Run for Your Life Read online

  He held his sides as the hilarity of it all suddenly overwhelmed him. Tears actually came out of his eyes.

  “Better than Disney World on the Fourth of July,” he said to the screen as he wiped at a joyful tear.

  He clicked off the set with the remote and extended the recliner all the way back, thinking about the Frenchwoman he’d killed. She’d been even more attractive than a fashion model—curvier, less plastic, with an air of real sophistication. She’d virtually lit up the room with her sexuality and femininity.

  Now she was as dead as the guys in the Pyramids. As dead as the dark side of the moon. Dead and gone forever and ever, amen.

  It served her perfectly goddamn right, her and all the rest who thought they could skate through this life on their looks and bank accounts. Pride goeth before the fall. Make that the trigger pull in this case.

  Deluded freak? he thought, recalling the cop’s text message as he closed his eyes. Now, now. Wasn’t that a tad harsh?

  After all, one man’s deluded freak was another’s avenging dispenser of justice—swift, final, and complete.

  Chapter 46

  THE ELEVEN P.M. NEWS carried wall-to-wall coverage of the shootings. Both reporters and anchors seemed quite critical of the way the NYPD was handling the case. ABC actually interviewed people on the street about whether they thought the cops were doing enough.

  I watched a skinny taxpayer waiting for a bus answer with a sneer and a thumbs-down.

  “They stink,” he said. “My four-year-old daughter could catch this guy.”

  “So what are we waiting for?” I growled at the screen. “Somebody bring that kid in here.” I balled up my sandwich wrapper, tossed it at the still-yammering jerk, and turned away, rubbing my eyes into the back of my skull.

  I’d already sent the Teacher’s mission statement and our IM exchange over to Agent Tom Lamb to see if the FBI’s document division could cull out some new insights, but I hadn’t heard back. Gabrielle Monchecourt, Martine Broussard’s stewardess friend, was ready to look at photos of airline personnel, in hopes that she could match the Teacher to the pilot she’d seen at a party. But we were still waiting for those photo ID books, and she was scheduled to get on a plane to Paris in the morning.

  And if our shooter stayed true to his history, the new day was going to bring more than just a sunrise. Time was of the essence, as my seventh-grade teacher, Sister Dominic, had often reminded us.

  I finally decided it was time to go from proactive to in-your-face active. I sent a couple of Midtown North guys to pick up Mlle. Monchecourt and take her to Kennedy Airport. Then I started calling airline corporate security people. I’d already talked to them umpteen times, but now I made it clear that if those photo books weren’t available when she got there, the NYPD was going to assume that some insider was protecting the shooter, and those airlines would be shut down until the situation got straightened out. Probably it would take several days.

  That got through to them. By midnight, my guys at Kennedy reported back that our witness was going through photos.

  I decided to take a break before I collapsed. I announced to everyone within earshot that my cell phone would be on. Then I headed home to check on the sick.

  I arrived at my apartment in the nick of time. As I walked in, I found Seamus in the dining room, pouring a shot of Jameson’s into a plastic Curious George cup.

  “Shame on you, Monsignor,” I said. “We have big-people glasses in the cabinet over the fridge. You can set me up one, too, while you’re at it.”

  “Very funny,” Seamus said. “As if it was for me! That poor lad Ricky’s throat is so sore, I thought I’d give him a little Galway remedy, as they say. There’s nothing a spot of Jameson’s and some warm milk and sugar won’t cure.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “Did you fall down the altar steps?” I said, pulling the bottle away from him. “Your little Galway remedy will land us in family court. I can’t believe I actually have to say this out loud: Don’t give the children any whiskey!”

  “Oh, well,” Seamus said with wounded dignity, grabbing his coat. “Have it your own foolish way. Tell Ricky to bear up like a man. Seamus out.”

  I reluctantly decided I’d better not have a drink after all and put away the whiskey, then checked in again with my detectives out at Kennedy. The Air France stewardess had gone through both the Delta and Aer Lingus books, but didn’t recognize anyone.

  British Airways was still holding out. They had the pilot book ready to show, but were still waiting for final permission from their CEO, who was on holiday somewhere in the Italian Alps.

  “Right, of course,” I said. “Everyone prefers the Italian side nowadays. Saint Moritz is so over. Tell him when the next victim goes down, we’ll have the crime-scene photos sent up to his suite with his morning espresso.”

  After I hung up, I made the command decision to stay and sleep under my own roof. I went into my bathroom to take a quick but glorious shower. But when I pulled back the curtain, I almost had a heart attack instead.

  My five-year-old, Shawna, was sleeping in the tub.

  “What are you doing in here, daisy flower?” I asked, lifting her out. “When did pillows become tub toys?”

  “I just don’t want to make any more messes for you to clean up, Daddy,” she croaked.

  She started shivering as I tucked her back into her bed. Gazing down at her, I asked myself the question that kept coming back to me time and time again over the last year. What would Maeve do? I grabbed a flashlight from the pantry, went back to Shawna’s room, and whisper-read her one of her favorite Magic Tree House books until she fell back to sleep.

  “How’m I doing, Maeve?” I asked after I stepped out into the hall. “And don’t worry. It’s okay to lie.”

  Chapter 47

  AFTER SHOWERING, I found Mary Catherine in the kitchen, taking sheets out of the dryer.

  “For God’s sake, Mary, it’s one o’clock in the morning,” I said.

  “Has to be done,” she replied, striving valiantly for her usual crispness, but with her weariness showing underneath.

  I stepped in to help her fold, and she went over the sick list.

  “For the moment, everybody seems fairly stable,” she said. “All the puking seems to have run its course, thank the Lord, but now the bug’s rising into their lungs and nasal passages. We’ll be out of tissues by noon tomorrow is my guess.”

  “On it,” I said. In the morning, I’d send Seamus out to our Costco in Jersey to fill up the van. Boy, did our doorman love it when he saw that coming.

  When the laundry was done, I took the basket from Mary Catherine’s hands and said, “Why don’t you get some sleep now?”

  But I couldn’t persuade her to leave. She insisted on sleeping in a chair in the living room in case somebody needed her. Too tired to argue, I took off my suit jacket and plopped down in the chair opposite. What the heck, I was already dressed for the next day. I was going to be one wrinkled detective—Cathy Calvin wouldn’t have approved—but I needed to be ready to go the second I heard any news.

  Everything in my body ached. I was so exhausted that even with all the stress and adrenaline and anticipation of the case, my eyelids clunked shut like they were made of lead.

  “I always knew coming to America would pay off big,” Mary Catherine said after a minute. “All the sweet perks. Like, is it kiddy vomit I’m smelling, or has Yankee Candle come out with something new?”

  “Neither, young lass,” I said, smiling with my eyes still closed. “That’s the refreshing aroma of my Yankee sweat socks that I forgot to toss in the laundry. I told you that you should have left when you had the chance. G’night.”

  Chapter 48

  THE TEACHER AWOKE with a start—sat bolt upright, gasping for air, his heart thumping.

  Sleeping peacefully had never been a problem for him, but now that was ruined. Every time he started to drift off, that cop’s phrase, “manifesto of nonsense,” rang continuously l
ike a gong through his head.

  Bennett was just messing with him, he assured himself fiercely. But doubt kept creeping into his thoughts, driving his anxiety and making it impossible to rest. What if his message hadn’t been clear enough? With his head buzzing, he couldn’t decide. He checked his alarm clock and gritted his teeth. One a.m. How could he perform tomorrow if he was up all night worrying?

  He plumped his pillow and closed his eyes again, turning to one side and then the other, trying to get comfortable. For five minutes, he tried concentrating on his breathing. But it was hopeless.

  That goddamn cop had gotten to him.

  He sat up again and finally got out of bed. Somehow, he needed to burn off this bad energy.

  Through the south-facing window in the living room, he could see the Empire State Building, illuminated with red lights. Across the street at the modeling agency, a party was going full tilt. There was plenty of action out there—plenty of ways to scratch an itch like his.

  Maybe a walk, he thought. A little stroll around the block.

  He dressed and was twisting the front doorknob open when he realized he’d forgotten something—his guns. He couldn’t believe it! That was a measure of how rattled he was.

  He stepped back into the office and reloaded both Colts, then threaded their baffled stainless-steel suppressors— Swiss-made, top-of-the-line Brügger and Thomets—to the barrels. He strapped the weapons around his waist and pulled on a coat.

  Dangerous world out there, he thought as he quickly descended the tenement stairwell toward the street.

  Never know who you might run into.

  Chapter 49

  PIERRE LAGUEUX, fashion photographer extraordinaire, felt like a joy-filled bubble as he walked down the back stairs of the West Side Models agency.

  Not just any bubble, either. High as he was on some top-grade MDMA, the drug otherwise known as Ecstasy, he felt like a très chic bubble of Cristal champagne.

  It was almost unfair how well life was working out for him, he mused. Only twenty-seven and already rich. Handsome, heterosexual, French, and very, very talented at taking pictures. The hardest part about being him was—the thought made him giggle—waking up.

  He had a real eye, they said. They, meaning the people in the fashion world who actually counted. In spite of his youth, the word icon was being whispered. His name was dropped in company with Ritts, Newton, Mapplethorpe. Sorry, fellas, move over. There’s a new enfant terrible in town.

  And best of all, the parties. Tonight, already a fabulous dream, was just beginning, and how many more would he have? He could practically see them in an endless array stretching out before him. As long, elegant, and dark as the row of designer suits in the gymnasium-sized closet of his loft down on Broome Street.

  All around him, the world breathed, Yes.

  He stepped out onto the street. The night was young—just the way he preferred his ladies. Like the barely legal, new Ford Nordic blonde he’d just “met” in the back stairwell. He could actually fall in love with her, if only he could remember her name.

  “Pierre?” a woman’s voice called.

  He craned his neck, raising his stubbled face toward the sound. It was she—his new nameless lovely, as statuesque as the figurehead of a Viking ship, standing on the fire escape above him. Or was she an actual flying Val-kyrie? As high as he was, it was hard to tell.

  “Catch!” she said.

  Something sailed down toward him, dark and diaphanous, and settled into his outstretched hands—a warm, wispy weight that was barely there. A feather from an angel wing? No, better. Thong panties. What a wonderfully American parting gift! How Girls Gone Wild!

  He blew her a kiss, removed the silk handkerchief from the breast of his cashmere Yves Saint Laurent sport coat, and inserted the undergarment in its place. Then he continued on his way to Tenth Avenue to cab to his next soiree.

  He was midway up the east side of the block when he spotted a man standing alone on the sidewalk, alongside the train overpass.

  A fellow reveler, was Pierre’s first thought. But then he saw the guy’s serious face.

  He stared unabashedly. He was always on the lookout for a striking photo image, always honing his eye. That was probably the reason he would be immortal. And this figure—there was something tragic in the way it stood against the dark, otherwise completely empty street. It was the essence of noir. So Hopperesque.

  But more still, there was also something about the man’s eyes. A startling, yearning intensity in them.

  As mesmerized as he was, it took Pierre a good thirty seconds before he saw the two silenced pistols the man was holding beside his thighs.

  What?

  Pierre’s drug-addled mind scrambled for comprehension. The girl in the stairwell, was the first thought it grasped. Was this an angry rival?

  “Wait!” Pierre said, raising his hands placatingly. “She said she had no boyfriend. Please, monsieur, you must believe me. Or perhaps you are her father? She is young, yes, but very much a woman?—”

  The Teacher shot him twice in the crotch with the suppressed .22, and once in his throat with the .45.

  “Not even close, French fry,” he said, watching the worthless hedonist bounce face-first off the sidewalk.

  He knelt beside the fallen man and pulled his hair back from his forehead. With his teeth, the Teacher uncapped a Sharpie and began to write.

  Chapter 50

  AS THE TEACHER HEADED BACK into his building, the last thing in the world he expected was the small, attractive blond woman who rose up furiously from the outside steps.

  “I finally found you, you son of a bitch!” she screamed.

  Holy crap! the Teacher thought, panicked. It was his publicist, from his former life—the life he’d abruptly abandoned when he’d started on his mission two days ago.

  “Wendy,” he said soothingly. “I’ve been meaning to get back to you.”

  “How gallant of you,” she fumed. “Considering I called you thirty-six fucking times. Nobody no-shows the Today show! You’ve ruined yourself! Worse, you’ve ruined me!”

  He glanced around nervously. Standing out here arguing wasn’t cool. If somebody hadn’t already discovered the dead Frenchman, they would any second now.

  But then he realized that she was falling-down drunk, with bloodshot eyes and a smell like a brewery. A plan snapped into his mind. Perfect.

  “I can do better than explain, Wendy,” he said, with his most charming smile. “I’ll make it up to you, ten times over. Got an e-mail that’s going to blow your doors off.”

  “Make it up to me? How are you going to un-demolish my business? You know how hard I worked to get you booked? At this level, you don’t get a second chance. Now I’m over.”

  “I’m talking Hollywood, baby. I just heard from the Tonight Show,” he lied. “Leno’s hot to have me on. It’s going to fix everything, Wendy. I promise. Hey, come on upstairs with me. I’ll cook you breakfast. You loved it when I did that last time, right? How about some fresh Belgian waffles?”

  She turned away from him, trying to remain angry. But she failed, and started slurring out words in drunken honesty.

  “You don’t know how much I missed you. After that night we had, and then you didn’t call me, and?—”

  The Teacher put his finger to her lips. After a few more seconds of resistance, she nibbled his first knuckle.

  “We’ll have a better time tonight,” he said. “If you’re really good—or should I say, really bad?—I’ll even warm the syrup,” he said, deepening his killer smile.

  Finally, she smiled back. She removed a compact from her purse and touched up her hair and makeup. Then she took his hand and walked upstairs with him to the apartment.

  Inside, he locked the door behind them.

  “What’s it going to be first?” he said. “Food or e-mail?”

  “I want to see that e-mail. Are you kidding?” she said, kicking off her high heels excitedly. “I can’t wait!”

/>   “It’s in here. Follow me.”

  As they walked through the spare room doorway, her gaze flicked across the corpse on the bed. She took two more steps before she stiffened and spun back to stare at it, abruptly seeming sober.

  “Oh, my God!” she breathed. “What is that? What’s going on here? I don’t understand.”

  Unceremoniously, the Teacher shot her in the back of the head with the silenced .22. Then he dragged her into the hall closet, dumped her Manolo Blahniks on top of her, and shut the door.

  “Yeah, well,” he said, wiping his hands. “It’s a long story.”

  When he fell back into his bed, his eyelids suddenly felt like manhole covers, and his breathing slowed to its usual peaceful rhythm.

  Who needs warm milk? he thought as he softly faded into sleep.

  Chapter 51

  WHEN MY CELL PHONE WENT OFF, it took me a second to distinguish the sound above the constant hacking of the Bennett sick ward. I groped for it in a stupor, noting that the time was just after three a.m. For all my big hopes, I’d gotten maybe ten minutes of real sleep.

  “Yeah, Mike, Beth Peters here. Sorry to wake you, but we just got word. A fashion photographer, shot dead on a sidewalk in Hell’s Kitchen. Looks like you-know-who.”

  “I’m just waiting for my chance to send you-know-who to you-know-where in a handbasket,” I said grimly. “Any witnesses?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “But one of the uniforms said he actually wrote some kind of a message. I didn’t quite catch that part. You want me over there, or?—”

  “No, you mind the store,” I said. “I’m closer. Give me an address.”

  After talking to Beth, I called Chief McGinnis, hoping I’d get the chance to wake him up to deliver the latest happy news. Unfortunately I had to settle for his voice mail.

  Unbelievable, I thought, putting away my phone. The shooter seemed to be speeding up, shortening the interval between kills—giving us less time to figure things out. That was the last thing we needed now.