He moved toward the bed, hands grabbing for her, and Carla tried desperately to remember the name the Fed had told her to use, knowing that if she blew this, jail would be the least of her worries.
For some reason an image of Superboy popped into her head, the one from TV-Superboy and his cute bald friend-just as Bobby hooked her forearm and yanked her toward him.
“Luther!” she shouted, suddenly remembering.
The name must’ve meant something to him, because he stopped just short of hitting her, the heat in his eyes replaced by bewilderment. “What?”
“He was here… a little while ago. Pushed his way in, threatened to hurt me.” She hoped she was getting this right. “I wanted to tell you right away, but I was scared.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bobby shook his head as if he were trying to clear some cobwebs from his brain. “A big guy? Scar on his arm?”
“That’s the one,” Carla told him. “He took it. He took your money. Said you wouldn’t need it where you’re going.”
“Motherfucker,” Bobby muttered, releasing his grip on her arm. “Muuu-ther-fuuucker.”
In that moment, Carla began to believe in the devil, because he was surely lurking behind Bobby’s eyes. She was sitting upright, as naked as a newborn, and despite spending a large portion of her life in this state, she suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable. The urge to blurt out the truth washed over her again.
You stupid jerk, she wanted to tell him, the first place they look is behind the toilet. They found your stash ten minutes after they hauled us out of here.
But she resisted. Hard.
Keep going, she told herself. Finish what you started.
“There’s more,” she said. “I–I think the cops are after him. He said something about getting out of the city. That’s why he wanted your money.”
“Sonofabitch,” Bobby said. He searched the floor, then grabbed his pants and jerked them on. “That fucker is toast.”
“He’s leaving town, Bobby. How you gonna find him?”
“I don’t know if you noticed, cupcake, but Luther ain’t exactly a wattage hog when it comes to brainpower.” He slipped his shirt on, started buttoning it. “He’s the kind of guy always needs somebody to tie his shoes for him. And if the cops are after him, I’ve got a pretty good idea where he’ll go.”
“Where?”
Bobby glared at her. “Why do you care? You fuck him or something? Looking for a repeat performance?”
“Jesus, Bobby, what do you think I am?” They both knew the answer to that, but that was beside the point. “I’m just curious, is all.”
Bobby snorted, shoving his feet into his shoes. “Curiosity’s overrated,” he said, then snatched her car keys off the dresser and headed for the bedroom door.
“You’re taking my car?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get it back.”
“And what am I supposed to do?”
Bobby paused in the doorway and looked at her, his gaze sliding over her body. “You just keep shaking those tits, baby. That’s what you’re good at.”
43
When he heard the front door slam, Donovan pulled his earpiece out and shut off the receiver. It had been a while since he’d done his own wire work. He usually let the techs handle the job. Yet, despite his lack of practice, the signal had come in crisp and clear. Especially the transmitter in Carla’s bedroom.
He had hoped Carla would be able to draw Nemo out a bit more, get him talking about Luther’s whereabouts, but at least the bastard was pissed off and on the move. That’s all that really mattered.
Parked across from Carla’s apartment house, a newly renovated, twenty-story pile of glass and stucco, Donovan kept his gaze on the underground parking ramp, waiting for Nemo to ride the elevator to the garage. His concentration, however, was wavering. The headache that had started earlier had blossomed into a full-fledged brain-banger, and his recently recharged batteries were steadily draining.
Craving a cigarette, he reached into his coat pocket and brought out a pack of Marlboros. The wrapper was halfway off before he realized what he was doing.
A faint whisper of voices skittered through his brain like rustling leaves.
He’d never smoked a day in his life.
Suddenly uneasy, he flashed back to the deli and the man in the gray suit who’d left his cigarettes behind. He remembered staring at the red-and-white box, feeling an odd kind of attraction to it.
But when had he picked it up? And why?
Not only had he never smoked, cigarettes disgusted him. He hated the smell, the smoke, the sickness they caused. He was the poster boy for a cigarette-free lifestyle.
Yet here he sat, holding a pilfered pack of Marlboros, feeling the urge to shake one out and fire it up. The thought of taking smoke into his lungs soothed him, even made the pounding in his head subside for a brief but welcome moment.
Then the headache was back with a vengeance, accompanied by a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
What was happening to him?
Before he could even try to make sense of it, Carla Devito’s emerald green Honda Del Sol rolled up the parking ramp and onto the street, Bobby Nemo behind the wheel.
Snap out of it, Jack. Time to move.
Tossing the box and all of the questions it raised aside, Donovan started the engine, then waited for Nemo to turn a corner before pulling out after him.
He was still craving a cigarette when they reached the expressway.
Fifty miles south, however, a cigarette was the last thing on Donovan’s mind.
All he could think about was the pain.
He hadn’t had a migraine since he was twelve years old, a condition his doctor had insisted was brought on by childhood anxieties, yet this head-banger certainly qualified as one. His skull felt as if it might burst apart at any moment, unable to contain the throbbing, swollen mass that used to be his brain.
It was raining again, coming down light, but threatening to get nasty. The view beyond his windshield was a blur of taillights in the darkness, the Del Sol’s distinguishable only because of their lower proximity to the road. Half-blinded by pain, he did his best to keep them in sight while maintaining a discreet distance from the car, careful not to tip Nemo to the tail.
Five minutes later, Nemo took the Fredrickville turnoff, splashed through a fresh puddle of rain that had formed at the bottom of the ramp, then headed west toward the battle-scarred signs that advertised Motel Row.
Fredrickville was a small, forgotten town that wore its failed economy on tattered storefronts and pockmarked streets. Motel Row was no exception. Three motels lined a narrow road just off the expressway, a pathetic, ramshackle collection of flophouses located within a few hundred yards of each other, looking more like tenement homes than overnight lodging.
Despite their proximity to the main thoroughfare, travelers tended to stay away, leaving the sagging mattresses and dingy sheets to the handful of drug addicts, prostitutes, and petty criminals who chose anonymity over hygiene.
Donovan watched through his haze of pain as the Del Sol rolled past the first two motels and pulled into the parking lot of the third, the Wayfarer Inn.
Pulling into a gas station, which was apparently closed for the night, Donovan doused the headlights, but kept his wipers going. Popping open the glove box, he grabbed his field glasses and trained them on the Del Sol as it angled into a slot near the motel’s front office. The magnified image intensified his headache, sending a wave of nausea through him.
Lowering the glasses, he closed his eyes, wondering again what was happening to him.
Was it fatigue? Hunger?
Or was there something more sinister at work?
He knew he should open his eyes and concentrate on Nemo, but keeping them shut seemed to soothe the pounding in his skull. A moment of sleep wouldn’t hurt, would it? Just enough to feed the migraine and recharge the double A’s.