hundred-dollar bills from the New Orleans trip. The killer hadn’t
touched those. Exiting the building, she hailed a cab, gave the driver
her destination and slid appreciatively into the seat as the vehicle
sped away. She carefully slid the late Philip Goldman’s .32 revolver
out of her pocket, inserted it into the belt holster Sawyer had given
her, and then buttoned up her trench coat.
The cab pulled in front of Union Station and she got out. She never
would have gotten through airport security with her handgun, but she had
no such worry traveling on Amtrak. Her plan, at the outset, was simple:
Run to a safe place and try to figure things out.
She planned on contacting Lee Sawyer, but she didn’t want to be in the
same country as the FBI agent when she did. The problem was she had
tried to help her husband. She had lied to the FBI. A stupid act in
retrospect, but at the time it was the only thing she could do.
She had to help her husband. She had to be there for him. Now? Her
gun was at a murder scene; the tape of her conversation with Jason was
there as well. Despite her coming partially clean with Sawyer, what
would he think now? Now, she was certain, the handcuffs would come out.
She started to sink into despair again, but she gathered her courage,
turned up her collar in the face of the icy wind and entered the railway
terminal.
She bought a coach ticket on the next Metroliner train bound for New
York City. The train would leave in about twenty minutes and would
deposit her at Penn Station in midtown New York at about five-thirty in
the morning. A cab ride would take her to JFK Airport, where she would
buy a one-way plane ticket on an early morning flight to some country,
she wasn’t sure which one yet. She went to the ATM machine on the lower
level of the train station and withdrew some more cash. As soon as an
APB was put out on her, the plastic would be useless. It suddenly
occurred to her that she had no other clothes and that she would have to
travel as much as possible incognito. The problem was that none of the
innumerable clothing shops were open in the terminal at this time of
night. She would have to wait until she got to New York.
She stepped inside a phone booth and consulted her small address book;
Lee Sawyer’s card tumbled out. She stared at it for a long moment.
Dammit/She had to, she owed the man. She dialed Sawyer’s home number.
After four rings the answering machine came on. She hesitated and then
slammed the phone down. She dialed another number. It seemed to ring
indefinitely until a sleepy voice answered.
“Jeff?”
“Who’s this?”
“Sidney Archer.”
Sidney could hear Fisher fumbling in his bedcovers, probably looking for
the clock. “I waited up to hear from you. Must’ve fallen asleep.”
“Jeff, I don’t have much time. Something terrible has happened.”
“What? What’s happened?”
“The less you know, the better.” She paused and struggled through her
thoughts. “Jeff, I’m going to give you the number where I can be
reached right now. I want you to go to a pay phone and call me back.”
“Christ, it’s… it’s after two A.M.”
“Jeff, please, just do what I ask.”
After a little grumbling, Fisher assented. “Give me about five minutes.
What’s the number?”
Barely six minutes later, the phone rang. Sidney snatched it up.
“You’re at the pay phone. You swear?”
“Yes! And I’m freezing my ass off. Now talk to me.”
“Jeff, I’ve got the password. It was in Jason’s e-mail. I was right,
it was sent to the wrong address.”
“That’s fantastic. Now we can read the file.”
“No, we can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I lost the disk.”
“What? How did you do that?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s gone. I can’t get it back.” Sidney’s misery
was evident in her voice. She collected her thoughts. She was going to
tell Fisher to leave town for a while. He could be in danger, serious
danger, if her experience in the parking garage was any indicator. She