. . . Chapter Twenty-one

Hour 24 of 45

“Home, sweet home,” Jodie said.

A mattress and two boxes of old clothes, canned food. Magazines—Playboy and Penthouse and some cheap hard-core porn, which Stephen glanced at distastefully. A book or two. The fetid subway station where Jodie lived, somewhere downtown, had been closed decades ago and replaced by one up the street.

A good place for worms, Stephen thought grimly, then pried the image from his mind.

They’d entered the small station from the platform below. They’d made their way here—probably two or three miles from the safe house—completely underground, moving through the basements of buildings, tunnels, huge sewer pipes, and small sewer pipes. Leaving a false lead—an open manhole cover. Finally they’d entered the subway tunnel and made good time, though Jodie was pathetically out of shape and gasped for breath trying to keep up with Stephen’s frantic pace.

There was a door leading out to the street, barred from the inside. Slanting lines of dusty light fell through the slats in the boards. Stephen peered outside into the grim spring overcast. It was a poor part of town. Derelicts sat on street corners, bottles of Thunderbird and Colt 44 were strewn on the sidewalk, and the polka dots of crack vial caps were everywhere. A huge rat chewed something gray in the alley.

Stephen heard a clatter behind him and turned to see Jodie dropping a handful of stolen pills into coffee cans. He was hunched over, carefully organizing them. Stephen dug through his book bag and found his cell phone. He made a call to Sheila’s apartment. He was expecting to hear her answering machine but a recording came on that said the line was out of order.

Oh, no . . .

He was stunned.

It meant that the antipersonnel satchel had gone off in Sheila’s apartment. And that meant they’d found out he’d been there. How the hell had they done that?

“You all right?” Jodie asked.

How?

Lincoln, King of the Worms. That’s how!

Lincoln, the white, wormy face peering out the window . . .

Stephen’s palms began to sweat.

“Hey?”

Stephen looked up.

“You seem—”

“I’m fine,” Stephen answered shortly.

Stop worrying, he told himself. If it blew, the explosion was big enough to hose the apartment and destroy any trace of him. It’s all right. You’re safe. They’ll never find you, never tie you down. The worms won’t get you . . .

He looked at Jodie’s easy smile of curiosity. The cringe went away. “Nothing,” he said. “Just a change of plans.” He hung up.

Stephen opened his book bag again, counted out $5,000. “Here’s the money.”

Jodie was transfixed by the cash. His eyes flipped back and forth between the bills and Stephen’s face. The thin hand reached out, shaking, and took the five thousand carefully, as if it might crumble if he gripped it too hard.

As he took the bills Jodie’s hand touched Stephen’s. Even through the glove the killer felt a huge jolt—like the time he’d been stabbed in the gut with a razor knife—stunning but painless. Stephen let go of the money and, looking away, said, “If you’ll help me again I’ll pay you another ten.”