Bland and generic and mildly soul-killing, the Howard Johnson was on the unfashionable end of State Street. The afternoon light through the curtains was funereal. Behind him, the Girl Who Walks Through Walls said, “Now what?”
“We wait.” He moved to the edge of the bed, sat down.
She stepped in as though uncertain whether to stay. Ran a finger along the desk. “Nice digs.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t expecting company.” Cooper began to unlace his shoes. “This is just a place to ride out the storm. Once they realize we slipped past them, they’ll make a last-ditch effort to catch us while we’re close. They’ll fan out across the Loop. They’ll co-opt the CPD video camera system. They’ll get cops to do door-to-doors, popping into every bar and restaurant, looking in the restrooms. They’ll check hotels for new arrivals.”
“Last I looked, this was a hotel.”
“I booked it a week ago. Under the name Al Ginsberg.”
She said, “‘I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked…’” She parted the curtains, looked out at the brick wall opposite, and the street below. “Never really understood the poem, but I like the way the words taste.”
“Yeah.” Cooper pulled the shoe off, shook it until the flashbang remote fell out into his hand. “Me too. Why’d you do it?”
“Huh?” She turned.
“The Exchange. Why blow it up? You killed eleven hundred people.”
“No,” she said. “I tried to tell you then. I was there to stop it.”
“Bullshit.”
“It was supposed to be empty. We’d called earlier that day, announced we had bombs in the building, that we would trigger them if they started searching. I was there to make sure it didn’t blow, not with all those people there.”
“Bang-up job. I noticed on the news how it didn’t explode.”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Destroying it was supposed to be a symbol. The Exchange was built to counter us, to exclude us. We wanted to show that they can’t build a future that doesn’t include us. How would killing people have made that point?”
Cooper looked up at her. The width of her pupils, the calm in her fingers, the steady pulse at her neck, none of it suggested she was lying. But this woman could find a way to hide in an airplane bathroom. Controlling her body is part of that.
“Anyway, who are you to talk? You’re the killer. Not me.”
“Yeah? What about Bryan Vasquez?”
Her lips drew into a tight line. “He betrayed the cause.”
“The defense of every terrorist masquerading as a freedom fighter.”
“Said the storm trooper who protects the state by murdering its citizens.”
He started to reply, caught himself. You’ve got three hours to convince her that she should help you. If she vanishes, you lose. He tied his shoe. His fingers were clumsy with post-adrenaline shakes, and his ribs hurt from where he’d hit the balcony. Cooper stood, went to the minibar fridge beneath the television. It opened with a squeal. He pulled out two miniature bottles of Jack Daniels for himself. “You want a drink?” He rifled through. “They’ve got red wine, cheap champagne—”
“Vodka.”
“There’s orange juice, I could make a screwdriver.”
“Just vodka and ice.”
“You want to watch me pour it? Murdering storm trooper and all?”
She stared at him for a long moment, and then one corner of her lips quirked up into a smile. “Gimme the drink already.”
The world’s tiniest ice tray was in the freezer. He cracked it, shook the cubes into a plastic cup, splashed Smirnoff over them. He passed it to her, then poured his bourbon. The soothing warmth went right to work on his aches and shakes.
“So how long do we need to hang out here?”
“A couple of days.”
“A couple of days?”
“I’ve got some canned soup in the closet, we’ll eat it cold. But I was only planning for one, so we’ll have to ration our provisions.”
Her eyes went so wide they seemed to bulge. He cracked, smiled, said, “I’m kidding. Just till the evening rush, so we can get lost in the crowd.”
The Girl Who Walks Through Walls laughed. It wasn’t a throaty or sultry thing, a laugh as a pose; it was an honest sound of amusement. Cooper said, “That’s better.”
“Than what?”
“Than calling each other names. Which reminds me—”
“My name is Shannon.”
“Nick Cooper.”
“I’ve heard,” she said dryly. “So what, we just walk out of here and that’s that?”
“Were you thinking we’d pick flower arrangements, send out invitations?”
“Thing is, Nick—”
“Cooper.”
“—you’ve put me in a bit of a bind.”
“How’s that?”
“You’re not dead.”
“Pardon?”
“I came to kill you. But you’re not dead. And to anyone watching, it wouldn’t have looked like I was trying to kill you. It would have looked like we were working together.”
“So?”
“So the DAR already has me marked as a target for the Exchange. Now that they’ve seen us together, I’m probably higher priority than you. And now they know I’m here. Not only that, but until I can get to my people, they’ll assume I’ve switched over.”
“Why? Didn’t they know you were coming for me?”
She shook her head. “This was personal. I didn’t tell anyone. And now it’ll look like just as the bad guys were descending, I hooked up with Equitable Services’ top gun and we made a daring escape. What am I going to do, say, don’t worry, all Cooper and I did was talk poetry and revolutionary politics?”
“How would they even know you were there?”
“We have people in the DAR.”
“Really.” He sipped his drink. He’d known that, worked it out by her appearance on the platform, but there was no reason to let her know that. “And your moles will report that you joined up with me.”
“That’s right. This burns me. In both directions. You burned me.”
Cooper shrugged. “Sorry?”
“Listen, you smug—”
“Lady, I didn’t burn you. You came to kill me. Not my fault you picked the wrong time. Besides, I could have left you. If it weren’t for me, you’d be shivering in a white, well-lit room right now.”
“And if it weren’t for me, you’d be bleeding out on the platform at LaSalle and Van Buren.”
They stood on opposite sides of the bed, both tense and braced, bickering like an old married couple, and there was something so backward about it all, about this woman—this terrorist—having saved his life from his former colleagues, about her referring to them as the bad guys, and about the fact that in terms of his continued survival she had a point, and it was all so absurd that he found himself chuckling.
“What?”
“Long day.” He took another sip of whiskey and then crossed to the television—it was an old flatscreen, not a tri-d—and turned it to CNN. There was no way to know if this would make the news, and even if it did, it probably wouldn’t be for hours yet.
“—the site of yet another in a string of terrorist attacks in recent weeks.” The woman standing on the El platform was plastic-pretty and overeager, a local reporter getting her big break. “Earlier today, an unidentified man planted a bomb during Chicago’s lunch rush.”
The image cut to her holding a microphone to a man Cooper vaguely remembered from a seminar in DC two years before. The words Terry Stiles, Chicago Bureau Captain, Department of Analysis and Response were printed over the lower third. Stiles said, “We’ve been tracking this individual for several weeks and were able to apprehend him before he could detonate a bomb on the El. However, we were unable to prevent him from firing on the crowd. Several civilians were wounded, as well as two agents.”