The Blonde

4:55 a.m.

Spring Garden Station, Market-Frankford Elevated

By the time Jack made his way to the back of the bus, counting seconds all along the way—he’d had enough headaches courtesy of the Mary Kates, thank you—his savior, Angela, was standing up and pulling the dirty white cord that ran along the tops of the windows. A dud bell sound. The blue light at the front of the bus read STOP REQUESTED.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“No,” Angela said, and brushed past him.

“Just one minute.”

“Fucking hell,” she said, and not to Jack. She grasped the steel rail near the back exit. The 43 bus pulled off to the side of Spring Garden Street, beneath an overpass. Everywhere Jack looked, there was sidewalk and concrete walls, splattered with years of pigeon shit. What was she doing getting off here?

The bus stopped. Another pneumatic hiss. A pause. Then the double doors wobbled to life, swung open. Angela stepped down fast, exited the bus.

It was Angela or the bus driver. No real choice at all, really. For all Jack knew, this was the end of the line.

He hardly had time to consider the fact that he’d spent ten dollars for a bus ride that lasted all of two blocks. Angela was entering a station of some kind, built into the support columns of the highway above. Even at this early hour, with the sun barely making itself known on the East Coast, Jack could feel and hear the vibe and hum and speeding cars above. He caught a sign: MARKET-FRANKFORD EL. Okay, El like in Chicago. Philly’s own Loop.

The transfer came in handy. It gave him admission to the platform.

A hip slide through the turnstile. Jack saw a rack of brochures along the wall—schedules. Maybe there would be a map inside. Would it be too much to ask, O Higher Power, for there to be map that identified the local FBI headquarters on it? Was it a tourist attraction? Maybe this elevated train would take him close enough. He could tag along behind somebody, a member of the early-morning commuter rush, follow him or her to the building, then scoot off into the front doors, find a receptionist, and tell her, “I need help now.”

But if there was a commuter rush, it was scheduled for a little later in the morning.

There were only two other people on the platform: Angela and an older guy in a striped shirt. One of those striped shirts that had gone out of vogue at least fifteen years ago: different-colored stripes in various quadrants. The guy’s one shoulder was red; his lower left torso was blue. There was some yellow and orange in there, too. A guy Jack knew from college had had one of these shirts. It was stylish for about five or six weeks, as he recalled.

The striped guy stood on the edge of the platform, facing toward Center City. Angela was on the other side, the one for Frankford-bound trains.

Jack hurriedly made his way next to the striped guy. No need to panic Angela until he figured this out. He flipped open the schedule. No map, but it showed that the first elevated train of the morning, the very first, would arrive at about 5:07, a few minutes from now.

But no. Look. Angela edging even farther away. He couldn’t let her wander too far away. He needed to be able to make up the distance within a few seconds, before the pain grew too great. What could he say to make her believe his story? Now he understood Kelly’s sales pitch. The whole poisoning thing, designed to get him alone in a room. Ready to listen.

Thing was, he hadn’t believed her. Not until it was far too late.

What chance did he have of convincing Angela?

The sun, a red circle at the end of a fat cigar, came rising over the horizon. Out on the riverfront, the half-constructed frames of two tall buildings were bathed in light. The air was heating up considerably. The humidity coaxed beads of sweat on Jack’s forehead.

What would he say to her?

He’d figure it out. The important thing was to move closer to her. Not freak her out, but get closer. A polite distance—little less than ten feet. The length of an SUV.

She saw him out of the corner of her eye and started moving farther away.

Jack didn’t want to die here on this humid El platform.

Angela moved even farther away now.

What could he say to her?