Shadowkiller (6 page)

The last time she ventured into Washington Square Park, she found it a frozen wasteland; tonight, it was a churning sea of pedestrians, skateboarders, Rollerbladers, joggers, musicians. Kids frolicked on the playground; dogs romped on the dog run; chin-stroking chess players pondered moves at the chess tables; withered elderly people in wheelchairs reminisced together as their nursemaids chatted with each other.

Carrie hadn't yet experienced a New York City spring, but she was, of course, familiar with the seasonal climate statistics. As she strolled along the paths inhaling the warm evening air, she reminded herself that it could very well snow again soon, and for another whole month, maybe even two. Yet it seemed jarring, in this warm weather, to see that the grass was dull and patchy and that the tree branches, like the flowerbeds, were bare, not even a hint yet of buds.

Around the big fountain, she spotted hordes of chanting protesters and remembered that today was Super Tuesday—the presidential primary election. Here in New York, Gore was expected to capture the Democratic vote, and on the Republican front, McCain might give Bush a run for his money. But Carrie didn't care much about politics. There were plenty of other things to worry about.

Like Allison Taylor.

Carrie had learned, last summer, that Allison had graduated from the Art Institute of Pittsburgh and moved to New York, presumably to find a job in the fashion industry.

Where are you now, Allison?

Casting her eyes up at the midtown west skyline, Carrie listened for her instincts.

Was it her gut telling her that Allison was probably out there—up there—somewhere? Or was it just common sense? Most of the showrooms were in the West Thirties, in the garment district.

Carrie had spent hours wandering that neighborhood when she first got into town, scanning the face of every attractive young female who passed. She'd never spotted Allison, though so many of those women seemed to look like her: tall, blond, pretty. But because they all wore large sunglasses, even on stormy days in the dead of winter, Carrie might have missed her.

Meanwhile, she was working her way through the city's massive telephone directories, going through the residential listings for every borough. There were pages upon pages of Taylors. None had the first name Allison—though there
was
an Alison, one L. Carrie called it, and the line had been disconnected. She wasn't really disappointed. She doubted that a young woman in this day and age would be naïve enough to put her first name in the phone book, which would undoubtedly invite a host of calls from anonymous heavy breathers.

Most females would know enough to use just a first initial, and so Carrie methodically called every “Taylor, A” in the book. When that didn't pan out, she called designers' showrooms or offices and asked for Allison Taylor, only to be informed that no one by that name worked there.

She wasn't sure what she'd have done if a receptionist had said, “I'll put you through.”

Would she hang up?

No—she needed to actually hear her voice. Then, after Allison picked up, she would simply claim that she'd dialed a wrong number, or, if she wasn't ready yet to sever the connection, she could just make up some reason she was calling, something that would keep the voice talking . . .

Not, of course, about anything meaningful. There would be time enough for that down the road.

What if Allison recognized her voice, though?

It wasn't likely, but—

Caught up in her reverie, she walked squarely into someone.

“Oh! Sorry!” a male voice exclaimed.

She looked up to see a businessman standing there looking apologetic, as though it had been his fault. It hadn't—Carrie wasn't watching where she was going—but if he wanted to take the blame, why stop him?

She took a step back and studied him more closely. He was tall, with nice green eyes and dark, barber-buzzed hair. He carried a leather briefcase-like bag over his shoulder and a trench coat over his arm, and wore a charcoal pinstripe, well-cut suit with a white shirt and green tie that matched his eyes.

Yes, she noticed his eyes. Noticed that they were deep green with flecks of bluish-black. Noticed his dark lashes and the manly straight slashes of brow, with a furrow of concern between.

There was something about him that captured her interest in a way that no one had in a very long time. The men she'd met at work were mostly brokers: brash and busy, men who worked hard and played harder, married or not. She wasn't interested in anyone like that.

She wasn't interested in anyone, period.

Well, anyone other than Allison Taylor.

“That was a major head-on collision,” the guy said. “Are you okay?”

She noticed that both his hands were on her upper arms—and that she liked it.

That was unusual, because she wasn't big on being touched. Especially by strangers.

He was just trying to steady her, but it was almost as if he were holding her. It had been a long time since anyone had done that.

“I'm okay,” she said, but it wasn't true. She didn't like
liking
the sensation of being held by him. And she didn't like
not
liking it when he took his hands off her arms.

There was something about him—about the way he'd held her steady—that made her feel safe, for the first time since . . .

Well, in years.

Daddy
.

“Here,” he said, sort of pulling her over to a vacant bench just a few feet away, “sit down for a second. Are you sure you're okay?”

“I am. I'm okay.” She sat and was disappointed when he let go of her again and took a step back.

“So what's so fascinating?” he asked, and she was confused—and embarrassed, wondering if he somehow knew what she'd been thinking.

Then he pointed at the midtown skyline beyond the network of winter branches. “You were staring up there. Like you were looking at something interesting.”

“I was just . . . um, noticing how pretty the buildings are at night, when the sun goes down and the lights go on.”

“You're visiting, then? From out of town?”

“What makes you say that?” She was disappointed. Irked, even. Was it the accent? She'd worked so hard to lose it before she ever left the Midwest.

“If you lived here,” the guy said, “you wouldn't be taking the time to notice how the buildings look at night, or any other time. Most people just rush along looking down, not up, or around.”

“Actually, I
do
live here.”

“Really?” He looked almost—pleased? Pleased to have been wrong?

She tried to remember whether
she'd
ever been pleased about being wrong.

Nope. Especially when the things she'd been wrong about in her life were often people she'd trusted. Like Daddy. Being wrong about him was the worst thing that ever happened to her.

But she didn't want to think about that right now. She wanted to think about the fact that this stranger was still standing here talking to her instead of pushing past her; that he was actually glad—for some reason—that she lived here after all.

And
she
was glad that she was wearing her nicest suit, a slimming black one, and that she'd taken the time to brush her hair and put on lipstick before leaving the office, which she rarely bothered to do.

Spring fever? Was that really what was wrong with her?

You'd better get over it, fast. You can't afford to forget why you're here: to find Allison, and . . .

And figure out what to say—what to
do
—when you've found her.

“Are you coming from work?” the guy was asking. “On your way home?”

“Yes. How about you?”

“Coming from work, but I live in New Jersey and right now, I'm headed downtown. I'm meeting some buddies for drinks at McSorley's.”

“That's nice,” she murmured, wondering if her end of the conversation sounded as stiff as it felt on her tongue. She'd never been good at small talk with strangers. With anyone.

“Eh,” he said, and shrugged.

“You don't like McSorley's? Or your friends?”

“I like them both, but not tonight.”

She noticed something else about his eyes: there was a note of sadness in them. She wondered what was wrong. The question seemed much too forward, so instead, she asked, “Then why are you going?”

“Good question. I really don't want to.”

“Why do something you don't want to do?”

“Don't you ever do anything you don't want to do?”

“No. Not if I can help it. Can you help it?”

“Yeah—I guess I can.”

Carrie shrugged. “Then don't go.”

“It's not that simple.”

“It
is
that simple.”

He just looked at her for a minute. Then he sat beside her and reached into his pocket.

She watched as he took out a pack of cigarettes, placed one between his lips, and offered the pack to her.

Daddy had been a smoker. Personally, she could take or leave it.

Tonight, she took it.

After lighting her cigarette and then his own, he took a drag, exhaled, and said, “You're right. I just changed my mind.”

She inhaled smoke deeply into her lungs, exhaled, waited.

“You know what I'm going to do instead of meeting my friends?”

“What?”

Could there possibly be . . .

Was there any way he was going to ask her to go have a drink with him or something?

Are you kidding? There's no way in hell. You know that.

But once the crazy thought flashed into her head, she couldn't help but hold her tobacco-saturated breath until he answered.

“I'm going to go home and see my mother. That's what I'm going to do.”

She exhaled, secretly disappointed—but not surprised at having been right, as usual.

“Do you live with her?”

“No. But near enough. My parents are in Hoboken. I'm in Jersey City.”

She nodded and stood up. Now she was anxious to get going, away from him and this unsettling connection that had come out of nowhere on a night when nothing was as it should have been.

He stood, too, and pointed at the skyline to the north. “How far uptown are you walking?”

She wasn't sure yet. Maybe she'd just jump on the subway at Union Square. Maybe she'd had enough warm fresh air. Enough . . .

She looked down at the cigarette in her hand, tempted to toss it down and grind it out with her heel.

“Because I'm heading back up to the Port Authority,” he continued, checking his watch, “to catch a bus home to Jersey. It's a quarter to six. I can make the six-thirty bus, no problem. So maybe I'll walk with you, as far as you're going.”

And maybe she hadn't had enough warm fresh air after all. Or smoke.

She bit back a smile, took another slow drag. “That's fine. I'm catching the subway at Times Square, so I thought I'd walk all the way up Fifth and then go across Forty-second Street.”

“Works for me.”

Together, they started walking north, toward the solid old stone arch, an homage to Paris's Arc de Triomphe and the gateway to Fifth Avenue and the part of the city she loved best, where everything fell neatly into place and made sense.

As they walked, puffing companionably, he asked what her name was. For a fleeting, wild moment, she was tempted to give him her real name.

But of course, she couldn't.

“Carrie Robinson,” she said.

“Carrie. Nice to meet you.” He stuck out his hand, and shook hers as they walked. His brief clasp was warm, as she'd known it would be. Safe.

“I'm James,” he said, “but everyone calls me Mack.”

She almost gasped. Surely she'd heard him wrong. “Did you say Matt?”

“No, Mack. It's short for my last name, MacKenna.”

Mack
.

His name was Mack.

It was a sign, Carrie thought. A sign that he was meant to be a part of her life.

“D
id you go vote yet, babycakes?”

Allison Taylor looked up to see her friend Luis standing in the doorway—if you could call it a doorway—of her cubicle.

He was a production editor at
7th Avenue
magazine, where she'd been working for about six months now, having been hired away from her postcollege internship at Condé Nast.

The glamour factor was higher there, but here, she was actually getting paid. Her duties were pretty much the same: basic entry-level stuff—though sometimes, not even. Her supervisor, Loriana, kept her hopping with ridiculous nonsense, such as fetching cups full of tepid water—Loriana's preferred afternoon “snack,” ever since she read somewhere that tepid water burns more calories than hot or cold water.

Having adapted a your-wish-is-my-command corporate philosophy, Allison figured she could put up with just about anything for the promise of working her way up the ladder and one day—hopefully soon—seeing her own name on the magazine's masthead.

“Why are you calling me babycakes?” she asked Luis.

“Because you asked me to stop calling you toots.”

“Okay, well, stop calling me babycakes, too, okay?”

“Only if you promise me you've voted. Or that you're going to vote.”

“I can't. I'm not registered here yet.”

She hadn't been registered back in Pittsburgh, either—or in Centerfield, for that matter, though she'd celebrated her eighteenth birthday shortly before she moved away.

If you could call packing your bags and paying one last visit to your mother's lonely grave “celebrating.”

Anyway, she'd known all along that both Centerfield and Pittsburgh were temporary; that she was destined to settle here in New York City.

“What? You're not registered to
vote
?!” Luis feigned horror, slapping his hands to his cheeks and staring at her with his mouth agape.