The vehicle slowed and finally came to a stop. River was in the back seat, half on the floor, twisted. He bowed his forehead onto his hands and closed his eyes.
Everything was silent.
It was the deepest silence he’d ever heard.
Thunder rushed through his veins.
He was alive.
That’s all that mattered.
Alive.
Alive.
Alive.
Then a warning sounded inside his head, a warning that said he had no time to relax.
Something was wrong.
A pain from his side made him focus. He looked down and saw a knife sticking out of his body.
There was blood, lots and lots of blood, enough to scare him.
He grabbed the knife as fast as he could, pulled it out and dropped it.
There.
The bastard was out.
He twisted upright and pulled his shirt up to see how deep the wound was.
He couldn’t tell.
There was too much blood.
It felt deep but he couldn’t tell.
Suddenly his right eye blurred.
He wiped the back of his hand across it.
When he pulled it away, there was blood, dripping down from somewhere above.
He felt around until he found the wound. It was on his head, under his hair, two or three inches back. He ran a finger along it to gauge how bad it was.
It was bad.
79
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Morning
“So what do you say? Are you in?”
London was waiting for an answer.
Her stomach was pressed to Wilde’s.
Her lips were open.
Her breathing was shallow.
Wilde was at a crossroads, the kind that lasts only a few seconds and then ripples forever. Part of him said yes, go; screw his whole existence, disappear with London and let whatever happens happen. The other part said no, don’t even think about it; he hardly knew the woman, certainly not enough to throw away everything he’d built up in Denver.
He blew smoke.
Then he looked down into her eyes and opened his mouth to talk.
He still didn’t know what the answer would be, but knew it was time to give it.
The silence was over.
It was time to decide.
It would come to him as he mouthed the words.
Suddenly a noise came from behind him. He turned to find a man in the room, a man he knew-Crockett Bluetone, the hotshot lawyer, the head of London’s firm.
London was as surprised as Wilde and took a step back.
“The door was open,” Bluetone said. Then to Wilde, nodding at his cigarette, “You got another?”
Wilde hesitated; then he tapped one loose and extended the pack.
Bluetone pulled it out, said “Thanks,” and lit up from a fancy gold lighter.
His eyes were on London.
He flicked the lighter shut, stuck it in his pocket, blew smoke at London and looked at Wilde.
“She’s a beautiful woman. I wouldn’t take her offer, though, not if I was you.” He focused on London and said, “Tell him why.”
Wilde turned to London.
Her face was a mixture of hate, fear and confusion.
“Get out of here,” she said.
“Sure, partner, whatever you say. We’ll be talking, though. Trust me on that.”
Then he was out of the room and down the stairs.
The front door opened and slammed.
He was gone.
Partner.
Partner.
Partner.
The word ricocheted through Wilde’s brain.
“What did he mean, partner? He didn’t mean law partner, did he?”
London took a step back.
The wall stopped her from going farther.
“He’s scum,” she said. “The guy who tried to kill me last night-Bluetone hired him. That’s why I’m getting out of Denver. That’s why I can’t practice law anymore.”
Half of Wilde wanted to take the woman in his arms.
The other half wanted answers.
“Answer my question,” he said. “What did he mean, partner?”
London exhaled, then slumped to the floor.
Wilde sat next to her.
“Talk,” he said.
London took his hand in hers, brought it to her mouth and kissed it.
“Partner refers to the Mexico deal,” she said. “Technically we were partners in that.”
Wilde nodded.
That’s what he thought.
“Go on,” he said. “Keep talking.”
A beat.
“It’s not pretty,” she said.
“Fine, I’ve been warned. Now keep talking.”
“If I keep talking, you’ll hate me.”
Wilde took a drag on the smoke.
“Let’s find out.”
80
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Morning
Bristol’s cab headed south away from the skyscrapers of the financial district and then even deeper to where the insane congestion of the city began to ease. Waverly stared through the windshield as they followed, being sure she didn’t break the line of sight. The driver was staying back just the right amount. “You’re doing good,” she said.
The man moved the rearview mirror.
His eyes suddenly appeared in it, looking into Waverly’s.
“We try our best for Russian spies,” he said.
“Good.”
“You never said thank you, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For not running you over.”
She smiled.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“The last person I didn’t run over gave me a pretty good tip,” he said.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’m not suggesting, I’m just stating a fact.”
“I understand.”
A photo of a woman with two blond girls was taped to the dash.
“Is that your wife and kids?”
He looked into her eyes for a heartbeat, then back at traffic.
“Yeah.”
“They’re nice.”
“I married out of my league,” he said. “What can I say?” A beat then, “You got a family?”
“No.”
“Get one,” he said. “That’s my advice.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“A family keeps you sane.”
“I’ve heard the opposite, too.”
Waverly suddenly realized where they were headed-the San Francisco Municipal Airport, on the east side of the bay thirteen miles south of downtown. That had to be it. There was nothing else down in this section of the world worth going to.
“They’re going to the airport,” she said.
“That’d be my guess.”
Her heart raced.
There would be at least some minimal wait before they boarded a plane. The woman would powder her nose at some point.
Waverly would be there when she did.
She turned out to be half right-they ended up at the airport, but Bristol and the woman bought tickets and boarded a plane almost immediately.
The flight was headed for Denver.
Waverly’s first instinct was to get a ticket and jump on. Her second instinct was that her first instinct was insanity. There’d be almost no possibility of Bristol not spotting her. In fact, with her luck, the only seat left would be right next to him.
She headed to the ticket counter.
“When’s the next flight to Denver?”
A man in a brown suit checked.
“Two hours,” he said. “At 12:15.”
“I’ll take a ticket.”
Denver.
Denver.
Denver.
Of all the places in the world, why was Bristol headed to Denver?
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