THIRTY-FOUR

She woke at eleven, groggy and stiff, hard sunlight pouring through the gap in the curtains. She showered again, the steam rising around her. Every muscle ached.

Her clothes still smelled of smoke. She got them back on, her leg throbbing, put the .38 in the gym bag, and limped out to the Mustang. The day was bright and clear, the air sharp.

She found a Walgreens nearby, bought gauze, tape, burn cream, and Tylenol. Back in the car, she smeared cream on her wrists, taped gauze over it. Soon, the pain began to lessen.

When she got back on 95, she tuned in WCBS Newsradio, but there was nothing about Chance or the fire. She stopped for breakfast, washed down four Tylenol with two cups of tea, then got on the road again.

When she saw signs for New York City, she pulled off the highway, drove until buildings and houses gave way to fields and woods. After a while, she saw what she wanted, the glint of sunlit water through the trees.

She followed a road that led to a stone bridge over a river, no other cars around, no houses nearby. She pulled over, opened the trunk, got out the .38.

The current was running fast, gathering speed beneath the bridge. She dumped the last of the loose shells into the water, then opened the .38 and shook out the spent casings.

She looked at the gun, turned it over in her hand, remembering the day Wayne had given it to her. A long time ago.

She tossed the gun out over the river, watched it fall, splash, and disappear.

*   *   *

Back in the city, she went to the Travel Inn, changed clothes, and transferred all the money to her suitcase. She’d drop it at the apartment, call Rathka. The sooner she turned it over, the better she’d feel.

She checked out, bought a new cell from a corner deli, got the Mustang from the garage, and headed north on the West Side Highway. She got off on West 96th, took Broadway up to 108th, turned right.

There was a police cruiser in the loading zone outside her building. Behind it was an unmarked Crown Victoria with a whip antenna, blackwalls. Detectives.

She slowed, powered the window down halfway. Through the foyer door, she could see two uniforms in the lobby, talking to Reynaldo the doorman. That meant the detectives were already upstairs.

She heard a noise, saw the cat with the torn ear leap from the stoop to the sidewalk. It sat beside a planter, looked across at her, totally still.

“Sorry,” Crissa said.

A horn sounded behind her. There was a cab in her rearview. She was blocking the street.

She powered the window up. The cat watched her as she drove away.

*   *   *

Circling back to 101st, she found a parking space near the bank. She got the new cell from its package, activated it, called Rathka’s office.

It rang a long time. Rathka answered with a simple “Hello?”

“Why are you answering the phone?” she said. “Where’s Monique?”

There was a pause, then, “Ah, Miss Anderson, I thought you might call. Monique’s busy at the moment, helping out some unexpected visitors.”

“Who’s there?” she said.

“Sorry I can’t stay on the line. Maybe you can try me later in the week?”

Voices in the background, muffled.

“Police?” she said.

“Yes, that’s right. Thursday or Friday would be best.”

Close by him, an unfriendly voice said, “Who is that?”

“Thanks,” she told him and ended the call.

She took the cell apart in her lap. It was no good now. The number would be in Rathka’s phone. She snapped the circuit board in half, tossed the pieces out the window.

They’d worked fast. Talked to the realty office in Connecticut, came up with the name Roberta Summersfield, backtracked to Rathka and the apartment. So the name was no good anymore. If they looked into it, they’d hit a dead end, but it might only whet their interest, keep them looking. Her life here was done.

She watched the front of the bank, wondering if they’d gotten that far, if there were police inside. She’d have to take the chance. She got out the ring of safe deposit keys.

Ten minutes later, she walked out of the bank with ten thousand dollars in banded fifties, a .32 automatic, and a U.S. passport and New Jersey driver’s license in the name of Linda Hendryx. She drove around to two more Manhattan banks and did the same. When she was done, she had thirty-five thousand in cash. She put it in the suitcase with the rest of the money.

It took forever to get through the Lincoln Tunnel. She watched the rearview the entire time, waiting to see police lights. When the traffic finally broke up on the other side, she followed signs to the New Jersey Turnpike, headed south.

She’d drive as long as she could stay awake, get as far from the city as possible. Maybe west then, cross-country to the Coast, somewhere warm, or back up to Pennsylvania eventually, see if Charlie Glass could put together some work, get her going again. Money for Maddie, money for Wayne.

Eventually she’d call Rathka from somewhere far away, find out how much damage had been done, where things stood in Texas. Somehow she’d figure it all out, make it work.

It was growing dark, the sky clear. Stars were coming out, flickers of cold and distant light. Nothing behind her now. Nothing but night ahead. But she had a name, a suitcase full of cash, a car, and a gun.

It was a start.