The Blonde

forklifted into the booth, pointed him in the direction of a token machine across the station. Yeah. He had time for that. Kowalski slid the guy a ten, told him to keep the change, buy a Slim-Fast. Hopped the turnstile to save time.

The doors were closing.

He made it in.

Almost.

His left forearm was caught outside the doors.

The one holding the gym bag containing the head of Ed Hunter.

“Oh fuck me,” Kowalski said.

“Frankford train making all stops. Next stop Church Street.”

The train sped forward. If he didn’t find a way to pull his hand, along with the bag, into the car, it would smack against the metal gate at the end of the platform. The one that would be upon him in, oh, a matter of seconds. Probably snap his forearm in half. Maybe not sever it completely. No matter what, it was going to hurt. But even worse, he’d lose Ed. He hadn’t carried him all night just to leave him on the platform of an elevated train.

The train accelerated.

“Fuck me” Kowalski said again.

And he wasn’t the kind of guy to say “Fuck me” lightly.

Kowalski threw the bag up in the air, aiming for the top of the train, toward the back. His other wrist cried out in agony. This might have been spur-of-the-moment rationalization, but Kowalski thought he recognized these cars. He’d ridden them in Korea once, years ago. For all he knew, Philadelphia might have bought them used from Korea, then refurbished them—or not.

Point was, the cooling and heating system at the top had a generous space right in the middle of the housing. Enough to catch a decapitated head in a gym bag like a softball in a leather glove.

Kowalski knew this because he had once been forced to ride on top of a Korean subway car. Years ago. Ah, the glory days.

Then again, he might have been rationalizing. He was no subway car expert. Maybe this was a completely different model.

At the last possible second, Kowalski pulled his left hand through the doors, feeling the rubber guards burn his skin. The gate whizzed by. Then he steadied himself and scanned the windows, looking for a bag tumbling down the side of the car and hitting the steel tracks. Awaiting an El train racing in the opposite direction to burst it open like a balloon full of gray cottage cheese.

5:21  a.m.

Jack grabbed a stretch of greasy chain with both hands and steadied himself before he could slip down onto the tracks. He didn’t know what was worse: the roaring of the car on the tracks or the roaring in his head. Get inside. Get near someone. Now.

He found the handle, yanked down. The door opened and Jack threw himself inside.

Still blind, he felt his shoulder bump into something. Something soft.

“Hey!”

He threw out his hands, looking for one of the metal poles attached to the seats and roof of the car. Instead, he found something else soft. Two things, to be precise. Draped in cotton. Warm.

A shriek.

And then a punch, right to Jack’s ribs.

The pain made him want to fold in half, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. He was near people again. The Mary Kates were retreating from his brain. That was all that mattered. Let them punch and kick and spit at him. Let everyone abuse him. Let his eyes burn out of their sockets. It didn’t matter. He was alive.

For the moment.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” someone said.

But Jack couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from. Right next to him, or farther down the length of the car?

“I need to sit down,” Jack whispered, and flung out his hands again. Feeling out for someone, anyone, to sit next to.

But all he felt was empty air.

He tried opening his eyes, but it hurt too much. He felt vibrations on the floor beneath his feet. Was that the usual rumbling of the train car, or were people moving away from him? Running away from him?

“Someone help me, please,” Jack said.

As the train decelerated, the throbbing in his head returned.

5:22  a.m.

Church Street. Frankford train making all stops. “Okay, so the bag didn’t fall down. Least he didn’t see it fall. That meant it was up on the roof of the car. Hang on, Ed, comin’ to get ya. Kowalski opened the connecting door, put a foot on the greasy cables between the cars. A simple heave-ho would get him up there. Easier than Korea. That was a real bitch, come to think of it.

But something inside the next car caught his eye.

His man. Jack Eisley.

Eyes closed, and waving his arms around like an orchestra conductor on crack. About a dozen other passengers in the car were moving away like he had a force field of nuts surrounding him. Nobody liked sharing personal space with the insane.

What the hell was Jack doing?

Maybe the virus Kelly White had infected him with had driven him over the edge. Made him nuts. Forced him to attack random people on the Market-Frankford Line. Maybe soon he’d sprout fur and fangs and growl like a dog. Wouldn’t surprise Kowalski in the least.

The side doors were closing again.

Okay, think about Jack later. Get the bag first. Jack isn’t going anywhere.

Heave-ho …

The train started moving forward as Kowalski planted both feet on the top of the car. He crouched down, making himself less wind-resistant. Ah, there was Ed. Unfortunately, he hadn’t landed in the little basket in the cooling/heating housing. He was smack in the middle of the top of the car, like a flattened plum on a hot silver skillet. And the bag was sliding, sliding, sliding to the back and left.

Kowalski dived for it.

The train accelerated, bucked to the right. A huge gray stone church loomed on the left side, as if the elevated tracks ran up to it, then suddenly lost their nerve and swerved away.

The bag slid away faster.

Kowalski’s ribs smashed against metal. Mother of fuck. He draped his left arm—the good one, thank Christ— over the side, fingers outstretched. Fabric brushed against his fingertips. There. He stretched farther, which was a small bit of agony in itself. Nothing. FUCK. Kowalski stood up. Balanced himself. His palms were burned. The metal