Skyline Motel

El Cerrito, California

Nine o’clock Thursday night

Charlene looked through the glass into the small motel reception office. Her luck was holding. Only one skinny guy was inside, and from the description Joe had given her, it was the same guy who’d been deep in a computer game when Joe had checked in. He said he remembered the kid’s name because it was so weird. Okay, she’d told him, but Jerol wasn’t as weird as Xu, and she was going to call him Joe. He’d smiled up at her. And she’d started singing Johnny Cash’s “A Boy Named Sue.”

She didn’t know where she was taking Joe just yet, but it was too dangerous staying this close to the city any longer, now that his photo was plastered all over the TV. She figured he needed another couple of days before he’d be good for much, not that she needed him to help her, but he was smart, had lots of experience. If he could learn to trust her, maybe they could stay together for some time, like she’d planned to stay with Sonny. She’d be with Sonny now if not for that little kid, Emma. What a snooty name that was. Wasn’t she to blame, too, for Sonny’s being dead? It wasn’t Sonny’s fault he had this problem. The kid shouldn’t have run away from him, selfish little cow, when she knew—Charlene shook her head to get her brain back on track. She was losing herself more often now in her thoughts. She’d think something, and then the thought seemed to grow and change, to branch out in all directions, like a spin-off of a TV show.

She focused on Joe, and her brain seemed to flip a switch. He really knew these FBI agents, he told her, knew how they thought, knew what they’d do in any given situation. He’d stayed one step ahead of them, no problem, just as she had. But you didn’t know about that little redheaded agent who slammed you down on your face, did you? Without me, the train would have left the station—you’d be on it dressed in shackles and handcuffs.

He knew that as well as she did, so she didn’t say it out loud. He’d thanked her twice already, and it came easily to him. She found him charming. She’d known Joe for such a short time, and she already liked him a lot better than she’d ever liked her miserable husband, bad memory that he was. Joe said he liked the big diamond on her pinkie finger, and she’d laughed, told him it wasn’t real, told him it was as fake as her vicious long-dead husband who’d given it to her and that’s why she wore it, to remind her of that wonderful day she’d shot his face off. And he’d asked her about the other ring she wore that looked like it belonged to a religious order. She’d fallen silent, fingering the ring, then said, “It belonged to my son, before Ramsey Hunt murdered him.” And that’s when he’d asked her to tell him the whole story.

When he’d finally fallen into a restless slept last night, she stretched out on the bed beside him and listened to him breathe. She realized she hadn’t slept beside a man in a very long time. It felt strange to hear another’s breathing so close beside her. He woke her up once when he started talking in his sleep. And now she knew something about who and what this man was—not only a killer, as she was, but mixed up with the Chinese—a spy, maybe? And he was piss-in-the-pants afraid of them. I end up with the weirdest people, Charlene thought. Her son was kind of weird, of course, but he wasn’t stupid, he was—off. He hadn’t deserved to die, hadn’t deserved to be murdered by that miserable judge.

Her familiar rage kicked in, made her mind hiss and crackle. It wasn’t right what happened to Sonny. What had happened to him was the real crime. Imagine a federal judge murdering a man in his hospital bed? And every one of those crooked cops had covered for him, nothing but sympathy for him because of pathetic little Emma. Emma—Charlene hated that name now. She figured the kid and her mom had moved to a safe house after she’d left that phone message for little Molly, since when she’d last driven by, the house was empty. She’d find them, follow the kid from school, maybe.

Emma, Emma, Emma, the name drummed louder and louder in Charlene’s brain. Get it back, get it back, focus, focus.

She blinked, again focused on Joe. He’d been thrashing around, a fever, and she’d fetched him three aspirin and some water, and cupped his head. He never opened his eyes, but she already knew his eyes showed a life ancient with violence, far more than she could imagine. As she’d looked down at him in the dim motel room light she realized he might have made a fine son. There was something about Joe Keats, whose real name was Xu—maybe his will to survive, she wasn’t sure—but he impressed her. Regardless of what he was or what he’d done, he was a man who didn’t whine or complain or strike out. Well, she’d see about striking out.