"Don't got no TV. Asshole owner won't let me," the kid said dully. He did the credit card, and the other man said, "Sure looked like him, though," and went off to work, where he talked about it most of the morning.
Mail went on down the block, stopped for a red light, turned on the radio. They were talking about him. "… apparently a long-time mental patient who faked his own death. Police have not yet identified the body found in the river."
Good. A break.
But they could be lying. Davenport could be mousetrapping him.
Another voice said, No big difference. There's no way out anyway. Anger cut through him, and he thought: no way out.
Another voice: sure you can…
He was smart. He could get down to the house, pick up what cash he had, take care of Manette and the kid, make it out to the countryside, knock off some rich farmer, somebody whose death wouldn't be noticed right away. If he could get a car for forty-eight hours, he could drive to the West Coast. And from the West Coast… he could go anywhere.
Anywhere. He smiled, visualized himself driving across the west, red buttes on the horizon, cowboys. Hollywood.
As the light changed to green, Mail saw the free-standing phone booth at the side of an Amoco station. He hesitated, but he wanted to talk. And shit, they knew who he was-they just didn't have the LaDoux name. He pulled into the station, dropped a quarter, and dialed Davenport.
The phone rang and Sloan looked at Lucas, and said, "If it's him, give me the high-sign, and I'll tell the Cap."
Lucas took the phone out, flipped it open. "Davenport."
Mail's voice was dark but controlled. "This was not fair. You had a lot more resources on your side."
"John, we're all done," Lucas said, jabbing a finger at Sloan. Sloan ran off to where the uniform captain was talking by radio with the cars on the perimeter. "Come on in. Give us Manette and the kids, huh?"
"Well, I just can't do that. That'd just be losing all the way around, you know? I mean, if they go away, then you've lost, too. You know? You've really lost, completely, in fact, because that's all you really want."
"John, I'm not worried about winning or losing…"
"I gotta go," Mail said, interrupting. "You've got those assholes tracing this."
"Are you trying to protect your friend? The one who's feeding you information on us?"
There was a moment of silence, then Mail laughed. "My friend? Fuck my friend. Fuck her."
And he hung up.
Lucas ran to the uniform captain's car, and the captain was saying, "Are you sure that's it? All right, I'm on the way."
To Lucas, he said, "It's an Amoco station not five miles from here. We didn't have anybody close. He's out."
Lucas said, "Shit," walked in a circle.
The uniform cop screeched out, leaving them, and Sloan said, "What'd he say?"
"He's gonna kill them."
"Aw, shit."
"But it's gonna take him a while to get there," Lucas said. "Patch through to Dispatch. Call Del, get him in. Get Loring from Intelligence and that rape guy, Franklin. Get him. Get them out of bed, anything you have to do, but tell them to meet me downtown in fifteen minutes. Tell them don't shave, don't clean up, just get there. Fifteen minutes."
"What're you gonna do?"
"You know somebody's feeding information to Mail?"
"I know you think that," Sloan said.
"I'm gonna arrest her," Lucas said.
Sloan's eyebrows went up. "Her? Who is it?"
"I don't know," Lucas said. "Get going."
Sloan, puzzled, hurried away. Lucas went back to the telephone, dialed. When the phone at the other end was picked up, he said, "Time to make your humanitarian visit to White."
"Lucas…" Roux was worried.
"Leave there in fifteen minutes."
"Lucas…"
"I just got a call from Mail. He's out, and he's going home to kill them. So go see White and keep your head down. Better keep it down for an hour."
"You gonna get him?"
"Yeah. I'm gonna get him."
CHAPTER 31
"We have to be very fast," Andi said. "If we don't kill him, if we don't blind him, I'll try to hold his legs while you run. Run out and hide in the com field. He won't find you there. Just run out by the road and hide until you see cars. Wait until you see more than one, in case he's in one, then run out."
Andi rambled along, hoping that she was making sense. Sometimes, now, she wasn't sure. She'd see Grace looking at her oddly, and she'd say, "What?" and Grace would say, "You're calling me Gen," or "You were talking to Dad just now."
For a very long time, the sound of Andi scraping the nail had been the only noise in the cell, and then Grace sighed and said, "I think I could get the sole off my shoe. You know, with a piece of the bed-spring."
Andi stopped scraping. "What for?"
"We could put the nail through it. We could use it like a push-handle."
When they were trying to work with the mattress springs, they'd found that the small pieces of metal were impossible to grip. Mail had given Andi some Band-Aids to patch a cut on her forehead, and Andi tried wrapping the wire with a bit of rag and the sticky-tape parts of the Band-Aids, but without much success.
Andi said, "Grace, that's a great idea. Let's see…"
Grace slipped her shoe off and handed it to her mother. The heel was capped by a thin slice of hard plastic. "We could break the plastic in half and make a hole in one half and put the nail through, and then put the other half over the nail head and tape it all together," Grace said. "When you stick him, you could have the nail coming out between your fingers with the heel in your hand."
Andi stared at her daughter: Grace had been thinking about this, how to kill him. Had visualized it, right down to the fatal punch. And it should work.
"Do it," she said. "I've got to keep scraping."
Another two hours, and they were done. The broken heel-cap and tape made a knob at the end of the nail, and held in her closed fist, with the nail protruding between her ring and middle finger, Andi could strike-and strike hard. The nail was five inches long. Nearly four were exposed beyond her fingers, and the last inch glittered with raw steel, like the tip of a new hypodermic needle.
"Now," Andi said, hefting the nail. "Let's go over it. When he comes, you're in the corner, playing with the computer. I'm lying on the mattress. I start to cry, but I don't get up. He comes to get me, just like he did the last couple of times. When he pulls me up, I put my left arm around his neck and pull up close, and my right hand hits him right below the breast bone, pointing up toward his heart. I do it a whole bunch of times, and try to turn him toward the wall…"
"And I come up from behind him and hit him in the eye with the spring," Grace said. She held up one of the thin needles she'd used to free the nail.
"So we should have room."
They danced it out, in the small cubicle: Grace was Mail, and bent over her mother, pulling her up. Andy struck at her mid-section, pulled back, did it again.
Then Andi was Mail, her back turned, standing on the Porta-Potti, and Grace came from behind, striking a roundhouse blow at the left eye with the wire. The wire wasn't stiff enough to penetrate muscle, but it would blind him.
When they'd gone through it a half-dozen times, they sat down, and Grace said, "He's been gone a long time. What if something happened? What if he doesn't come?"
"He'll come," Andi said. She looked around the hole and touched her temples. "I can feel him out there, thinking about us."