10
Jack's thoughts raced ahead of his car as he cranked eastward on the Penn Turnpike. How to get the most out of that pillar…
Nothing was coming. He was dry… dry as the earth they'd backfilled into Jamie's grave.
East of Harrisburg he gave up and switched on the radio. Maybe he could zone out on music for a while, then tackle the problem with a fresh head. But he couldn't find anything he felt like listening to. He wished he'd brought along some of his CDs, but realized he probably wouldn't want to listen to them either.
The problem wasn't with the music, but with him. He wouldn't feel right, wouldn't be himself until he'd fixed this.
He switched to AM and picked up a strong, clear signal from WABC in New York. He hung on through a commercial to see which one of their stable of talk show geeks had the mike tonight, but instead wound up in the middle of the top-of-the-hour news update. He was reaching for the SEEK button when he heard…
'Wo word yet on the missing nun. Sister Margaret Mary O'Hara was last seen being pulled into a car from a Lower East Side sidewalk earlier this evening. The witness did not know the make or color of the car, and couldn't read the license plate. If you have any information on this incident—any information at all—please call …"
Feeling as if his bones were dissolving, Jack veered through the right lane and onto the shoulder where he stopped and set the shift into park.
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, his hands squeezing the steering wheel as if trying to strangle it.
He's got her… the son of a bitch has got her.
But how could he have known it was Maggie?
An instant of self-doubt pierced him, but then faded as he reviewed all the moves he'd made in the Cordova fix. He was certain—knew—that he hadn't left the faintest link to Maggie.
She must have made a slip talking to him.
Jack pounded the steering wheel. "Shit! Shit! Shit!"
All that effort to make the fix look like an accident—for nothing. Cordova knew, and he had her. God knew what he was going to do with her. Or was doing to her. Or had already done to her.
A slimeball like Cordova… didn't deserve to live… shouldn't have bothered finessing the fix. Oxygen waster like him… best thing to do—for his victims and for the human gene pool—was to walk up to him and deliver a hollowpoint between the eyes.
But Jack hadn't wanted to set himself on that road. Feared once he started traveling it he might not be able to step off. He'd approached Cordova as a guy who wasn't doing anyone physical harm—his bloodletting was emotional and financial—so Jack had taken a parallel approach. Cordova was hands off, so Jack had gone the hands-off route.
He realized now that was a mistake. A bullet to the brain would have solved the Cordova problem. Quick, clean, easy. No more blackmail, and sure as hell no worry about a good-hearted nun being abducted.
A mood cold and black settled on Jack as he threw the Buick back into drive and merged with the eastbound traffic.
He knew where Cordova lived, where he worked. He'd find him. And if that fat slug had done anything to Sister Maggie, if he'd harmed her in any way…