Devlin took her in his arms, and she clutched at him, her eyes on his. The slash was four inches wide, through her windpipe. The blood wasn’t pumping hard now. She knew what was happening and had stopped fighting it, profoundly unhappy and afraid, more and more second by second. “I’m sorry, baby,” he cried. She looked at him angrily. He shook his head, but then she nodded, indicating, Yes, you! She was tagging him with it. And she was right; she wouldn’t be dying if he had told her to butt out instead of encouraging her to run errands for him. Had she thought they could get back together again? He knew she had felt something for him, if only a sense of what they had lost. His pity overflowed. “I love you,” he whispered. He knew he was telling the truth. At the end of her life she was putting herself in the rest of his for good.

He had never seen anybody die before.

He held her closer. Her bloody hand came toward him, and then her eyes stopped moving. He wanted to think he was seeing a little more, another moment, but she was dead weight. He put her down on her back on the bed.

And stood up. He had to get out of here. He was covered with her blood. He wouldn’t get very far looking like this.

An old woman was in the hall, one hand tentatively up to her lips. She turned and ran into her apartment as Devlin hurried to the elevator. He had to get to his apartment and change clothes. Silently—maybe the electronic bugs wouldn’t pick him up. Lederer! The Quinns had died in the orange Pontiac. Had that been their car? Devlin was thinking of the airline ticket on the seat. Lederer was not a New Yorker, if Devlin remembered his mid-American accent correctly. Now he was driving a rental car. Lederer had rented the Quinns’ house. The scam in Lake Tranquility had required an import, somebody never to be seen again. Devlin had seen Lederer twice now. Was that enough for Lederer? He’d just killed Devlin’s girlfriend, hadn’t he?

Devlin was able to stay off the street by using the courtyard of the Celtic Apartments to get to Forty-eighth Avenue, a route he’d taken many times in his boyhood. No sirens. Yet.

THURSDAY, JULY 3 …

THURSDAY, JULY 3 …

12:31 A.M. …

12:31 A.M. …