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Stones, Paint it Black . I smelled
lavender air freshener, and cinnamon gum from the woman behind the desk.
    "I'm
sorry," I said, twisting my mouth into a smile I wasn't close to feeling. "I
just realized I left my pass at home."
    I'd
cut up and thrown away the laminated member pass four minutes after receiving
it.
    "Your
name and the last four digits of your social," the woman said without
looking up from her magazine. No doubt half the membership regularly left their
passes at home.
    "Darla
Thompson. Seven seven eight eight."
    Darla
Thompson wasn't my real name either. It was an unestablished ID used only for Stretchers .
Darla didn't have any credit cards, no real address, and since I got the driver's
license out-of-state from a private dealer it lacked the realism of my Carmen
Sawyer and my Betty Richards identities. I paid for the membership and the rental
lockers by money order every six months.
    The
woman punched my data into her computer, then checked my face against the archived
photo that appeared on her monitor. I didn't bother taking off my hat or
sunglasses, and she didn't bother to ask. It made me wonder how much money this
place lost from sisters or similar-looking friends sharing memberships.
    "Welcome
back, Darla," she smiled, her mouth crooked. "It's been a while."
    I
recognized her because I was trained to memorize faces. But for her to have
remembered me out of thousands of members when I hadn't been there for months, that was impressive.
    Then
I realized my onscreen data probably listed the last time I'd been there, and I
wasn't impressed anymore.
    She
pushed a button under the desk, buzzing me through the frosted glass doors.
When I opened them the music tripled in volume, pumping through speakers
embedded in the ceiling. I walked past a Pilates class in progress, the free
weight room, and the circuit training section, and stopped in front of the
locker room.
    It
had no door—no men allowed, so one wasn't needed. For the sake of modesty the
entrance turned at a right angle after you walked in, so no one could see
inside. I inhaled, smelling citrus shampoo, sweat, and hairspray. Heard one of
the showers running, but no other sounds.
    I
went in with heightened awareness. It was a longshot anyone knew about my
locker here. Supposedly Jacob didn't even know. But it's impossible to be
surprised if you're expecting something to happen.
    When
I walked around the privacy wall I stopped again, letting my senses report. Warmer.
Steamier. Bleach and disinfectant mingling with the previous odors. Other than
the woman in shower, it didn't feel like anyone else was around. A quick look
confirmed my guess. No people. No open lockers. No unattended bags or clothes.
    I
circled twice to make sure, then discreetly peeked into the bathroom. Someone
was in the shower stall, her feet visible beneath the plastic curtain. The
shampoo scent was stronger and there were suds swirling down the drain between
her toes.
    I
quietly found my locker and was taking the picks off my neck when the obvious
hit me.
    Where were the showering woman's clothes?
    Some
women arrive in their workout gear, so they don't have to change. But those
ladies don't shower here, because it would mean putting on their sweaty clothes
when they finished. Those who changed here usually stripped out of their gear,
showered, then dressed. But they didn't lock up their soiled clothes before
showering. No one was going to steal a stinky tee and pair of yoga pants, and they
were usually left in a heap on the bench or on the sink.
    Maybe
this woman was an exception, unlocking her locker, locking up her gear,
showering, then unlocking her locker again.
    But
why bother locking up your gear in an empty locker room?
    Movement
to my right.
    I
dove left just as three shots punched into the wall behind me, catching a faint
glimpse of a wet woman in a black swimsuit holding a suppressed semi-auto.
    Silencers
are a myth. Gunpowder explodes, and explosions are loud; too loud