With the envelope clenched in her fist, Waverly got to the stairwell and bounded down three at a time with Bristol no more than a heartbeat behind. With every step she expected a fist to lock into her hair and snap her neck back so hard that her body yanked out.
Two seconds went by.
No fist came.
Then more seconds passed.
She made it to street level and ran with every molecule of strength she could summons.
Her lungs burned.
Her muscles cried.
The streets were crowded. She weaved through pedestrians as best she could.
A cup of coffee flew out of a hand.
An elderly lady tumbled to the ground.
Bristol didn’t let up.
He stayed behind her.
He didn’t care that people were staring.
He didn’t care a damn.
A half block went by.
Waverly swung onto the tail end of a moving trolley, dangled dangerously then got a foot planted. A look back showed Bristol sprinting at full strength but dropping back.
He slammed one fist into the other.
Then he bent over, braced his hands on knees and sucked air.
Waverly checked the envelope to be sure the photos hadn’t dropped out.
They hadn’t.
They were all there.
She already knew what she had to do.
She had to find out who they were.
She also had to find out if they were still alive or met a strange death like Kava Every.
She shoved the envelope in her purse.
Got you, Bristol.
Got you by the balls.
51
Day Two
July 22, 1952
Tuesday Morning
River drank coffee while Alexa Blank tended to tables, deciding whether he was angel or demon. It was several minutes before she swung by with an answer. “Let me see your driver’s license.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
He obliged.
She studied it and said, “Dayton River, like you said.” She handed it back. “Get your car and pick me up behind here in the alley in ten minutes. You see that other waitress over there?”
River nodded.
“I told her that if I end up dead, you’re the one who did it. I told her your name, Dayton River.”
“You won’t end up dead.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
Heading out of Denver they didn’t talk much. River concentrated on the rearview mirror, studying every car, looking for a killer behind a wheel. At the edge of the city he made several evasive turns. No one followed. The woman kept a sideways eye on him and had her body pressed against the door as far away as she could.
“Relax,” he said.
“How?”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “My assignment was to abduct you and not let you see my face. I would be contacted later and told whether I should kill you or let you go. My question is why?”
“I don’t know.”
River frowned.
“This is important,” he said. “Think.”
“I am thinking.”
“Do you have any enemies?”
“No.”
“Boyfriends?”
“No.”
“Did you see something you shouldn’t have?”
“No.”
“Do you know something you shouldn’t?”
“No.”
“Are you blackmailing someone?”
“No.”
“Did you steal something?”
“No.”
“Are you a mistress?”
“No, I’m a waitress,” she said. “That’s all I am, just a waitress.”
“That might be true but you’re a waitress who’s on someone’s radar screen.”
She stared out the windshield.
“According to you,” she said.
“Not according to me,” River said. “You are, trust me.”
“I am trusting you but it’s hard.”
River patted her hand.
“I know,” he said. “I wish I could say something encouraging. Unfortunately, it’s going to get harder before it gets easier.”
The city got smaller.
The country got bigger.
Black and white magpies appeared in the sky.
Rabbit brush grew in number and size.
“Where are we going?”
“We’re going to your new home, until we can figure this out.”
“What is it, a house?”
“No, it’s something you’re not going to like.” A beat then, “If you want to live you’re going to need to be strong. I’ll help you all I can but most of it’s going to depend on you.”
52
Day Two
July 22, 1952
Tuesday Afternoon
Alabama had big news when she returned from the library. “You’re like a monkey pecking at a typewriter,” she said. “Sooner or later you were bound to spell a word.”
Wilde smiled.
“So what word did I spell?”
“Connection.”
“Connection?”
Right.
Connection.
Wilde scratched his head. “I’m glad I did it pecking then because I’m not sure I could do it on purpose.”
She handed him a printout of a newspaper article.
“Read it and weep,” she said.
It was a short article dated August 14, 1949, about a 30-year-old woman named Brittany Pratt who was found at the bottom of a six-story office building in lower Manhattan yesterday morning. Police were investigating to try to determine the cause of the fall.
“This happened three years ago,” he said.
“Right.”
“That’s a cold trail,” he said. “There’s nothing in here about whether she was wearing a dress or not.”
“She was,” Alabama said. “It was red, too.”
“How do you know?”
“I can tell.”
“How?”
“The same way I can tell that you want to see me naked,” she said. “Instinct.”
Wilde smiled.
“I’ve already seen you naked,” he said. “Besides, that’s a totally different analogy. The reporter’s name is Michael Hyatt. Call the paper and see if he’s still there. If he is, find out if he knows anything that isn’t in the article. Maybe he did a follow-up investigation or kept in touch with the police.”
“That can be arranged.”
“Good.”
“I’m talking about seeing me naked,” she said.
“I thought you were saving that for Robert Mitchum.”
“I’m saving that for you,” she said. “Mitchum’s just a fill-in until you come to your senses.”
“Call the reporter.”
“Now?”
He handed her the phone.
“Yes, now.”
“What are you going to do while I’m doing that?”
He lit a cigarette.
“Smoke.”
Sometimes the universe works the way it should. Not only was the reporter still with the paper but he actually had something to say.
“It’s so funny that you ask whether she was wearing a dress,” he said. “She was. A red one.”
“Short or long?”
“Short,” he said. “It was up around her waist.”
“Was she wearing panties?”
Yes.
She was.
“White.”
“How do you know?”
“I was the person who found her.”
“You’re messing with me.”
“I’m not. I was out walking and there she was,” he said. “I’ll never forget it, not as long as I live. At first I thought she’d just passed out or something. There wasn’t as much blood as you’d think. Then when I got closer I could see the blood under her head and matted in her hair. The back of her skull was crushed like an eggshell.”
He talked to the woman’s neighbors and friends afterwards.
“Not a one of them thought it was suicide,” he said. “It was either an accident or murder. My money was and still is on murder. The funny thing is, though, she was squeaky clean in every way. No one had a motive to kill her, not even a tiny little one. Believe me, I checked. Being the one who found her, the whole thing became pretty personal for me.”