"I put it all over the place: Mother Jones, the Village Voice, the Times, and a couple of dozen other papers. I wasn't sure anybody would see it."
"I saw it. I thought… somebody else had written it."
Edward glanced around. His eyes might be the wrong color, but they were as keen as a hawk's. "We'd better split. The boat's loading up. I'll carry the baby." He held out his arms.
"No," she said. "Drummer's mine."
He shrugged. "Okay. I've got to tell you, taking the kid out of that hospital was crazy." He saw her eyes blaze at the use of that word. "I mean… it wasn't too wise." She was a couple of inches taller than he, and maybe thirty pounds heavier. Her size, and the suggestion of brute strength in her hands and shoulders, frightened him. Her face had always had a dangerous, sullen quality about it, but now there was something savage in her face, too, like a lioness that had been squeezed into a cage and taunted by dumb keepers. "You've been all over the news," he said. "You drew a lot of attention to yourself."
"Maybe I did. That was my business."
This was no place to get into an argument. Edward turned his overcoat's collar up and watched the cop walking away; the pig was right, there was snow in the air. "You got a car?"
"A van."
"Where're you staying?"
"A motel in Secaucus. What about you?"
"I live in Queens," he told her. Now that she'd put that damned gun away, his nerves were starting to settle down, but he kept an eye on the cop. It had taken him a few minutes to recognize her after she'd stepped off the boat. She'd changed a lot, just as he knew he had, but realizing who she was had been a real shock. The FBI had to be hot on her trail, and even standing next to her made him feel like a target at a shooting gallery. "We'll go to your place," he decided. "We've got a lot to catch up on." He tried for a smile, but either he was too cold or too scared and his mouth wouldn't work.
"Wait a minute," she said as he started to walk toward the boat. He paused. Mary took a step toward him, and he felt dwarfed. "Edward, I don't take orders from anyone anymore." Her guts were twisted with disappointment. Lord Jack wasn't here, and it was going to take her a while to get over it. "I say we go to your place."
"Don't trust me, huh?"
"Trusting can get you killed. Your place or I'm gone."
He thought it over. There was a nettled scowl on his face, and by it Mary saw that he really was Edward Fordyce. It was the same scowl he'd worn when Jack Gardiner had jumped his case about backing into the pig car.
"Okay," he agreed. "My place."
He caved in too fast, Mary thought. Something about him put her on edge; his clothes and shoes were Mindfuck State goods, the uniform of the enemy. He bore careful watching.
"You lead," she said, and he started toward the boat with Mary a few paces behind, Drummer cradled against her and her hand still on the Magnum's grip.
In the Circle Line parking lot, when they were away from people, Mary slid the gun from her shoulder bag and put its barrel against the back of Edward's skull. "Stop," she commanded quietly. He did. "Lean against that car and spread your legs."
"Hey, come on, sister! What are you -"
"Now, Edward."
"Shit! Mary, you're pushing me!"
"Do tell," she said, and she shoved him hard against the car and spent a minute frisking him. No guns, no wire microphones, no tape recorders. She came up with his wallet, flipped it open, and checked his license. New York issued, under the name Edward Lambert. Address Apt. 5B, 723 Cooper Avenue, Queens. A picture of a young, smiling woman and a little boy who had his father's long chin. "Wife and kid?"
"Yeah. Divorced, if you want to know." He turned around, his face flamed with anger, and he snatched the wallet from her. "I live alone. I'm an accountant for a seafood company. I drive an 'eighty-five Toyota, I collect stamps, and I wipe my ass with Charmin. Anything else?"
"Yes." She put the Magnum's barrel against his stomach. "Are you going to fuck me over? I know there's a price on my head." It was twelve thousand dollars, put up by the Atlanta Constitution for her capture. "If you're thinking about it, let me tell you that you'll get the first bullet. Dig it?"
"Yeah." He nodded. "I dig it."
"Good." She believed him, and she put the gun away but she left the bag open. "Now we can be friends again, right?"
"Yeah." Said with a measure of new respect and maybe fear, too.
"I'll follow you. I'm in the van over there." She motioned to it. Edward started to walk to his red Toyota nearby, but Mary caught his arm. She felt a warm glow of nostalgia rise within her, and it helped to soothe the hurt that Jack wasn't here. "I love you, brother," she said, and she kissed his smooth-shaven cheek.
Edward Fordyce looked at her, puzzled and still angry about the frisk. She was off her rocker, that much was clear. Taking the baby had been insane, and put him in as much danger as she was in. He had a pang of wishing he'd never decided to write the message. But Mary was his sister in arms, they had lived and fought and bled together, and she was a link to a younger, more robust life. He said, "I love you, sister," and he returned the kiss. He smelled her body odor, she needed a bath.
He got into his Toyota, started the engine, and waited for her to get into the van with the baby. Drummer, she called him. Edward knew the kid's real name: David Clayborne. He'd followed the whole story in the news, but since that plane explosion over Japan the news hadn't given much coverage to Mary and the baby. He pulled out of the parking lot, glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure Mary – big old crazy Mary – was following. He hadn't expected to see Mary Terror step off that boat. Placing the message had been a shot in the dark, but he realized he'd hit a target far greater than he'd ever have hoped.
"Twelve thousand dollars?" he said as he merged into traffic heading for the Williamsburg Bridge. He glanced back; she was still with him, following closely. "Babycakes," he said, "you're going to make me a millionaire." He grinned, showing capped front teeth.
The Toyota and the van crossed the bridge, along with the flow of other cars, as small flakes of snow began to spin from the clouds.
Part V – The Killer Awoke
1: Damaged Goods
"I think we were followed," Mary said for the third time as she stood at the window of Edward Fordyce's one-bedroom apartment and looked down on Cooper Avenue. Snow flurries rushed past, shoved by the wind. A pile of trash bags on the street had burst open, and garbage and old papers fluttered along the sidewalk. Mary was feeding Drummer from a bottle of formula, the baby staring up at her with his blue eyes as he suckled on the nipple. She looked left and right along the dismal avenue. "It was a brown compact car. A Ford, I think."
"Your imagination," Edward answered from the kitchen, where he was fixing them canned chili. The building's radiators moaned and knocked. "Lots of cars in this city, so don't get paranoid."
"The driver had a chance to pass us a few times. He slowed down." The nipple popped out of Drummer's mouth, and Mary guided it back in. "I don't like it," she said, mostly to herself.
"Forget about it." Edward came into the front room, leaving the chili to bubble on the stove. He had taken off his overcoat and the jacket of his suit. He was wearing red suspenders – "braces," as he called them. "You want a drink? I've got Miller Lite and some wine."
"Wine," she said, still watching out the window for a brown compact Ford. She hadn't been able to get a good look at the driver. She remembered the Knicks fan: he'd come across on the boat with them, and so had the blond-haired girl in the leather jacket. A lot of people had come across too: a dozen Japanese tourists, an elderly couple, and about twenty others as well. Had one or more of them been a pig on her trail? There was another possibility: that someone had been following not her, but Edward. It wouldn't be the first time, would it?