Gideon (21 page)

She nodded.

“Do you have any idea where he would go? Any idea at all?”

She ran her tongue slowly along the edge of her lower lip. His eyes never strayed from her tongue. God, men were easy. “He used to talk a lot about his playing days at Cornell. Maybe he’s running to one of his teammates, like O.J. did. All those jocks stick together.” She looked Shanahoff up and down his six-foot-plus frame. “I’ll bet you used to play some basketball yourself.”

“Captain of the golf team at Creighton,” he said blandly.

She tried to think of something flirtatious to say about golf. What came out was, “Well, that’s a fun game. And you get to wear those cute pants.”
Fun game? Cute pants? Relax, girl! You’re blowing it
.

“Know any of his ex-teammates?” Shanahoff asked. “Or if any of them lives here in the D.C. area?”

“Um …”
Oh, God
. Was that a noise she’d just heard coming from the bathroom? What the hell was he doing in there? She glanced at the FBI agent. He hadn’t reacted.
Carl
, she thought,
you’re giving me a heart attack
. “Um … no, I don’t They scattered all over, I would imagine. But the Cornell Athletic Department ought to be able to help you out.”

He nodded. “That’s a good lead. Thanks.”

“It’s not for free. I expect something in return.”

Agent Shanahoff raised an eyebrow at her curiously. “What’s that?”

She reached for her purse on the counter, dug out one of her cards, and handed it to him. “The story. If you catch him, I mean.”

“Oh, we’ll catch him,” he assured her, inspecting the card carefully. “Deputy metropolitan editor, huh?”

“I’m trying to make a name for myself,” she said. “Same as you. I could use a break.”

“And maybe a little personal revenge?”

“Maybe,” she conceded, “I’m only human, after all. Deal?”

“I’ll certainly think about it.” He slid the card into the breast pocket of his shirt for safekeeping. He paused. Again he thumbed his chin thoughtfully. Somebody must have told him once that it made him look sensitive. “Maybe we could discuss it over dinner some night?”

“What, meat loaf and mashed potatoes?”

“I do eat other things.”

She smiled at him, her biggest, brightest smile. “I’d like that, Bruce.”

“Great. Thanks for your time, Amanda.” He started toward the door. Amanda thanked God he was leaving. He was actually leaving. It was going to be okay. He’d bought it—the flirtatiousness, her sob story, her anger. He’d bought it all. She’d survived.
They’d
survived. He was almost to the door … he was reaching for the doorknob …

And then abruptly he stopped, turned back to her, and said, “Listen, I’ve been on the run all day. Would you mind if I used your bathroom?”

Amanda’s heart stopped beating. It honestly did.

“My bathroom?” she said. “Um … it’s kind of a mess.” She heard the quaver in her voice. It was a wonder she could speak at all.

“I grew up with two sisters. I promise not to notice.” He was already heading across the room to to the hall, moving with the utter self-assurance of the white male master race.

What could she do, faint? That hadn’t worked since Lillie Langtry bit the dust. Besides, she didn’t know how to faint. All she knew was that this man, this FBI agent, was going to open the door to her bathroom and find Carl Granville and she was dead. No two ways about it.
Dear Auntie Sheila, I’m going to be out of town for the next five to seven years doing extensive firsthand research for a series of articles on life in a maximum-security women’s prison. Please don’t try to contact me
. “Well, okay,” she said finally, puffing out her cheeks with weary resignation. “Only …”

Bruce Shanahoff pulled up, frowning at her. “Only what, Amanda?”

Oh, hell
, she thought. He’d find out soon enough for himself. “Only you might have to move a few stockings.”

He smiled. “I’ll just be a second.”

That’s what you think
, she said to herself. She thought about crying out, warning Carl. But what good would that do? There was no way for him to escape. The bathroom window was too tiny. She thought about running out the door and never coming back. But running away was not her style. So she just stood there, resignedly awaiting her fate. Waiting for that crisp, clean bastard to return with his prize catch of the day. Waiting, seconds interminable, the silence deafening. Waiting. Hearing nothing.

Absolutely, totally nothing.

What was going on?

Then she heard the toilet flush, the bathroom door swing open on squeaky hinges, and confident footsteps in the hallway.
One
set of footsteps.

And there he was, bladder emptied, hair combed, hands washed, a thin smile on his lips, the same empty expression in his eyes. Most important, he was alone.

Where was Carl?

“I really am going to have to get the name of your realtor,” he exclaimed admiringly. “This place would serve my needs perfectly.”

Where was Carl?

“Th-Then I hope you get to spend some more time here,” she stammered, baffled, amazed, incredulous.

Where was Carl?

“I hope so, too,” he said. And then he was out the door. Gone.

She darted to the window. Through the shutters she watched him go down the stone path to the street. She waited all of three seconds. Then she sprinted for the bathroom.

It was immaculate. No towels strewn about. No dirty clothes. No clean clothes. No razor, not toothbrush, no comb. Above all, no Carl.

Where was Carl?

The instant Amanda left him alone in the bathroom, Carl began to move. He dried himself off and stuffed his dirty clothes, his towel, and all of the other shit she’d bought him into the clothes hamper. Swiftly and silently he removed every observable trace that he’d been there, his mind racing, searching desperately for a way out.

He knew he didn’t have much time.

If
she
had come in there, the agent would make damned sure
he
came in there, too.

Carl knew this. It was not conjecture, it was fact. He had been on the run for over twenty-four hours now and his survival instinct was operating in overdrive. He reacted to danger like a hunted animal. He
was
a hunted animal. Heart pounding, mouth dry, he weighted his options.

They sucked. The window was out—too narrow. The door was out—the hinges squeaked. So did the floor boards out in the hall. The bastard would hear him. Maybe even see him the second he appeared. Hide right there in the tub? No chance. The shower curtain was, unfortunately, see-through. Why couldn’t she have gotten something with a design, maybe a nice floral pattern? He knew why, unfortunately. That was his own damned fault. Because
he
was the one who had taken her to see
Psycho
at the Film Forum. No, the tub was out. Which left him … what?
Think, damn it. What are the other possibilities?
Well, there was down. Sure, sure. He could tunnel out through the floor tiles with a pair of Amanda’s fingernail clippers. Should be out of there in what, six, seven months? Great plan. That left …

Up.

As he began to examine the ceiling,at first he thought he was hallucinating. But it was definitely there—a small wooden hatchway. An attic crawl space.

By climbing up onto the sink, he was able to reach it. He pushed up, testing, and the hatchway shifted with a slight grating noise. He froze, expecting his very own junior G-man to come bursting through the door, gun in hand. But no. Nothing. He lifted the hatch as silently as possible and moved it over to the right. Ordinarily one would use a stepladder to get up there. Carl had no ladder, only his arms and his legs and his feverish desperation. Grunting, straining, he hoisted himself up, up, up, his feet kicking feebly in midair, then scrabbling along the wall, the ceiling …

With his last gasp of energy, he managed to pull himself over and in. He lay there a brief moment, panting. Then he glanced around.

It was a narrow crawl space, no more than two feet high. The roof slanted directly overhead, nails from the roofing shingles poking through from outside, shiny and deadly sharp. There was ductwork, a network of rusty pipes, dust-balls, filth, cobwebs. The ceiling joists where about sixteen inches apart with rolls of pink fiberglass insulation laid out in between them. Sprawled there directly under the roof, Carl gently slid the hatchway back into place, immediately plunging himself into pitch blackness.

He stretched out on his side in between two of the joints as best he could. The glass fibers of the insulation prickled his skin, making him itch all over. Lying there, he could hear himself breathing. he could hear something else, too—their voices from the kitchen. The sound carried. He heard the guy call him a dangerous puppy. A murderer. Heard her swear up and down she hadn’t seen him, her voice insistent but admirably calm.

He hear the guy ask if he could use the bathroom.

Carl lay there, unmoving, soundless and sightless, as the heavy footsteps came closer and the door swung open directly below him. Then it swung shut. The guy was whistling under his breath. One of those insipid Spice Girls songs. Suddenly he realized that this would be the perfect ending: hiding in the bathroom, captured by some cretin whistling a Spice Girls abomination. As he lay there, the insulation tickling his bare side, he made a vow to the heavens: if he ever got away with this, if somehow, some way, he could ever resume a safe, sane, normal life …

But he couldn’t. This wasn’t a rehearsal, this was real.
His
life. He couldn’t just stop the tape, play it back, and redo the past twenty-four hours.

God, he felt lost. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this lost. Not when Amanda had told him she was leaving to go to Washington. Not even when his mother died. He also couldn’t remember ever feeling as relieved as he had when Amanda walked in that door with all of those groceries. It had taken every ounce of self-control he had not to hug her and kiss her and hold her tight. But he could not. Because that was not who they were anymore. That was over. Although he could have sworn that a brief flicker had passed between them a few minutes before, when she came in to warn him. For a second he had thought the magic was still there. But then
poof
—the flicker was gone. Most likely it had just been fear.

The guy was taking a leak now. The longest, slowest leak in recorded history. What did the man do, store it up? Urinate once a week? God, that insulation tickled. Carl was desperate to scratch himself, only he didn’t dare move. And then, to his utter and complete horror, Carl discovered that it wasn’t the insulation that was tickling him.

It was a mouse.

No.
Jesus
. It was two mice.

No, three!

He’d disturbed an entire nest of the little fuckers.

He hated rodents. Mice, rats, hamsters, they were all the same to him. Even cute, friendly squirrels in the park. They made his skin crawl. Always had.

And now one was scurrying up his bare leg.

Carl wanted to yell. He wanted to jump up, scream at the top of his lungs. But he could not. He could not move. He could not make a sound. Not with the FBI agent right below. He just had to lie there in the blackness, shuddering, while the repulsive creatures scampered onto his neck, his chin, his face. One perched on his lips. One ran down his chest—he could feel its little legs working their way under his armpit. He could feel another one nibbling on his ear. He lay there, his stomach turning, a cold sweat flooding from his pores. But he didn’t move. He didn’t scream. He closed his eyes and prayed that this would be over soon.

Down below, the guy was flushing now. Washing his hands. Drying his hands. No doubt glancing about. Had Carl remembered to hide everything? Had moving the hatchway left any sawdust on the floor? Was there any telltale sign of his presence? Anything to arouse the shit-head’s curiosity.

Finally Carl heard the door swing open and the footsteps recede. He wanted to move instantly, to stop the furry creatures from crawling and biting, but he waited, forcing himself to stay still, making absolutely sure the agent was gone and wasn’t coming back. He heard voices in the living room. Heard the front door open and close. Then silence. It was safe. It
had
to be safe. He rolled over frantically, scratching and clawing at the tickling on his body. He pounded at his back and saw a mouse scurry by on the floor and disappear under a floorboard. He struck out with his fist, smashing it against the wood. For a moment he thought he might vomit; then the wave of nausea passed.

Amanda was down below now, calling out his name. He fumbled in the darkness for the trapdoor, shoved it aside, and tumbled back down to the bathroom floor below, practically landing right on top of her.

He lay there naked, sprawled on the tile, hoping he hadn’t broken anything. She stared down at him, astonished. It was the first time in his life he’d ever seen her speechless.

“Do you know,” he said to her as soon as he caught his breath, “That you have goddamn
mice
up there?”

“I didn’t even know I
had
an up there,” she replied. She still stared at him, dumbfounded. “Are you all right?” And before he could even answer, “How’d you know he’d come in here?”

“If he was a real agent, he was coming in.”

“He had a real badge. And he was a real jerk.”

“He couldn’t search for me, not without a warrant. Not unless there was probable cause. Since he didn’t turn the place upside down, I guess that means he was the genuine article.”

“Do you think he believed me?”

“You were pretty convincing.
I
would have believed you.”

“That’s a no, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid it probably is.”

“They’ll be watching this place from now on, won’t they?”

He nodded grimly. “Probably tapping your phone, too.” He reached his hand out to her, and she helped him stand. “Amanda,” he said, “I really am sorry I got you into this.”

She started to tell him that it was okay, and not to worry. But she stopped herself. Because it wasn’t okay. And because there was every reason to worry. Her life had been crazy enough before he’d come back into it, and now not only was she harboring a wanted criminal, she wanted to run into his arms and make love to him. She wanted to return to what they’d had; she wanted to go forward into the future she’d always envisioned. The one with him by her side, in her bed, inside her every thought.