She went, hobbling as fast as she could. Lannes glided toward the front door, listening hard. Hearing nothing but the wind. He stretched out his senses, feeling for the pa.s.sage of another, the pa.s.sage of a stranger.

All he found on the front steps was a piece of paper weighed down with a rock. He did not need to pick it up to read its message. The letters were large, bold, and in black.

FIND ORWELL PRICE, he read.

And at the bottom, RUN.

Chapter Five.

The lights were off in Frederick's room when the woman knocked and entered. She heard a man's voice reciting from a book. Fredrick, stretched on the bed and illuminated by light from the hall, immediately sat up and turned on a bedside lamp. He clapped his hands and the audio shut off.

"What do you want?" he asked, with such tension that the woman realized with utter certainty that he did not trust her-that he might even be afraid of her. This was such a bizarre relief, such a pure gasp of normal, she had to lean against the door to catch her breath. Maybe no one here wanted to hurt her, after all. Maybe, just maybe, she had found herself a real, honest Good Samaritan.

"Lannes told me to come up here," she whispered. "Someone might have broken in."

The old man threw back his covers and rolled out of bed. He moved with enviable grace. "He's down there now?"

"He said to wait here."

Frederick gave her a sharp look and swept past. "Do you listen to everything strangers tell you?"

"Apparently not," she muttered, and followed him. Not far, though. Lannes was already running up the stairs. His mouth was set in a grim line, and his eyes held a look that made the woman feel as though she were seeing dead bodies all over again. Something terrible, awful. Horrific.

"Pack a bag," Lannes said to Frederick. "I'm taking you to a hotel."

The old man froze. "Excuse me?"

"A bag. Anything you need. Five minutes." He pushed Frederick toward his room and flipped on the overhead light, glancing back at the woman. "You and I need to talk."

Her feet throbbed. So did her heart. "What happened?"

Lannes pulled a crumpled note from his pocket and showed it to her. Her knees buckled. Lannes caught her arm. She began to lean against him and he pushed her firmly toward the wall.

"I don't know what that means," she murmured, pain threading through her skull.

"I think the meaning is self-explanatory," he replied tersely. "Do you know this name?"

"No." She pushed herself toward the stairs, desperate. "I should go. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He moved fast for a man his size, and blocked her path. His eyes were intense, searching. She wanted to hit him, to scream in his face, but her throat felt too full for words, and her hands, curled into fists, dug against her stomach. She was trying to hold in her fear.

"This message was not just for you," he said quietly.

"You're wrong," she told him, hoa.r.s.e. "You don't understand. I was left a similar note. Earlier."

"Run," he breathed, as though the word meant something to him beyond the note in his hand.

"Run," she agreed. "But just me. Not you. I don't know anything about finding a man."

He leaned in. "Who would do this? Do you have any idea?"

"I don't know. I don't remember."

"What don't you remember?"

"Everything," she whispered, horrified at herself. "Just that I woke up in a hotel room, and there was smoke, and bodies-"

Her voice crumpled. So did her face, tears breaking free. She tried to speak again, but all that came out was a hoa.r.s.e cracking sound, and she sagged against the wall, bent over her stomach, hands pressed against her mouth. Fighting herself. Fighting grief. Ashamed for not being stronger.

Lannes crouched, keeping his distance. The woman could not meet his eyes. She was too afraid of what she would see. Disbelief. Suspicion. She expected him to call her a liar. Or worse.

But all he whispered was, "It'll be all right. I believe you."

She shook her head, squeezing shut her eyes. Wishing she were alone. Grateful she was not. "I don't know who I am. I don't know anything."

"You know Ulrich Schreier," he murmured, leaning closer. "You know Superman, and you know Chicago. You like books. And you are very stubborn. That's something. That's a great deal."

The woman finally forced herself to look at him. "It's not enough."

Lannes' shoulders slumped. Frederick appeared in the bedroom doorway dressed in loose slacks and cashmere, with a small canvas rucksack hanging from his shoulder. He looked ready for a stroll along the Seine, though his hands shook slightly and his eyes were fraught with concern. Especially when he looked at the woman.

"What," he asked slowly, "has happened now?"

Lannes hesitated, but the woman felt as though truth serum had been poured down her throat. "I don't know who I am," she confessed wearily. "I may have put you in danger."

Frederick stared a moment then looked at Lannes, who tilted his head in a half shrug, his expression unreadable. The old man tucked his chin against his chest, still staring, and tossed his bag on the floor. His hands shook. He jammed them into his pockets.

"Lannes," he said, rather fiercely. "The bedroom, if you will."

"No time to talk," replied the big man, bending down to pick up the bag. "We have to go."

The woman wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "You should call the police. Report this. Turn me in." She hesitated when they remained silent. "Unless you have something to hide."

"You are an extremely suspicious woman," Lannes replied, but there was no malice in his tone. Just kindness and a very quiet exasperation.

She found that unnerving. His motives were mystifying. As were his eyes, the way he moved. His stillness. The longer she was around him, the more she felt like those were the only parts of him that were real, and that the rest was a mask polished to craggy perfection.

"Boy Scout," she muttered. "Why do you care?"

Lannes said nothing. Frederick gave her a stern look. "Because he is kind, madam. Do not take that for granted."

Frederick's words rang inside her head. She thought he might be right. And she did not take it for granted.

Which was why she said, "I may have killed three men. Shot them."

Frederick's gaze faltered, and he glanced quickly at Lannes. But the big man remained silent, studying her face with those eyes that seemed to see right through her.

She leaned against the wall, palms sweaty. "Did you hear me?" she asked, nauseated.

"Do you remember pulling the trigger?" he asked.

She thought about lying, shrieking Yes!, but could not bring herself to say that one small word. She shook her head, numb, and Lannes made a small sound, glancing at Frederick. "Innocent until proven guilty."

"That's dumb," she said. "I had a gun in my possession."

"You're suffering from amnesia," Lannes replied.

"I could be lying about that."

"But I happen to know you aren't."

"How could you possibly know that?" she asked.

"Boy Scout magic." A grim smile flickered across his mouth.

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake," Frederick snapped, pointing to his bedroom. "Lannes, I insist. One minute will not harm any of us."

Lannes sighed, and glanced at the woman. "Stay here."

Like h.e.l.l, she thought, and watched him disappear into Frederick's bedroom and shut the door softly behind him. The woman immediately struggled toward the stairs. Her feet hurt too badly for speed, though her stomach twisted with urgency. Near the bottom, she looked at the closed front door and felt chills, pure sickening dread. She imagined she heard breathing. In the night. Waiting for her.

Find Orwell Price. Run.

A name. A real name. Answers, maybe. Or danger. Someone had followed her here. The same person who had left that note pinned to her jacket. The handwriting was the same. But the message, the name...

None of this made any sense.

The woman hobbled to the kitchen. The blinds were down, which was some relief. She had a fear of mirrors now, after seeing herself in one. Not because she looked bad-that much had been a pleasant if useless surprise- but because her eyes frightened her. Looking into her own gaze had felt like enduring the stare of Medusa, like being cast in stone. Becoming withered and cold and hollow. Lost girl. Trapped.

The phone was red and hung on the wall. The woman perched on a stool to rest her feet and picked up the receiver. Her finger hovered over the number nine, but she did not touch it. She wanted to. She wanted to turn herself in. She had to. Let the police sort it out. But the dread that crawled into her body nearly choked her.

The woman pressed her forehead against the cool wall, thinking hard. Looking deep inside herself. She was not afraid of arrest, was too exhausted to care. No, she was afraid of being found.

The woman closed her eyes, searching her memories, fighting for something, anything. All she recalled, though, was the hotel room-and that was enough. She hung up the phone.

Then she picked it up again. Chicago, she told herself. She was in Chicago. And just like that, area codes and phone numbers slipped into her mind. Like magic.

The woman dialed directory a.s.sistance. When the operator answered, asking for city and state, she said, "Chicago. Illinois."

"Listing?"

"Orwell Price."

"Hold on."

And the woman held on, leaning against the wall. Until, moments later, she heard a click-and a computerized voice rattled off a phone number. The woman listened, stunned, then got over her surprise just in time to hear the digits repeated. She memorized them. And when the computer asked if she wanted to make the call, she affirmed it with another push of a b.u.t.ton. Waiting. Breathless.

She heard ringing. She also heard footsteps on the stairs: a quick heavy tread, followed by a lighter slower one. Both men, Lannes and Frederick, were coming to find her. She hardly cared. The phone was still ringing.

Until, suddenly, a voice answered after a great deal of fumbling and mumbled," 'Lo?"

The woman hung up fast. Lannes and Frederick walked into the kitchen. The men stopped when they saw her- froze in their tracks-but not, she thought, because they were surprised to see her. She felt her stunned amazement reflected back in the way they looked at her, and her voice clawed up her throat like a wild thing.

"I think I found Orwell Price," she whispered.

Lannes drove. Frederick sat up front.

The Impala's interior was flawless. The woman reclined on black leather that had never known a scratch and wondered how she had gone from waking up in a burning hotel to this-driving in the dark near dawn with two strangers. It was dumb. Incredibly dumb.

"Drop me off somewhere," she said. "I'll take it from there."

"Young lady," replied Frederick, "you must be crazy."

"Well, yes," she said. "Deliriously so."

Frederick turned in his seat to look at her. The suspicion was gone from his eyes, replaced instead with a thoughtfulness that was cautious but kind. As kind as he had been earlier, when he had brought her his wife's clothing. She wondered "what, exactly, Lannes had said to him up in that bedroom."

"Perhaps you suffer from the onset of a fugue," said the old man, so calm one might have thought he was discussing a wine list or the weather.

"A fugue," she said, a.s.sailed by facts. "A disordered state of mind in which somebody wanders from home and experiences loss of memory."

"Men and women have been known to spontaneously forget themselves. Afterwards, they are often possessed with a desire to... flee."

Sounded familiar. She found Lannes watching her in the rearview mirror. A hot flush stole through her, a sensation with which she was becoming familiar in his presence. He seemed to fill the entire front seat, and it was not her imagination that the car dipped slightly on his side. Frederick sat pressed against the pa.s.senger door, his hands shaking against his thighs.

At a stoplight, Lannes pulled out a battered cell phone and dialed a number. "Charlie," he said quietly, "something happened. I need you to send someone to the Peninsula in Chicago to look after Freddy. As soon as possible. I don't care who. Just make sure they're good. And look someone up for me. Orwell Price."

He recited the phone number she had given him back at the house, then hung up. The woman leaned forward. "Who was that?"

"My brother," Lannes said awkwardly, leaning away from her. "My brother, who happens to work for a... detective agency."

Her stomach dropped. "You told him? How much?"

"Everything." He looked at her in the rearview mirror. "You can trust him."

She leaned back and closed her eyes against the city lights. Frederick muttered, "Really, Lannes. Bald statements like that would hardly comfort me."

Lannes muttered a tense reply, which was lost beneath the roar of the engine. The woman almost smiled. Almost. It was either that or cry again, and she was determined not to let that happen.

It was almost six in the morning, and the sky was beginning to lighten. Not enough to dismiss the night. They reached Superior Street, downtown, and pulled up in front of an immense art-deco monolith with an entrance composed of glittering golden gla.s.s and marble, doors framed by pillars, and stone lions that were distinctly Asian in design. The Peninsula Hotel.