The Blonde

2:55 a.m.

Sheraton Elevators, Right Bank, South Side

Jack worked out a plan on the ride down. More or less. Once he got to the lobby, he’d play up the anxiety disorder, make someone sit with him. Then he’d map out a plan. All he needed was proof that Kelly White’s crazy story was true. The fact that hotel security saw some big bastard in a suit jacket show up to abduct her wasn’t enough. He needed proof.

Those files in San Diego, specifically. He had to catch a cab, hop a plane to San Diego, go to the Westin Horton Plaza, grab the files, then call the police, the FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, and anybody else who would listen.

Except that he would be dead by 8:00 A.M.

The poison.

The luminous toxin.

He was most likely the only guy in Philadelphia with two things racing around his bloodstream—Mary Kates and luminous toxin—with the potential to kill him. Unless you counted AIDS-ridden crack whores. But even those sorry fuckers didn’t have a time limit of five hours.

Think, Jack, think.

Even if he were in a plane that was taking off at this very minute, there was little chance he could be in San Diego by 8:00 A.M. Local time, sure, but the poison in his blood didn’t care about time zones. When it did whatever it was supposed to do, Jack would be dead.

And that’s even if he managed to stay within ten feet of a person the entire trip.

What if he had to use the bathroom?

With all of this racing around his head, he hardly noticed the elevator doors open. Charles Lee Vincent led him by the arm across the lobby, telling the desk clerk, “He needs someone to stay with him at all times.”

And then the desk clerk was saying something about the Philly PD being on their way. “Christ, what a night. There’s some lady passed out up on five, bleeding from her nose.”

And then Vincent was responding, saying that he was going back upstairs to start looking for this son of a bitch. “Seal the front doors…. Jesus, didn’t I tell you to seal the front doors?”

“I’ve never locked down completely. Where are the keys?”

“In my office, top drawer, lockbox marked with a black X in Magic Marker. You’ll see the master key on the left. Says ‘master’ on it. Hit the revolving door, then the two on the sides.”

“You got it.”

Jack realized what was going on.

“Wait! Don’t leave me!”

“That’s right. You’ve got to stay with him.”

“I’m just going to your office.”

“He’s got…” Charles Lee Vincent started to explain, then decided against it. “Look, I’ll lock up. Stay with him, okay?”

As Vincent walked away, Jack realized that locking the front doors meant he’d be trapped in here. And then the police would arrive, and then, sooner or later, he’d be locked in a room for questioning. They wouldn’t buy the anxiety stuff. In fact, they’d probably gather around the two-way mirror, passing around bags of potato chips, waiting to see him pop.

And that would be the end of Jack.