2
"I understand, Jack," Jamie said, "and I appreciate your concern, but I know what I'm doing."
Like hell you do, Jack thought.
He was driving through Midtown, heading east along Fifty-eighth, and they'd been arguing for more than half an hour.
Jamie had done pretty well behind the wheel, racing the Vic down the winding mountain road and speeding them to the highway. Jack would have preferred to be in the driver's seat but didn't want to waste the seconds it would have taken to switch places. When they'd reached 84 he'd made her turn west instead of east. He'd guessed that Jensen would expect them to head back to the city, so they went the other way.
It had worked. No sign of pursuit, even though he'd had Jamie set the cruise control at sixty-five and stick to it. Under any circumstances, Jack feared being pulled over, but more than ever tonight. Not having a valid identity would be small potatoes compared to explaining how they'd wound up splattered head-to-toe with blood and tissue from Cooper Blascoe.
Jamie had held up until they pulled off the interstate at Carmel and waited to see if Jensen would show. The meltdown occurred a few seconds after she stopped the car. First a sniff, then a tear, and then Jamie Grant, hard-nosed investigative reporter, was sobbing in his arms. Jack held her, patted her back, told her what a great job she'd done, and that she'd be okay, everything would be okay.
Eventually she regained control and seemed embarrassed. The good news was that throughout the long wait by the exit ramp he'd seen no sign of Jensen and company. Heading the wrong way had worked.
They'd found an all-night Wal-Mart and bought clean clothes. Jack grabbed the wheel then and took the long way home.
They'd been arguing since they hit North Jersey about where Jamie would spend the night. Her place was out of the question—probably had half a dozen IPs glued to it—as was Jack's. He hadn't let her know his name, and he sure as hell wasn't letting her know where he lived. So he'd been pushing for a hotel room somewhere in the wilds of Queens. He'd sleep outside her door if necessary.
Jamie wanted none of it. She insisted that he drop her off at The Light.
"You think they won't be watching your office too?" Jack said. "It's stupid to go back there."
"Jack, I'll be under guard. You've seen the security there during the day, and it's even tougher at night. You've got to be buzzed through the door, and Henry, the night guy, is armed."
Jack shook his head. "I don't like it."
She reached over and patted his hand. "I'll be fine. I'll take a cab and get dropped off right at the door. What are they going to do—grab me off the street in front of Henry? He'll buzz me in and I'll be safe for the night. I can work on transcribing the interview without worrying."
"I think you should call the cops. You're a taxpayer—get some of it back in protection."
She looked at him. " 'You're a taxpayer'… kind of an odd turn of phrase, don't you think? I mean, so are you."
Jack could have told her how he'd never sullied his hands with a 1040, but didn't want to get into that.
"Let's forget turns of phrase. Call the cops."
"No way. Not yet. I want to get this story filed first. If I call in the gendarmes now, I'll have to tell them about Coop and—"
"'Coop'?"
She blinked and Jack noticed her eyes glistening. "He wasn't a bad guy, just an old hippie. A gentle hedonist. He didn't create Dormentalism as it is today, he isn't responsible for what Brady's done to it. He didn't deserve to die… to be blown up… and I can't help thinking how he'd still be alive if I'd just left him alone…"
Her voice choked off in a sob, but only one.
Jack thought about asking her if her meltdown in Carmel was the reason she was being so hard-nosed about not hiding out or getting help. He decided against it. Probably only get her back up.
"The cops, Jamie? What's wrong with getting them involved now instead of later?"
"Because in order to get protection I'll have to tell them why I'm in danger, and that means telling them what happened to Coop. And once they hear that, I'll be trapped in an interrogation-deposition situation for hours, maybe days, during which—"
"At least you'll he safe."
"—the story of what happened up there will leak out, and every paper in the city will he screaming their takes while mine remains unwritten and unfiled."
"Yeah, but the stories will be about you. You'll be famous."
"Like I care, /want to break the story—me. Nobody else. Where I come from, that's important. I'll be safe. Really."
"Really? Remember Coop? They blew him up."
She threw up her hands. "Look, I'm through talking about it. Stop someplace where I can get a cab."
Jack sighed. He knew an immovable object when he saw one—Gia could be just as intransigent. His instincts urged him to head straight for the on-ramp to the Queensboro Bridge and cross the East River. He wanted to find a motel room and lock her in it until she saw the light.
But he couldn't do that. He'd fight tooth and nail if someone tried to lock him up, so how could he do that to her? It went against everything he believed in.
And yet… how could he let her put her life on the line just to be first to file a story?
Let her… listen to me… like I own her.
He didn't. Jamie owned Jamie, and so Jamie had to be allowed to do what she felt she had to, even if Jack thought it was insanely risky. Because in the end all that mattered was what Jamie thought. It was her life. And so what mattered most was what mattered to Jamie.
Jack turned downtown, away from the bridge.
"Shit! This is idiotic, Jamie! You're going to get yourself killed. And me with you."
"How's that?"
"Well, you don't think I'm going to let you go alone."
She placed a hand on his arm. "I appreciate that, but you don't need to come along. Just cover my back till I'm inside. After that I'm home free: locked doors, an armed guard."
"I do not like this."
"I'm not crazy about it either, but a gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do."
"Not funny."
"Wasn't meant to be," she said.