He slid in behind the wheel, hooked an arm over the seat back, and glared at them. "I ain't going to do what Frankie just done," he said.
"We don't want you to," Allen said. He held his hand open to Stephen, who pulled the envelope out of his back pocket, groaning when he twisted, and placed it in Allen's hand. Allen pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and held it up. "Will this get us to Maryville?"
Julia was squeezed between Stephen and the door. Through the back window, she'd caught a glimpse of the killer darting between cars, moving quickly toward them.
"Let's go!"
"I can get you there," the driver said slowly, seeming to talk to the money, "for this here tip
"Sounds good."
The hundred dollars disappeared into the driver's shirt pocket. He settled himself in behind the wheel and started the meter.
The killer was a block away. His arms pumped like an Olympic sprinter's—an Olympic sprinter with a really big gun.
"Go!" Julia pulled her pistol from its holster under her arm but kept it hidden beneath her jacket.
"Look, lady—"
"Another hundred," Allen said, digging in the bag, "if you do what the lady says. Now!"
The driver slammed the shifter into drive and punched the accelerator.
The killer stopped to aim. Leveling the pistol at the taxi, he jerked toward the sound of squealing tires behind him. He leaped to avoid being struck by a car, came down on its hood, and flipped off, disappearing from Julia's view. When he reappeared, he jumped on top of the car's hood. From that vantage point, he raised his gun again.
Julia caught the glint of the laser's ruby sparkle. Then the cab veered around the corner at Locust Street and roared toward the highway a block away. She holstered her weapon.
Allen tossed the hundred into the front seat, where it disappeared into the driver's shirt pocket. He turned to Julia. "Since when are killers resurrected?" he whispered. It sounded like an accusation.
Stephen groaned and said, "What are you talking about?"
"She said that guy back there was the one she saw shot to death last night!"
"Obviously someone else."
"It was the same person," Julia said.
"Same clothes maybe," suggested Stephen. "Same team of assassins, even. That would make sense if they were recruited under the same criteria: big, bold, tough as nails."
"No. It was him." She touched a sore spot on her neck where his fingers had dug in. "I don't know how to explain it."
A flash of memory caught her off guard: a seventh-grade science assignment to collect as many spiders as possible over a single weekend. Cobweb spiders, wolf spiders, jumping spiders, sac spiders, daddy longlegs. But the crowning jewel of any collection was a black widow. She'd known the prize would be hers. After exhausting the dark recesses of her house, she moved outside, overturning countless boards and stones. Finally she flipped over a chunk of concrete and there it was: glossy black, the size of a large marble—skittering right toward her bare knee as she knelt in the dirt. She barely jumped away in time and trapped it under a mayonnaise jar. Watching it try to escape, she sensed its dark hostility toward her. The trick would be to kill it without harming its body. She spent hours pushing alcohol-drenched cotton balls under the glass rim. The thing crawled over them, almost mocking. Finally she shot a stream of insecticide at it. It slowly rolled over and pulled in its legs like a fist. Cautiously she removed the jar, then the cotton balls.
It sprang to life. Moving for her,
For weeks afterward she'd awaken in the deep hours, drenched in sweat, swatting away dream spiders that dug into her skin with their fangs.
Something about that spider stayed with her—its intense desire to get her, even defying death for one last chance.
This man, this killer, reminded her of that indomitable black widow.
But he was infinitely more frightening.
"All I know," she said, "is that I saw that man, that one at the bank, blown to bits last night. A cop checked his pulse."
"Could he have been wearing a flak vest?" Stephen offered.
She scowled. "There was so much
The brothers stared at her, Allen with doubt in his eyes, Stephen with compassion.
She turned away, caught her reflection in the glass. "I don't know," she said quietly. "Maybe I'm going crazy."
A dark silence filled the cab. At another time the taxi's strong stench of pine cleanser might have offended her; now she was thankful it masked the odor of blood from Stephen's shirt. After pulling onto I-129 south and finding a comfortable speed, the driver snatched the mike off the in-dash CB radio.
Julia leaned forward to touch his shoulder before he keyed it. "What are you doing?" she asked.
"Need to call the fare in. Company regulations."
"Hold on a sec." She turned to Allen, shook her head. He nodded and scooted to the edge of the seat.
