John Lutz - Pulse

“I have good medical insurance,” she said, while Quinn was still jotting down the information. “My mother saw to that before she died. My father died the year before she did.”

“Natural deaths, I assume.”

“Sure. None of that forty-whacks stuff.”

“Other relatives?”

“None who’ll have anything to do with me. I stole from all of them.”

“How long have you been seeing Dr. Moore?” Quinn asked.

“Years and years. I’m not crazy twenty-four-seven. When I take my meds I’m perfectly normal for a while.”

“Is this the first time you’ve been followed?”

“By someone who wasn’t from the OSS, yes. You know who they are?”

“A long time ago, they became the CIA,” Quinn said.

“That’s if you accept the lie that they were ever completely disbanded.”

“I’ve often wondered,” Quinn said.

“I know you’re not the cops. You’ll want money. I can’t pay you.”

“We’ll do it pro bono.” Because the city is paying me, and because you resemble Pearl.

“It would be best if you could catch him in my bed.”

“He sleeps in your bed?”

“Naps, maybe. I can see that somebody’s been lying in it. When I’m not there, of course. He stays in my apartment sometimes when I’m not home.”

“How does he get in?”

“Windows sometimes, if they’re unlocked. And he probably has a key that opens all doors.”

“Have you and he ever been there at the same time?”

“Once, when I saw him leaving through a window. But time and place always intersect someplace, don’t they?”

“They do,” Quinn said.

“So here’s my place.” She dug in her purse for a paper and pencil and wrote down a West Side address a few blocks off Broadway, uptown from where they sat. Beneath the address was a phone number. “I know how you work,” she said, pushing the paper toward him over the desktop. “I’ve read the literature. I won’t know you’re around, but you’ll be there. If he comes around again, whoever’s watching over me will tackle him. Bend his arm behind his back and he’ll talk. You can make him tell you who he is. We both know who he is. The wind told me who he is.”

“Is that where you hear voices, in the wind?”

“Not always. But pretty often, actually. If the wind is blowing on stone.”

Quinn thought that would be almost all the time, in New York. “What have the voices been telling you?”

“To be careful. For God’s sake, be careful.” She stared at Quinn with those eyes that had seen way too much that wasn’t there, but in her view had to be somewhere. Whatever happened in her world became twisted and sharp before she could get a proper grasp of it. Her mortal enemy roamed the interior of her skull. Probably the pressure never ceased.

Quinn understood that he couldn’t imagine her pain.

T he killer watched Linda leave Q amp;A. Linda looked up and down the block but didn’t notice him. Perhaps she’d seen him but didn’t want to admit he was there, and so let her gaze slide past.

It was wonderful that she’d come here. She understood, and without knowing who or what was stalking her. And on some level Quinn would know what Linda knew, that he was meeting the woman whose violent death he’d soon be investigating. Of course, probably neither of them had talked about it. Not directly, anyway.

The elephant in the room was no less invisible and unmentioned because it was preparing to charge.

The Shadow Guardians meeting at the library had gone well. Penny felt better about it when she learned that Ms. Culver wasn’t going to attend. She had a seminar on e-books at another library that evening.

Penny had come away assured that the Shadow Guardians weren’t a group of far-right or far-left nutcases. They were wives and children of cops who wanted to make sure their loved ones had every advantage in a war against crime that was becoming more and more one-sided. The bad guys-the drug dealers, muggers, gang-bangers, and plain old thieves-were winning. And had the police outnumbered and outgunned. The Shadow Guardians were there to help and to prevent, that was all. But there was no doubt that even that could be dangerous.

The guest speaker at the meeting, a woman with sprayed, helmet-like hair, from California, talked about how this concept was working in some of her state’s large cities. The organization wasn’t an extension of the police force, but a simple aid in the critical time before confrontations and arrests. It helped to put time and numbers on the side of the law. It had saved some lives.

Though she’d been advised to sleep on her decision, Penny joined the Shadow Guardians that evening.

It was Penny’s day off at the library. She kept her destination a secret from Feds, and from everyone else. Feds didn’t really understand the pressure she was under because of his job. He certainly wouldn’t understand how what she was doing would relieve that pressure-at least for a while.

Penny had roamed the Internet until late last night, contacting several Shadow Guardians via their websites, searching for answers. She’d been referred to a woman named Noreen, an ex-cop’s wife who ran a blog about and for cops’ wives. Sensing a kindred spirit, Penny had messaged Noreen.

She’d been surprised when she got a reply early the next morning. Surprised again by something Noreen recommended.

Penny took the subway to Grand Central, then a short train ride to a spot in New Jersey outside Newark. She was wearing jeans, a darker blue blouse, her worn jogging shoes, and dark sunglasses. All very unobtrusive. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if she was recognized, but she’d have a lot of explaining to do. Mostly to Feds.

It would be better all around if he never found out about this. And, she hoped, she wouldn’t always need it.

She hailed a taxi and gave the driver an address.

Half an hour later she was on the line at Shooter’s Alley, a public firing range. Penny used a house gun. She didn’t own or want a gun, and using a rental precluded Sullivan Act violations and crossing state lines and sundry other problems a gun could cause.

What surprised her about the firing range, and the nine-millimeter Walther semiautomatic that she used, was that she loved to shoot. The bullets went into a paper target on which was the outline of a man. Life-sized, from the waist up. He had broad shoulders and an oval face without features.

She could imagine the man to be whomever she chose. Usually it was the man who’d killed her sister. Sometimes it was the killer Feds sought. Sometimes it was simply a stranger.

Penny wore earplugs, but she liked the heavy bark of the gun, the feel of it kicking in her hand.

When the electric winch brought the target back to her on its track, she enjoyed seeing that most of her shots had gone where she’d aimed. Usually it was the target’s head. Sometimes the heart.

The experience was, as Noreen on the Internet had promised, stress relieving and liberating.

Not that she ever wanted to use the gun on someone, or even carry the bulky, oily thing in her purse.

But somehow it helped her to know that she could.

If she wanted to, she could.

J ody stood up so Sarah Benham would notice her on the other side of The Happy Noodle.

Sarah, smoothing back her hair and patting this and that into place after coming in out of the cooling summer breeze, saw her immediately and smiled and waved back. She began weaving among the tables of the crowded restaurant, holding a general direction toward Jody like a ship in a storm.

Jody sat back down with her apple martini and watched her. The two women met for lunch every now and then. Despite-or possibly because of-their age difference, they had become very comfortable in each other’s company; each knew the other wasn’t a competitor in either work or love.