Czarcik didn’t really disagree, despite what he had just told her. Even if Daniel knew that Chloe had gone to the police—and since he had seen them together, he certainly did—he would have understood her reasoning.
Still, Czarcik had made a career out of refuting assumptions. And not being a neurosurgeon, he had little idea about the effects of a rapidly advancing brain tumor. That old gray mush was fickle, he knew that much, and any disruption could make a person’s behavior highly irregular. It would be safer to keep Chloe close by, for both professional and other less noble reasons.
“I’m sure you’re right. Still, I’d feel better if we stayed together.”
“You don’t think I should go back to Chicago?”
He believed she really didn’t want to go. “It’s ultimately your decision. But I wouldn’t suggest it.”
“And you? What are you going to do?”
Czarcik looked out over the water. A family—a mother, father, and two small children—had just come down with their towels and water wings. Their prosaic concerns of water safety were worlds away from his own worries.
“He beat me to Indiana,” Czarcik admitted, the closest he would come to a mea culpa. “He won’t beat me to Tennessee.”
Chloe pushed back from the table and stood up. “We’re not leaving right now, are we?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll get two rooms for us.”
Czarcik shook his head. “Why don’t you grab something to eat in the hotel restaurant. You’re probably starving. I’ll handle the rooms, then I’ll meet you.” He offered up a smile.
The bed in room 405 was fine. That wasn’t the problem.
It was two in the morning, and Czarcik had been lying in bed for hours. He was now intimately familiar with the Picasso-like pattern of water stains on the ceiling above him.
He had walked Chloe to her room hours ago, made sure she locked the door—both the deadbolt and the chain—made her promise to call him immediately if she noticed anything suspicious, and then left her to her own devices. Probably to sleep.
He had already watched a movie rented for $7.95 through the hotel’s entertainment service, polished off two mini bottles of gin and one of Canadian Club, and burned through half a pack of smokes. A documentary about Australia’s most dangerous animals was on the Discovery Channel, and he was trying to keep his eyes open until he could learn what could possibly be more dangerous than the Irukandji jellyfish, the most venomous of the box jellies, whose sting could bring on a cerebral hemorrhage in less than twenty minutes.
Just as his eyes flickered shut, his phone rang. The mobile was next to him on the bed, and he glanced down at the screen. The number was unavailable. He let it ring again and then hit Accept to answer the call; he pressed the speaker icon immediately after. “Hello?”
Silence.
He was already angry at himself for playing into the caller’s game. Again he said, “Hello?” More silence. He could feel the open line. Dead air. A greeting. A warning. A cold kiss.
He hung up the phone and sat up in bed. It didn’t ring again. But he was now wide awake with no chance of falling asleep.
After learning that the most dangerous animal down under was in fact a taipan, a harmless-looking snake that could fell a hundred grown men with the venom from a single bite, Czarcik lit up a cigar and went for a walk around the property.
The call could have come from anywhere. From back home in Chicago, Tennessee, or even the British Virgin Islands, but Czarcik could sense that the caller—why be coy, he knew who it was—was close by.
He puffed on the cigar and did a few laps around the parking lot. Just the usual traffic—or lack thereof—for this time of night. A handful of road trippers checking in for a hot shower and a few hours of sleep. Some good ol’ boys drinking out of the back of a pickup, trying to appear inconspicuous in case Czarcik was a cop. They all looked underage, and Czarcik considered stopping by—to ask for a beer. In the distance, just over the on-ramp, the lights from the twenty-four-hour gas station and fast-food restaurants glowed like a low-rent aurora borealis.
There was nothing extraordinary, or even interesting, about the night.
Czarcik tossed his cigar into a storm drain, swiped his key card through the reader on the side entrance of the hotel, and headed back to his room. Dawn would arrive in a few hours, and a pot of black coffee would be his lone companion for the remainder of the night.
He unlocked the door to his room, stepped inside, and threw the deadbolt and chain behind him. As he walked into the room proper, what he saw on his pillow made his blood run cold.
There, sitting right on top, like some kind of mocking mint, was a pair of glasses and a large, fake mustache.
The kind that Groucho Marx would wear.
In his long and sometimes distinguished career, Czarcik had been threatened countless times. Angry spouses, incensed parents, gangbangers assuring him they knew where he lived—nothing in a very long time had scared him as much as this bushy bundle of faux whiskers, felt paper, and cheap glue. Angry at himself for being so unsettled, he rushed to his holster, thrown over the back of the room’s single chair. He was certain the firearm would be gone, and a second later, he would feel the cold muzzle on the back of his neck. But there it was, his Glock, sleeping in its leather pouch, just where he had left it.
He unsnapped the holster and slipped the gun into the back of his jeans.
He kneeled down on the floor and threw the hanging top sheet onto the bed in order to get an unimpeded view underneath. Just dust, crumbs, and a condom wrapper.
Leading with his gun, Czarcik walked the perimeter around the bed, hesitating briefly before the closet doors. He threw them open. An extra set of bedding, a few wooden hangers, the hotel safe—
Something smashed down on his wrist.
He dropped the gun and cried out in pain . . .
. . . then pushed the ironing board back against the wall of the closet.
He rubbed his throbbing joint and picked up the gun. Although he wasn’t above pumping a few rounds into the ironing board, he thought it might reflect poorly on his state of mind should the hotel have to be evacuated.
The bathroom was the only other possible hiding spot. He moved slowly but with purpose. Pushed the shower curtain back with the muzzle of his gun. Empty. He spun around and pointed the gun behind the door. No one there.
Back in the main room, he checked the windows. All locked. Before leaving the room, he checked the doorknob. The lock hadn’t been jimmied. The strike plate was flush.
The room was just as Czarcik had left it, aside from the little gift that had been placed on his pillow.
Behind the front desk, dressed in a cheap but still immaculately pressed suit, even at this ungodly hour, was a dark-skinned black man. From the islands, Czarcik assumed. Or Somalia. He flashed his guest a broad grin, showing no outward surprise at seeing him wandering the lobby so late at night.
“Good evening, sir. How can I assist you?”
“I’m in room four-oh-five.”
The manager punched in a few numbers. “Mr. Czarcik, yes,” he confirmed, pronouncing the name better, albeit in a thick accent, than most native English speakers, even ones of Balkan descent.
“You wouldn’t have happened to give anyone else the key to my room?” Czarcik inquired.
The manager furrowed his brow, half-offended, half-concerned. He was the kind of man accustomed to being accused of things for which he was not responsible. “Certainly not, sir,” he replied, doing his best to remain polite. “We require all guests to show identification when requesting additional room cards.”
“And nobody inquired about my room? Asked for the room number?”
The manager shook his head. “We wouldn’t give out that information even if they did.” Then, trying to be helpful, he said, “But I’ve only been on since midnight. I can call the manager who was here before me. I’m sure he’s asleep, but I have his cell number.”
Czarcik held up one hand. “No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.”
Then he wandered off.
Instead of returning to his room, Czarcik took the elevator up to the second floor, turned right at the ice maker, and continued past the vending machines to the end of the hallway. He stood outside room 235, Chloe’s room.
About to knock, he caught himself. What the hell was he doing? What would be the purpose of waking her up in the middle of the night just to tell her that her homicidal husband had left a present on his pillow? It would only frighten her. Plus, he would have to explain the relevance of the mustache.
He leaned against the door and slid to the floor. An exhausted guard dog.
The irregular position was strangely relaxing, and he found himself drifting in and out of consciousness while speculating about Daniel’s next move. But just as soon as his eyes were about to close for an extended stay, the door opened, sending him crashing backward into room 235. His head hit the carpet, and he shot up, fully awake, to find a confused Chloe staring down at him.
“Paul . . . what are you doing?”
“What are you doing?” he countered.
Taken aback, she answered. “I’m a light sleeper. I heard scratching on my door, went to see what it was, and . . .” She motioned to him. He was still sitting on the floor with his legs splayed out in front of him, looking and feeling ridiculous. “So . . . what are you doing here?”
He answered as honestly as circumstances would allow. “After the diner, it made me nervous to leave you alone. I know you think he would never hurt you, and you’re probably right. But I’ve made a career out of being suspicious. And the truth is, with the tumor, we’re not entirely sure how your husband might react.”
Then, trying to mitigate his concern, he added, “I don’t sleep much anyway.”
Her faced softened. She held out her hand. “Come.”
They made love in the quiet hours of the morning.
There was something oddly familiar about it for both of them. Neither was self-conscious. They took their time exploring the tastes and textures of each other’s bodies. But it was the sex of immediacy, of convenience, not white-hot passion.
When they were finished, Chloe fell asleep in his arms. Czarcik couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.
In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he had made love to a woman at all. It wasn’t that the urge had deserted him. He wasn’t that old. Nor had the drugs and liquor left him unable to perform. When he wanted to, he still could.
And with Chloe, he had really wanted to.
With the escorts, he didn’t. He wanted their companionship. Their stories. Their hopes and dreams. But their bodies, that was left for the ordinary customer.
The irony wasn’t lost on Czarcik. Most men paid for sex to experience the superficial, the physical sensation, divorced from any emotional attachment. He wanted the opposite. He was paying for the chance to glimpse into their souls.
With Chloe, it was far more complicated. He was torn between trusting her implicitly as the person who had given him nearly all his information about Daniel and trusting his own instincts—namely, that there was still something she wasn’t telling him.
She was an enigma, for sure, one which he sought to decipher. But she was also a woman of flesh and blood, one who stoked in him those desires that, try as he might, he couldn’t intellectually explain away.
He pondered this conundrum as he fell asleep, his hand resting on the swell of her form.
Chloe lay awake, her mind racing. But it was racing around a void, searching for something she couldn’t quite grasp.
She wasn’t besieged by any of the normal emotions she expected to experience. Guilt. Regret. Even cautious optimism. They were all there, of course. But they were more like items in a storefront. Nothing that she could feel in her core.
What she did feel was a strange sense of déjà vu. But that was ridiculous. She had just met Czarcik. Certainly, she had never been with him before. And, of course, this rogue cop was nothing like her husband.
Nothing, she told herself again.
Czarcik awoke to the sound of the shower. Just to be sure he wasn’t actually in the middle of a torrential rainstorm, he blindly felt the bed next to him. Empty. He stole a few more minutes of sleep before opening a single bloodshot eye. According to the angry red digital numbers beside the bed, it was just after nine in the morning.
Even though he had been up most of the night, it was still rare for Czarcik to sleep this late. His first thought, which he laughed off as mere paranoia, was that he had been drugged. But a cursory glance around the room found no more unwanted calling cards, and his holstered gun was right next to the bed, on top of his clothes, which had been thrown off hastily the night before.
The shower sounds were almost hypnotic. But the more Czarcik allowed himself to be lulled by the falling water, the more he convinced himself that something was amiss. He imagined a dream—walking through the steam-filled bathroom, ripping back the shower curtain, only to have a naked Groucho Marx spin toward him and bury a knife in his chest. It was so vivid he actually bit the inside of his mouth just to prove to himself that he was awake.
“Good morning.” He flinched, but the figure wasn’t Groucho; it was Chloe. She came out of the bathroom, through the parting steam, one large hotel towel wrapped around her torso—showing just the right amount of cleavage and leg—and the other wrapped around her head.
Czarcik contemplated his options. This was uncharted territory. The women he was used to left long before he fell asleep and certainly never stayed the night.
He supposed he could pull her back down onto the bed. Or join her in the shower for a quickie up against the mildewed wall. He could even go against his nature and play Casanova, whispering soft nothings in her ear.
Instead, he said good morning in return.
Chloe sat down on the bed and began drying her hair.
“I could justify it a million ways,” she began, an answer to his unspoken question. “Just in the shower, I came up with half-a-dozen reasons: I needed to feel protected. I was subconsciously furious at Daniel for leaving me and wanted to punish him. I wanted to have something to hold over you. Most of these even have some truth to them. But if I’m being honest, which I always am, the only reason last night happened was because, at the time, I wanted it to.” She looked at him for the first time since he had been inside her. “You OK with that?”
Czarcik didn’t know if he was OK with it. But he couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t be. So he just nodded and gave her a wink. She smiled and tipped her head toward the bathroom. “I’m going to finish up.”
The bathroom fan rumbled to life, dispersing the last of the warm vapor still hanging in the air.
Czarcik rolled over onto his side and grabbed his BlackBerry with its rudimentary browser. He pulled up a map of the United States and estimated that it would take them about half a day to reach their destination in Tennessee.
Daniel could already be there. Of course, if history was any guide, he needed time—days, at the very least—to prepare for the kill. Only now, Czarcik no longer had the benefit of surprise. He could no longer travel unfettered. Daniel knew the detective was following him. Although now that Czarcik thought about it, who was actually following whom?
Even after Chloe had brought him the Rosetta stone of the folders, Daniel had still been a step ahead. How long would he allow Czarcik to nip at his heels like some overeager pit bull? Or would the knowledge that Czarcik was so close force him to alter his plans?
There were a panoply of options that Czarcik had to consider. Daniel could continue to Tennessee on schedule, simply avoiding—or toying with—the detective, as he had done thus far. Or he could make a beeline for Florida, then double back to the Volunteer State. Of course, if he felt his plans were compromised, he could ignore Tennessee altogether, just as he had done with Edgar Barnes in Minnesota.
And one final p
ossibility also loomed. The nuclear option. Daniel could blow up his plan altogether. He could trade vengeance for sport and zero in on a far more formidable target—Czarcik.
The thought intrigued the detective more than it alarmed him. In a battle of equals, he had little doubt he would prevail. Daniel was smart and resourceful, and certainly inspired, but in many ways he was still an amateur. He had been successful thus far because his victims had absolutely no idea they had been marked for death, certainly not by a complete stranger who had no more of an emotional attachment to them than the hundreds of other people they passed on the street each day. The element of surprise had been absolute.
Such an extreme pivot didn’t seem particularly likely, but Czarcik thought to himself, Daniel had proved unpredictable before. Willing to deviate from his painstakingly prepared plan for seemingly unnecessary detours. His appearance at the diner and the mustache on the pillow were nice touches, if a tad theatrical, but in the grand scheme of things, they were really nothing more than diversions.
And then there was the biggest X factor of them all—the tumor. The growing mass could just as easily obliterate reason and common sense as it could gray matter.
Chloe returned from the bathroom, fully dressed, her thick hair still wet and unbrushed.
“I think you should come with me,” he told her, before she could say anything.
She sat down in the chair next to the bed and picked up a brush from the nightstand. “Come with you where?” she asked.
“To Tennessee. I think you should stay with me until I catch him.”
“If you catch him,” she replied. She didn’t intend for it to sound cutting, but she could tell that was the result.
“I’ll catch him.”
She wondered which one of them he was trying to convince.
Chloe ran the brush through her hair over and over. Killing time. Thinking about what to say next. “I . . . I can’t just go with you on some kind of manhunt,” she said finally. “I have a life back in Chicago.” Then, as if searching for an additional reason, “Plus, you said it was dangerous.”
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