The Blonde

5:22 a.m.

Church Street. Frankford train making all stops. “Okay, so the bag didn’t fall down. Least he didn’t see it fall. That meant it was up on the roof of the car. Hang on, Ed, comin’ to get ya. Kowalski opened the connecting door, put a foot on the greasy cables between the cars. A simple heave-ho would get him up there. Easier than Korea. That was a real bitch, come to think of it.

But something inside the next car caught his eye.

His man. Jack Eisley.

Eyes closed, and waving his arms around like an orchestra conductor on crack. About a dozen other passengers in the car were moving away like he had a force field of nuts surrounding him. Nobody liked sharing personal space with the insane.

What the hell was Jack doing?

Maybe the virus Kelly White had infected him with had driven him over the edge. Made him nuts. Forced him to attack random people on the Market-Frankford Line. Maybe soon he’d sprout fur and fangs and growl like a dog. Wouldn’t surprise Kowalski in the least.

The side doors were closing again.

Okay, think about Jack later. Get the bag first. Jack isn’t going anywhere.

Heave-ho …

The train started moving forward as Kowalski planted both feet on the top of the car. He crouched down, making himself less wind-resistant. Ah, there was Ed. Unfortunately, he hadn’t landed in the little basket in the cooling/heating housing. He was smack in the middle of the top of the car, like a flattened plum on a hot silver skillet. And the bag was sliding, sliding, sliding to the back and left.

Kowalski dived for it.

The train accelerated, bucked to the right. A huge gray stone church loomed on the left side, as if the elevated tracks ran up to it, then suddenly lost their nerve and swerved away.

The bag slid away faster.

Kowalski’s ribs smashed against metal. Mother of fuck. He draped his left arm—the good one, thank Christ—over the side, fingers outstretched. Fabric brushed against his fingertips. There. He stretched farther, which was a small bit of agony in itself. Nothing. FUCK. Kowalski stood up. Balanced himself. His palms were burned. The metal of the roof was already hot.

There.

Ready to slide over the edge.

Kowalski heaved himself out of the metal housing, braced both feet on the metal surface, like he was surfing, and bent himself in half.

His hand grabbed the handles.

Gotcha, Ed.

He stood up.

And on the approach to the next station, the train bucked violently, as it did every time on this stretch of track. Ever since the city had rebuilt the tracks in the 1990s, and purchased the surplus cars from Korea in 2000, the Frankford El trains never glided along as smoothly as they had when the El was built in 1922. Too many engineering errors. Not enough to cause a crash, but enough to cause a jolt at predictable points along the route.

And Mike Kowalski was thrown off the top of the car, hurling through the air, two stories above the hot pavement, and smashing through a large plate-glass window on the third story of an old shop long closed to the public.

He went through the glass upside down, still grasping the gym bag in his left hand.

Kowalski’s body skidded across the ancient wooden floor like a puppet thrown to the ground by an angry toddler.