Chapter 19

JOHANNA APOLLO HAD TAKEN THE LONG WAY HOME from the law firm on Madison Avenue. The zigzag journey had led her from evening into dead of night as she revisited the favorite streets of her adopted city.

She was hungry and cold, and she needed her meds to ease the pains of the day. One of her watchdogs awaited her in the hotel lobby. The young FBI man's face was washed with relief that she was still alive and his job was secure. Now he backed away from her, maintaining the discreet distance of a court order. She felt guilty, though she had never consented to this bodyguard service. No matter how the night might end, this young man and his partner would have some explaining to do come the morning. Too bad. Not their fault. They must wonder how she always managed to evade them, when she should be so easy to follow in any crowd of normal upright people. During the brief elevator ride, she consulted her wristwatch twice.

Less than an hour to go.

It was a short walk from the elevator to the door of her room, but the hallway elongated in a side effect of weariness. She had a pill for that, but nothing to cure the dread of this homecoming, the awaiting quiet and the sense of no one home anymore, no Mugs.

She put her mind to other things, arrangements still to be made, preparations for the night ahead. She entered the hotel room and flicked on the wall switch. Everything was as she had left it. Mugs's pillow still held the impression of his small body, and the object inside remained hidden. The suite was perfectly quiet for the first time since she had moved in, and yet she knew that she was not alone. The bedroom door was wide open. It had been closed when she left, and the hotel maids did no cleaning in the evening hours. Every detail of the room beyond the door was lost in the dark, and this moment would have held less terror if she had seen the sudden flash of a knife. She might have welcomed that. Instead, she heard the cat cry out.

The dead cat.

Mallory slowly emerged from the darkness, cradling Mugs's limp body in her arms. The cat lifted his head a bare inch, softly mewling, so enfeebled by heavy sedation.

"You followed me to the animal hospital."

"And I saw you run out of there crying," said Mallory. "Took me six seconds to work it out."

"So you intercepted the second shot."

"The deadly one." The detective walked into the front room and sat down in an armchair. The cat, reduced to a rag of fur, was now casually draped over her crossed legs. Mugs lifted his head once more, and his half-closed eyes struggled to focus on the one he loved, Johanna.

Mallory's slow smile was disturbing. "You think the cat knows you tried to kill him?" Her long red fingernails absently grazed Mugs's fur. "You're very good at ditching your FBI bodyguards, Dr. Apollo. That has to stop. I think we understand each other."

Oh, yes, Johanna understood terrorism, small scale and large. Mind games were her stock-in-trade. Mallory would have done well to remember that.

"And how much does Riker understand?" She was mentally squaring off against the young police. "Does he know how you manipulated him, calculated his every move – nearly cost him his sanity? Does he understand any of the damage you've done? Suppose he'd died that night in the parking garage."

"So you were there." Mallory's composure was eerie; she had missed the implication of some fault within herself – or dismissed it. Her voice was a cold monotone when she said, "Riker always knew what I was doing, but it didn't matter to him. He played the game for your sake – not mine – not his."

The silence was filled with awe and wonder, for Mallory had successfully transferred the blame for all that had gone before and whatever might happen before this night was done. She had neatly shifted past and future blood onto other hands, Johanna's. The psychiatrist, out of her depth, sank down on the couch and merely watched, helpless to do otherwise, as the younger woman, the ruthless one, reached behind the chair and pulled out the plastic pet carrier. Mugs was placed inside with only slightly more care than might be given to a stuffed toy. However, Johanna made no protest, for the box would hold no fears for Mugs while he was sedated.

"Putting the cat to sleep," said the detective, "that fits with the last meeting of your little therapy group in Tribeca."

"You bugged that room?" There could be no other explanation, for she had given that news to the group this evening.

Mallory ignored the accusation as her eyes roved over the furnishings. "This hotel room – so temporary, such an easy loose end to tie up. I know your type, Dr. Apollo. If you were going to kill yourself, you'd be one of those nice polite people who slit their wrists in the bathtub – so they won't leave a mess behind. But you'd never have the guts to do it. You can't even kill a cat. I've seen your drug cabinet. You've got enough stuff right here to put down a hundred cats, but you had to pay someone else to do it to him. So I know you're not planning suicide. You just can't count on living through the night." Mallory picked up the carrier and walked to the door. "Well, I can't force you into protective custody."

"Where are you taking my cat?"

The detective silently stepped into the outer hallway, heading for the elevator, and Johanna followed, saying, pleading, "You won't like Mugs when he's fully awake."

Mallory stood before the elevator, one red fingernail on the call button, when she turned her head with the slow swivel of a machine, and that disturbing smile was back. "Are you afraid I won't be nice to the cat?"

Johanna hurried to board the elevator as the doors opened and the detective stepped inside with her living cargo stirring, faintly crying inside the box. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Nothing personal," said Mallory. "The last two jurors have to survive. It's my game now, my rules. I'm the law." She watched digital numbers changing, numerals descending as they sank through all the floors of the hotel. "Riker thinks the feds are using you for bait. He hasn't put it all together yet. He can't. He's too close to you. Oh, I found the gun."

Johanna was so unsettled that she nearly asked which gun. She looked down at the small silver twenty-two in Mallory's hand. It was a lady's pistol, purse size, and that description alone would explain the look of derision on the detective's face.

The doors slid open, and the two women crossed the lobby in tandem. Johanna was pulled along by invisible strings, lured by the pet carrier in the detective's tight grip. Mallory paused at the cluster of armchairs by the window, then nodded to the FBI agent standing on the far side of the room. She turned on Johanna, saying, commanding, "Sit down." And Johanna obediently sank into a chair.

"Stay here," said Mallory, "where that fed can see you. Stay until I come back for you. And then I'll give you the cat."

The surprise visitors just kept on coming, but at least Charles Butler had brought a six-pack of imported beer. Riker had no theories on what Mallory might be up to. She had yet to divulge anything about the night she had followed the fake blind man from the cop bar on Green Street.

"Damn, Mallory."

Speak of the devil, and she will come.

When he responded to the next knock at his door, Mallory stood in the hallway, holding Jo's pet carrier with all the familiar scratch marks. He could see the cat's fur behind the wire opening, but Mugs was not in his usual bloodcurdling voice tonight. Riker bent low to open the small door, suddenly concerned that Mallory might have killed the poor critter. "Hey, Mugs, buddy." No claws, no hissing or threats of any kind. Well, this was a bad sign. He withdrew the small limp body and checked it for bullet holes.