The old man, however, seemed more irritated than interested by her presence. After a long pause he grumbled, “Foller me,” and led her down a long, cheerless corridor. At the end was a numberless white door. “This do for ya?”
There was a single bed, made up with cheap, polyester sheets, floral curtains and a coffee-colored carpet splattered with miscellaneous stains. In the far corner, a tiny television was nailed to the wall. Next to it, the door to the “luxury individual bathroom” stood open, revealing a luxury individual toilet with no seat or lid and a luxury individual shower with mold growing between the tiles.
“This is fine. How much do I owe you?”
“How long you stayin’?”
“I’m not sure.” Suddenly conscious of her disheveled appearance and the fact that she had no luggage with her, Grace blurted out, “I had a fight with my boyfriend. I left in kind of a hurry.”
Yoda shrugged, bored.
“Twenty dollars for tonight.”
Grace pressed a bill into his hand and he left. Locking the door behind him, Grace drew the curtains closed. She took off all her clothes and walked into the bathroom. Only then did she sink to her knees, lean over the toilet and vomit. When her stomach was empty, she stood up and stepped into the shower. Under the weak, lukewarm jets of water, she scrubbed at herself with the used bar of soap until her skin bled. She could still feel the man’s filthy hands on her breasts, his revolting, rapist’s seed on her face, in her mouth. There’d been two bottles of drinking water in the back of the van that she’d used to clean herself up as best she could a few hours ago, so as not to arouse suspicion. On the long walk here she had forced herself to focus on the shower awaiting her, on being clean. But she knew now she would never be clean again.
Drying herself off, she retched again, but there was nothing left inside her to throw up. She moved into the bedroom and sank down on the bed. It was warm in the room. Leaning back against the cheap foam pillow, Grace flicked on the TV. Her own face stared back at her. Or rather, her face as it had once been, long, long ago.
So it’s public already. At least they’re using an old picture. I’ll have to do something about a disguise first thing in the morning, before they release a new one.
The newscaster was talking.
“In breaking news, Grace Brookstein is reported to have absconded from a maximum-security correctional facility in upstate New York. Brookstein, widow of the billionaire con man Leonard Brookstein…”
The report went on but Grace didn’t hear it. She felt more tired than she could ever remember. It had been the longest twenty-four hours of her life. Sleep caressed her like the softest of cashmere blankets. She closed her eyes and let it take her.
GAVIN WILLIAMS WAS SCREAMING.
“Are you blind? This is it! The breakthrough we’ve been praying for. Grace will lead us straight to the money!”
Gavin Williams, Harry Bain and John Merrivale were having a working breakfast at Quorum’s old offices. It was the morning after Grace’s escape and the news was all over the TV and newspapers.
Harry Bain shook his head. “I doubt that. Even assuming she knows where it is…”
“She knows where it is.”
“Even if she does, she won’t get that far. She’s got the entire NYPD looking for her. My guess is she’ll be back behind bars by nightfall. Either that or some trigger-happy cop will have shot her.”
“No! We can’t let that happen!” It was unlike Williams to lose control, but he looked close to tears. “Grace Brookstein remains the key to this case. We must take control. We must insist the NYPD hand the investigation over to the bureau.”
Harry Bain laughed. “Oh, yeah. I’ll insist. I’m sure the chief of police will love that.”
Gavin Williams looked to John Merrivale for support. But of course John just stared at his shoes, like the coward that he was. Furious, Williams got up and stormed out.
Merrivale said, “I know it’s not my p-place to say so. But I think perhaps the stress of this case is becoming too much for Agent Williams.”
Harry Bain agreed. “You’re right. I’m having him transferred. Grace Brookstein has become an obsession. It’s clouding his judgment. Her escape is a distraction, and we can’t afford distractions.”
“Exactly.”
John Merrivale breathed a sigh of relief.
He wouldn’t rest completely easily until Grace was captured. Or, better yet, shot. News of her escape had shaken him deeply. But today’s meeting was reassuring. With Gavin Williams out of the picture, it would be even easier to lead Bain and his men in the wrong direction. Eventually they’d run out of energy, or money, or both, and call off the investigation. Then finally he would be free. Free to leave New York, to leave Caroline. A life without chains! In the end it would all be worth it.
“D-do you really think they’ll find her quickly?”
Harry Bain said, “I’m sure of it. She’s Grace Brookstein, for God’s sake. Where’s she gonna hide?”
IN HER DREAMS GRACE HEARD KNOCKING, faint but rapid and insistent, like a woodpecker in the distance. The noise grew louder, closer. She woke up.
There’s someone at the door!
Jumping out of bed, she grabbed her switchblade and wrapped the bedsheet around her, stumbling toward the sound in the darkness.
“Who is it?”
“’S me.”
Yoda. Grace put down the knife and opened the door a crack.
“You stayin’ another night?”
The light from the corridor was blinding. Grace blinked.
“I’m sorry?”
“I said, you stayin’ another night? It’s noon. Changeover’s twelve thirty. You ain’t staying, you gotta vacate the room by then.”
“Oh. No. I’m staying.”
“Twenty dollars.”
Grace pulled a second bill out of the wad Karen had given her and handed it to the old man. He took it wordlessly, scuttling back to his reception desk like a decrepit beetle.
Twelve o’clock! Jesus. I must have been out like a light. Grace opened the curtains, then closed them again. Far too bright. Splashing cold water on her face, she pulled on her clothes—they stank of that bastard but they were all she had. She would buy new ones today. The TV was still on from last night. Grace turned up the volume. This time the news report was on the economy. But a few moments later her face was back on-screen again, this time a mug shot from the day they brought her to Bedford. It still looks nothing like me.
The anchorwoman was talking. “With Grace Brookstein now missing for over seventeen hours, the police appear to have no concrete leads. With me is Detective Mitchell Connors of the NYPD, the man leading the investigation into Brookstein’s escape. Detective, people are already saying that you and your men are running out of ideas. Do you feel that’s a fair statement?”
An attractive blond cop responded by video link.
“No, Nancy, I don’t believe it is. We’re pursuing a number of different avenues. This investigation is only hours old. It’s our belief that the prisoner will be apprehended swiftly and we’re working toward that conclusion.”
Grace studied the cop’s face. Detective Mitchell Connors looked like he’d been sketched by a cartoonist at Marvel Comics, all square jaw and steady, blue-eyed gaze. Physically he reminded Grace of a rougher-around-the-edges version of her brother-in-law Jack Warner. But his expression was nothing like Jack’s. If anything, it was more like Lenny’s. It’s his eyes. He has kind eyes.
He was still talking. “Grace Brookstein and her husband brought extraordinary suffering to thousands of people, particularly here in New York. Believe me, Nancy, no one wants to see this convicted felon back behind bars more than I do. Make no mistake. We will find her.”
Grace switched off the television.
Detective Connors might have kind eyes, but he’s my enemy.
She mustn’t forget it.
THAT AFTERNOON, GRACE WALKED INTO TOWN. It was all she could do to stop her teeth from chattering, knowing that her face was all over the news, that at any moment, someone might recognize her and turn her in to the authorities. But she couldn’t hide out at the motel forever. She needed supplies, and she needed to get out of Richardsville. Karen and Cora had both warned her of the dangers of staying in one place too long.
With the van driver’s bulky jacket pulled tightly around her, Grace kept her head down as she walked the aisles of a Walmart. At the checkout, her heart was pounding so violently she thought she might faint. Happily the sullen teenager manning the register seemed more interested in the chip on one of her acrylic nails than in the nervous customer or her purchases.
“Eighty-eight dollazs yer total; cash ’r credit?”