“I know.”
WE’D RENTED A car at Ruzyne Airport, a big, black late-model Mercedes, and drove a highway studded with brightly colored billboards and road signs neither of us could read, while I tried to navigate us into the city with a map I didn’t understand. With the blind luck of fools, we managed not to get ourselves killed and arrived on the cobblestone streets of Prague. After another harrowing twenty minutes during which we nearly collided with a tram, narrowly avoided running over an old woman with a cane, and drove the wrong way up a one-way street, Jack suggested I consult our Prague guidebook to figure out what the street signs meant.
“Tourists should not drive in Prague,” the guide read. “The city’s complex web of one-way streets and the large number of pedestrian-only areas around the historic core of the city make driving confusing and dangerous for foreigners.”
We eventually found our way to our hotel, a narrow slice of a building at the end of a long, winding street across from a park. I have never been so glad to see a valet drive off with a vehicle in my life.
The rest of the day was spent trying to find someone to help us get around, someone to help us talk to locals, since Czech, a West Slavic language, has never resonated with me. I’ve found its pronunciation nearly impossible and continually made an ass out of myself during my two previous visits. Finally, through some arrangement Jack made, the concierge’s cousin agreed to meet us in the morning and, for one hundred U.S. dollars, spend the day with us trying to follow up the few leads I had.
“He can’t come tonight?”
“No. It’s not possible. I’m sorry.”
“Is there anyone else?” I sounded petulant, and too American. The concierge gave me an apathetic shrug.
“That’s fine,” said Jack. “The morning is fine.”
Jack smiled at the concierge and pressed some money into his hand, which seemed to simultaneously please and annoy the man.
“The morning is
“It’ll have to be.”
The room was nice, a suite, everything polished and new. Hardwood floors, brocade drapes, elaborate faux antique furniture, a large comfortable bed. The bathroom featured gleaming marble surfaces and big plush towels. I had suggested the Four Seasons. Jack said that fugitives were not accepted at five-star hotels. I am
I sank into the bed and felt despair lash me to the mattress. A powerful fatigue weighted down my limbs, my head. The full scope of my folly was suddenly clear. The wound on my head throbbed.
“This is a mistake,” I said. “He’s not even here.”
Jack sat beside me, put a hand on my forehead. “
It was then that I realized he was humoring me. He didn’t believe that Marcus was here, or that we’d find him, or that I’d get anything that I needed in this mad enterprise. He had come because he knew if he didn’t, I’d go alone. He’d come simply to hold my hand, then pick up the pieces and carry them all home. I made the decision right then and there to ditch him as soon as possible.
“Let’s get something to eat,” he said softly into the silence that followed. Somewhere there was a little girl laughing; a light strain of music came through the ceiling from the room above us. The air smelled a little too floral; too much air freshener. I let Jack pull me up off the bed and corral me toward the door.
“And don’t think you’re going to unload me, leave me in a bar or restaurant somewhere, or sneak out of here in the night and go it alone.”
“I would never do that.”
“Sure.” There was something in his tone, maybe a little anger. I realized we were talking about something else.
AT THE BEER garden, we sipped from big mugs of rich golden ale. They’d served us a ridiculously large cast- iron pan filled with pork, chicken, and potatoes. It was almost exactly like every meal I’d eaten here with Marcus. I thought we’d eat all night and never make a dent. But Jack seemed to be plowing his way through, while I pushed a piece of meat around my plate. I had no appetite, though I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.
“Try, Iz. You know how you get when your blood sugar is low.”
“And how’s that?” I snapped.
He raised his eyebrows at me.
It was dark and we were both exhausted when we crossed the Charles Bridge to return to our hotel. Jack went up to the room and I stopped at the single computer monitor in the lobby to check my e-mail. There were nearly twenty messages, from booksellers and fans who had seen the news, one from my editor asking if everything was okay, another from my sister. The message box was blank but the subject line was: “Goddammit, you stubborn pain in the ass… COME HOME. I love you.”
Then there was one from Detective Grady Crowe, subject “Things YOU should know.”
First of all, it’s my duty to tell you to turn yourself in, to your lawyer or to me. You are a person of interest in this case, and being unavailable to me is not in your best interest. You are out of your depth and in big trouble.
That said, much of the information you provided has proved valuable to us.
He went on to tell me about the events at the Topaz Room, Charlie Shane’s relationship to Camilla Novak, how my husband paid Shane to keep quiet about what he heard on the street and to let people into our apartment. I had been betrayed so deeply by someone I trusted completely that this small betrayal didn’t even register.
Whoever Kristof Ragan is-and we don’t know-he has no criminal record here or abroad. Whoever he is, he’s dangerous. According to what you told Erik Book, he killed Camilla Novak. If this is true, do you think he’ll hesitate to kill you when he realizes you haven’t just let him walk away with your money?
We have not been able to identify the woman you know as S. Her photograph does not match those in any domestic criminal files; Interpol will take longer. But we do know that Ivan Ragan is associated with the Albanian and Russian Mob, that he was recently released from state prison for gun possession. He was arrested after an anonymous tip was phoned into police. I’d bet money that Kristof betrayed him after the Marcus Raine disappearance-probably murder-and theft went down, which is probably why he wound up on that dock about to be fitted for a pair of cement shoes.
A question: I have been going over the banking records for Razor Tech. Every quarter there was a ten- thousand-dollar donation to an orphanage in the Czech Republic. What do you know about this?
He had a name and an address of an orphanage in a town I knew to be about forty minutes outside the city. The information caused my whole body to tingle. Was he really asking me about this orphanage, or giving me a lead?
Does this mean anything to you?
Anyway, be careful, Isabel. You’ve got a tiger by the tail. Make sure he doesn’t turn around.
The lights went off in the lobby then, making me jump, and I was alone with the glowing screen. I walked over to the front desk and saw that the clerk who’d been sitting there was gone. His computer screen was dark; he’d obviously gone home for the night. No twenty-four-hour service at this little hotel. A little sign featured a number to call for emergencies.
I went back to the computer and printed out Detective Crowe’s e-mail and the attachment, a copy of the transfer order for the money being donated to the orphanage. Then I headed upstairs to Jack. It seemed he had already fallen asleep on the couch, fully clothed, with the television on, tuned to the BBC. There was an image of my face on the screen. The sound was down but there was a ticker running beneath my picture:
One arm rested over his forehead, the other was folded over his middle. I thought about leaving Jack in that moment, my decision to ditch him coming back to me. He was a sound sleeper. I could pack a few things, leave him a note, and take off on him. He’d have to wait here or go home, not knowing where I’d gone. But the truth was I
