A mile north of the motel there was a Kmart, closed for the night. Pascal pulled the SUV around back, out of sight of the highway. He got out of the car and found a stack of moldering corrugated boxes by the dump bins. Though he never smoked, he did carry a lighter, and he used it to set the cardboard on fire. He stood before the flaming pyre, warming his hands in a soft mist of rain.
The spasticity of his fingers had hampered him as he threw his possessions into his suitcase. The pain had quickly progressed from a dull ache to an electric burn. Fortunately there had been very little to pack. He had taken the girl’s purse, his iPad, and the jacket and robe he had hung in the closet, and he had retrieved the stun gun after tugging off the wires.
The first squad car had entered the motel’s parking lot only seconds after he had pulled out. It had been a close-run thing.
The girl had outmaneuvered him. He respected her for that. She was not his equal, but she was better than she had any right to be. In her own way she was a knight errant like himself, a fellow combatant on the field of battle, an almost worthy adversary.
She was also a corpse. Oh, she might not know it yet. But she had bought herself only a little time. The small-town detective had cost him trouble and pain, and soon he would put her in the morgue.
First he needed to find her client, the newly minted Mr. Kirby. Parker would get to the Kirbys first, of course, and perhaps move them to a new location—send them out of town, even out of state, and advise them to lie low. Conceal them and cover their scent so the bloodhound could not follow. That would be the smart, safe play.
Or she might set a trap for him and lie in wait. That was the more reckless move. A less foolhardy individual would not risk it. But it was what he would expect of her.
When his hands had recovered and the fire was mostly out, he returned to the Lexus and took out his iPad, pinpointing Alan Kirby’s address on a map. It was four and one half miles from his present location.
The rain, he noticed, was falling harder now. He disliked rain. He had to exercise caution to prevent trickles and rivulets from leaking under the cuffs of his gloves, freezing the skin of his wrists and palms and fingers, incapacitating him. But the weather, like the girl’s escape, was only a minor setback. Nothing could truly impede him now, not when he was so close.
His hands were trembling suddenly, and not from pain. He was so near to his quarry. In another ten or fifteen minutes he could conclude this business. True, he would have to deal with Bonnie Parker, but she was an inconsequential detail.
He found himself whistling. This was quite extraordinary. He never whistled. Yet there it was, a series of high, clear notes decorating the air around him. The tune was an aria, “Le veau d’or.” One of his favorites.
As a boy he had been known for his fine full-throated voice. His family had thought he might sing professionally. This would not have been scandalous. His parents were affluent, cosmopolitan, and quite open-minded about such things. They were patrons and connoisseurs of the arts, always encouraging him in his piano lessons and watercolor classes.
But he had known, even then, that he would never be a singer. Even as a child, he lacked the necessary lightness of heart. And half the time, when his parents believed him to be attending theater rehearsals or choir practice, he was prowling the streets of Santiago, making his acquaintance with the whores and pimps, the bootleggers and black marketeers, and the more powerful men who profited by them.
Eventually he disgraced his family once too often, and even his broad-minded parents were compelled to disown him. He was sixteen, living on the streets of Santiago, carrying out kills for petty drug dealers and gang leaders at a few thousand pesos a head—sometimes literally, when delivery of the victim’s head was required for final payment.
His skills brought him to the attention of bigger men, men who paid more than a few thousand pesos. He acquired a passport. He began to travel, expanding his knowledge of the world one cadaver of the time. He learned craft and cunning. He learned patience, and the inner calm born of the mastery of emotion. His reputation grew. He was offered permanent positions, which he politely declined. He styled himself as a consultant. No longer was he paid in rapidly depreciating pesos; he insisted on American dollars. He invested his money in Krugerrands and Credit Suisse notes and his mountain hideaway in San Alfonso. He had grown wealthy. He had earned respect. More than respect—he inspired fear.
But he never whistled anymore. Until tonight. Now he was a child again, making birdsong, and happy. Happy.
The phone rang.
He did not recognize the ring tone. It startled him, because it was not his. Then he realized Bonnie Parker’s phone was ringing.
Might she be calling her own number, trying to get through to him? To work out some sort of deal? He checked the display but it disappointed him, reading Caller Unknown.
Curious, he pressed the screen to answer the call, but said nothing, merely listened.
“Hope I didn’t wake you, Bonnie.”
A man’s voice.
“Hear me, bitch? You think you can hang up on me and not get a return call?”
The words slurred. Drunk. Angry.
“Not gonna talk? Who’s scared now, huh? Who’s the fucking coward now?”
Pascal cleared his throat. “I am afraid Miss Parker has become estranged from her phone, my friend.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“A recent acquaintance of hers. I am beginning to suspect that our Miss Parker is not very popular.”
“You could say that,” the man said warily.
“You hold some grudge against her, I take it.”
“She tried to fucking kill me.”
“Ah.”
“Now I’m going to return the favor.”
Pascal laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“I merely find it amusing that so many people want to eliminate this one girl.”
“What other people? You tell them to lay off. She’s mine.”
“Of course she is. Have you killed before?”
“None of your goddamned business.”
Pascal was sure the man was a novice at killing. More than that, he was a drunken fool.
“If you have not,” he said quietly, “I would advise you to set your sights on a different target. Miss Parker is a professional, and she is not without skills.”
“What are you, her bodyguard?”
Pascal smiled. “Hardly that.”
“She’s no threat to me. Not the way I got it worked out. Next time you see her, you let her know I’m going to take her down.”
“Next time I see her, my friend,” Pascal said, “she will already be dead.”