be helped. Her head was at a right angle to her body, and there was a smell in the hallway that told Regina that death had not even left her brother’s fiancée the dignity of continence.
Regina would have been sick, but there was something taking up too much of her brain to make room for nausea.
Hannah’s hair was wet, plastered by water into dark spikes. It didn’t make any sense. She’d have to talk to the police about this. Talk to Allan.
Why in the name of God should Hannah’s hair be wet?
Chapter Nine
T ROTTER CAUGHT SIGHT OF the heel of a black shoe disappearing through the doorway. He stopped just long enough to see that nothing could be done for the girl, then took off after the owner of the heel.
Gravel dug into his feet as he ran up the driveway to the road. Trotter ignored the pain. If there was a chance to grab one of these guys, to sit him in a chair, and squeeze him and make him talk, Trotter had to take it.
According to his father, the Objective was everything; you had to look at the Big Picture. You had to be willing to let A, B, and C die here today in order to save a whole alphabet of lives tomorrow, somewhere else.
Trotter knew that sometimes there was no other way. But he also knew something he had never been able to convince his father of—a picture is the sum of its elements of design. If too many details are ugly, the Big Picture will be a mess.
What was going on here in Kirkester was very ugly. If he could stop it now, he would. Let his father worry about getting the Russians by the balls. Trotter would save a few lives, if he could.
Trotter reached the road in time to see a car driving away, slowly now, but picking up speed. It was a dark car, black in the artificial light of the street lamps, maybe a dark blue or dark gray in daylight, That was all Trotter could make out, because like an idiot, he had run outside without putting on his glasses first. He squinted. He put the tips of the thumb and forefinger of both hands together in front of his left eye and pressed to get a pinhole focus, but it was no good. Trotter watched the fuzzy shape of the car disappear in the distance, cursing himself under his breath.
Failure, he thought. Acknowledge it and forget it. Get on with something constructive.
The first constructive thing to do was to ask himself if the car going by had been coincidence, and that whoever he’d seen leaving the stairway was still around, ready to jump him as he headed back to Regina.
Or had doubled back to Regina already.
Trotter put a lid on the panic that was trying to boil over in him. No. He’d heard footsteps ahead of him on the gravel. Then the crunching sound had changed to the tap of leather on a sidewalk. The footsteps stopped, the car door opened, the car drove away. Regina should be safe enough. Even if she weren’t, there was something he had to do. He had to look at his own Big Picture.
Trotter became aware of the cold pavement under his bare feet, and the cold night air on his chest and back. He waved his arms around to speed his circulation. He hoped no one looked out a window and saw him; dealing with the police would be a big enough pain as it was.
Trotter squinted again and made out a rectangle of light that could only be the neighborhood pay phone. He ran to it, went inside, put a quarter in, and dialed a local number.
The phone rang seven times, driving Trotter half crazy with impatience, before a sleepy voice said hello.
“It’s a good thing you’re there.”
“Where the hell else would I be?” Special Agent Joe Albright sounded amused. “I thought you’d forgotten all about me.”
“I never forget anything. Listen. There’s been another one, but they’ve stepped it up. The Hudson boy’s fiancée. Dumped on my doorstep. Get on a safe line and put Rines to work on it.”
“On what?”
“The victim. Name’s Hannah Stein, from Queens, New York. I want family, background, the works.”
“I thought these people were just
Regina would have been sick, but there was something taking up too much of her brain to make room for nausea.
Hannah’s hair was wet, plastered by water into dark spikes. It didn’t make any sense. She’d have to talk to the police about this. Talk to Allan.
Why in the name of God should Hannah’s hair be wet?
Chapter Nine
T ROTTER CAUGHT SIGHT OF the heel of a black shoe disappearing through the doorway. He stopped just long enough to see that nothing could be done for the girl, then took off after the owner of the heel.
Gravel dug into his feet as he ran up the driveway to the road. Trotter ignored the pain. If there was a chance to grab one of these guys, to sit him in a chair, and squeeze him and make him talk, Trotter had to take it.
According to his father, the Objective was everything; you had to look at the Big Picture. You had to be willing to let A, B, and C die here today in order to save a whole alphabet of lives tomorrow, somewhere else.
Trotter knew that sometimes there was no other way. But he also knew something he had never been able to convince his father of—a picture is the sum of its elements of design. If too many details are ugly, the Big Picture will be a mess.
What was going on here in Kirkester was very ugly. If he could stop it now, he would. Let his father worry about getting the Russians by the balls. Trotter would save a few lives, if he could.
Trotter reached the road in time to see a car driving away, slowly now, but picking up speed. It was a dark car, black in the artificial light of the street lamps, maybe a dark blue or dark gray in daylight, That was all Trotter could make out, because like an idiot, he had run outside without putting on his glasses first. He squinted. He put the tips of the thumb and forefinger of both hands together in front of his left eye and pressed to get a pinhole focus, but it was no good. Trotter watched the fuzzy shape of the car disappear in the distance, cursing himself under his breath.
Failure, he thought. Acknowledge it and forget it. Get on with something constructive.
The first constructive thing to do was to ask himself if the car going by had been coincidence, and that whoever he’d seen leaving the stairway was still around, ready to jump him as he headed back to Regina.
Or had doubled back to Regina already.
Trotter put a lid on the panic that was trying to boil over in him. No. He’d heard footsteps ahead of him on the gravel. Then the crunching sound had changed to the tap of leather on a sidewalk. The footsteps stopped, the car door opened, the car drove away. Regina should be safe enough. Even if she weren’t, there was something he had to do. He had to look at his own Big Picture.
Trotter became aware of the cold pavement under his bare feet, and the cold night air on his chest and back. He waved his arms around to speed his circulation. He hoped no one looked out a window and saw him; dealing with the police would be a big enough pain as it was.
Trotter squinted again and made out a rectangle of light that could only be the neighborhood pay phone. He ran to it, went inside, put a quarter in, and dialed a local number.
The phone rang seven times, driving Trotter half crazy with impatience, before a sleepy voice said hello.
“It’s a good thing you’re there.”
“Where the hell else would I be?” Special Agent Joe Albright sounded amused. “I thought you’d forgotten all about me.”
“I never forget anything. Listen. There’s been another one, but they’ve stepped it up. The Hudson boy’s fiancée. Dumped on my doorstep. Get on a safe line and put Rines to work on it.”
“On what?”
“The victim. Name’s Hannah Stein, from Queens, New York. I want family, background, the works.”
“I thought these people were just
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