Oh no. Not again.
“Excuse me. I need you to pull over.”
“I thought you were in a hurry.”
“Please.”
The desperation in his voice must have done it. Without another word, the driver pulled across two lanes and came to a gradual halt on the shoulder. Jack fumbled with the passenger door on the left—no chance to slide across to the other side—and barely kicked open the door before he started spewing.
There was a little more blood this time.
10:46 p.m.
1-95 South,
Near the Girard Point Bridge
Kowalski was treated to the sight of a man hanging out of a Yellow Cab, heaving his guts out onto the blacktop of 1-95. Fucking drunk.
Couldn’t the guy’ve had the courtesy to pick the other door? You know, the one facing the scenic refineries of southwest Philly? Now he was going to have that image in his mind all night long. I mean, c’mon. It’s a Thursday night, pal. Everybody’s working for the weekend.
Kowalski had been able to reserve a seat on a 1:00 A.M. flight to Houston. With luck, he’d make it to the gate and through security checks in time. Get to Houston by 3:00 A.M. Check for his envelope at the Shuttle Texas courtesy counter. Inside the envelope would be the address of the morgue. There wasn’t time to rent a car; he’d catch another cab. That was all he’d worked out so far. On the plane, he’d come up with three or four ways to slip inside the morgue, get what he needed, get out, and get to the drop-off point.
The head. They wanted Professor Manchette ‘s entire head.
Which, hey, whatever, not his problem. But it presented a set of logistical challenges. Like walking out of the morgue with a human head. Kowalski would need a gym bag and a hacksaw, at the very least.
The bag could be found at the airport. Scope a busy baggage-claim station—there were a bunch at George Bush Intercontinental—cherry-pick one from the steel conveyor. Someone raises a fuss? Apologize, claim to have one just like it. Then look for another one. Black, or navy blue. Two most common colors. Nobody thinks about buying distinctive luggage until they’re standing there by a baggage-claim queue, wishing they’d had the foresight to buy pink neon Samsonite.
Yeah, and that lasts until they leave baggage claim, and forget all about it. Nobody really wants to walk around toting a fucking Day-Glo bag.
Hacksaw? Morgue probably had a box full of ‘em. Plastic bags, too, to line the gym bag.
The best operations supplied their own tools.
Kowalski would be walking in with little more than his clothes and cell phone. The clothes could be easily ditched and burned. And his cell phone was equipped with a nifty little self-destruct sequence—his father’s Social Security number, which meant that someday it would finally be put to good use—that could double as a getaway diversion. And what were the authorities going to do with a crazy naked man who was caught trying to saw the head off a dead college professor?
Not much.
By the time his fingerprints were entered into CODIS, his organization could already be working on paperwork for his immediate release. Some debriefing, maybe a reprimand, but nothing too busy. Then he could get back to Philadelphia. Resume his mission of personal vengeance by next Thursday at the latest.
And that was the worst-case scenario.
Government jobs. Absolutely the greatest.
Kowalski’s taxi pulled up to Terminal C. The fare was $42.30. So much for the flat rate. He removed his travel wallet from the inside of his suit jacket—this would be stuffed in a storage locker when he arrived in Houston. He peeled off two twenties and a five and told the driver to keep the change. Nothing too generous, nothing too miserly. No reason for the cabdriver to remember him.
He walked through the revolving doors to the Continental terminal, walked up to the E-ticket check-in. Slid in his credit card, which was under a name that matched the Texas driver’s license in his travel wallet.
Baggage? the computer asked.
Kowalski punched 0.
Might be different on the way back. If he couldn’t make the drop-off, maybe he’d be carting Manchette’s head back to Philadelphia. Hang on to it for a few days. Show it the Liberty Bell.
Ha ha ho ho hewwwwww.
Katie would have thought that was funny.
His ticket printed.
Halfway up the escalator to the Continental gate, Kowalski’s thigh started buzzing. He grabbed the phone, flipped it open.
“Yeah.”
Kowalski was given a phone number. He added six to every digit. Walked to a pay phone located down the hall from the gate. Dialed the new number, using the second of his prepaid cards. This was why he purchased them in threes.
“Don’t leave. We believe the subject is in Philadelphia.”
“The professor? Is it all of him, or was his head spotted rolling down the tarmac?”
His handler ignored him.
“A credit card believed to be carried by Kelly White was used at the airport lounge one hour ago.”
“I’m at the airport now.”
“This was an hour ago, but she still may be in the lounge. Please check.”
“Can you give me a description?”
“I sent a photo to your phone. She has changed her appearance since entering the country one week ago.”
“Nothing surgical?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll know her.”
Kowalski was already retrieving new mail. The subject line: “Happy Birthday!”
“Got it?”
“Yeah.” Kowalski looked at the image on the screen. “You know who she looks like? That actress … Ah hell, I just saw the movie. …”
“Reply to that number with a text message. ‘So glad you remembered,’ if you’ve located her. If not, ‘Better late than never.’”
Kowalski hung up the phone. This was good. If he didn’t have to leave the city to take care of this new operation, he wouldn’t waste travel time getting back to his own project.
So where do pretty girls go when they’re wandering the airport at midnight?
10:49 p.m.
I’m just glad you didn’t get it all over the interior.”
Jack could only moan in reply.
The cab continued down 1-95, toward the airport, but he was in no condition to admire the view. The knot in his stomach was bad. Real bad. That last set of heaves apparently had awakened some primordial part of his brain—the one that monitored likelihood of death. This part triggered bodily reactions designed to forestall death: increased body temperature, a surge of adrenaline, the sweats. It was as if his body had finally gotten the memo: Yes, it has come to our attention that we have been poisoned. Your body is now taking appropriate countermeasures to rid itself of poison. Best of luck, chaps, and now, once more, into the breach!
He wasn’t going to leave it to his body.
He was going to find the blonde and force her to give him the antidote.
“Most guys don’t have the courtesy. But if you don’t mind me saying, I don’t think I should be taking you to the airport. I think you need an emergency room.”
“No,” Jack whispered. “The airport.”
“If you’re sure.”
The way he figured it, he had another ten minutes before the next attack. Fortunately, they were close to the airport. He’d have about seven, eight minutes to race back through the gate, hit the airport lounge, and pray like hell that she was still—