didn't dare fall back into old patterns. Her family and friends were a danger to her. Drummond's men would be watching them. She had to construct a new persona, one unrelated to any character she'd assumed before. She had to make new friends and create new relatives. As far as employment was concerned, she would do whatever was most tolerable, as long as it wasn't anything she'd done previously. She had to make a complete break with the past. Getting the proper documents for a new false identity wasn't a problem. She was an expert.
But as she considered her existential condition, she wondered if she was prepared to make the sacrifice. She liked the person she'd been before she met Alistair Drummond. She wanted to be that person again. Had she been foolish? Had she misjudged Drummond's intention? Perhaps she should have been patient and continued to live in luxury.
Until you served your purpose and your performance was no longer necessary.
And then?
Remember, the gems were fake, and there was no way you were ever going to get the money Drummond claimed to be paying you. The only explanation for the way he rigged that bank account was that he planned to have you killed and take back the money.
But why would he want me killed?
To hide something.
What, though?
The bus arrived in Baltimore at nine in the evening. A cold drizzle made the downtown area bleak. She found a cheap place to eat - more caffeine, calories, and carbohydrates, not to mention grease (she rationalized that the fat might help insulate her from the cold). She didn't want to waste her remaining money on a hotel room - even a cheap one would be disastrous to her reserves. For a time, she roamed the back streets, hoping that someone would accost her. But the man who grabbed her and whose collar bone she broke had only fifty cents in his pocket.
She was tired, cold, wet, and depressed. She needed to rest. She needed a place where she'd feel reasonably safe, where she could think and sleep. When she found a shopping cart in an alley, she decided on her next role. After wiping dirt on her face, she threw trash into the cart. With her shoulders slumped and with an assumed, crazy, empty look in her eyes, she pushed the cart, wheels squeaking, through the drizzle, a bag lady on her way to a shelter for the homeless that she had just passed.
What am I going to do? she thought. The confidence she'd felt when escaping had drained from her. The rigors of her new life weighed upon her imagination. Damn it, I liked who I was. I want to be her again.
How? To do that, you've got to beat Drummond, and he's too powerful to be beaten.
Is he? Why did he hire me? Why did he want me to put on that performance? What's his secret? What's he hiding? If I can find that out, maybe he can be beaten.
One thing's sure. Without money and resources, you need help.
But who can I ask? I don't dare turn to my friends and family. They're a trap. Besides, they haven't the faintest idea of what to do, of what this involves.
So what about the people you trained with?
No, they're a matter of public record. Drummond can use his influence to learn who they are. They'll be watched in case I approach them - as much a liability as my family and friends.
The drizzle increased to a downpour. Her soaked clothes drooped and clung to her. In the gloom, she felt every bit the spiritless bag lady she pretended to be.
There's got to be someone.
The cart she pushed kept squeaking.
You can't be that alone! she wanted to scream.
Face it. The only person you could trust to help you would have to be someone so anonymous, so chameleonlike, so invisible, without a trace or a record that it would be like he'd never existed. And he'd have to be damned good at staying alive.
He? Why would it have to be a man?
But she suddenly knew, and as she reached the entrance to the shelter for the homeless, a man in a black suit with a white, ministerial collar stepped out.
'Come, sister. It's not a fit night to
But as she considered her existential condition, she wondered if she was prepared to make the sacrifice. She liked the person she'd been before she met Alistair Drummond. She wanted to be that person again. Had she been foolish? Had she misjudged Drummond's intention? Perhaps she should have been patient and continued to live in luxury.
Until you served your purpose and your performance was no longer necessary.
And then?
Remember, the gems were fake, and there was no way you were ever going to get the money Drummond claimed to be paying you. The only explanation for the way he rigged that bank account was that he planned to have you killed and take back the money.
But why would he want me killed?
To hide something.
What, though?
The bus arrived in Baltimore at nine in the evening. A cold drizzle made the downtown area bleak. She found a cheap place to eat - more caffeine, calories, and carbohydrates, not to mention grease (she rationalized that the fat might help insulate her from the cold). She didn't want to waste her remaining money on a hotel room - even a cheap one would be disastrous to her reserves. For a time, she roamed the back streets, hoping that someone would accost her. But the man who grabbed her and whose collar bone she broke had only fifty cents in his pocket.
She was tired, cold, wet, and depressed. She needed to rest. She needed a place where she'd feel reasonably safe, where she could think and sleep. When she found a shopping cart in an alley, she decided on her next role. After wiping dirt on her face, she threw trash into the cart. With her shoulders slumped and with an assumed, crazy, empty look in her eyes, she pushed the cart, wheels squeaking, through the drizzle, a bag lady on her way to a shelter for the homeless that she had just passed.
What am I going to do? she thought. The confidence she'd felt when escaping had drained from her. The rigors of her new life weighed upon her imagination. Damn it, I liked who I was. I want to be her again.
How? To do that, you've got to beat Drummond, and he's too powerful to be beaten.
Is he? Why did he hire me? Why did he want me to put on that performance? What's his secret? What's he hiding? If I can find that out, maybe he can be beaten.
One thing's sure. Without money and resources, you need help.
But who can I ask? I don't dare turn to my friends and family. They're a trap. Besides, they haven't the faintest idea of what to do, of what this involves.
So what about the people you trained with?
No, they're a matter of public record. Drummond can use his influence to learn who they are. They'll be watched in case I approach them - as much a liability as my family and friends.
The drizzle increased to a downpour. Her soaked clothes drooped and clung to her. In the gloom, she felt every bit the spiritless bag lady she pretended to be.
There's got to be someone.
The cart she pushed kept squeaking.
You can't be that alone! she wanted to scream.
Face it. The only person you could trust to help you would have to be someone so anonymous, so chameleonlike, so invisible, without a trace or a record that it would be like he'd never existed. And he'd have to be damned good at staying alive.
He? Why would it have to be a man?
But she suddenly knew, and as she reached the entrance to the shelter for the homeless, a man in a black suit with a white, ministerial collar stepped out.
'Come, sister. It's not a fit night to
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