniously tossed out in the street, with the warning that he never even think about this place again, let alone come back or write about it. Or they’d come for his wife and daughter.

Out on the street, which was utterly fucking completely deserted.

Which was why he wondered, Why no throbbing? Did the Mary Kates malfunction?

“Better move it, asshole.”

“Assclown.”

“Ass bag.” Throaty laughter. Something rattling around a pair of lungs.

Jack turned around.

There were at least two of them, lurking in the shadows, about six feet behind him. Crack whores. You know you’ve sunk to a new low when you’re being mocked by crack whores. But as long as they stayed put, he’d be okay. He’d have a chance to breathe and think and wipe the blood from his mouth and nose…. And look, it was all over his shirt, too. Maybe he was being too fussy. Maybe he should just join the crack whores, which would guarantee him some company for the next few hours, until the poison finished him off. At least his brain wouldn’t explode, and there might even be some interesting conversation in it for him. See, life was full of amusing options.

Maybe if he offered them money, he could sit with them for a while.

But no. He couldn’t even do that. His wallet was upstairs. For good. No way could he go back to retrieve it.

Which meant another plane trip was out.

Which meant he was stuck here, would most likely die here.

Unless he could hang on until—when, eight? Is that when the Philly branch of the FBI would open? Or were they nine-to-five boys?

“Ass pass.”

“Ass master.”

Jack didn’t even know where they were located. Near City Hall, maybe? He looked westward on Spring Garden and saw the blue spikes of the Liberty Place towers, and a few other random skyscrapers, but nothing resembling the yellow-eyed clock tower of Philadelphia City Hall. Funny to think that he assumed he’d have all the time in the world to go sight-seeing after his 8:00 A.M. appointment at the Sofitel. He did want to see the Liberty Bell, no matter what Kelly White had said about it.

“Assaholic.”

“Hey, fuck you guys, okay?”

One of them threw a bottle at him. It popped and shattered on the sidewalk in front of his hands.

“Ass.”

“Give me a dollah, ass man”

He looked up and down Spring Garden. No yellow cars. No nothing. But across the street was a Plexiglas bus shelter with the number 43 in small white letters affixed to the top beam. Standing beneath the shelter was a woman in a tuxedo shirt and black pants, brunette hair tucked over her ear.

Holy fuck.

Angela, from the club.

His only hope now.

Much as Jack fancied himself an agnostic—he’d spent too many years forced into the pews of Catholic churches—he could not help but notice the grand design every once in awhile. He believed that there was a higher power at work, and if you knew how to look for the signs, there was a way out of every situation. He called it his Batman Theory of Religion. The caped crusader was forever telling Robin, “Every trap offers its own solution.” If life was a trap, then it offered solutions, too. Even when the trap appeared to be closing fast, the light fading, the jaws tightening. Because there she was. Angela. Why else would she be there, standing on the corner, waiting for a bus, if that wasn’t part of the grand design? She could have had a car parked behind the club. She could have had a friend picking her up. She could have called a cab. But no.

“Have a good morning, ladies,” Jack said, standing up and dusting his palms off. They were raw from sliding across the cement.

Down Spring Garden, a bus was approaching. He could faintly read the digital board on the top of the bus. Route 43.

Msmiatic.”

Jack bolted across the street, not appreciating how much his right leg hurt until he was halfway across. He didn’t know if he was stiff or if he’d really hurt something when he hit the sidewalk.

When he hit the median, his head started throbbing.

Oh Christ. Not so soon.

He crossed the remainder of the street at a full run but slowed down as he approached the bus shelter. The last thing he wanted to do was spook Angela, have her bolt. The crack whores were probably having a great laugh over this one. Lookit the white man put on the brakes. He’s going to trip himself.

Jack thought Angela had been focused on the approaching bus. She fished around in her pants pocket for her fare. But without looking at him, she said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Catching the bus,” he said, winded.

“This is so fucked.’”

The bus pulled up. The brakes were shot; a high-pitched whine cut through the predawn quiet. The engine was rattling so fiercely, it was a wonder the panels of the bus were still attached to the frame. There was a pneumatic hiss, like a snort, and the two panels of the doors shuddered open.

Angela stepped up into the bus, dropped something into the scratched-up fare box next to the driver, then moved all the way to the back of the bus. Jack stepped up and tried to scan the fare signs quickly. Confusing as hell. Transfers, zones, base fare … two dollars. Two dollars?

“One ride costs two dollars?”

“Two dollars,” the driver said. He had a patches of a beard on his jowls, and his eyes were red-rimmed.

Jack reached to his back pocket, then remembered where his wallet was. No. No no no. Front left pocket, nothing. Front right… oh, thank Christ. A ten and a single. His change from the airport bar last night.

“Can you break a ten?”

The driver sighed. “Exact change only.” He nodded his head in the general direction of the fare sign.

“Come on, buddy. Can’t you sell me a one-day pass or something?”

The driver didn’t answer, as if the question was beneath him. “On or off.”