She didn’t seem to approve, but didn’t protest, either; she sat silently, eyes narrowed, while the cab darted down one street after another. From time to time she took a hand mirror out of her purse and checked the cab behind them, which seemed a little too much cloak-and-dagger for his taste. Six blocks before he told the driver the last turn, the other cab turned off and disappeared.

“Free and clear,” he sighed, and slumped back against the worn leatherette upholstery. The cab driver lit up a cigarette and rolled down the window to let in a blast of chilling air. “Up ahead on the right. Turn in to the parking garage, I’ll use my card to let you in.”

Carling did not seem to have relaxed much. As they descended into the dark tunnel, she looked back over her shoulder, the first overt sign of nervousness he’d seen from her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. She shook her head.

The fluorescent-striped swing-arm of the gate swung up like an ax, and let the cab clatter through. Martin leaned forward and told the driver to go down three levels.

Nobody else was moving. What cars were left in the structure sat mute and dark, like modern sculpture. The patches of lights looked weak and watery, the dark as thick as oil.

The cab eased to a stop at the third level, crept forward toward the plain white Lincoln Martin indicated. He passed over too much money in cab fare, since Carling didn’t jump to volunteer. The cabbie grinned and demonstrated perfect dentures, then left them standing in a cloud of stinking exhaust.

As his tires squealed into the turn, Carling did a slow circle to survey the garage. Fluorescent tube lights buzzed like colonies of flies, and somewhere metal squeaked in the wind.

“Let’s go,” Martin suggested, and fumbled his keys out of his coat pocket. She grabbed his wrist and held up one finger; she bent and looked in his car window, shifted right, then left. After a long shivering silence, she shrugged.

“Go ahead.” She waited until he’d put the key in the lock and opened the door before going around to the passenger side. He reached over and flipped up the lock.

As she slid in, he said, “Did you think they’d put a bomb in it?”

She shut her door and clicked her seatbelt shut, and smiled.

Tires squealed somewhere up above, moving fast. They both froze, staring at each other, and Martin swallowed hard and started the car. It took two coughing tries and shuddered when he threw it into reverse, a plowhorse forced to race.

Carling’s hand came out of her coat pocket with the gun she’d tried to hand him. She laid it in her lap, casually; he was relieved that the barrel was pointing away.