The Blonde

by Duane Swierczynski

  “Fine, you’re not going to tell me, doesn’t matter.”

  “How long have you been working for him?”

  “Ever since I quit flippin’ burgers at Wendy’s. I couldn’t take it anymore. All of those square patties. They freaked me out.”

  Kowalski walked behind her, sizing up the situation. No biting, no scratching, avoid fluid contact. Easy thing to do, if she were unconscious.

  “You’re just like him. Oh so funny. Is that part of the training they give boys like you? A little stand-up to lighten the mood before killing somebody?”

  He liked her. She was quick.

  “Okay, look, the easy thing would be to knock you out. Tie you up, nothing kinky, stick you in the backseat under a blanket, and off we go. That’s probably not something you want to happen. Am I right?”

  “The tying up part sounded fun.”

  “Of course. But then I’d have to find a way to drag your unconscious body out of the hotel, and at ... what? Two-thirty in the morning? That’s a pain in the ass. So here’s my idea: We walk out together, holding hands. We get into a car.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “I don’t know. Haven’t stolen it yet.”

  “Nice.”

  “We get into a car, and I take you to where you need to be.”

  “What if I resist?”

  “Then I tie you up, like, really tight.”

  “Still sounds like fun.”

  No matter what, Kowalski was going to knock her out, tie her up, and dump her in the backseat. But it would be easier to walk out of here together, find a car, and take care out of business outside the hotel. It was early in the morning, but sooner or later, somebody downstairs would be calling for this security guy here. They might already have. Kowalski had taken the batteries out of Mr. Vincent’s walkie-talkie, as well as the cell phone clipped to his belt. The batteries went into the tank of the toilet.

  Kowalski looked at Kelly’s hand. They were mannish hands—strong wrists, slightly stubby fingers. Working-class hands.

  He studied the middle finger of her left hand in particular.

  “Let’s get ready to go.”

  2:30 a.m.

  CI-6 Headquarters (Undisclosed Location)

  The call was placed, buried, then reburied beneath a sea of thousands of other phone calls being made across the United States at any given second. It was hidden, even from DHS. She knew better than to make it from her office, an anonymous flat two-story stuccoed box with emergency staircases made of concrete. The building had been around since the 1950s; kids in the neighborhood grew up without even wondering what went on in there. She went down the street, into an apartment building, and then downstairs to a laundry room in the basement. A pay phone she knew about. She used a prepaid calling card.

  God, if anyone else in CI-6 knew what she’d been doing for the past six weeks ...

  “We have her.”

  “I’m getting on a plane now. Where am I going?”

  “D.C.”

  “Where is she right now?”

  “On her way.”

  “Not in a fucking plane ... don’t tell me she’s in a plane.”

  “I said, We have her. She’ll be here in a matter of hours.”

  “Yeah yeah.”

  “After all this, I get attitude? Do you know how much—”

  “I know how much, dear.”

  “I wonder.”

  Silence.

  “Where are you?”

  “Close enough to be there in a few hours.”

  “Then I’ll see you soon.”

  “When you see that slut,” the Operator said, “tell her I’m coming for her.”

  2:45 a.m.

  Sheraton Elevators, Right Bank, North Side

  Kowalski and Kelly held hands. He was still in the same outfit he’d worn all day: Dolce & Gabbana suit and dress shirt, Ferragamo shoes; she had slipped into a pair of Citizens of Humanity jeans, Pumas, and a white tank. It didn’t look like a date. It looked like the aftermath of a date. As if they’d met at Bar Noir, walked down the street for a hookup at the hotel, and now were headed back downstairs for the courtesy cab hail for her. Their eyes were puffy enough for that.

  The doors closed. Kowalski tightened his grip on her hand. Specifically, her middle finger.

  He’d taken her hand back in the room, even before he opened the cuffs, and warned her, “I can snap your middle finger in a such a hideously painful way, you’ll instantly lose consciousness. I’d prefer not to have to carry you out of here, but it’s easy enough to explain. My girlfriend here sure loves her apple martinis!”

  Kowalski had pulled back her finger, just as his own mentor had taught him in the early days of his CI-6 training. It required two simple actions, carried out at the same time.

  “Feel that?”

  She’d turned to him, God love her, and asked, “Can you do the same thing with a nipple?”

  Kowalski had applied more pressure to let her know he was serious. She’d grunted. Her jaw had snapped shut instantly. She’d teared up. Kelly had gotten the point. But inside, he’d smiled. She was good.

  The car began to descend, then stopped one floor below. Six.

  Great.

  The doors opened, and a guy in black running shorts, ankle-cut socks, and T-shirt emblazoned with the words TWO-WAY SPLIT stepped into the car. He was startled to discover he had company. He was holding an ice bucket. He pressed the button for five.

  “Machine’s broken on my floor.”

  “See, hon? Philly’s not a dead town. Everybody’s up partying.”

  Kelly said nothing. She looked at the guy in the shorts with those piercing eyes, as if passing along a telepathic message.

  The guy, probably self-conscious about locking eyes with someone else’s woman, broke the transmission.

  The doors closed.

  “I need some ice for my Diet Coke. Packed my own, but it’s warm. Need to chill it for first thing tomorrow.”

  “Diet Coke for breakfast?”

  “Can’t take coffee. Too much caffeine. Makes me jittery.”

  “Do what I do. Cut it with bourbon.”

  Kowalski looked at Kelly and gave her the slightest squeeze on her hand.

  “Right, hon?”

  She was still staring at the Diet Coke guy.

  The elevator car stopped at five. The doors opened. He nodded at both of them and stepped out of the car, ice bucket in hand. The car continued its descent. Kelly looked up at Kowalski.

  “I don’t want to die.”

  “I didn’t say anything about dying. If death had been on the menu, it would have already been ordered.”

  The car reached the ground floor.

  “You don’t understand.”

  The doors opened. She leaned closer to him.

  “I don’t want to die. But if I have to ...”

  Kowalski felt Kelly’s hand slip away from his. He snatched at her, but she’d already stepped back, grabbed the rail of the elevator car with both hands, and rabbit-kicked him. The blow knocked the wind out of him. He was airborne. Kowalski spun in midair, flinging his hands out behind himself to break his fall, at which he half-succeeded. The palm of his left hand caught the carpeted ground cleanly, but his right wrist twisted awkwardly. By the time he’d staggered to his feet, the pain in his wrist was sharp and real, the doors were already closing, and she was saying, “Tell the Operator I fucking won.”

  2:48 and 30 seconds

  Sheraton, Room 702

  Jack Eisley rolled over to drape his arm around Theresa, like he did every morning to see if she was awake yet. But his hand dropped straight down to the mattress. Funny—the mattress was rock-hard.

  His eyes popped open. Short-term memories rushed back: drinks, blonde, cab ride, hotel room, Mary Kates, San Diego ...

  You’ll be joining the dead, all because you kissed me. No, not because of that. Because you kissed me and you didn’t believe me. Do you believe me now, Jack?

 
; “You okay, buddy?”

  Jack rolled over to the other side. His neck and head were throbbing.

  Oh, man ...

  It was the hotel security guy, on his knees next to Jack. This guy was just waking up, too. The black name tag pinned to the man’s uniform read VINCENT. Was that a first name or a last?

  “Look, stay right here. I’m going to get us some help.”

  Jack nodded, but he heard faint alarm bells go off somewhere. In the hotel? No. It was more a tingling sensation. A high-pitched tone, like an audio test from grade school. Tones, cycling higher and higher, clunky headphones pasted over your ears, school nurse asking you to raise your hand if ... No.

  Wait.

  . . . 35 seconds

  Kelly White—which wasn’t her real name, at least not the one her parents had given her—knew she was going to die.

  It would take only eight seconds, and the throbbing of the veins in her head would grow worse, the Mary Kates rushing north to expand and destroy all they encountered, and then the gushing ...

  And then it would be over.

  She knew it would happen sooner or later. At least she had been able to choose it.

  The elevator car continued its ascent.

  But in the passing of one second to the next, her brain ignored the invading swarm of nanomachines, and a series of synapses fired.

  An idea.

  . . . 36 seconds

  There was screaming in Jack Eisley’s head, and he’d never felt it before, but now he could ... the blood in his veins. On fire. And the throbbing in his head growing stronger with every heartbeat, and the screaming whine in his brain growing louder.

  Jack shook his head, pounded his fists on the carpet.

  Listen to me. I am infected with an experimental tracking device. If I am alone for more than ten seconds, I will die.

  Christ, she wasn’t kidding.

  This is real.

  This is real.

  This is real.

  . . . 37 seconds

  Guy with the ice bucket for his Diet Coke. Up on five. She jabbed forward with her index finger.

  Collapsed to her knees.

  Found the button for five.

  Screamed.

  Pounded the floor of the ascending elevator car.

  Button five was lighted; the digital readout above the doors ticked upward in concert with the seconds.

  She screamed louder, as if it would give the Mary Kates pause.

  It didn’t.

  . . . 38 seconds

  Jack Eisley pounded furiously at the carpet with the wild idea that he could pound right through the floor and fall into the next floor, and the weight of his body and the chunk of floor would cause that floor to collapse, and then another and another and another, until he was in the lobby, surrounded by people, and the Mary Kates would know that and stop the screaming and throbbing in his head....

  It was his only chance.

  Jack pounded and pounded and pounded....

  . . . 39 seconds

  On the fifth floor, the elevator doors opened, and Kelly White was screaming, she knew she was, but she couldn’t hear sound anymore, and all she could do was fall forward, and she collided with skin and plastic and she saw the ice tumble and scatter across the carpet and heard “Jesus!”

  And she smiled, because she was worried about his Diet Coke, and here was a man to save her, finally, but it was too late, and ...

  And then it was over for Kelly White.

  Which wasn’t even the name she had been born with.

  . . . 40 seconds

  And on an upswing, Jack Eisley’s hand slapped flesh. The guard’s hand. The guard named Vincent.

  “Buddy, buddy, what the hell ...”

  Jack reached out and clamped on Vincent’s forearm.... Vincent, be it his first or last name, it didn’t matter, but he clung to the man like he was never going to let go.

  . . . 41 seconds

  Brian Burke forgot the ice bucket, forgot the Diet Coke, held the woman in his hands, looked at her beautiful face ... beautiful, except for the blood trickling from her nose and ears.

  ... 42 seconds

  If I’ve only one life, let me live it as a

  blonde!

  —CLAIROL ADVERTISEMENT

  2:50 a.m.

  Sheraton Lobby

  For the last time, Kowalski reassured the desk clerk that he was fine. “It’s just a sprain. Feeling a little tipsy. You know how it is.” All the while, he was scanning the elevator car to see where it stopped. He already had an idea of where that would be. Floor five. Diet Coke dork with the ice bucket.

  You need to keep her within ten feet of you at all times, but do not allow her to get too close.

  It was coming together for him: All night, she had been in the company of others. Made a point of it. Pick up one guy at the airport, ditch him for another. A new guy with a hotel room to himself. She needed someone close.

  I don’t want to die, but if I have to ...

  She gets alone, she dies.

  Never mind how. Figure that shit out later.

  She’d kicked him out of the elevator, made a suicide run back up the shaft.

  But maybe it wasn’t suicide. Maybe she was going for that Diet Coke dude on five. Hoping he’d still be there. Keep the company of another man. Stay alive another couple of hours.

  “Sir, I’d feel a lot better if you sat down here and let me call someone to take a look at your wrist.”

  But that made no fucking sense. What kind of government-created disease, plague, or virus—and it had to be one of the above; otherwise, CI-6 wouldn’t be having him traipse around Philadelphia with a severed head in a gym bag for shits and giggles—worked only when the victim was alone?

  No wonder the handler wouldn’t tell him anything. This kind of thing went beyond spurned ex-lover territory.

  What was CI-6 messing around with now?

  Kowalski ignored the desk clerk and walked over and punched the up button. He knew he’d probably find a dead body up on five, if she’d made it that far. Which, okay, was not a great situation. He’d rather have Kelly tell him more. But if need be, he could liberate her pretty head from the rest of her body, give her a little reunion with Ed in the Adidas gym bag, and search for answers elsewhere. His handler and CI-6 weren’t the only people in the United States with access to a laboratory.

  “Sir?”

  Kowalski turned, smiled, and waved at the desk clerk with his bad wrist. It hurt like fuck; he’d really torn something in there.

  But given the circumstances, it was simply the badass thing to do.

  2:52 a.m.

  Sheraton, Room 702

  Jack was amazed at how easily the lies slipped out of his mouth. He knew Mr. Charles Lee Vincent—that was the guard’s name; another mystery solved—wouldn’t believe the crap about the Mary Kates and nanomachines and Ireland and San Diego. Jack still hardly believed it, and he’d almost had his brain explode inside his skull.

  So he needed to tell Mr. Charles Lee Vincent something he’d believe. Something that would keep him around.

  “Listen, I have an extreme anxiety disorder. You saw an example of it a few minutes ago.”

  Ah, you silver-tongued devil, you. Pile it on thicker.

  “My psychotherapist told me that being alone for more than a few seconds could lead to stroke.”

  Charles Lee Vincent’s brow furrowed. “Okay, sir. I hear you.”

  “You have to understand. You can’t leave me alone. Not for a second.”

  “I understand. But you need to understand that I have a job to do. And that includes calling the police, so we can catch the guy who did this.”

  The police. A few hours ago, Jack would have thrown his arms around the idea, French-kissed it. But now he followed it through to its natural conclusion. Jack in an interrogation room. Jack being offered a cup of station house coffee. Jack saying, “Officer, I’d like to report a murder.” Officer saying, “Whose?” Jack saying, “My own.
” Jack watching the detective leave the room, close the door. Jack counting ten seconds before his brain exploded like a pinata.

  And even if he were able to keep detectives in the interrogation room with him, what could he say to them? He had no proof that Kelly White existed. Wherever she’d gone, or had been taken, her bag was along for the ride.

  “Okay, buddy, we believe you. We’ll be right back with that coffee,” the cops saying.

  The door of the interrogation room closing.

  Ker-bloooie.

  “Just take me downstairs,” Jack pleaded. “Let me sit with the guy at the front desk, and you can do what you have to.”

  That was his only chance. And from there, find a place with a lot of people. A crowded bar. Wait—it was close to three in the morning. Bars were closed. So were coffee shops and malls and post offices and food courts.... Oh Christ. This was Philadelphia in the middle of the night. A town where they reportedly rolled up the sidewalks after 6:00 P.M.

  “Okay, I can do that. Come on. Let’s get down there. That son of bitch took my ceil—wait. Give me a sec to use the room phone, okay?”

  Jack nodded, but then he realized what he was doing. The nightstand with the phone was on the other side of the room. Oh fuck. Was that more than ten feet away?

  2:53 a.m.

  For the past hour, nothing in Charles Lee Vincent’s world had made a goddamned bit of sense. From Tokyopop and backward comics to tough guys who liked to choke people to this guy now ... following him across the room, sitting close to him. Extreme anxiety disorder? Yeah, extreme anxiety that your wife is going to find out you had a hot blond hooker up here in your room. Tough titty said the kitty. It wasn’t Charlie’s problem. This guy had the bad luck to be in the wrong room at the wrong time. That’s all.