Chapters (47)
- Cover
- ALSO BY MARJORIE B. KELLOGG AVAILABLE FROM DAW BOOKS
- Dedication
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- About the Author
A last-minute brainstorm made this grim effort more than worth it. I could leave the documents here—be free of them without having to give them up. Not the book, though. I was growing fond of it. And I’d promised the book dude I’d read it before I sold it, so at least I should try. I took out the plastic sheath, left the book stowed in my belly pack.
All the keys but the crucial one stayed behind in the Altoids tin. Hiding the documents was harder. Anyone finding the door and breaking in would search the place up and down. I settled on a narrow space where one of the ceiling trusses poked through the concrete of the inner wall. You could see it only if you stood by the window and craned your neck at a difficult angle. I had to clamber up on a chair to reach it. The plastic folder with its cargo of treasure slid into the slot as if it’d been made for it.
Like losing ten pounds! Keeping them, without carrying them on me.
One thing more: something neutral to bring home as my night’s take, to explain why I’d been out so long. I considered the can of coffee—seal unbroken. What a prize! But a vision of sitting here at my own little table with a mug of coffee I’d made myself—wasn’t even sure how I’d do that—but it put the idea right out of my head. Instead, I pulled a yellow rain poncho out of one of the lockers, man-sized but workable. I’d need it on the way home. I dragged it over my head and locked the door behind me. The key went into my gut wallet.
Not too bad outside yet. The rain was taking a breather, but the wind rolled over me like a breaking wave and water roared in the storm drains, clogged and already backing up. I laced the poncho’s too-big hood over my street cap and started off at a trot.
The early storm music had started up with the rattle and clang of debris caught in the gusts: old signs torn from their final scrap of hinge, the last bits of metal cornice ripped from a façade. Lethal edges on the fly, metal tumbleweeds bouncing along the dusky streets. I balled up the front of the poncho to keep from tripping. The back bloomed out behind like a sail. Twice I was nearly airborne.
I jogged across 59th, sticking to the lee of the buildings, aiming for the shelter of the East Side pass-thrus. Soon I was racing by the entrance to the Souk. When I glanced up and saw where I was, I stopped short. Couldn’t help myself.