Stephen slipped it off—reluctantly, Allen thought—and presented it to her.
Julia returned it to the gym bag. "Just another mystery, I guess. I don't know how much good it'll do us, but it is evidence . . . of some kind." She tossed a folded newspaper at Allen. "Find us something to drive. Private party. Not too expensive. Something we can sleep in, if necessary."
"We can sleep in anything."
"Comfortably, I mean. A van or station wagon."
"I guess I can handle that." He snapped the paper open.
Julia said, "Whatever you find, make a big deal about looking it over, then tell the seller you prefer paying in cash. I doubt he'll object. Have him drive you to that FirstBank we passed on the way in. While Stephen keeps him occupied, go ask the teller to break a hundred, and make sure you get one of those little cash envelopes. Before you leave, put the whole purchase price in the envelope. Then hand it to the seller."
"Why the big production?" Allen asked.
"The alternative is to whip out a few grand in hundred-dollar bills. Just a bit suspicious. The cabbie thought there was a bank robbery in Knoxville. The media coverage might mention us, might not. In any case, we need to deflect suspicion as much as possible."
Allen smirked at her. "You ever get tired of thinking?"
"Not when my life depends on it."
Stephen picked up the drugstore bag and headed for the bath-room. At the door, he turned back toward Julia. "Seems like you're gaining momentum. Feeling better?"
Her face was grim. "I'm just tired of holding the dirty end of the stick."
Atropos sat behind the wheel of his rented Buick and watched the Yellow Cab garage across the street. Sunlight poured into the canyon of buildings and blazed against the surface of the windshield, making it impenetrable to inquiring eyes. Good thing, too, for the stony scowl of the face inside was the seed of nightmares. If moods were animals, his would be an enraged tiger, hateful and destructive. The events of the night before had left him irreparably damaged. A black void swirled through his being, and only the blood of those responsible could possibly fill it. His soul's need for their deaths was more acute than his body's need for oxygen.
He thought of the targets. Julia Matheson. Stephen Parker. Allen Parker. They had been full of fear and terror. They knew they could not win but had fought and run out of instinct. In the end, instinct would fail; where strength and skill were lacking, only hope had a chance to prevail, and he had given them no reason to hope. The ones who lasted longest were the ones who held to their belief that they would live—until their stopped hearts told them they didn't.
But there was something about them . . .
He felt a pang of anxiety, just a fleeting flash of doubt. Trusting his own instincts, he pursued it. The big one, Stephen, had strength and a few good moves, he'd give him that. The woman was brave and feisty. That meant she couldn't be counted on to behave the way most of his targets did when they knew he was after them. She wouldn't cower. He had not seen the doctor in action, except to run. But he was a physician. Probably intelligent. If he wasn't merely a savant in the medical field, if he possessed the ability to focus his intellect on things outside his field of expertise—an ability few seemed to have, in Atropos's experience—then the three of them together might make a challenging opponent. He'd have to pick them off one at a time. He'd have to stay sharp.
This headache wasn't helping. He'd downed half a bottle of Tylenol in the past two hours; it hadn't taken the edge off at all. He pulled off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose. He ran his fingers back through his hair, slipped the glasses back on.
A cab was pulling into the garage, his cab. The prey's accomplice had returned before the end of his shift, as Atropos knew he would. His wallet undoubtedly fattened, the man would have seen no reason to sweat through another three hours of drudgery. Predictable. Equally predictable was the lie he'd tell about the destination of his last fare and, ultimately, his telling of the truth as the bridge of his nose slowly collapsed.
Chick-chu. Chick-chu.
Atropos waited for the man to emerge and head for his personal car. When he did, Atropos hopped from the Buick and darted across the street, a disarming smile creasing his lips and a black-fisted hand concealed in his jacket pocket.
forty-nine
Alone in the shadows after Allen and Stephen left to buy a conversion van, Julia felt her adrenaline ebb. Malaise pressed on her like a warm blanket. She flung open the curtains, hoping the sunlight would dispel the room's gloominess, and the traces of her own. A quick scan of the parking lot and the street beyond, then she stepped clear of the window. Previously, she'd wanted the curtains shut because of Allen and Steven's naivete concerning covert operations. Her experience in babysitting government witnesses had taught her that most people will habitually step up to open windows at least a few times, even when they know better. Using the computer at the table and moving along the edges of the room, she would be invisible to the traffic on Maryville's main thoroughfare in front of the motel. An enemy directly outside the window would see her, but that would mean their enemies had found them anyway.
Which was a possibility she couldn't dismiss. The Warrior's appearance in Knoxville confirmed her suspicions that the people after them were powerful and resourceful. And Allen's comment about the "resurrected" killer had jarred her. She'd decided during the cab ride not to ponder the metaphysical implications of a killer who appeared to have come back from the dead to hunt them. That an assassin with obvious black-op experience had targeted them was enough; contemplating anything deeper threatened to unravel the moorings her mind had on reality. Besides, asking unanswerable questions only fostered frustration and drained brainpower from more productive endeavors. Whatever the explanation, he was after them. Her job was to keep them alive.
She pushed her hair back with both hands, feeling the grit and grease from the undercarriages she'd crawled beneath. She walked slowly into the bathroom and pressed her palms against the countertop, leaning over the sink. One of the two fluorescent tubes above her flickered madly, transforming her reflected face into something from a carnival fun house. The brown of her eyes, eyebrows, and hair, the maroon of a small cut on her cheekbone she didn't remember getting, appeared black against the white of her skin.
She splashed cold water on her face, then did it again. She poured it over the back of her neck, ran streams of it into her hair. Yes. Her skin thirsted for the water's briskness, its energizing purity. She threw her arms back to let her jacket fall to the floor, followed by her cream blouse. Water cooled her chest, streaked over her belly. The next thing, she was naked under the icy jets of the shower. The cold robbed her breath but ignited her mind. In minutes, she felt new, ready.
Then she added heat to the stream and lathered soap over her body and shampoo into her hair. She leaned against the tiles and watched the suds spiral down the drain until the water was clear. A sharp toss of her head snapped the water from her hair, and she stepped out. In the mirror, her skin glowed a healthy pink.
Okay, she thought. Time to get to work.
She sat cross-legged on the bed, the computer in her lap.
She called up the web site Bonsai had given her. It was blank except for a single rectangle in the middle of the screen that read CLICK ME. She did and was prompted to enter a pass phrase. The third one she entered caused the words in the box to change to PLEASE wait. She worked a towel over her moist hair. She hoped that Bonsai had been able to decipher the chip and that it contained enough evidence to end this thing.