Peter would be mad, even angrier that she used the Porsche at this time of night. It was an attention grabber and that wasn’t good. But that was a chance she’d have to take.

She tied a kerchief atop her head and slipped on her coat. The bags of fliers were heavy. If only she didn’t need her purse. How did men travel without one? No matter, she’d manage. She took the spare key ring off the wall and hefted it. More weight. Maybe she should just take the Porsche keys and leave the rest of Peter’s keys here.

No, best not to separate them. If anything got lost, Peter would be even more irate. She flung her purse over her shoulder and looped her hands around the plastic bags. Before she closed and locked the door, she checked for her gun.

Like an old reliable friend, it was where it was supposed to be.

27

It had been a long and silent bus ride—a blessing for Noam. He hated the sound of Hersh’s voice, but hated his own voice even more. He hated, hated, hated everything about himself.

Hersh and he didn’t talk on the bus. They didn’t even sit together, choosing aisle seats opposite each other. At first glance, Hersh appeared to be dozing, but whenever Noam moved, even to scratch his nose, Hersh’s eyes would pop open, tracking him like a wild animal.

They hadn’t even talked much right after it happened. Both of them had been like robots, rushing into the motel room, throwing their meager clothes into the suitcases. He’d taken the gun, Hersh had taken his knives. A fair split—the gun was a more dangerous weapon, but Hersh was quicker with the knives.

Not that Noam really cared whether he lived or died. After what had happened (what had gone down as Hersh had put it) everything was over for him anyway.

What he had done.

Over and over, he racked his brain, trying to figure out what he should have done. But it all happened so fast. He couldn’t think straight, not with Hersh’s eyes bulging out of his forehead. Not with him crying out: Helf mir! The man was strangling Hersh, for God’s sake; he couldn’t just walk away. He just couldn’t.

The tables turned so quickly. Now they were the attackers. A moment later came that haunting picture, that awful look on that poor man’s face. A death mask.

Noam screwed up his eyes, shook his head fiercely, trying to throw the image out of his brain.

After it was over, Hersh went nuts with his knives. Noam knew he should have stopped him—what Hersh did was pure evil. Nobody normal did those things. But all Noam had done was cry, too afraid to make him stop.