CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The cleaners had been and gone, as promised. The recliner was missing, leaving a conspicuously empty place where it had been. The television was gone, too, and the shards of broken screen vacuumed up. The carpet was still damp and smelled faintly of rug shampoo. The scattered books, trinket boxes, and knickknacks had been picked up and put back on the shelf, though of course not arranged the way they had been.

It gave Allison a strange feeling to know that other people, people she'd never met, had been in her apartment going through her stuff. It was for the best of reasons, of course … not with any bad intentions. Still, it creeped her out.

She supposed that it was only poetic justice. Didn't she get her main thrills in life by going through other people's stuff? And with intentions far less benign?

Her throat hurt worse than ever despite another dose of ibuprofen. At lunch, while Uncle Bob and Joe Peters gorged on mushroom-bacon cheeseburgers and endless baskets of seasoned steak fries, she'd supplemented the milkshake with clam chowder to avoid causing herself any more pain. The soup, combined with her lack of sleep and the stress of the trip to the police station, had left her sleepy. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed and nap for about five or six hours.

First, though … first she had some calls to make.

She'd promised Jamie Tremayne that she would get in touch when she got home. Normally, especially since their dinner and that kiss, she would have been eager to talk to him. Now, though, she was dreading it. She wanted to see Jamie, wanted to hold him and have him put his arms around her.

But she didn't want him to see her like this. She looked like shit. She should've taken Uncle Bob up on his invitation and stayed hiding out at his house until the bruises faded and she was halfway presentable again.

It wasn't just concern over her looks, either. She hated this sensation of being in way over her head. And of feeling things, sharklike things with lots of teeth, swimming around in the depths.

Bad enough that she'd gotten herself into this situation. Worse to think that she could be endangering the people she knew and cared about. She had already dragged Eva and Hector Cesare into her drama, not to mention Uncle Bob. The last thing she wanted was to get Jamie mixed up in it as well. She was glad she'd chucked the purse. It had been an impulsive move, but at least now it was out of her apartment. Out and gone. When the trash men came on Tuesday, it'd be gone forever. Good riddance.

The rest of it had to go, too. She'd found, to her relief, that the folder with the information on Westbrook was still tucked in among her magazines, looking undisturbed and undiscovered by both the police and the clean-up crew.

"I'm done," Allison said to the quiet apartment. "Quits. Finito. I don't want anything to do with this. He can look out for himself, whoever the heck he is. Screw civic duty. I just want my life back."

So resolved, she would tear up that folder and dispose of it first thing tomorrow. Same with the tape, which she still had in her pocket. She didn't care what might or might not happen to Benedict Westbrook. By now, he would have heard from the police and it was not the problem of Allison Danielle Montgomery. Allison Danielle Montgomery was not going to get involved. She was through. Let the rest of the chips fall where they may, she just didn't give a damn.

All she had to do was convince someone else of that.

Going out on the balcony to get away from the smell of the rug shampoo, she placed her call before her resolve could falter or her bravado could fail.

The phone rang in her ear.

At the same instant, from the alley directly below her, she heard a sudden jingling chime.

She leaned over the rail and looked down.

A pair of disbelieving jade-green eyes looked back up at her.

The phone rang again.

There by the trash cans stood a petite blonde in a black track suit, black running shoes, and warm-up jacket with the hood pushed back. Her platinum hair shone in the sun, the brightest thing in the alley. She was in the chain-link enclosure, the buttercream leather purse dangling from her hand.

Neither of them moved. They stared at each other. Allison felt like she'd been turned to stone, paralyzed by Jade's gaze as surely as if Jade had been a Gorgon straight out of Greek myth.

The phone rang for a third time.

Slowly, Jade's free hand dipped into her pocket. She raised the phone to her ear, thumbing a button. "Hello."

Allison heard it twice, once from the woman and once through the ear-piece, in a curious sort of sound-doubling that only added to her whirling sense of unreality. She couldn't bring herself to speak.

"Your name's not Steffi at all, is it?" Jade asked with bitter chagrin and accusation clawing through her voice.

"I … um …" Her mouth worked, but she could not seem to form words.

"Is it, Allison?"

"Oh, shit," Allison whispered.

"Oh, shit indeed. I think you'd better start talking."

"Um …"

"What really happened here last night?" Each of Jade's words cut like a razor honed from glacial ice. "You were in on it, weren't you? All three of you."

"What?"

"But it went wrong, didn't it?"

"I … I don't know what you're …"

"Spare me the bullshit. You just give a message to Scoot for me."

Allison staggered. For an instant she thought she might drop the phone straight off the balcony and onto Jade's head. She clung to the rail, her knees weak. "A … a message? You …"

Had she heard that correctly? Was she understanding what she thought she was understanding? It couldn't be.

"Tell him," Jade continued relentlessly, enunciating each word with crystal-clear precision, "that I know who he is, and I want what's mine."

"You … you what?"

"I know who he is," she repeated, as if she thought Allison might be thick in the head.

Not that Allison, stammering like a dolt, was giving her any evidence to the contrary. "You … you know who … who Scoot is?"

"That's right. And I don't care what sort of deal you and Jon had with him, or how it went sour. We can put all this behind us, forget the whole thing, as long as he gives me back the rest of my things."

"Which things?"

Jade flapped her hand in irritation. "Don't play games with me. Not the gun; I know the police have that. I want the rest. The money, the tape, the folder."

"Wait a minute," Allison said, still trying without success to make sense of what she was hearing. It was as if Jade were speaking some language tantalizingly familiar to, but not quite exactly, American English. "How do you –?"

"Just tell him, and give him that phone. I'm done dealing with you. I'll talk to Scoot directly."

"But –"

"I'll call him tonight, at seven o'clock."

"I can't do that!" Allison cried.

"You'd better. You must know by now what kind of person I am."

"Yes, but …"

Jade snapped the phone shut, and although they were only a few yards apart, looking right at each other, easily within earshot of ordinary conversation, that decisive snap ended Allison's fumbling attempts to speak.

Those green eyes were still fixed on hers. They were narrowed into deadly, hateful slits. Then Jade turned in a swirl of disheveled platinum-blonde hair. She strode out of the alley.

Allison stared after her. She was on that mental patch of black ice again, wheels spinning without getting any traction.

This was absurd. This was insane!

She went back inside and flopped on the bed.

What had just happened?

Somehow, Jade had come here … how? Why? She knew that Allison had been 'Steffi,' but not that Allison was Scoot. She thought that Scoot was someone else. Some guy. But who? How could Jade be so close to the truth and still so wrong?

It was an impossible mess, a quagmire, and Allison didn't know how to get out of it. Give the phone to Scoot by seven o'clock? Scoot had the phone, had it right this minute! But what else was she going to do? Admit to Jade that she, in fact, was Scoot? How well would that go over? Jade wouldn't believe her … and if by some miracle she did, what then?

A woman like that wouldn't appreciate being tricked or fooled any more than she had already been. She'd kill Allison as much out of spite as out of a desire to snip the loose ends.

The only other crazy idea that popped into the whirling confusion in her mind was that she could get someone else to pretend to be Scoot on the phone. But the only one she could trust enough to ask would be Jamie, and that was not something Allison was about to do. Not Jamie.

She could run. Just cut and run. Leave all her stuff here and go. Somewhere. Anywhere. New York. California. Orlando, Florida. Montreal. Mexico. She had a passport and twenty-five thousand dollars of an assassin's money to spend. Paris. Cairo. Tokyo. Maybe the moon or Mars would be far enough to run.

How about home? Home to the big house, to Daniel and Marian, to Missy and the twins and the country club?

A shudder wracked her. Home? That wasn't home. This was home. Dunley and 6th. She didn't want to give it up. This was her real life.

You must know by now what kind of person I am, Jade had said.

Yes. She did. Jade was the kind of person who would murder a man for money. Jade was the kind of person who would rush out after a phone call, expecting to find 'Steffi' wherever Jon parked his bike, and when she didn't find Steffi there, would shoot a guy named Weasel in the head. What would she have done if she'd found the elusive Steffi? Shot her, too, probably.

Scoot would be as good as dead no matter who Scoot turned out to be. But what would Jade do if Allison didn't come through?

"I have to get out of here," she mumbled. "Right now."

Where to go? Not back to Uncle Bob … he had been understanding, but she wasn't about to drag him deeper.

She thought of Officer Flyte, or Detective please-call-me-Tori Bryland, both of whom had been sympathetic and might listen. But they had only been sympathetic when they thought they were talking to a naïve young woman who had been beaten up, who had been ignorant enough of the law to buy an unlicensed, stolen gun. That was forgivable. The real story would not endear her to them.

Definitely not her parents. Not her brothers. Not her ballerina sister. Absolutely not Missy, who should never hear about any of this.

Eva?

Eva was her friend, and already partly involved. She owed Eva a little more honesty.

She got off the bed, went through the kitchen, and knocked on Eva's side. No answer. So much for that.

Except …

On a Sunday afternoon after everyone's sleep had been interrupted, the rest of the building was somnolent. Not even Mr. Kaminski's television was on. Allison tried the door and it slid obligingly open to reveal the tidy, quiet room on the other side. Eva was a kind, trusting person. Eva didn't lock her side of the kitchen.

And Eva had no idea that Allison had given her an envelope containing the price of a new car.

It was sitting in plain sight on top of the dresser, on a crocheted doily. It made an odd addition to an alabaster candle holder, a statuette of Christ with eyes uplifted in prayer, a silver-framed photo of a teenaged Eva in a white dress, a pad of note paper shaped like a dolphin and a red ceramic pot full of pens and pencils.

Allison felt more like a thief than ever as she tip-toed across the room to retrieve the envelope. The masking tape was still stuck shut and it felt as packed with cash as ever – and she got a twinge of shame that she could possibly have suspected Eva of opening it, let alone taking anything from it.

She tore the top sheet from the notepad and scribbled a quick note to Eva. Dear Eva, thanks for hanging onto it for me, I had to go out for a while, see you later and thanks again to you and H. Your friend, A.

Now that confiding in Eva was not feasible, Allison felt better. She hadn't really wanted to tell this sort of thing to Eva anyway.

However, she did have to talk to someone. Not to get help. Just to have a friendly ear, and maybe to get some advice. There was only one other person besides Uncle Bob that she knew she could trust.

Ten minutes later, she was in front of the Readmore Bookstore, with her duffel bag in hand, just like she was on her way to the junkyard to change into Scoot. She entered the musty, papery-smelling dimness and blinked as her eyes adjusted from the glare of the afternoon sun.

"Allison!" Jamie wheeled toward her, then quit pushing and coasted to a stop as he saw her face. His expression flickered through a multitude of emotions.

In the aftermath of her encounter with Jade, she had almost forgotten. She turned her head away and yanked the elastic band out of her hair, letting it fall in concealing waves over her puffed, purple cheekbone.

"No," Jamie said, and reached out a hand that she could barely look at, let alone take. "Don't, Allison. Don't hide from me."

"I warned you I didn't look so hot," she said, her voice made even hoarser by impending tears. It hadn't been the shock and horror he'd shown that had done that … it was the concern … and something else.

The Readmore closed at five o'clock on Sundays. Now, at quarter 'til, it was already empty but for the two of them. Jamie rolled past her, flipped the sign from 'Open' to 'Closed,' locked the door and lowered the blind, and came back.

He stopped in front of her. "Allison …"

"Jamie, I'm in trouble," she said. "I'm in so much trouble."

"What can I do?" He reached out again.

When she still didn't take his hand, he rolled closer and took hers. He had considerable strength in his upper body, which shouldn't have surprised her as much as it did. Hadn't he pulled her right into his lap the other day?

Jamie drew her two faltering steps toward him. She dropped her duffel – it clunked when it hit the floor, weighted down by her skateboard and all her gear – and put her other hand over her battered face. Her breath caught. She sniffled.

God, she was on the verge of tears! She hadn't expected that. Didn't want to break down and cry in front of him.

"Allison," he said in a soft tone.

He thumped first one leg and then the other to the floor. With his left arm, he pushed hard on the armrest of his chair. Shakily, he levered himself upright. At last he was leaning heavily on the counter but standing, standing in front of her.

She gaped at him through a watery veil of tears. "Jamie … but you can't …"

"Come here." He drew her against him.

Allison let him do it. She felt his arms encircle her and it was the last straw. The remnants of her will crumbled. She put her forehead on his shoulder and wept while he stroked the loose spill of her hair.

"I'm so sorry for what happened," he said, tilting his head against hers. "I wish I had been there to help you. I never want to see you hurt, Allison, never."

"It isn't that," she said between sobs. "There's something else … something worse. I don't know what to do."

"Whatever it is, I'm here for you," he said. "No matter what. I promise."

She looked at him – looked up at him, because standing, even leaning in that awkward scarecrow stance, he was taller than she had expected. "I … I didn't know you could …"

"I can. Sort of. Sometimes. I have metal leg braces and crutches that I can use, but most of the time I don't bother. They make me look like a … cyborg or something. Scary. A clanking robot, lurching along. In the chair, I'm just a cripple."

"You're not," she said. "You're a hero."

"Some hero," he said wryly. "Look at me. I'm standing here with my arms around a beautiful girl, and I'm about to collapse."

"My hero, anyway."

"Again, some hero. I wasn't there when you needed me."

"Please, Jamie, sit down. I don't want you to hurt yourself."

"And I don't want you to hide your face from me. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

As he lowered himself into the chair, she bound her hair back in the ponytail again.

"You don't have to do that," he said. "Your hair is pretty. I don't think I've ever seen it loose."

"I've never seen you without your ponytail, either," she said.

"Later, I promise. Here, come in the office. You can tell me what's wrong."

The bookstore's back office was reached via a wide doorway behind the counter. A large desk that looked like a mahogany door with table legs screwed to the corners was stacked high with cardboard boxes, milk crates and shopping bags full of traded-in or donated books. A library-style trolley, half-full of paperbacks, sat at one end. The only available seating was a futon with a denim cover.

A pair of old-fashioned wooden crutches leaned against the wall. Jamie saw her look at them and nodded. "I keep them here in case I need help getting up off the couch," he said. "Have a seat."

She did, and he maneuvered himself from the chair to the futon beside her. His arm went around her again as if it was the easiest and most natural thing in the world.

"You might not want to do that when I tell you what I have to tell you," she said, loathe though she was to give up the welcome, warm comfort.

"I don't think there's anything you could tell me that would make me feel that way."

"We'll see about that," she said, and told him the whole story.

**