afford distractions.’
‘Exactly.’
John Merrivale breathed a sigh of relief.
He wouldn’t rest completely easily until Grace was captured. Or, better yet, shot. News of her escape had shaken him deeply. But today’s meeting was reassuring. With Gavin Williams out of the picture, it would be even easier to lead Bain and his men in the wrong direction. Eventually they’d run out of energy, or money, or both, and call off the investigation. Then finally he would be free. Free to leave New York, to leave Caroline. A life without chains! In the end it would all be worth it.
‘D-do you really think they’ll find her quickly?’
Harry Bain said, ‘I’m sure of it. She’s Grace Brookstein, for God’s sake. Where’s she gonna hide?’
In her dreams Grace heard knocking, faint but rapid and insistent, like a woodpecker in the distance. The noise grew louder, closer. She woke up.
There’s someone at the door!
Jumping out of bed, she grabbed her switchblade and wrapped the bedsheet around her, stumbling toward the sound in the darkness.
‘Who is it?’
‘’S me.’
Yoda. Grace put down the knife and opened the door a crack.
‘You stayin’ another night?’
The light from the corridor was blinding. Grace blinked.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said, you stayin’ another night? It’s noon. Changeover’s twelve-thirty. You ain’t staying, you gotta vacate the room by then.’
‘Oh. No. I’m staying.’
‘Twenty dollars.’
Grace pulled a second bill out of the wad Karen had given her and handed it to the old man. He took it wordlessly, scuttling back to his reception desk like a decrepit beetle.
Twelve o’clock! Jesus. I must have been out like a light. Grace opened the curtains, then closed them again. Far too bright. Splashing cold water on her face, she pulled on her clothes – they stank of that bastard but they were all she had. She would buy new ones today. The TV was still on from last night. Grace turned up the volume. This time the news report was on the economy. But a few moments later her face was back on-screen again, this time a mug shot from the day they brought her to Bedford. It still looks nothing like me.
The anchorwoman was talking. ‘With Grace Brookstein now missing for over seventeen hours, the police appear to have no concrete leads. With me is Detective Mitchell Connors of the NYPD, the man leading the investigation into Brookstein’s escape. Detective, people are already saying that you and your men are running out of ideas. Do you feel that’s a fair statement?’
An attractive blond cop responded by video link.
‘No, Nancy, I don’t believe it is. We’re pursuing a number of different avenues. This investigation is only hours old. It’s our belief that the prisoner will be apprehended swiftly and we’re working toward that conclusion.’
Grace studied the cop’s face. Detective Mitchell Connors looked like he’d been sketched by a cartoonist at Marvel Comics, all square jaw and steady, blue-eyed gaze. Physically he reminded Grace of a rougher-around-the-edges version of her brother-in-law Jack Warner. But his expression was nothing like Jack’s. If anything, it was more like Lenny’s. It’s his eyes. He has kind eyes.
He was still talking. ‘Grace Brookstein and her husband brought extraordinary suffering to thousands of people, particularly here in New York. Believe me, Nancy, no one wants to see this convicted felon back behind bars more than I do. Make no mistake. We will find her.’
Grace switched off the television.
Detective Connors might have kind eyes, but he’s my enemy.
She mustn’t forget it.
That afternoon, Grace walked into town. It was all she could do to stop her teeth from chattering, knowing that her face was all over the news, that at any moment, someone might recognize her and turn her in to the authorities. But she couldn’t hide out at the motel forever. She needed supplies, and she needed to get out of Richardsville. Karen and Cora had both warned her of the dangers of staying in one place too long.
With the van driver’s bulky jacket pulled tightly around her, Grace kept her head down as she walked the aisles of a Walmart. At the checkout, her heart was pounding so violently she thought she might faint. Happily the sullen teenager manning the register seemed more interested in the chip on one of her acrylic nails than in the nervous customer or her purchases.
‘Eighty-eight dollazs yer total; cash ’r credit?’
‘Cash.’
‘Thangshaveaniceday.’
The girl didn’t even look up.
By the time Grace returned to her room at the Up All Night, it was almost four P.M. Locking the door, she emptied her Walmart bags onto the bed: hair dye, scissors, makeup, disinfectant, underwear, a three-pack of Haines T-shirts, jeans, a beanie hat, and a gray carry-all gym bag.
She got to work.
The old man at the reception desk studied the picture in his newspaper. His eyes weren’t what they used to be.
Could it be?
This girl’s nose was different. And the hair. Still, there was definitely a resemblance. And she had arrived in the middle of the night, with no suitcase. He looked at the paper again. The cop on the TV said to report anything suspicious, no matter how trivial.
The old man picked up the phone.
Grace looked at herself in the cracked bathroom mirror. Except it wasn’t herself. It was someone else, the first of her four new identities. Lizzie Woolley.
Hello, Lizzie.
Carefully cleaning up all traces of dye and picking every lock of severed hair off the floor, Grace dropped them into the empty Walmart bag along with the discarded bottle of Nice ’n Easy and her old clothes, tied the bag by the handles, and stuffed it into her carry-all. She dressed quickly. The clean clothes felt wonderful. For a moment Grace thought back to her old life and smiled. She could never have imagined back then that the day would come when a pair of Walmart jeans would feel like the last word in luxury! She’d already spent two-thirds of the cash Karen and Cora had given her. Pretty soon she would have to make e-mail contact with Karen’s mysterious ‘friend’ and ask for more. Cora had assured her that getting cash from Western Union was anonymous and easy. All you had to do was show up at one of their hundreds of thousands of locations, show your (fake) ID, and take the money. ‘It’s how every illegal immigrant in this country makes rent, honey. It’s their business not to ask questions.’ Even so, Grace hoped she
