She folded the paper, left it on Sandra's pillow, and picked up the heavy suitcase.
Which is when she heard the footsteps.
They were on the floor below.
Whoever it was hadn't come up via the elevator. They'd snuck up the stairs. So they wouldn't be heard.
The only exit was the stairway--the one the intruder was now coming up. She heard cautious feet, gritty.
She looked across the loft to her side of the room--at her suitcase and leopard-skin bag.
No time to get a weapon. No time for anything.
Nowhere to run.
She looked around her glass house.
Nowhere to hide.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
He took the stairs one at a time, slowly, slowly.
Pausing, listening.
And struggling to control his anger. Which throbbed like the pain in his face--from when that fucking redhead had nailed him in the subway. Listening above him and listening below. He was out of his uniform now-- he'd ditched the meter reader's jacket a while ago, before he trailed the little short-haired bitch to Brooklyn--and downstairs some of the construction guys had given him some shit about just walking into the building. He'd just kept walking, giving them a fuck-you look and not even bothering to make up a cover story.
So, listening for somebody laying in wait for him upstairs, listening for somebody following.
But he heard no footsteps, no breathing, no guns being racked.
Pausing at the top of the stairs, head down.
Okay ... go!
Walking fast into the loft, eyes taking in places he could go for cover.
Only he didn't have to worry. She wasn't there.
Shit. He'd been sure she'd come back. If only to get her stuff before she took off. Pointing the gun in front of him, he made a circuit of the loft. She'd been there-- there was a suitcase half filled. There was that God-ugly purse of hers. But no sign of the bitch.
Maybe--
Then he heard it.
A click and a grind.
The elevator! He ran to the stairs, thinking she'd snuck out behind him. But, no, the cage was empty. It was going down. So, she was coming home. He'd gotten there before her.
He ducked behind a half-height wall of cinder block, out of view of the stairway, and waited for her to come to him.
Rune was exactly eight feet away from Pretty Boy, standing in the steady stream of wind outside the loft, a hundred feet above the sidewalk.
Her boots perched on a thin ridge of metal that jutted out six inches from the lower edge of the building's facade. Most of her body was below the glass windows, and if she ducked, Pretty Boy couldn't see her.
Only she was compelled to look.
Because she'd heard the elevator start down. Somebody was coming up!
And Pretty Boy was going to kill them.
Her hands quivered, her legs were weak, as if her muscles were melting. The wind was cold up there, the smells different. Raw. She looked down again, at the cobblestone patches of the street coming through the asphalt. She closed her eyes and pressed her face against her arm for comfort.
Cobblestones--the final scene in Manhattan Is My Beat. Ruby Dahl, walking slowly down the wet street, crying for her tormented fiance gunned down in Greenwich Village.
Roy, Roy, I would have loved you even if you were poor!
Rune looked back into the loft and saw Pretty Boy shift slightly, then cock his ear toward the doorway.
Who was coming up in the elevator? Sandra? Some of the construction guys?
Please, let it be the police--Manelli or Dixon. Coming to arrest her for the shooting in Brooklyn. They had guns. They'd at least have a chance against the killer.
Suddenly, Pretty Boy crouched and held the gun's muzzle up, his right index finger on the trigger. He looked around him, turning his head as though listening.
Whoever was there was calling out some words. Yes, she could vaguely hear a voice, "Rune? Rune? Are you here?" It was a man.
Richard ran up the stairs, shouting something.
No, no, no! she cried silently. Oh, not him. Please, don't hurt him!
She closed her eyes and tried to send him a message of danger. But when she looked again she saw that he'd walked farther into the loft. "Rune?"
Pretty Boy couldn't see him from the other side of the wall. But he was following Richard's steps with the gun. Rune saw him cock it with his long thumb and point it to the spot where Richard was about to appear.
Oh, no ...
There was nothing else to do. She couldn't let anybody else get hurt because of her. She raised her right fist above the glass. She'd break the window, scream for Richard to run. Pretty Boy would panic and spin around, shoot her. But Richard might just have enough time to leap down the stairs and escape.
Okay, now! Do it.
But just as she started to bring her fist down on the window, Richard paused. He'd seen the note--the note she'd written to Sandra. He picked it up and read it. Then shook his head. He looked around the loft one more time and then started down the stairs.
Pretty Boy peeked out from behind the wall, slipped his gun into his belt. He stood.
Thank you, thank you...
Rune lowered her right arm and held on to the ledge again. Pretty Boy searched the loft again, looking for her, then started down the stairs. Rune's fingertips were numb, though her arm muscles ached and her legs were on fire with pain. But she stayed where she was until below her she saw Pretty Boy jog out of the building and disappear east.
She edged to the small access door and crawled inside. She lay on her bed for five minutes until the quivering in her muscles stopped.
Then she picked up the suitcase and purse and left the loft. Not even thinking to say good-bye to her castle in the sky.
On the streets of TriBeCa she paused.
Looking around.
There were construction workers, there were businessmen and businesswomen, there were messengers.
She'd thought Pretty Boy and Emily were gone, wouldn't bother with her. But she'd been wrong there. And that meant they might have other partners. Was it any one of these people?
Several faces glanced at her, and their expressions were dark and suspicious. She shrank back into an alley, hid behind a Dumpster. She'd wait until it was night-- just hide there--then hike up to the bus station.
Then she saw a bum coming up the alley. Only he didn't look quite like a bum to her. He was dirty like a homeless man and he wore shabby clothes. But his eyes seemed too quick. They seemed dangerous. He looked up and saw her. Paused for just an instant too long. Lowered his head again and continued up the alley.
Ignoring her. But really trying too hard to ignore her.
He was one of them too!
Go, girl. Go! She slung her purse over her shoulder, grabbed the heavy suitcase, and bolted from behind the Dumpster.
The bum saw her, debated a moment, then started running too. Directly behind her.
Rune couldn't run fast, not with the suitcase. She struggled into Franklin Street and paused, gasping, trying to figure which way to go. The bum was getting closer.
Then a man's voice: "Rune!"
She spun around, heart hammering.
"Rune, over here!"
It was Phillip Dixon, the U.S. marshal. He was waving toward her. She started toward him instinctively, then stopped, remembering that he was one of the people who wanted to arrest her.
What should she do?
She was in the middle of the street--thirty feet from the subway. She heard a rumbling underground--a train was approaching. She could vault the turnstile and be on her way uptown in fifteen seconds.
Thirty feet from the bum, running toward her, anger on his face.
Thirty feet from Dixon.
"Rune!" the marshal called. "Come on. It's not safe here. They're around here somewhere. The killers."
"No! You're going to arrest me!"
"I know you didn't kill Symington," Di
xon said.
But what else was he going to say? And after the cuffs were on, it'd be: You have the right to remain silent...
The bum was closer, staring at her with dark, cold eyes.
The train was almost in the station. Run for it! Now!
"I want to help you," Dixon shouted. "I've been worried about you." He started across the street but stopped when she turned away from him, started toward the subway.
He held up his hands. "Please! They're after you, Rune. We know what happened. They set you up! They hadn't figured on you getting away in Brooklyn. But we know you didn't do it. You were just at the wrong place at the wrong time."
Choose, she told herself. Now!
She started across the street tentatively toward Dixon. The bum was closer now, slowing.
"Please, Rune," the marshal said.
Beneath her feet, through the grating, the train eased into the station, brakes squealing.
Choose!
Come on, you've gotta trust somebody....
She bolted toward Dixon, ran to his side. He put his arm around her. "It's okay," he said. "You'll be all right."
She blurted out, "There's a man after me. In the alley." And saw a car pulling up at the curb beside them.
The bum turned the corner. He stopped cold as Dixon drew that huge black gun of his.
"Shit," the bum said, holding up his hands. "Hey, man, I'm sorry. I just wanted her purse. No big deal. I'm just going to--"
Dixon fired once. The bullet slammed into the bum's chest. He flew backward.
"Jesus!" Rune cried. "What'd you do that for?"
"He saw my face," Phillip said matter-of-factly, lifting the suitcase and purse away from Rune.
From the car that had just driven up, a woman's voice said to Dixon, "Come on, Haarte, you're standing right out here in broad daylight. There could be cops any minute. Let's go!"
Rune stared at the woman; it was Emily. And the car she was driving was the green Pontiac that had tried to run her and the other witness down at Mr. Kelly's apartment.
Wrong place, wrong time...
Phillip--or Haarte--opened the back door of the Pontiac. He shoved Rune inside, tossed her purse and suitcase into the trunk. Haarte got into the backseat with Rune.
"Where to?" Emily asked.
"Better make it my place," he answered calmly. "It's the one with the basement. Quieter, you know."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Lost in a forest.
Hansel and Gretel.
Rune stared at the ceiling and wondered what time it was.
Thinking how fast she'd lost track of the hours.
Just like she'd lost track of her life over the past few days.
It reminded her of the time she was a little girl, visiting some relatives with her parents in rural Ohio. She'd wandered away from a picnic in a small state forest. Strolling for hours through the park, thinking she knew where she was going, where her family's picnic bench was. A little confused maybe but, with a child's confidence and preoccupation, never even considering that she was lost. Never knowing that hours had passed and she was miles away from her frantic family.
Now she knew how lost she was. And she knew, too, how impossible it was to get home again.
Welcome to reality, Richard would've told her.
The room was tiny. A storeroom in the cellar. It had only one window, a small one she couldn't possibly reach, barred with twisty bars of wrought iron. Part of the concrete floor was missing. The dirt beneath was overturned. When Haarte had shoved her into the room she'd noticed that right away: the dug-up dirt. She told herself it was just because he was doing some work down there. Replacing pipes, putting in a new concrete floor.
But she knew it was a grave.
Rune lay on her back and looked at the cold streetlight coming through the unreachable window.
Back-street light.
Light to die by.
There was a sudden metallic snap, and she jumped.
A shuffle of feet outside the door.
A second lock clicked and the door opened. Haarte stood in the doorway. He was cautious. He looked around the room, maybe to see if she'd rigged any traps or found any weapons. Then, satisfied, he nodded for her to follow. Tears of fear pricked in her eyes but she wouldn't let them fall.
He led her up some rickety stairs.
Emily's attention was on her. She was amused, studying Rune like a real estate agent appraising an apartment. When Rune hesitated outside the doorway Haarte pushed her in. Emily didn't seem to like that but she didn't say anything.
No one spoke. Rune felt the tension in the air. Like the scene inside the bank in Manhattan Is My Beat where the cop is staring down the robber. His hand is out, not moving, saying over and over, "Give me the pistol, son. Give it to me." The lighting shadowy and stark, the camera moving in close on the muzzle of the .38.
Would the robber shoot or wouldn't he? You wanted to scream from the tension.
Haarte pushed Rune into a cheap dining-room chair, stared down at her. She whimpered, feeling not the least bit adult.
But then, from somewhere in her mind, an image came. An illustration from one of her fantasy books. Diarmuid. Then another: King Arthur.
She ripped his hand off her shoulder. "Don't touch me," she snarled.
He blinked.
Rune waited a moment, staring into his eyes, then walked slowly to the chair. She adjusted it so she was facing Emily and sat down, then said in a sly, tough, Joan Rivers voice, "Can we talk?"
Emily blinked then laughed. "Just what we had in mind."
Haarte pulled up a chair and sat down too.
Rune kept spinning the sole bracelet on her wrist, slipping it on and off. Trying to be tough, looking as hip and cynical as she could. The silver ring spun. She looked down and saw the hands clasped together. She tried not to think about Richard.
Emily said, "We need to know who you told about Spinello and about me."
Rune snapped, "You killed Robert Kelly. Why?"
Emily looked at Haarte. He said, "You could say that it was his fault."
"What?"
"He moved into the wrong apartment," Emily said. "We felt bad. I mean, it looks bad for us. To make a mistake like that. Felt bad for him, too, of course."
Rune exhaled in shock. "He was just ... You killed him by mistake?"
Haarte continued. "After Spinello testified in the St. Louis RICO cases in January, the U.S. Marshals moved him to New York. Witness protection. They gave him a new identity--Victor Symington--and put him in a place uptown but, well, you saw he was pretty paranoid. He didn't stay where they'd set him up and got the apartment down in the Village. He moved into Apartment 2B. But then he heard there was a bigger apartment available on the third floor. So he moved upstairs. Your friend Kelly moved into Spinello's place."
"The information we had from the people hiring us," Emily said, "was that the hit lived in 2B."
"And, I mean, what can we say?" Haarte reflected. "I checked the directory down in the lobby, but it was so covered up with graffiti, I couldn't read a fucking thing. Besides, Kelly and Spinello looked a lot alike."
"They didn't look a thing alike!" Rune spat out.
"Well, they did to me. Hey, accidents happen."
Rune asked, "Then you came back and tore up his place just for the fun of it?"
Haarte looked insulted. "Of course not. We heard on the news that this Robert Kelly guy'd been killed. That wasn't the hit's new name. So we started to think we'd hit the wrong man. I mean, you interrupted me during the job. We didn't have time to verify it. I checked out the place later and found a picture of Kelly with his sister, letters. They looked legit."
Rune remembered the torn picture. Haarte had probably lost his temper when he'd realized his mistake then ripped up the photo in anger.
He continued. "Witness relocation doesn't do that thorough a job, faking old family pictures. So I figured we'd fucked up. We had to make it right."
Mak
e it right? Rune thought.
"When you came to the store," Rune said, "when you pretended to be that U.S. marshal, Dixon, you said you were part of the homicide team at Mr. Kelly's apartment."
"Fuck, of course I wasn't there." Haarte laughed. "That's the trick to lying. Make the person you're lying to your partner in the lie. I suggested I was there and you just assumed I was."
Rune remembered Mr. Kelly's apartment, looking through his books, finding the clipping, the heat and the stuffiness of the apartment. The horrible bloodstained chair. The torn photo.
Rune closed her eyes. She left overwhelmed with hopelessness. Her big adventure--it was all because of a mistake. There was no stolen bank loot. Robert Kelly was just a bystander--a weird old man who happened to like a bad movie.
"So, honey, we need to know," Emily said impatiently, "who'd you tell about me?"
"Nobody."
"Boyfriends? Girlfriends? You've had plenty of time to talk to people after you ran out of our little party at Spinello's house in Brooklyn."
"You knew where Spinello was all along?" Rune asked. "And you were just using me?"
"Of course," Emily said, "I just had to lead you there, through the bank and the lawyer, so there'd be a trail the police could find. The cops'd see that you were tracking him down, then they'd find him and your body--we were going to make it look like he shot you after you shot him. They'd have their perp. End of investigation. The police're like everybody else. They prefer the least work possible. Once they've found a killer they stop looking for anybody else. On to other cases. You know. So, come on: Who'd you tell?"
"Why would I say anything to anybody?"
"Oh, come on," Haarte said. "You see somebody killed right in front of you and you don't tell the police?"
"How could I? My fingerprints were all over Spinello's apartment. I knew I was a suspect. I figured out what you were doing."
"No, you didn't," Haarte said. "You're not that smart."
Rune remained silent. At least one thing was good, Rune thought. They don't know about Stephanie.
Suddenly Haarte leapt up from the chair, grabbed Rune's hair, and jerked her head back so far she couldn't breathe. She was choking. His face was close to hers. "See, you think it's better to live. No matter what I do to you. But it isn't. The only way we could let you live--and we aren't really inclined to kill you--but the only way we'd let you live is if we make it so that you can't tell anybody about us. Pick us out of a lineup, say."