11
Jack noticed his hand still shaking as he went to fit the car key in the ignition.
He'd forced himself to walk away from a living, breathing Jeremy Bolton—an act that ranked near the top of his Hardest-Things-I've-Ever-Done list—and leave the scene.
Alibi or no alibi, Jack was sure now that he'd killed Gerhard.
Every fiber of his self-preservation instinct had screamed to kill the son of a bitch and end it there, but a higher center had warned that he was too exposed, that some concerned citizen might have seen all or part of the attack from a window or across the street and called 911. Witness accounts of who was the aggressor would depend on when they'd tuned in. If they missed Bolton swinging for the fence with his tire iron, then Jack would be listed as the assaulter instead of the assaultee. But even if not, Jack wanted no part in a police report.
The cautious end of his brain had also reminded him of the agency behind Creighton that would come looking for him.
So he'd walked away, fighting head-to-toe adrenaline shakes as he forced himself to maintain a cool saunter. No worry about Bolton sneaking up behind him on that knee—his sneaking days were over for a while. When Jack had reached the corner, he'd trotted for his car. He'd parked it well out of sight of Work.
He turned the key and pulled out, moving away from the area.
When he'd left Work he'd spotted Jeremy out of the corner of his eye, crossing the street as he came his way. The fact that he hadn't called out, and the way he was holding his right arm tight against his side, told Jack that something was up, something not good.
So he'd listened to Bolton coming up behind him—those cowboy boots weren't built for stealth—and made his move when he heard a sudden increase in footsteps.
Jack had been surprised at first at how fast Bolton folded, but thinking about it now he realized he should have expected it. Bolton had been locked up since his late teens. Whatever street smarts he might have had were long atrophied. And life at Creighton had weakened them further. While the place's maximum security lockup wasn't exactly a country club, it was a long, long way from hard time. Even if Bolton had worked out—and it looked like he had—strength wasn't enough in a fight. His oDNA might make him mean but it didn't make him fast or tough or smart. He'd folded like a cheap lawn chair.
But that wasn't the most striking thing about the encounter.
/ don't know your real name but I know it ain't Joe Henry and it ain't John Robertson. . .
The words echoed silently through the car. How had Bolton heard the name John Robertson? Certainly not from Jack, so that left only two other possibilities: Levy and Vecca.
But right now he was worried more about Christy.
After putting about a mile between himself and Bolton he tried Christy's numbers again, and again got no answer. He didn't feel right leaving town without at least going over to check on her place. No reason anymore to stay away—his role as Bolton's new video gamer friend was dead.
He had Christy's address but these streets were confusing as hell. She lived on 68th Drive, but that ran parallel and next to 68th Road which ran next to 68th Avenue. Finally he found it—a decent-size, older, well-kept, stucco-walled house with high-peaked gables and an attached two-car garage. Worth a gorgeous penny.
No lights on inside. Not encouraging. He pulled into the driveway, got out, and went to the front door. He rang the bell three times and used the brass knocker between rings.
No answer.
A vision of Christy lying dead or close to it inside began to form.
One more place to check. He'd noticed that the two-car garage had small windows placed high in the metal doors, too high to look through. He walked around the back and found a double-hung window into the garage. His pen-light revealed that it was empty.
Relieved, he returned to his car. If her Mercedes had been there he would have felt obligated to break in for a look-see. Its absence made it most likely that she was at rehearsal with her phone off.
He headed for Manhattan. She'd have to wait till tomorrow to learn the truth about the father of her grandchild.
Looking on the bright side, Jack had just been given a reprieve of sorts.