His mind drifted, different cities, different state lines. America from the Interstate, rolling by in the picture-window framed night of the Star Cruiser. Somewhere they could blend in. California Dreaming. Or far enough away no one would ever think to find them there. Canada? Mexico? South America?
But though he pondered through the night, he couldn't come up with where that might be.
Yin And Yang
Jack sat at the desk with the harsh daylight of the squad room window behind him, stared into the middle ground and thought of Ali Por's words, small ears. They made no sense.
A week had passed, more than two since the first rape, and in the zone there had been no new attacks. The pattern seemed broken, the beast gone. The community was beginning to drop its guard, strengthened by the allied tongs' pledge to bring an end to the nightmare. The composite sketches began to disappear from storefronts, from the hanging pagoda streetlamps.
Jack knew it was just a matter of time before he attacked again. He'd seen the sketch featured on an episode of CrimeStoppers, so he knew Sex Crimes was still active on the case.
There was a commotion downstairs, then one of the uniforms ran tip and summoned Jack.
"We got a woman downstairs asking for you. They brought her in on a D and D. Lee, she said her name was."
Lee? wondered Jack, creaking down the stairs.
It was Alexandra, looking disheveled, having apparently shed the Chow in her last name. A female uniform, who had her by the elbow, said, "Disorderly, Detective. She was assaulting a man who claimed to be her husband. There was alcohol on her breath when we got there."
"The husband?" Jack asked Alexandra.
She didn't look at him.
"The man refused to press, but she wouldn't give it up," the uniform answered.
Jack took a breath, flashed the female cop a look that reached out saying, Don't run her through the system.
"I'll take it," Jack said. The officer released Alexandra's arm. Jack took her to the locker room, sat her down on one of the benches and leveled a tough look at her.
"You know you could get disbarred in New York for something as stupid as this?"
Alexandra broke down and explained tearfully how she had recently caught her husband cheating, and was feeling bitter and volatile, and how finally this morning, after she got back from taking her daughter Kimberly to Pre-K, she had tried to throw him out. They had fought, loud and ugly. She was throwing his clothes into the Tower's hallway when the cops came.
"What about the alcohol?" Jack asked.
"For courage." She sniffed into her handkerchief. "I had a couple along the way."
"At ten in the morning?"
"In my office." She blinked. "Leftovers from the Christmas party."
There was a short silence. He put a hand on her shoulder, and when she got up he told her to get herself a lawyer, not herself. Then he walked her out of the stationhouse and steered her in the direction of her daughter's schoolyard.
"Cool out," he said quietly. "Count your blessings. I know it sounds hokey, but it's never as dark as you think. Okay?"
"Okay," she answered, gratitude and shame in her trailing voice as she hurried down the street.
When he returned to the locker room, he noticed the handkerchief on the bench. It was Chinese silk, embroidered in red with the monogram AL. He picked it up and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, not really caring whether or not she'd return for it.
Highway
Johnny fell asleep at dawn, Ohio, Indiana, somewhere. When he awoke it was afternoon, the bus pushing on, the highway changing to a two-lane blacktop ribbon and back to the Interstate again. By sunset they rolled into St. Louis.
He ate fried eggs at the Terminal Diner, washed his stubbled face in the men's-room sink. He called Gee Man again. Still no answer.
At night he stayed awake, watching the changing of passengers on the Greyhound, saw the night lights going by at a distance from the highway. He felt safe near the driver, the Ruger nestled in his waistband holster, his cash stash flat against his back.
The air got thin and cool as the bus climbed the pitch-black night toward the mountains. Worse came to worse, sell the Lincoln to Gee Man, make up a sweetheart lease or something. Wire the money out slow and easy.
He bought a throwaway razor kit in Denver, shaved in the station's washroom, rinsed the dead taste from his mouth. When he called Gee Man he got the machine again.
Dewwww, he cursed, fuckit, and hung up.
Daylight came again.
He wasn't too concerned about Gee Man now. It was Los Angeles-and Mona-that was dancing in his mind.
In the desert everything became clear, the air light and transparent over white sand that shouldered up to the highway. The visibility was endless along the mysterious monochromatic landscape.
The bus rolled toward the smog-clouded city, becoming one with the tangle of freeway interchanges, slogging along on swooping ribbons of concrete.
It reminded Johnny of New York City.
Here, three thousand miles away, he gave in to the momentary belief that he was safe from Uncle Four and his mob. They had no pictures of him. What were they going to do? Phone in a description across the country?
Murder
Jack lay in a dead sleep until the phone jangle bolted him, jerked his groggy head off the pillow to hear Sergeant Paddy Murphy's growl.
"Detective Yu!" Paddy barked.
"Yeah, it's me, Sarge." The clock showed a fuzzy high noon.
"We had a full moon last night. Loony tunes. Captain wants ya down quick. You got a hot one on Hester, number four-fourfour. You'll see the uniforms there. Hurry it up!"
Jack dropped the receiver, picked it off the floor, replaced it on its cradle. He rolled his neck and groaned, took five fast and deep tai chi breaths thinking, Chinatown Chinatown Chinatown.
He pulled on his clothes, strapped on his revolver, grabbed his knapsack and before the cold splash of water dried on his face, was out the door.
He arrived at the scene in twelve minutes, the dome on the Fury roof flashing, the siren wailing, as he sped across the Brooklyn Bridge. He arrived before the EMS crew, and the uniforms took him, jogging, up to the third floor.
He caught his breath and saw the victim on the floor, half-in half-out of the side elevator, the doors bumping up against his waist, opening and closing again.
"Shut it down," Jack said to the custodian.
"Sorry, Detective," the uniform said. "Sarge said not to touch anything till you got here."
"It's okay." Jack scanned the gathering of curious office workers. "Any statements?"
"No one saw anything, or heard anything. Typical."
"That so? Typical?'
The patrol officer looked away sheepishly.
"Who found him?" Jack relented.
"The watchman at the door downstairs."
"Bring him up."
Jack shot the roll of film, covering all the angles, then pocketed the plastic camera. He leaned over the short heavyset body, sidestepping the blood pooling around the man's head. There was a gold band on his wedding finger. A diamond ring on his other hand. The face was bloody, looked contorted where it had slammed into the linoleum floor. Jack put his fingers on the man's neck, felt it was still warm, but there was no pulse.