Woman On the Run (6 page)

The professional immediately lost interest.

Nobody said this would be easy.

It was certainly taking enough time. Enough time to make serious inroads on a contraband jar of Iranian caviar and to listen to the second act of
Tosca
. The
Veuve
Clicquot
was running at half-mast. Tosca noisily plunged her knife into Scarpia’s treacherous chest and the orchestra swelled as the computer hummed.

This was getting boring. Still, on the plus side, it looked like the fools in the Department of Justice had actually organized the file containing Julia Devaux’s data in alphabetical order. If that was the case, then Julia Devaux should be coming up soon. The professional contemplated opening another bottle of champagne, then decided against it. Certain triumphs were to be savored with a clear head. The computer beeped.

The professional sat up, eyes narrowing.

kdsjcnemowjsiwexnjskllspwieuhdksmclsldjkjhfd

kdiejduenbkclsjdjeudowjdiejdocmdksdldkjdjeiel

mpnwjcmsmwkcxosapewkrjhvgebsjckgfnghgdsj

Decryption 60%…70%…80%…90%…

Decryption completed.

File: 248:

Witness placed in Witness Security Program: Julia Devaux

Born: London, England, 03/06/77

Come on, come on. The professional leaned forward, eyes riveted to the screen.
I know all that. Tell me something I don’t know.

Last domicile: 4677 Larchmont Street, Boston, MA.

Ah. The thrill of the chase was nothing in comparison to the intellectual thrill of knowing that you were smarter than everyone else.

Now for the rest of it. The professional gently kept time to the music with an Italian breadstick dipped in the last of the caviar. The letters moved across the screen.

Case: Homicide, Joey Capruzzo, 09/30/04. Last known address: Sitwell Hotel, Boston, MA.

Proximate cause of death: massive hemorrhaging from .38 caliber bullet wound in left anterior lobe of brain.

Accused: Dominic Santana.

Current address: Warwick Correctional Facility. Warwick, Massachusetts.

Placed in Witness Security Program: 10/03/04

Julia Devaux relocated as:

Yes, that’s it.

The cursor stopped, blinking on and off, as if patiently waiting for some signal from within the depths of the machine. Tosca fought with the police officer and cursed Scarpia’s name while slowly, very slowly, the letters started blanking out, one by one, until the screen was empty.

The professional sat, stunned. It was clear what had happened. The files had a time bomb built in. If a code wasn’t entered at predetermined intervals—the professional checked the gold Rolex Oyster that represented the first down payment on the first job—probably every half hour, the files would self-destruct.

The crystal flute shattered against the far wall, champagne spilling down the wall like bubbly tears. The caviar followed, the eggs leaving a greasy, grey-black trail behind them.

So close. So
damned
close.

After five minutes of enraged pacing, the professional calmed. A month of work down the drain. The Justice Department would change all the access codes and it could take another month to get back in.

Take a deep breath. Get yourself under control. Control is what took you out of the trailer park. Control.

File: 248
. Julia Devaux’s data was in a file called 248. Well, no one else hunting for Julia Devaux’s head had as much to go on. A three digit code should be breakable within two weeks at the most. And with S. T. Akers on the case, it would be well into the new year before Santana went to trial, anyway.

There was still time. File 248…it wasn’t much to go on, but it was something.

There was still hope, the professional reflected as Tosca threw herself off the parapet.

There was still hope.

* * * * *

It was a short walk from the school to Julia’s home.

It was a short walk to
anywhere
in Simpson. Julia really didn’t even need the clunky ancient lime green Ford Fairlane Davis had made available. It rattled, devoured gasoline and was old enough to vote.

She missed her classy Fiat.

She missed her classy life.

What was happening back in Boston? Dora had been thinking more and more about going freelance. She’d even hinted that she might welcome Julia on board. Had she made the leap? Andrew and Paul, her gay neighbors, had been spatting. Julia hoped they’d still be together when—if—she ever got back. Nobody made lasagna like Paul and Andrew could be counted on to accompany her to all the art shows.

An insanely cheery Halloween postcard was going to be sent to them from Florida, reminding them of the Halloween ball the three of them had attended the year before. If only they knew… Julia smiled as she had a sudden image of Andrew and Paul coming to her rescue.

And Federico Fellini, the world’s most beautiful and most temperamental cat. Would his new owners realize that he liked his meat cooked medium rare and that he caught chills easily?

She wished her life were a movie and she could rewind it to a month ago and decide not to go on her little photographic safari in the wilds of the industrial area along the docks. Anything would have been preferable. Root canal work. Elective surgery. Even finally reading her ancient, unopened copy of
War and Peace
, cover to cover, including the footnotes.

Anything at all would have been better than what she actually did do—drive down to the docks for her try at gritty photographic realism, since her stab at a romantic nature shoot had simply netted her a wasted roll’s worth of blurred butterfly wings and out-of-focus dandelions.

Well, she’d certainly gotten her share of gritty reality.

Julia had made her way down the empty street, looking into shop windows as she went. Even though it was nearly dark, no one had turned on the lights yet and it was like walking through a ghost town. The street was eerie. The town was eerie. Her life was eerie.

She tried to cast the whole scene in her mind as a movie, an old trick of hers when she was scared or lonely or depressed. Right now she was all three so she dove inside her head and starred in her own film.

A ‘40s movie, she thought. Filmed in black and white. It fit. All color had been leached out by the gray sky edging towards night. The bad guy…oh, Humphrey Bogart. Or maybe…Jimmy Cagney.

And I’m the beautiful heiress tracking down a clue to the mysterious death of…of my uncle here in this ghost town…and I only have this statue of a falcon to go on…and this private eye I hired is handsome and suspicious…

Julia entertained herself with her fantasy that she spliced together from a number of classics until she reached the weather-beaten door of the small wooden A-frame house Herbert Davis had found her. Then the fantasy dissipated. No ‘40s movie heroine worth the name would have a house that let in gusts of gelid air, had a heating system that went on the fritz constantly and leaked.

Julia was forced to move back into cold, cold reality.

She walked up the steps of the wooden porch that was badly in need of repair and inserted her key. She stopped when she heard a scrabbling sound and sighed heavily. She’d been beating off a mangy, scrawny stray dog for two days now. He had tipped over her garbage can twice. No matter how loud she yelled, he always came scrounging back.

No wonder she preferred cats. Cats had too much dignity to behave like juvenile delinquents.

She spied a dusty yellow-brown shape at the edge of the porch. “Shoo!” she said angrily. Oddly enough, the dog didn’t run yipping away, as it usually did. Julia sighed and decided to forego the rock-throwing. The way her luck was going today, she’d probably miss the stray and hit the mayor.

She turned the key and heard a low moan from the porch as she walked into the house.

A moan.

She threw her coat on a chair and rammed her hands into her skirt pockets, trying to blank out the memory of the sound. But the creature had definitely moaned.

Well, it wasn’t any business of hers. Damn it, she didn’t even like dogs. Julia walked into the kitchen to make herself a soothing cup of tea, then stopped, eyes narrowed, tapping her foot.

I’m a fool
, she thought, turning around to walk back out the door.

The dog was huddled in the corner of the porch. Julia approached him gingerly. She knew zilch about dogs. For all she knew, the creature had some horrible disease, rabies or something, and would leap with a low growl for her throat. She tried to remember everything she knew about rabies, but it wasn’t much and it wasn’t pleasant. All she remembered was that the treatment was really nasty—shots in the stomach.

“Nice doggy,” she said unconvincingly as she approached the matted, yellowish mass of fur. In the penumbra, she couldn’t even tell which end was head and which end was tail. The dog took care of her uncertainty by lifting a pointed, stained muzzle and thumping the other end on the floorboards.

Julia edged closer, wondering what kind of vocabulary dogs understood. Federico Fellini, her cat, was an intellectual and she could talk about books and films to him, as long as it was after he’d been fed and fed well. She had a vague notion that dogs preferred football and politics.

This is a bad idea, Julia
, she told herself.
It isn’t enough to be in Simpson, Idaho under a death threat. You have to try to help a possibly rabid dog and get bitten for your pains.
She turned back.

The dog emitted a high-pitched whine.

Damn.

Julia walked back and squatted to look the dog over in the uncertain light from the lamppost on the sidewalk. At least the dog was breathing and she wouldn’t have to give it mouth to muzzle resuscitation. She’d failed her CPR course.

The dog’s tail thumped weakly on the boards as Julia reached out gingerly to pat it. She felt something wet and snatched her hand back, then realized that the dog was trying to lick her hand. The dog lifted its muzzle into her hand. Julia could swear that it was looking straight into her soul. The mutt looked lost and lonely.

“You, too, huh?” she murmured and with a sigh, snapped her fingers to shoo him in. The dog quivered and tried to stand, then collapsed, whining loudly.

“What’s the matter? Are you hurt?” Julia gently ran her hands over the dull coat, trying not to think about ticks and fleas, stopping when she felt the right foreleg.

“Broken, huh?” she told the dog. He just looked at her and thumped his tail. “Or maybe sprained. I don’t know. God knows if Simpson has a vet. Well.” She took a deep breath and looked at him sternly. “You can come in tonight because it’s cold and you’re hurt, but just for the night and then you’re out…is that clear?”

The tail swished again and he licked her hand.

“Okay, just as long as we understand each other.” Julia lifted the surprisingly heavy dog in her arms, staggering a little. She remembered Fellini’s standards of cuisine. “And no home-cooked meals either. You’ll get some bread and milk and that’s it.” The dog whined again as they crossed the threshold. Julia sighed. “Well, maybe if you’re really good, you can have my leftover tuna salad.”

She put some old towels on the floor in the corner of the little living room and stepped back. He was a big dog, but starved. His ribs were sticking out so clearly through the dull, matted coat that she could count each one of them.

Julia went into the kitchen, poured milk into a plastic bowl and put the remains of her tuna salad on a plastic plate. She knew that tomorrow she would stop by the grocery store to pick up some dog food and inquire about a vet.

You’re a fool
, Julia, she told herself again as she put the food in front of the dog, but she was pleased anyway as she watched the dog gulp the food down and slurp up the milk. He gazed at her through slitted eyes.

“Bad time, huh, big fellow?” Julia asked softly.

The dog yawned hugely, showing a mouthful of yellow teeth, put its nose on its forepaws and went out like a light.

Julia envied him. She hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in over four weeks. It would take more than a blanket and some leftover tuna salad to repair her shattered life.

Julia shivered. Speaking of repairs…

Reluctantly, she walked into the pantry—actually a little cubbyhole just off the kitchen—where some joker with a sick sense of humor had installed something that was supposed to act like a hot water heater and had pretensions to heating the house. The only thing the big tank did was take the edge off the chill in the house and provide—with an inordinate amount of moaning and groaning—a reluctant trickle of tepid water.

Or had done, until this morning, when her shower had been icy cold and she had noticed a water stain on the wall. Something, somewhere had broken.