comforting in a way.
And that must be her husband. He looked like a nice guy, too. He was using a cane to help him walk. Wonder what happened to him? An accident, maybe. Maybe even Nam. He was limping pretty badly. Husky. That couldn't help his leg. Probably went two-ten, two-twenty. Maybe five-nine. He could lose a few pounds, sure, but he looked pretty happy so maybe he was one of those guys who didn't mind what he looked like or that he had to struggle along with a limp.
She looked happy too. Why shouldn't she? It was a beautiful day, cold and crisp and clear, and she had a nice husband who picked her up at the bus stop on her way back from work and walked her home, even with his bad leg. You didn't see too many couples like that anymore, did you? No, you definitely didn't. People just weren't that considerate anymore. People didn't do things like they used to, like they were supposed to.
It didn't seem right what had to be done. But it was necessary. Why should this nice couple be the only happy ones? Didn't they deserve their own happiness, too? You better believe it. And wasn't everyone else trying to steal their happiness right away from them? They damn sure were. Well, maybe not everybody. Maybe that was an exaggeration. There was no way to be positive about everybody. But better safe than sorry.
That was a good slogan, wasn't it? No, not a slogan. What was it called? A saying? Maybe. No, a motto! That's what it was. A really good motto: Better safe than sorry.
The black couple passed an older black woman coming out of a building. The older woman said, 'I was just knockin' on your door, Mathilda.' Mathilda was so nice, she looked unhappy that she wasn't there for this woman when she knocked. And she said, 'Well, we're home for the night now so you can knock any time you like.' The older woman said she would and then the black couple climbed up the three thick, concrete stairs that led to a pretty nice building, red brick, maybe twelve stories, two houses off Lenox Avenue.
That's where she lived.
Oh, this was easy.
It really was easy.
It was easy to park the black Pathfinder on Lenox Avenue at six o'clock the next morning – early, sure, but better safe than sorry.
It was easy to spot Mathilda and her husband when they emerged at 7:30, it was easy to follow them as they walked three blocks to the bus stop, and it was easy to watch as they kissed good-bye and then the husky husband headed back home.
It was easy to follow the bus down Fifth Avenue and then to jump ahead of it because there was no question where she was headed. There was no need to even double-park. Amazing. A car parked on Madison pulled away and the spot was just big enough for the Pathfinder to pull in. There was even twenty minutes left on the meter.
It was easy to wait on the corner for exactly eight minutes until the right bus arrived and it was easy to step up behind Mathilda and guide her, well, force her, okay, into Central Park, just steps away from the bus stop.
No one paid any attention at all, so it was very easy to push her behind the bushes and cut her throat before she even knew what was happening.
It was easy to take the money that was in her wallet. And not only easy, smart, because it made it look like a robbery.
But best of all, it was easy to go through her purse and find exactly what was needed.
Well, to be honest, that might be an exaggeration. It might not even be needed.
But let's face it. It probably would.
And, besides, it was always good to have another magic invitation. Another way to make absolutely sure their dream would come true.
Better safe than sorry, right?
That sure was a good motto.
TWENTY-TWO
That's funny,' Jack said. And when Kid looked at him curiously, Jack asked, 'What time is it?'
'A couple of minutes after nine. Damn, I gotta get going. I got a session at Hanson's.'
'What's Hanson's?'
'A gym down in SoHo. I train people there sometimes. Good facility.' He swept his hand over Jack's home gym. 'Not everyone's got the setup you've got here, you know.'
'I'm worried. It's not like Mattie to be late.'
'Maybe she's sick.'
'She'd call.'
Kid shrugged. 'Traffic, maybe.'
At ten, really worried now, Jack pulled out his Palm Pilot and used the stylus to click on the name Mattie Strickland. He dialed the number on his cordless phone and when a woman's voice answered, he said, 'Mattie?'
The woman on the other end of the phone was crying and he couldn't understand what she was saying.
'Is Mattie there? This is Jack Keller. She was supposed to be…'
And now the woman started crying even harder. 'Oh, Mr. Keller,' the woman said. 'Mattie was always goin on with the nicest things about you…'
'What's going on?' Jack said. 'Is her husband there? Could I speak to him?'
'He's here,' the woman answered, still sobbing. 'But he can't come to the phone. He can't talk now. I'm their neighbor,' she said. 'I'm not talkin' too good myself but I'm answerin' the phone for a while. Until the children can get here.'
'Please tell me what's going on. Is Mattie okay?'
'Mattie's dead. Killed,' the woman cried. 'Mugged right on her way to work. They took the money in her purse and killed her…'
The woman went on, giving as many details as she could, but Jack barely heard another word. He was only vaguely aware of saying good-bye, saying that he'd be in touch and would do whatever he could to help. And when he hung up, dizzy from the news about the woman who'd been so kind to him and had cared for him for so long, the only thing he could think about was how many dangerous people there were out there in the world, how many Slashes desperate to take whatever they needed.
Whatever they wanted.
TWENTY-THREE
By the middle of April, Mattie's funeral had come and gone and, as always, with time, a sense of order had reasserted itself into daily life.
Jack, Dom, and Kid had all gone to the service, where Jack had spoken to Mattie's husband. 'I know this doesn't begin to ease what you're going through,' he said, 'but I want you to know that Mattie's salary will be paid every week for the rest of your life.'
'Thank you, sir,' he said to Jack.
'If there's anything I can do. Anything at all…'
'Thank you, sir,' he said again, 'thank you,' and grabbed Jack's hand, squeezing it hard. Jack recognized the sound in the man's voice. He knew it from his own voice: it was the sound of indescribable and unsharable loss.
Jack found that his therapy with Kid, the sheer physicality of it, was of enormous help in coping with this latest tragedy. He could concentrate on his body for hours at a time without having to worry about his heart.
On April twelfth, the thermometer reached seventy-two degrees. After running a thirteen-minute mile, Jack, sore as hell, stepped off the treadmill and Kid said, 'We've got a little treat today.'
