Gabriel left the 747 with his clothes in a clear polythene bag, borrowed loose fitting pleated slacks and a white cotton shirt his only protection from the cold. The sky above his head was the red of a lost battle, dawn rising. He felt the sting of tears on his cheeks, not his, the wind’s. A fresh layer of virgin snow blanketed the taxi rank and the roads out of JFK. The only place he could think of going was home, but without Ashley there to hold him he didn’t think it could ever be home again. A simple word like home had somehow become the hot tip of a needle ready to slip into tongue even before the sounds had begun to leave his mouth.
He thought again about the killer. Wanted to turn to the girl standing in the taxi rank smelling of Ashley’s perfume and say: “I feel so alone. Can you understand that? He killed her. Cut my soul out.” But he didn’t say anything. He thought about calling Mannelli to hear what he already knew. Getting it second hand would make it all the more real.
Gabriel walked towards the crossing, stopping beneath the hazy ghost-like glow of the DON’T WALK sign. Across the road, against the glare of neon, a man was silhouetted blue, there but not there, not really. He recognised the man wrapped in shimmering Harmony. Knew he was on the other side, not just of the road, he knew that he was dead.
Gabriel closed his eyes and opened them again. Bill Stern hadn’t moved.