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Mary shook her head.
“I had late bills, rent…”
She sniffled.
“Please don’t hit me,” she whispered.
Hit you? I want to hug you—but I’m afraid that that might hurt you even more.
“Shhhh,” he said.
His head spun.
I need to talk to Koch. This has gotten way out of hand.
Bayer leaned forward, toward the bedside table, and picked up the receiver of the phone. He dialed o, then sat upright again.
“Operator, please give me room four-ten.”
There was a long pause as the call was put through.
“Yeah,” Bayer then said into the phone. “It’s me—
“Where? I’m in the hotel—
“That can wait. Look, I’ve got a serious problem—which means we’ve got a serious problem—one that you’re not going to like—
“No, I can’t tell you here—
“Stop shouting! I really need you to get off of that right now, and meet me in room nine-oh-nine—
“Right. Nine-oh-nine.”
Bayer put the phone back in its cradle. He looked at Mary.
She was watching him, and he could see stark terror in her one good eye.
Not five minutes later, there was a knock at the door.
Damn, that was fast, Bayer thought. He must be furious.
Bayer went to the door, turned the knob—and suddenly felt the door being violently forced open.
In the next moment, he was conscious of three things happening simultaneously: There was a hand squeezing his throat. He was being pushed against the wall to the right of the bed. And he was looking down the muzzle of a pistol.
Holding the small-caliber semiautomatic—he did not recognize the make, but right now he did not exactly have a very good view of anything except where the bullet would exit immediately before it blew out his brains—was the tall, dark-skinned man who had been at the end of the hallway when Bayer had stepped off the elevator.
“Not a fucking word,” the man said evenly, almost calmly.
Bayer, pinned to the wall, tried to nod his understanding.
Mary let out a pathetic whimper.
Both Bayer and the man looked toward her.
“Get out of the fucking bed, Mary!” the man said. “I want to see your hands.”
Bayer’s ey
