Thomas Perry - Dance for the Dead

Farrell's hands stopped shaking. He had bought himself more time.

Two days later Farrell hurried across the same lobby, pushed the elevator button, and walked into the same office. Barraclough looked up at him expectantly.

"She's started using the credit cards," Farrell said. "We got a Katherine Webster at a hotel in Saint Louis, a Denise Hollinger renting a car in Cleveland, a Catherine Snowdon in Erie, Pennsylvania - "

"She's heading northeast," said Barraclough. "Start moving people into her path."

Farrell's eyes twinkled. "It's done. Everybody we've got is either up there already or on a plane to northern Pennsylvania or upstate New York. I've got some strung out in rest stops along the big highways, some checking the parking lots of hotels, restaurants, and malls for the car she rented, others waiting at rental offices for her to turn it in. I've got some more - "

Barraclough interrupted. "Can you tell from the reports what she's doing?"

Farrell scanned the credit reports in his hands. "Pretty much what Mary Perkins told us she does. She alternates identities, so the same person never turns up two places in a row. She's paying the single-room rate, and the meal charges don't seem to be enough for two, so she's probably traveling alone."

"But what's she trying to accomplish?" Barraclough snapped. "Where's she going?"

Farrell smiled. "Well, let me tell you what the professor says." He moved another sheet of paper to the top and stared at it. "She's got a little peculiarity. Her lips don't quite touch when she says m, b, or p. He thinks that means she grew up speaking two languages, but it's not enough to tell him what the other one is." He moved his finger down the paper. "Oh, here's the part I was looking for. Her accent has what he calls an 'intrusive schwa.' It's a marker that places her in a narrow linguistic belt that stretches from Chicago east as far as Syracuse, New York." He shrugged. "If I had to make a bet, I'd say she's had enough and is going home."

It was only twenty hours later that Farrell returned to Barraclough's office, looking exuberant. "She's been spotted."

"Where?"

"She turned in the rented car at the Buffalo airport, went to the long-term lot, got into a parked car, and drove off. We had two guys there."

Barraclough glowered, his eyes narrowing. "They let her get away?"

"No," Farrell answered quickly. "They followed her to a house in a little town on the Niagara River between Buffalo and Niagara Falls."

"And?" Barraclough asked impatiently.

"She put the car in the garage and opened the door with a key," said Farrell. "It must be her house."

30

Barraclough and Farrell arrived in the Buffalo airport after midnight in the beginning of a snowstorm. The Nissan Pathfinder four-wheel-drive vehicle with tinted windows that Barraclough had specified was waiting at the curb with one of Farrell's trainees behind the wheel, but Barraclough stepped into the street to the driver's side and said, "Get in the back."

Barraclough drove the Pathfinder out to the slush-covered gray street and watched the wiper sweep across the windshield to compress the snowflakes into a thin, ruler-straight bar, then slide back for more while the defroster melted the bar away.

Farrell inspected and loaded the two pistols his trainee had brought for them, attached the laser sights, and tested the night-vision spotter scope he had brought with him from California. "Where is she?"

"You get on the Thruway up here and take it west. Get off at the Delaware exit and head north."

Farrell glanced at Barraclough to be sure he had heard, then back at his trainee. "What's the place like?"

"It's a two-story house. We didn't see any sign of anybody else. She went to bed just before I left for the airport."

"You mean her lights went out," Farrell corrected. "Who's watching the house?"

"Mike. Mike Harris."

"From where?"

"He's in a black Dodge. He's parked down the street, facing away, where he can see in the mirror the front door and the door that goes to the driveway."

Farrell felt a slight, pleasurable warmth in his chest. The boys weren't much to begin with - just oversized balls and a mean streak - but by the time he was through with them they knew how the game was played.

When they arrived at the street, Barraclough stopped the Pathfinder a distance from the Dodge. Farrell took out the radios and handed one to the trainee. "You remember how to use one of these, right?"

"Press the button to talk, keep the volume low when anybody might hear it."

"Good," said Farrell. "We're Unit One, you're Unit Two. Anybody picks up the signal, he thinks we're cops. No chitchat over the air."

Barraclough picked up the night scope and turned it on, then swept it slowly up and down the street. Houses, trees, shrubs seemed to burn with a bright green phosphorescence, but there were no signs of movement. He aimed it through the rear window of the Pathfinder. "Is that the house back there on the left?"

"Yeah."

"You been around the other side to check for other exits?"

"Sure."

"Did you check the houses around it?"

"Yeah. Couples with kids on one side and the back, an old guy on the other. Curtains were open long enough so we saw people watching TV."

"Okay. Here's how it's going to be," said Barraclough. "Give Mike one of the radios and tell him to sit tight and watch. Then come back here and get ready to drive this vehicle. Farrell and I are going in. When we come out with her, pull up to the curb quick and pick us up. I want the burlap sack lying where I can reach it so we can get it over her head as soon as she's in the back."

The young man grunted his assent, then took the radio over to the black Dodge and got inside to talk to his partner.

Suddenly Barraclough hissed, "A light just went on.... She's coming out."

Farrell ducked his head below the window and spoke into his radio. "Heads down! She's out of the house."

Thirty seconds later Farrell heard a car door slam, an engine start, and the sound of tires on the wet pavement. He saw the red glow of taillights reflected on the dashboard. After a moment the glow receded.

Barraclough started the Pathfinder and pulled out into the street. Farrell said into the radio, "Change of plan. Unit Two, we're following. Stay behind us for now."

Barraclough swung the Pathfinder around the block and stopped with his lights off on the next street until he saw Jane's car pass under the street lamps of the intersection. The color was gray. It was an old Chevy - maybe a Caprice or Impala. "She's going too slow to be running." He waited another few seconds, glanced in the mirror to verify that Farrell's trainees had followed, and then started up after her.

"I'd sure like to know where she's going at this time of night," said Farrell. "She may have spotted the Dodge and decided to see if they'd follow her."

"I don't think so," said Barraclough. "If she had, she would have tried something like that while Mike was alone. If she saw him and us too, she'd have gone out the back window."

"Then what do you think she's doing?"

Barraclough shrugged. "She's been living like a scared rabbit for years. When she moves, it's nearly always at night. If I had to guess, I'd say she got a phone call."

"Mary Perkins?"

"Could be," said Barraclough. "But she might even be meeting new clients by now."

The gray car drove a few blocks, then turned left at the Niagara River. Barraclough waited for a long time before he turned after her. He had to be careful not to get stuck behind her at a traffic signal, where she would be able to get a good look through the rearview mirror.

When he could see her taillights far enough ahead, he gauged her speed and matched it. "She doesn't drive as though she's seen us. We'll wait until she gets to a dark, deserted stretch before we try to take her."