The w in the team name was crooked, tilted to the right. The field itself was in disrepair. The grass was brown, and there were clumps of cans and bottles on what should have been the fifty-yard line. One crossbar was missing, and the other was leaning at a 45-degree angle. Still, it was a school field, and Harry smiled as he passed by, remembering the feeling on pulling on a helmet and running out to play as cheer-leaders screamed and parents roared their approval. Harry flashed back to those glorious days of stardom, losing himself momentarily in the past, then shook away the cobwebs of memory, put his foot on the gas pedal, and got the hell out of there.
Back on the highway, cruising at precisely the legal limit, H. Harrison Wagner realized he didn’t have to be in New York until the next afternoon. A whole day off. And the kid he was supposed to see, the writer, he’d be easy. He didn’t know what was going on. Didn’t even have a clue. Harry now knew enough about killing to know he much preferred dealing with people who didn’t have a clue. As with everything else, they made it much easier to do what had to be done.
Harry thought about the trap he’d allowed himself to be caught in. He didn’t know whom he hated more: the person who’d caught him, or himself, for being caught. But, as always, his urges soon overcame any sense of self-reflection. So, as he drove, Harry Wagner decided he was going to spend the night in Nashville. And do his best to fall in love for another twenty-four hours.
Yes, he admitted to himself, underneath it all he was so, so weak.
But what the hell. If he was going to be weak, he might as well enjoy it.
chapter 3
Carl rang the buzzer to Maggie Peterson’s apartment and waited for over a minute before ringing again. When there was no answer after his third ring, he leaned against the elegant wrought-iron gate that shielded her front door from the street and began to wonder if he’d imagined their entire conversation earlier that morning.
The rain had stopped, the sky was clear and bright, and the sidewalk outside Maggie’s lavish East Side brownstone looked freshly washed. Nannies and young mothers were out on the street pushing baby carriages. A couple of teenage boys were kicking a soccer ball in and out among the parked cars. He’d been waiting, pacing in front of her stoop, for fifteen minutes when an errant kick from one of the teenagers sent the soccer ball Carl’s way. He was in the process of making a nice little dropkick back to them when a black limousine pulled up directly in front of his pacing path. A chauffeur stepped out from behind the wheel and walked around the car to open the back door on the passenger side. As he did so, he glanced at Carl, a conspiratorial glance that seemed to wonder why the passenger couldn’t open her own goddamn door. The answer was that Maggie was the passenger and Maggie clearly did nothing on her own that she could have someone else do for her. She did not apologize to Carl for keeping him waiting; she just strode silently past him, unlocked the glistening iron gate, then the door to her apartment, and whisked herself inside. Carl followed and found himself in a chrome and black leather living room. He sensed a theme, since she was still dressed in black leather, although it was a different black leather outfit from the one she’d worn at the funeral. This one was a vest with, apparently nothing underneath it, and a short, skintight skirt, along with ankle-high boots. She blended in perfectly with her furniture. When she sat on the couch, leaned back, and crossed her legs, her white arms, legs, and face took on a free-floating, almost ghostly appearance.
“How do you like it?” she asked, and he wasn’t sure if she meant the apartment or her outfit. He had to admit, he liked them both just fine. The living room opened into a gourmet kitchen. The six-burner Viking stove alone would have taken up most of the space in Carl’s
Back on the highway, cruising at precisely the legal limit, H. Harrison Wagner realized he didn’t have to be in New York until the next afternoon. A whole day off. And the kid he was supposed to see, the writer, he’d be easy. He didn’t know what was going on. Didn’t even have a clue. Harry now knew enough about killing to know he much preferred dealing with people who didn’t have a clue. As with everything else, they made it much easier to do what had to be done.
Harry thought about the trap he’d allowed himself to be caught in. He didn’t know whom he hated more: the person who’d caught him, or himself, for being caught. But, as always, his urges soon overcame any sense of self-reflection. So, as he drove, Harry Wagner decided he was going to spend the night in Nashville. And do his best to fall in love for another twenty-four hours.
Yes, he admitted to himself, underneath it all he was so, so weak.
But what the hell. If he was going to be weak, he might as well enjoy it.
chapter 3
Carl rang the buzzer to Maggie Peterson’s apartment and waited for over a minute before ringing again. When there was no answer after his third ring, he leaned against the elegant wrought-iron gate that shielded her front door from the street and began to wonder if he’d imagined their entire conversation earlier that morning.
The rain had stopped, the sky was clear and bright, and the sidewalk outside Maggie’s lavish East Side brownstone looked freshly washed. Nannies and young mothers were out on the street pushing baby carriages. A couple of teenage boys were kicking a soccer ball in and out among the parked cars. He’d been waiting, pacing in front of her stoop, for fifteen minutes when an errant kick from one of the teenagers sent the soccer ball Carl’s way. He was in the process of making a nice little dropkick back to them when a black limousine pulled up directly in front of his pacing path. A chauffeur stepped out from behind the wheel and walked around the car to open the back door on the passenger side. As he did so, he glanced at Carl, a conspiratorial glance that seemed to wonder why the passenger couldn’t open her own goddamn door. The answer was that Maggie was the passenger and Maggie clearly did nothing on her own that she could have someone else do for her. She did not apologize to Carl for keeping him waiting; she just strode silently past him, unlocked the glistening iron gate, then the door to her apartment, and whisked herself inside. Carl followed and found himself in a chrome and black leather living room. He sensed a theme, since she was still dressed in black leather, although it was a different black leather outfit from the one she’d worn at the funeral. This one was a vest with, apparently nothing underneath it, and a short, skintight skirt, along with ankle-high boots. She blended in perfectly with her furniture. When she sat on the couch, leaned back, and crossed her legs, her white arms, legs, and face took on a free-floating, almost ghostly appearance.
“How do you like it?” she asked, and he wasn’t sure if she meant the apartment or her outfit. He had to admit, he liked them both just fine. The living room opened into a gourmet kitchen. The six-burner Viking stove alone would have taken up most of the space in Carl’s
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