THIRTY-FOUR

As Jack led me to the foyer, I breathed deeply, struggling to ground myself, but the air seemed so thin I could barely find oxygen. If there was a floor beneath my feet, I couldn’t feel it. The blood roaring in my ears drowned out all sound around me.

I felt…nothing. Numb. Distantly aware of my feet stumbling on the carpet, Jack’s fingers tight around my arm, my hip scraping against the wall, bumping along in a cushion of shock.

I’d failed. In the same building as the killer, less than a hundred feet away, and I hadn’t stopped him.

“Might not have been him,” Jack murmured, lips close to my ear, hand still around my arm, supporting me. “Old guy. Maybe a slip-and-fall. Heart attack.”

I shook my head.

“Don’t know that. We’ll check. But we don’t know.”

“Dollar bill,” I managed to get out. “On the floor.”

Jack’s lips parted in a curse. My chest tightened and the world pitched sideways. His fingers clenched around my arm, but I barely felt the pressure, as if he was holding me through a down-filled parka.

I saw his lips move, but heard only the pound of blood in my ears. I saw myself running, running through a forest, heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst, pain lashing through me. Running for help. Helpless myself. Couldn’t stop him. Couldn’t—

I ricocheted back so fast I gasped. The fog cleared, and something else took its place—something so hard and so dark that I dipped into darkness again, blinded. But not by shock, but by rage.

This wasn’t over. He’d succeeded, but he hadn’t won, hadn’t escaped. I wasn’t thirteen and I wasn’t helpless.

I spun to face Jack. As I did, a voice in my head screamed for me to be more careful. Don’t let him see how angry I was. Don’t give him any reason to suspect I wasn’t in perfect control, the consummate professional.

“Can I—Can I get a drink?” I whispered, gaze down. “Some water?”

He steered me to the bar. They’d closed, but the bartender took one look at me and handed Jack a glass of ice water. We stepped off to the side and I gulped it, feeling the shock of the cold hit, reviving me.

“S—sorry,” I said. “Just—Warm. It got warm.”

I gulped the rest of the water, filling my mouth with ice, closing my eyes and biting down on it. Yet it did no good. My blood ran so hot sweat broke out along my hairline, stinging as it dripped into my eye.

I had to find him. Make him pay. He thought this was a game? I’d show him a game. I’d track him down and I’d catch him, and then I’d wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze the life from him. And I wouldn’t turn away. I’d watch him die, and I’d savor every moment.

Jack cleared his throat and my gut went cold as I realized he was standing right there, watching as I’d let the mask crumble. I rubbed my hands over my face, mumbling about the heat. He didn’t say a word and when I looked up, met his gaze, his expression didn’t change.

As I swallowed, Jack’s gaze moved away to track a middle-aged man hurrying for the doors. The man hailed friends standing outside, waving them in from their cigarette break, and Jack relaxed, nodding slightly. I realized that’s what he’d been doing, not watching me, but looking for the killer. Too preoccupied to notice me. Better things on his mind. More important things.

The buzzer sounded.

“We have to go,” I said, searching for a trash can. “Get out of here before the show starts. He’s done his job. Now he’ll run—”

“No, he won’t.”

“But—”

“Too risky. He’ll be in there.”

“Wha—?”

Jack waved at the line of patrons filing into the opera. I looked around, realizing that nothing had changed, no one was panicking, screaming about a murdered man in the washroom.

“They aren’t telling anyone what happened, are they? Everyone who was there thinks it was an accident. And if there’s no mass exodus—” I swallowed, then swung my gaze to the auditorium doors. “He’ll have to go inside. Watch the show like everyone else.”

Jack nodded, took my glass with one hand, my elbow with the other, and led me over to join the line.

I don’t know how I made it to my seat. My heart started racing the moment I stepped through those doors—walked into the same auditorium where my target now sat. The thought of sitting down and doing nothing about it was…indescribable.

Jack moved closer, his knee pressing against mine, hand going to my thigh as he leaned over to say something. I could feel the heat of him, smell the cigarettes on his breath. His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying, the noise around us too loud, the blood pounding in my ears not helping. I watched his lips move, stared at them, mesmerized by the sensual curve.

I sat there, watching him, smelling him, feeling his hand on my leg, until that was all I could sense. Something built inside me, an ache, sharp, urgent. A primal voice whispered that this would do, that he’d do—a suitable substitute, a way to slake my frustration, reach out and touch him—

I realized what I was thinking. Felt it like a slap that jolted me out of my thoughts, face reddening, cheeks heating. I looked away. Jack’s fingers only pressed into my thigh, getting my attention.

I didn’t look, but heard him now, telling me to watch for the killer, study the audience before the lights went down. It took a moment for my thoughts to unsnarl and to realize what his words meant. I glanced around, searching for men in the right age group…which described 90 percent of the male patrons. I tried narrowing it down to those sitting alone, but there was no way of knowing because hardly anyone “sat alone”—with no one on either side of him. The killer would be smarter than that anyway. If he’d somehow ended up with an empty seat on either side, he’d just move over, joining another party. As Quinn had said, this wasn’t a sold-out show. There was at least one empty seat in every row.

A hopeless task. But a task nonetheless. Busywork. Keeping my mind occupied, that surging frustration at bay. Exactly what I needed. To Jack, it was just being efficient. Making the best use of our time.

At intermission, I wanted to find out what the Feds were doing, if they even knew this was a hit yet, but Jack was having none of it, and I had to admit he was right. We couldn’t be caught hanging out too close to the FBI agent plants, hoping to overhear their conversations.

“Come on,” Jack said, tapping the cigarettes in his pocket and jerking his chin toward the mass of patrons streaming outside. “Gotta talk to Felix.”

We walked along the sidewalk, getting as much distance from the other smokers as possible without looking suspicious.

“How will they find—?” I began.

“Already did. Don’t look. Just keep walking. I’ll stop. Next to an alley exit. Turn toward the street.”

“With my back to them in the alley. Got it.”

When I was turning, I caught a blur of a face. Quinn, judging by the height. His dark clothing blended with the shadows.

Jack positioned us so we were standing side by side, partly turned toward one another, our backs to the alley as we watched the traffic.

Jack smoked while I told Quinn and Felix what had happened. To anyone driving by or watching from the opera house, I’d seem to be speaking to Jack. When I finished, Quinn let out an oath.

“So he did manage it,” Felix murmured. “We thought as much when we noticed the agents stream into the street after the show began.”

“So they’re out here?” I said, scanning the road. “They think he left.”

Jack passed me the cigarette. As I took it, I caught a glimpse of Quinn. He’d moved to the edge of the alley, still in shadow, but behind Jack now. He frowned as he watched me raise the cigarette to my lips.

“Yes, it’s a nasty habit,” I murmured. “And one I’m supposed to have quit but, sadly, I’m not above temptation.”

I smiled as I spoke, but his expression didn’t change. He watched me take a drag, then pass it back to Jack.

“Can’t spring for a fresh smoke for Dee, Jack?” he said.

Jack grunted, and my cheeks heated as I realized what Quinn had been gawking at. Not the cigarette, but the sharing. I’d never really thought much about it, and I knew Jack was only being considerate. He knew that as an ex-smoker, I’d refuse a full one, but could reason that a few puffs didn’t count, like a dieter taking bites from someone else’s dessert. To an outsider, though, the shared cigarette might seem rather…intimate.

“So where are they?” I asked, looking around.

“Most went back inside,” Quinn said. “But a few are still patrolling the perimeter, stopping people who look like they might be leaving.”

As I turned left, my heart skipped a beat. “Someone like that?”

Jack followed my gaze to see silver-haired man cutting briskly through the smoking crowd. He checked his watch, as if hurrying off to do something before the intermission ended.

“Son of a bitch,” Quinn said. “What do you want to bet…?”

“I don’t,” Jack said. “Watch, Dee. Don’t react.”

“I know.”

He held out the cigarette again, and this time, I’ll admit, thinking of Quinn’s reaction, I hesitated before taking it. But I did take it, if only for the nicotine hit.

The man crossed the road, walked past us on the other side and ducked into an alley.

“Felix?” Jack said under his breath.

“I know, Jack, but we can’t. If Quinn and I cross that road, we’re going to be seen. We can try looping around—”

“Do that.” Jack retrieved the cigarette and stubbed it out on the wall, then dropped it into his pocket and took my arm. “Let’s go.”

We walked about fifty feet farther down the road, bringing us past the alley. Jack was curbside, so he looked down it.

“Still there,” he said. “Walking.”

We crossed, jogging between cars, then backtracked.

Jack’s arm tightened around my waist, getting my attention. “Your turn.”

I looked down the alley. It was dark, but I could see the silver-haired man had passed through into a well-lit parking lot on the other side. I swallowed the urge to tear after him and told Jack. He only nodded, still moving.

“Find another way,” he murmured. “Lane up here.”

“And, judging by that parking sign, it leads right where we want. Can—” I stopped and rephrased. “Should we turn down it?”

Jack hesitated, then nodded. As I passed the lane, I started veering that way, my gaze fixed on the entrance, a tunnel that would lead me to—

“What the fuck is this?” a man’s voice echoed. “I was taking a piss, okay? You try getting to the bathroom in there.”

There, partway down, two cops had a guy spread-eagled against the wall. He was beefy, with a crew cut, no older than me, wearing a rented ill-fitting tux.

“You guys had better explain to my date why I’m not in there, ’cause if she thinks I cut out on her, after I blew five hundred bucks…”

One of the officers saw me watching and gave a “move along” wave.

“Fuck,” Jack muttered as we continued past. “You see another route?”

“No, and I’ll bet you Mr. Silver Hair didn’t get stopped by the cops. Too old to fit their damned profile.”

Jack stopped and exhaled, pretending to watch traffic for a break to cross.

“Maybe if we walked back and took the same alley he did. It’s not the safest move, but we need to go after—” I stopped as I turned in the direction of the alley. “Or maybe not.”

There was the silver-haired man, jogging across the road, a cashmere cardigan in his hand. His wife, waiting on the other side, took it and pecked his cheek. Then they headed into the opera.

“Fuck.”

I took a deep breath, working past the sharp disappointment. “I second that. So should we—?”

The intermission buzzer sounded.

“Head back in,” Jack said. “Try afterward.”

Our postshow plan was to get outside ahead of the crowd and watch for any middle-aged men exiting alone. Sounded great. Failed miserably. We even split up, and each of the four of us followed a lone man over forty-five…only to discover he was just bringing the car around for his wife or girlfriend.

Chances were that the killer wouldn’t walk back alone to his car. He’d follow someone as far as he could. So when our first idea failed, we tried hanging out in the main lot, looking for men veering off from a group. Again, abject failure.

Finally, as the last of the opera-goers dispersed and we started looking obvious standing around, we admitted defeat and headed back to the motel.