The Blonde

12:42 a.m.

Edison Avenue

The bag was not as heavy as he’d thought. The average human head was about six pounds—two for the skull, a quarter for the skin, and three for the brain, and spare change for water and fat and such. But this Adidas bag definitely felt lighter than six pounds.

Maybe it was all the blood and brains that had spurted out.

Nice, huh?

Kowalski wondered how far he’d have to travel with it. A plane was out of the question. Homeland Security would x-ray his $19.95 bag and see Ed’s goofy mug staring back up at them. Most likely, CI-6 would dispatch someone local to recover it, analyze, do whatever they wanted with it. That’s DHS, folks. Keeping America Safe, One Decapitated Head at a Time.

He placed the bag on the floor of the backseat, propping it up on one side with a box of Kleenex and on the other with a hardback copy of a fitness book called The Lean Body Promise. Weight loss wasn’t going to be a concern for Ed anymore. He’d already lost about six pounds today.

Ah fuck it. Katie would have laughed.

After double-checking his exit route on the Tribeca’s GPS system, he opened the garage doors and drove down the driveway to the street. He pulled Ed’s cell phone out of his pocket— he’d found it in Ed’s bag. Then he dialed the Hunter’s home number, helpfully written in pen on the kitchen wall phone. The home line was wired to his jerry-rigged gas-main detonator. Simplest thing in the world. One phone call, one massive basement explosion.

Kowalski pressed the Send button, appreciated the white-hot blast that blew out the first-floor windows and sent a booming echo rolling through the neighborhood.

Then he saw Claudia Hunter dive through a second-floor window, tuck and roll down the grassy hill on the side of the house, struggle to her feet, then take off behind her neighbor’s house. She was gone before all of the beads of glass showered the lawn below.

Holy crap.

That was impressive.

Kowalski knew he’d gone easy when he was strangling her with the dental floss. But her pulse had been shallow; she’d been checking out. Apparently, she had other plans.

Kowalski popped out of the car, thought about it, then grabbed the Adidas bag from the backseat. No telling how long it would take him to run Claudia down. He wasn’t about to leave his objective behind to be recovered by some dumb car thief.

Up the driveway, behind the house, down the hill, Ed’s head bounced around in the bag.

Hey, buddy. It’s your wife.

Claudia was a fast runner, even in bare feet and a summer nightie.

After a few backyards, Kowalski paused to stash the bag in a child’s tree house. The structure was fairly complex, with two separate entrances and stained, smooth pieces that were too perfect to have been assembled by hand. The bag was slowing him down, and he didn’t want to damage the contents too much. Or leave it back in the car, where a curious cop might spot it.

Kowalski checked the ground for a weapon, saw what he wanted, picked it up, and raced after Claudia.

Goddamn she was fast.