Wallace swore at her over and over in a loud voice.
Bourne smiled. “Have you ever done stitches?”
“Lots of times.”
He nodded. “Okay. Wallace, pull into the pharmacy lot when you see it. Don’t even think about trying to flag down a cop.”
“Wallace, give the man your wallet, too,” Amie added.
“What the hell for?” the businessman bellowed.
“That’s our deal, baby. You always pay.”
They reached the parking lot of the pharmacy, where the signs were in French. Bourne directed the businessman to park near the door so that he could watch the car through the windows. It was early evening, and the store was crowded when they went inside, but the number of people helped him keep a low profile. No one gave them a second glance. He took Amie by the hand in a tight grip, and she played her part, leaning her head against his shoulder as if they were lovers. He noticed an ATM near the wall and remembered he was low on cash.
“Do you know his bank code?” Bourne asked her.
“Sure.”
“Take out five hundred dollars.”
Amie shrugged. “Make it a thousand. He can afford it.”
“You’re something else,” Jason told her.
He avoided the bank camera as the girl made the transaction. When she handed him the cash, he gave two hundred dollars back to her. She smiled and stuffed the wad of bills in her pocket.
“So what’s the deal with you two?” Jason asked her. “You can do a lot better than him.”
“I know, but I have champagne tastes. Wallace helps with that. What about you? You want to tell me who you are and what you’re running from?”
“It’s better that you not know,” Jason replied.
“Yeah, I figured.”
They didn’t take long to buy the supplies they needed. When they were back in the Audi, Bourne directed Wallace to the highway, and they headed west out of town. Not long after, the houses thinned, and they found themselves in a densely wooded area. When they reached a cross street that led deeper into the forest, he directed the businessman to turn away from the coastal road. They drove for several miles, until they were on a deserted stretch hugged by trees on both sides. Wallace parked the sedan on the shoulder, and Bourne could feel the man’s panic rise.
“Let me take a look at your shoulder,” Amie said.
She got out of the passenger seat, came around to the rear of the car, and straddled Bourne’s lap in the back seat. She undid the buttons of his shirt and pushed it off his shoulder, where the bullet wound was bleeding. Using the gauze and antiseptic from the pharmacy, she cleaned the wound, removed the torn stitches, then dipped a needle in rubbing alcohol and poured some over the bullet hole, making him wince with pain. She set about closing him up again, and he was impressed. Her stitches were neater and tighter than the doctor had given him the previous night.
“You’re good at that,” he said.
“I know.” She winked at him.
Then she was done, and it was time to go. She got out of the car, and Bourne pointed the gun at Wallace’s head in the front seat. “Get out. Leave the keys.”
“Jesus, you’re going to shoot me! Shit! Shit!”
“I’m not going to shoot you, but I’m taking your car. You can walk back to town and report it missing. By then, I won’t need it. And remember, I still have your phone. Be nice to Amie, or I start texting your wife.”
“Shit!” Wallace said again, backing up toward the trees and yanking the belt of his pants over his stomach. Tears rolled down his round face.
Bourne climbed out of the rear seat. He opened the driver’s door and gestured at the young blonde. “You don’t need him. If you want to come with me, I can drop you anywhere you want.”
“Nah. If I don’t stay with him, he’ll probably get eaten by a bear.”
“Well, thanks for your help,” Jason told her.
Amie patted the bulge in her front pocket, where she had the cash from the ATM. “Thank you.”
Bourne got behind the wheel, then rolled down the window. “Why were you so sure I wouldn’t kill you, Amie?”
The girl shrugged. “Dad treats lots of cats.”
“Cats?” he said. “So what?”
“Sometimes you look in a cat’s eyes and know you better not turn your back on them. But with some cats, you realize that no matter how much they growl and hiss at you, that’s not who they really are. I decided you weren’t a mean cat.”
SEVEN
BOURNE left the Audi in an empty parking lot behind the Musée Nationale des Beaux-Arts in Quebec City. He was confident the car wouldn’t be found for a day or more, but he had no intention of going back to it. When the time came, he’d find another way out of town. He left behind all of the phones, too, including his own. He’d used it to call Miles Priest and Scott DeRay, and that meant it could be tracked to him as soon as he powered it on. He’d find a new burner phone along the way.
It was nearly eight o’clock at night. He hiked in the darkness through the old growth trees and shallow hills of the battlefield park known as the Plains of Abraham on his way into the heart of the city. When he reached the downtown streets, the first thing he did was find a cheap hostel near Rue Dauphine, mostly populated by students. He paid cash for a tiny room with not much more than a bed and a shared bathroom down the hall.
As he headed outside, he passed a young couple coming in who smelled of Turkish coffee and marijuana. He told them his phone had died and asked if they’d mind running a quick Google search for him. Ninety seconds and ten dollars later, he had the local address for the online magazine called The Fort.
Editor and publisher, Jacques Varille.
Senior writer, Abbey Laurent.
The magazine office was only a few blocks away, in a gray stone building across from Esplanade Park. The cobblestoned Rue d’Auteuil was deserted, but Jason avoided the street and approached the building via the park, where the trees hid him. He watched the neighborhood, alert for signs of a trap. The windows of the building were all dark, including the top-floor offices where The Fort was housed. The cross streets looked empty, but Jason let the time tick by before he moved. Patience was how he stayed alive. When he was certain that no one was keeping the building under surveillance, he darted across the intersection.
There were windows in the middle of the twin entry doors. Using the butt of his pistol, he broke the glass, reached around the jagged shards, and let himself inside the building. With his gun in his hand, he took the staircase to the top floor, where he found another door labeled with a sign for The Fort. The interior door yielded with a single kick of his boot.
He had a mini penlight in his pocket that cast a weak beam, and he aimed it at the floor, making sure the light didn’t pass close to the windows. The magazine office was small, just a single room with half a dozen desks, a supply closet, a mini kitchen, and a laser printer. Cheap tourist posters of Canadian landscapes adorned the walls. The room smelled of pizza, thanks to a delivery box squeezed into one of the wastebaskets. Bourne went from desk to desk, looking for the one that belonged to Abbey Laurent. He found it at the back, and he knew it because of the photographs she kept. He recognized the attractive woman with mahogany-colored hair. The woman he’d saved from a killer in New York. The woman he’d seen through the lenses of his binoculars in the rain at Dufferin Terrace.