"Do you need any help getting to your seats?" the woman asked. "I don't see a ramp."
Her companion's gaze slid to the side, as if anxious to move on.
"Thank you, dear, but we'll be fine," Grace said. "This place is supposed to be accessible, so they must have a ramp or elevator hidden somewhere."
"Enjoy the show, then," the woman said, and let her companion lead her away.
Cliff found a quiet corner and they sipped their champagne and watched the "preshow show," the parade of patrons, from the well dressed, to the badly dressed, to the barely dressed. Cliff's murmured commentary kept her in giggles, as always. For fifty years, no one had ever made her laugh like Cliff could. Her husband, David, had been a wonderful man, and she'd loved him dearly--still missed him every day--but when she needed a good chuckle, she'd always looked to Cliff, David's childhood friend and business partner.
There'd never been anything between them while their spouses had been alive. Never considered it. But as the grief had faded, they'd realized that there might be more between them than the shared love of a good laugh. Their children and grandchildren had encouraged the relationship, happy to see the "old folks" bonding in companionship and mutual support. As for romance, well, there was bound to be some hand-holding, maybe the odd kiss on the cheek, but that was it. After all, both would see eighty in a year or two.
Had the kids known the truth...Grace smiled. With Cliff, she'd discovered a passion she'd thought lost to age. Even with his bum knee and her recent hip break, they managed just fine.
"What are you thinking, Gracie?" Cliff's voice was a growling purr as he leaned over her. "That glint in your eyes tells me I might want to skip the show."
She was opening her mouth to reply, when an usher passed, telling people it was fifteen minutes to curtain.
"Time for me to find a bathroom," Cliff said. "That wine at dinner went right through me and this"--he lifted his empty champagne flute--"didn't help. How about you?"
Grace paused. She hated using public bathrooms with this wheelchair. Darned awkward. But there was no way she'd make it until she got home after the show, and the hallway congestion would be impossible at intermission. Better to get it over with now.
"So who goes first?" Cliff said as Grace wheeled into the bathroom hall. "Flip for it? Or..." He grinned down at her. "Maybe we should go together. I'm sure you could use a hand."
"If we do, will we get to our seats in ten minutes?"
"Probably not."
"Then save that thought for another time."
"Don't think I won't."
A sly smile up at him. "Good." Before he could answer, she waved at the bathrooms. "Seems we don't need to flip for first dibs after all. There are two of them. You know you're in a place that caters to us old fogies when..."
He smiled. "Too true. You take the first, then, my lady, and I'll meet you in a few minutes." He snuck a look her way and waggled his brows. "Sure you don't want some help?"
"Oh, I want it...but I don't want to be rolling into the auditorium after all the lights go out, or I'll break my neck."
He pushed open the door for her and she navigated inside.
He heard the knob turn and tensed, hose strung between his hands. The door opened, hiding him behind it. He pressed himself against the wall, waited until the door was swinging shut, then lunged.
He checked outside the door, then stepped out, letting it close--locked--behind him. As he strolled past the other handicapped washroom, the door opened and a woman in a wheelchair maneuvered her way out.
As Grace waited outside the bathroom, the usher came by, announcing five minutes to performance time. She glanced at the door. Yes, some things weren't as speedy at seventy-eight as they'd been at eighteen, and she hated to rush him, but she really didn't want to be navigating the aisles in the dark. She rapped on the door. When Cliff didn't answer, she rattled the handle.
"Cliff?" she said, as loud as she dared. "It's me."
Sill nothing. His hearing was fine, but she knocked louder, just in case. Her gut went cold. Why wasn't he answering? She tried to calm herself. Her mind offered up a dozen logical explanations, but her gut shut them down. Something had happened. A fall, a stroke, a heart attack--just like David.
"Can I help?" A middle-aged man paused in his sprint from the washroom to the front hall.
"My--someone's--I need a--an usher. Someone who can open the door. Quickly!"
He glided into the front foyer. People were still streaming in, and a few were heading out for that last-minute cigarette. He thought of joining them, but knew he couldn't. Ushers were right there, watching each exit with disapproval, warning people the opera would begin soon. He might get all the way to the car before the Feds found the body--or he might not get down the steps. Safer to do what everyone else was doing and head into the auditorium.
As he walked, his gaze passed over the crowd and snagged on a face with a split-second of "Hey, don't I know...?" But when he zeroed in, that spark of recognition faded. The man was in his late forties, an investment banker type, with that lean, slightly hungry look. On his arm was a younger woman, maybe thirty. Typical, especially here, amid a sea of trophy wives, but this didn't look like your average "secretary turned spouse." He let his gaze linger and didn't worry about being obvious--he wasn't the only one looking. She wasn't a knockout. Just...pretty. A pretty redhead with a smile that turned heads, and sparked more than a smile or two in return.
She was chatting away animatedly, and her companion--he checked the man's finger and amended that--her husband was listening to every word, turning now and then to nod at her, the hard edges of his face softening each time he glanced over. The doting husband. The investment banker and the...kindergarten teacher, or maybe a pediatric nurse--she had the cheerful vibrancy of someone who worked with children. Probably had a few of them at home, tucked away with the sitter for the night.
A pang of remorse ran through him. If only she could have been his victim. Now, that would have been a coup. The world would be appalled by the death of the old man, but someone like this, they'd be outraged. They'd demand action. Parade her crying children on television, her grief-stricken husband, her shell-shocked co-workers and neighbors, all telling the world what a kind, caring woman she'd been, and the nation would demand that the killing be stopped. As the regret over lost opportunity washed over him, he passed the couple, so close he could have reached out and--
The woman said something and her husband gave a low chuckle. Hearing the sound, he froze in midstep, then turned, slowly. That low laugh had triggered a connection in his brain, and he realized he'd been too quick to dismiss the gut-level recognition. He did know this man. Had known him well, once upon a time. He told himself he was wrong--he had to be--but his gut refused to believe it.
Still, the coincidence had to be just that--a coincidence. But as he replayed the last minute in his head, he saw the "banker's" gaze, in constant motion as he'd walked, watchful, scanning, searching.
He glanced over his shoulder and found the couple in the throng. The woman's grip tightened on the man's arm. Their eyes met. Her head tilted to the left, toward a side corridor, and they veered that way, still talking, as if they'd been heading in that direction all along. He remembered that Internet chatter about hitmen teaming up to find him, and his gut tightened with an unexpected jolt of pain. So it was true. And this was who it was.
"But not for long, Jack," he murmured. "Not for long."
By the time the usher arrived, a crowd had gathered at the bathroom door. Two men argued over the best way to open it--credit card or a hard shoulder shove.
Just open it! Grace wanted to scream, but the words jammed in her throat and all she could think about was Cliff's laugh and David, slumped on the garage floor, dead from a heart attack, just minutes after he'd kissed her good-bye. A split second, that's all it took, and your world was shattered.
"Oh, God, please, please, please," she whispered under her breath.
/> The usher arrived--two ushers, and two security guards, and two men in suits, guns flashing under their coats as they loped down the hall. Security? Armed men? What about paramedics? Where was the paramedic? Was there a doctor here? There had to be a doctor in this crowd, all these people, standing around doing nothing while Cliff was--
A hand closed on her arm. She looked to see a red-haired young woman crouching beside her. The same woman she'd almost crashed into earlier. Her husband was off to the side, scanning the crowd. Looking for his wife? No, his gaze touched hers, but moved past.
"Cliff," Grace whispered. "He's--he was in the bathroom. I knocked. He's not--"
She couldn't finish. As the young woman tugged off her glove and took her hand, genuine anxiety flooded her eyes. The woman opened her mouth to say something, but just then, the bathroom door swung open. Through the crowd, Grace caught a glimpse of a fallen figure and a shock of white hair. She gasped, but the sound came out as a whimper.
She slammed her wheelchair forward, into the legs of the person standing in front of her. The young woman leapt to her feet and started clearing a path. Then someone grabbed her shoulder. She reached to push the hand off.
"Gracie?"
She stopped and, for a moment, couldn't move. Then slowly, she looked up. Cliff was leaning over her, face tight with concern.
"What happened?" he asked. Then he saw the figure in the bathroom. "Did someone--?"
She grabbed his hand and pulled him down to her in an embrace.
"I thought--" she began. "Where were you?"
"The bathroom was locked, so I used the main one. Helluva lineup, too."
She hugged him again, then looked for the young woman, to thank her, but she was gone.
* * *
THIRTY-FOUR
As Jack led me to the foyer, I breathed deeply, struggling to ground myself, but the air seemed so thin I could barely find oxygen. If there was a floor beneath my feet, I couldn't feel it. The blood roaring in my ears drowned out all sound around me.
I felt...nothing. Numb. Distantly aware of my feet stumbling on the carpet, Jack's fingers tight around my arm, my hip scraping against the wall, bumping along in a cushion of shock.
I'd failed. In the same building as the killer, less than a hundred feet away, and I hadn't stopped him.
"Might not have been him," Jack murmured, lips close to my ear, hand still around my arm, supporting me. "Old guy. Maybe a slip-and-fall. Heart attack."
I shook my head.
"Don't know that. We'll check. But we don't know."
"Dollar bill," I managed to get out. "On the floor."
Jack's lips parted in a curse. My chest tightened and the world pitched sideways. His fingers clenched around my arm, but I barely felt the pressure, as if he was holding me through a down-filled parka.
I saw his lips move, but heard only the pound of blood in my ears. I saw myself running, running through a forest, heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst, pain lashing through me. Running for help. Helpless myself. Couldn't stop him. Couldn't--
I ricocheted back so fast I gasped. The fog cleared, and something else took its place--something so hard and so dark that I dipped into darkness again, blinded. But not by shock, but by rage.
This wasn't over. He'd succeeded, but he hadn't won, hadn't escaped. I wasn't thirteen and I wasn't helpless.
I spun to face Jack. As I did, a voice in my head screamed for me to be more careful. Don't let him see how angry I was. Don't give him any reason to suspect I wasn't in perfect control, the consummate professional.
"Can I--Can I get a drink?" I whispered, gaze down. "Some water?"
He steered me to the bar. They'd closed, but the bartender took one look at me and handed Jack a glass of ice water. We stepped off to the side and I gulped it, feeling the shock of the cold hit, reviving me.
"S--sorry," I said. "Just--Warm. It got warm."
I gulped the rest of the water, filling my mouth with ice, closing my eyes and biting down on it. Yet it did no good. My blood ran so hot sweat broke out along my hairline, stinging as it dripped into my eye.
I had to find him. Make him pay. He thought this was a game? I'd show him a game. I'd track him down and I'd catch him, and then I'd wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze the life from him. And I wouldn't turn away. I'd watch him die, and I'd savor every moment.
Jack cleared his throat and my gut went cold as I realized he was standing right there, watching as I'd let the mask crumble. I rubbed my hands over my face, mumbling about the heat. He didn't say a word and when I looked up, met his gaze, his expression didn't change.
As I swallowed, Jack's gaze moved away to track a middle-aged man hurrying for the doors. The man hailed friends standing outside, waving them in from their cigarette break, and Jack relaxed, nodding slightly. I realized that's what he'd been doing, not watching me, but looking for the killer. Too preoccupied to notice me. Better things on his mind. More important things.
The buzzer sounded.
"We have to go," I said, searching for a trash can. "Get out of here before the show starts. He's done his job. Now he'll run--"
"No, he won't."
"But--"
"Too risky. He'll be in there."
"Wha--?"
Jack waved at the line of patrons filing into the opera. I looked around, realizing that nothing had changed, no one was panicking, screaming about a murdered man in the washroom.
"They aren't telling anyone what happened, are they? Everyone who was there thinks it was an accident. And if there's no mass exodus--" I swallowed, then swung my gaze to the auditorium doors. "He'll have to go inside. Watch the show like everyone else."
Jack nodded, took my glass with one hand, my elbow with the other, and led me over to join the line.
I don't know how I made it to my seat. My heart started racing the moment I stepped through those doors--walked into the same auditorium where my target now sat. The thought of sitting down and doing nothing about it was...indescribable.
Jack moved closer, his knee pressing against mine, hand going to my thigh as he leaned over to say something. I could feel the heat of him, smell the cigarettes on his breath. His lips moved, but I couldn't hear what he was saying, the noise around us too loud, the blood pounding in my ears not helping. I watched his lips move, stared at them, mesmerized by the sensual curve.
I sat there, watching him, smelling him, feeling his hand on my leg, until that was all I could sense. Something built inside me, an ache, sharp, urgent. A primal voice whispered that this would do, that he'd do--a suitable substitute, a way to slake my frustration, reach out and touch him--
I realized what I was thinking. Felt it like a slap that jolted me out of my thoughts, face reddening, cheeks heating. I looked away. Jack's fingers only pressed into my thigh, getting my attention.
I didn't look, but heard him now, telling me to watch for the killer, study the audience before the lights went down. It took a moment for my thoughts to unsnarl and to realize what his words meant. I glanced around, searching for men in the right age group...which described 90 percent of the male patrons. I tried narrowing it down to those sitting alone, but there was no way of knowing because hardly anyone "sat alone"--with no one on either side of him. The killer would be smarter than that anyway. If he'd somehow ended up with an empty seat on either side, he'd just move over, joining another party. As Quinn had said, this wasn't a sold-out show. There was at least one empty seat in every row.
A hopeless task. But a task nonetheless. Busywork. Keeping my mind occupied, that surging frustration at bay. Exactly what I needed. To Jack, it was just being efficient. Making the best use of our time.
At intermission, I wanted to find out what the Feds were doing, if they even knew this was a hit yet, but Jack was having none of it, and I had to admit he was right. We couldn't be caught hanging out too close to the FBI agent plants, hoping to overhear their conversations.
"Come on," Jack said, tapping the ci
garettes in his pocket and jerking his chin toward the mass of patrons streaming outside. "Gotta talk to Felix."
We walked along the sidewalk, getting as much distance from the other smokers as possible without looking suspicious.
"How will they find--?" I began.
"Already did. Don't look. Just keep walking. I'll stop. Next to an alley exit. Turn toward the street."
"With my back to them in the alley. Got it."
When I was turning, I caught a blur of a face. Quinn, judging by the height. His dark clothing blended with the shadows.
Jack positioned us so we were standing side by side, partly turned toward one another, our backs to the alley as we watched the traffic.
Jack smoked while I told Quinn and Felix what had happened. To anyone driving by or watching from the opera house, I'd seem to be speaking to Jack. When I finished, Quinn let out an oath.
"So he did manage it," Felix murmured. "We thought as much when we noticed the agents stream into the street after the show began."
"So they're out here?" I said, scanning the road. "They think he left."
Jack passed me the cigarette. As I took it, I caught a glimpse of Quinn. He'd moved to the edge of the alley, still in shadow, but behind Jack now. He frowned as he watched me raise the cigarette to my lips.
"Yes, it's a nasty habit," I murmured. "And one I'm supposed to have quit but, sadly, I'm not above temptation."
I smiled as I spoke, but his expression didn't change. He watched me take a drag, then pass it back to Jack.
"Can't spring for a fresh smoke for Dee, Jack?" he said.
Jack grunted, and my cheeks heated as I realized what Quinn had been gawking at. Not the cigarette, but the sharing. I'd never really thought much about it, and I knew Jack was only being considerate. He knew that as an ex-smoker, I'd refuse a full one, but could reason that a few puffs didn't count, like a dieter taking bites from someone else's dessert. To an outsider, though, the shared cigarette might seem rather...intimate.
"So where are they?" I asked, looking around.
"Most went back inside," Quinn said. "But a few are still patrolling the perimeter, stopping people who look like they might be leaving."
Exit Strategy Page 23