She took off the blazer that made her thin gray sweater and plain black pants look professional and hung it up. The sweater was pinned in the back to make it formfitting. She removed the pins and let the sweater bag around her, changing her into someone a little smaller, maybe a bit younger. She removed her lipstick and rubbed off most of her eye makeup, then checked the effect in the large mirror over the dresser. Younger, vulnerable; the baggy sweater suggested that she was hiding in it. She thought it would do.
If she’d been going to see a female hotel manager, she would have played it slightly differently, perhaps tried to add some fake bruises with blue and black eye shadow, but the name on the card at the desk downstairs was William Green, and she didn’t think she would need to put in the extra time.
It wasn’t a perfect plan, and that bothered her. She would have liked to have another week just to review all the possible repercussions. But it was the best option she could set in motion with the time she’d had. It was probably overly elaborate, but it was too late to rethink it now.
She called the desk and asked for Mr. Green. She was connected quickly.
“This is William Green – how can I help you?”
The voice was hearty and overly warm. She immediately had the mental image of a walrus of a man, bushy mustache included.
“Um, yes, I hope I’m not bothering you…”
“No, of course not, Ms. Wilson. I’m here to help in any way I can.”
“I do need help, but it might sound a little odd… It’s hard to explain.”
“Don’t worry, miss, I’m sure I can be of assistance.” He sounded extremely confident. It made her wonder what kinds of odd requests he had fielded before.
“Oh, dear,” she dithered. “This might be easier in person?” She made it into a question.
“Of course, Ms. Wilson. Fortunately, I will be available in fifteen minutes. My office is on the first floor, just around the corner from the front desk. Will that suit?”
Fluttery and relieved: “Yes, thank you so much.”
She put the bags in the closet and carefully counted out the bills she needed from the stash in the large briefcase. She slipped this into her pockets, then waited thirteen minutes. She took the stairs to avoid the elevator cameras.
As Mr. Green ushered her into his windowless office, she was amused to see that her mental image had not been that far off. No mustache – no hair at all except for the barest hint of white eyebrows – but in all other ways very walrus-y.
It wasn’t hard to play frightened, and halfway into her tale of her abusive ex-boyfriend who’d stolen the family heirlooms, she knew she had him. He bristled in a very male way, looking as if he wanted to rant about the sort of monsters who hit little women, but he mostly held his peace aside from several Tut-tut, we’ll take good care of you, you’re safe here kinds of assurances. He probably would have helped her without the generous tip she gave him, but it certainly didn’t hurt. He swore to tell only the members of the staff who were part of her plan, and she thanked him warmly. He wished her well and offered to bring the police in, if that would help. Casey confessed with great sadness how ineffective the police and the restraining orders had been for her in the past. She implied that she could handle this alone as long as she had the help of a big, strong man like Mr. Green. He was flattered, and he hurried out to get everything ready.
It wasn’t the only time she’d played this card. Barnaby had suggested it initially, when their escape plan had reached the fine-tuning stage. At first she had bristled at the idea, offended in some obscure way, but Barnaby was always practical. She was small and female; in a lot of people’s heads, that would always make her the underdog. Why not use this assumption to her advantage? Play the victim to keep from being one.
Casey went back to her room and changed into the clothes she’d kept inside the briefcase, trading her sweater for a tight, black V-neck tee and adding a thick black belt with intricately braided leatherwork. Everything she took off had to fit back into the briefcase, because she was leaving the suitcase and she wouldn’t be returning to this hotel.
She was already armed; she never went out without taking some precautions. But now she moved to the high-alert version of her personal protection, arming herself to the literal teeth – or to the tooth, really; she inserted a fake crown full of something much less painful than cyanide but just as deadly. It was the oldest trick in the book for a reason: It worked. And sometimes the last move you had was permanently extracting yourself from the hands of your enemies.
The big black tote bag had two ornamental wooden pieces at the apex of the shoulder strap. Inside the tote was her special jewelry in little padded boxes.
Every piece was one of a kind and irreplaceable. She would never again have the access to acquire ornamental tools like these, so she was very careful with her treasures.
Three rings – one rose gold, one yellow gold, one silver. They all had small barbs hidden under clever little twisting hatches. The color of the metal indicated which substance coated the barb. Very straightforward, probably expected from her.
Next, the earrings, which she always handled with delicate care. She wouldn’t risk wearing them for this part of the journey; she would wait until she was closer to her target. Once they were in, she had to move her head very deliberately. They looked like simple glass globes, but the glass was so thin that a high note could shatter it, especially as the little spheres were already under pressure from the inside. If anyone grabbed her by the neck or head, the glass would burst with a quiet pop. She would hold her breath – which she could do for a minute fifteen, easy – and close her eyes if possible. Her attacker would not know to do that.
Around her neck went a largish silver locket. It was very conspicuous and would command the attention of anyone who knew who she truly was. There was nothing deadly about it, though; it was just a distraction from the real dangers. Inside was a photo of a pretty little girl with fluffy, straw-colored hair. The child’s full name was handwritten on the back of the picture; it looked like something a mother or an aunt would wear. However, this particular girl was Carston’s only grandchild. Hopefully, if it was too late for Casey, the person who found her body would be a real cop who, due to the lack of identification, would be forced to dig into this evidence and bring her murder around to the doorstep where it ultimately belonged. It probably wouldn’t really hurt Carston, but it might make things inconvenient for him, might make him feel threatened or worry that she’d released other information elsewhere.
Because she knew enough about hidden disasters and classified horrors to do much more than inconvenience Carston. But even now, three years past her first death sentence, she hadn’t grown comfortable with the idea of treason or the very real possibility of causing a panic. There was no way to foresee the potential damage of her revelations, the harm they might cause to innocent citizens. So she’d settled for just making Carston think that she had done something so reckless; maybe the worry would give him an aneurysm. A pretty little locket filled with drippings of revenge to make losing the game more palatable.
The cord the locket was attached to, however, was deadly. It had the tensile strength of airline cable in proportion to its size and was easily strong enough to garrote a person. The cord closed with a magnet rather than a clasp; she had no desire to be lassoed with her own weapon. The wooden embellishments on her tote’s shoulder strap had slots where the ends of the cords fit; once the cord was in place, the wooden pieces became handles. Physical force wasn’t her first choice, but it would be unexpected. It gave her an advantage to be ready.