“Ah well,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “In for a penny and all that.” His arm straightened and his finger tightened on the trigger.
No more debate. I’d made my choice. I was already kneeling down, pulling up the leg of my trousers, and grabbing hold of the hilt of the knife I kept fastened to my calf in a leather sheath.
Long hours spent with Kalishenko in a hundred dust-choked fields between Boise and Brooklyn made what happened next almost too easy. I stood, and in the same motion brought the knife up and over my head in a long arc.
I remembered Kalishenko’s words, delivered in a perpetually slurred Russian accent. “You do not throw the blade. You do not throw your arm. You throw your entire body forward. The trick is learning to let go at the precise moment.”
I threw myself forward and let go at the precise moment.
The weighted blade hit home with a sickening thud. But instead of a pockmarked wooden target, it buried itself a full three inches into McCloskey’s back. I’d learn later that only the very tip of the blade pierced his heart. It wasn’t much. But it was enough.
The gun fell from his hand. Ms. Pentecost reached out with her cane and knocked it out of reach. McCloskey stumbled, clawing at the hilt sticking out of his back. Then he collapsed forward, his head clipping the edge of the cot. He gave a last, ugly gurgle before going still and silent.
Ms. Pentecost knelt by his body. I expected her to check for a pulse. Instead, her hands went to the watch. A few quick twists and the watch face popped open, revealing a small, hidden compartment. Whatever was inside disappeared into her hand, then the inner pocket of her coat, before she clicked the watch face closed.
“How do you feel?” she asked, standing.
“I don’t know,” I said. My hands were shaking and my breath was coming quick and shallow. It was a coin flip as to whether I was going to pass out.
“Can you walk?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Good. I fear we will both…need to go to the station house.”
“Do we have to?” I asked. “It’s just I’m not too fond of cops.”
She almost smiled again.
“They have their purposes. And they do…frown on the casual littering of bodies. But I will be with you.”
We began the twelve-block walk through dead-of-night New York City, me keeping my pace slow, both to accommodate my new companion and because I was still feeling a little shaky. The buildings seemed taller, the streets narrower. Everything felt higher and darker and more dangerous.
Ms. Pentecost laid a hand on my shoulder. She kept it there most of the way to the station house. For some inexplicable reason, it made me feel better. Like she was passing on a little of whatever had kept her even and calm while staring down the barrel of a gun.
She didn’t thank me for saving her life. Come to think of it, she never has. Though it could be argued she paid me back a hundredfold.
It wasn’t until years later when somebody suggested I start writing all this down that I was reminded about those invisible costs. They ended up being higher than I would ever have thought possible. I’ve never really tallied them up, though. I guess in writing this I’ll be forced to. I don’t rightly know how the balance sheet will come out. In the red? Or in the black?
CHAPTER 2
Ms. Pentecost’s promise to stay by my side lasted all of about ten minutes after we got to the station. We were separated and I was taken to a windowless interview room, where I spent the next several hours being grilled by a rotating cast of intense, florid-faced men in cheap suits.
I thought about trying out some girlish charm, but I’ve never quite gotten the hang of it. Flirting was also out. I wasn’t dressed for the part, and besides, I had no illusions about my looks. I inherited my father’s puggish nose and muddy brown eyes, and the freckles I got from my mother tend to clump awkwardly across the tops of my cheeks.
So I opted for the almost-straight truth.
It started with a pair of sergeants who had me go through the events of the evening forward, backward, and inside-out. I gave them the lot, save for the trick watch, and that wasn’t a load-bearing detail so it was easy enough to subtract.
Eventually the set of sergeants was replaced by a detective who looked so wet behind the ears I’m surprised they let him carry a gun. He had me go through the night’s events again, this time with a little more focus on everything Ms. Pentecost said about this Jonathan Markel.
Again, I gave him the lot minus one.
After an hour, I got promoted again. Another detective—this one sporting a face as hard and cold as a chunk of granite, with a gray and black beard that tumbled wildly down to his Windsor knot. He was a veteran cop, or at least I assumed as much from his age, his demeanor, and the way the baby detective scraped and bowed on his way out of the door. It turns out this bearded giant—he easily cracked six feet—was Lieutenant Lazenby, the detective Ms. Pentecost had name-dropped. If I was under the impression they were friends, he quickly disabused me of that.
“How much is Pentecost paying you?”
“When did she set you up with that job?”
“Did Pentecost plant the gun, or did she make you do it?”
“Who’s her client?”
“Did she tell you who really murdered Markel? You let us in on that, and we’ll get the district attorney to cut you a deal.”
And a lot more along those lines.
I imagine for anyone who hasn’t had a nose-to-nose with the law this could all seem terrifying. As it happens, being part of a traveling circus that on occasion skirted if not outright trampled civil ordinances, I had long experience sitting in police stations, being pushed around by a grab bag of state troopers and small-town sheriffs. To be honest, those hick sheriffs scared me a lot more than any of these city dicks.
If Lazenby was expecting to knock me off my story, he was out of luck. Eventually he realized as much, and I was given a statement to sign. After reading through it and making sure nothing had been inserted, I did.
“Willowjean Parker? That a real name?” he asked after I added my John Hancock.
“You think if I’m going to forge a moniker I’d stick myself with Willowjean?” I said, trying a charming grin on for size. Apparently it didn’t fit.
“I don’t know if I believe a word of this,” he said, holding up the statement. “I don’t know if the DA will either. My men and I will be confirming the details. In the meantime, if you think of anything you want to add, you let me know.”
“Sure,” I said. “What number can I reach you at?”