The Clause Read Online Free PDF Page B

locate the phone.
    Federal and to some degree local officials are the only ones who are supposed to be able to have access to these systems. Supposed . I wasn’t betting my life on supposed .
    In my situation, I could have looked at cell phones as a liability. Instead, I intended to use them as a tool. I left that phone on because I wanted to see if the Corporation would take her number and ping it, or pass it along to the Kurac. I wanted them to find the garage and the bandages to think Trudy was alive. Why? I could use that, too. They wouldn’t understand my motivations or be able to accurately predict my moves. They would waste a lot of time wondering where she was and how I would take care of her.
    Idi’s sparks I wrapped in paper towels and stuffed into a couple Band-Aid boxes. The Britany-Swindol treasure I wrapped individually in toilet paper and put into a large plastic socket wrench set box. All that I placed on the bench next to my burglar tools: a pair of binoculars, some climbing rope and hardware, my spring steel kit, and compact bolt cutters.
    I fished our passports out of the knapsacks. We never did an operation without those handy. You never knew when you might need to blow town and country. When I saw my passport, part of me was scared and wanted to run. That option was more complicated than it sounds. With that much merchandise in my luggage the scanners would detect it. Of course, I could have stashed it and come back, but I needed a lot of cash to run. A lot of those sparks needed to be liquidated so I had the ability to get out.
    I had a mission and I had the home-field advantage. Wherever I landed on unfamiliar turf, the Kurac would have the advantage hunting me down. Dealing with them on my home turf gave me an edge.
    Trudy wouldn’t have wanted to lose, especially when she forfeited her life. That raised the stakes. Winning against the Kurac would be for Trudy, and killing the person who had her shot was my mission.
    Maybe then I could live with myself for having to let her die.
    I used an X-Acto to cut the photo out of her passport. Her butchered passport I then burned in an empty paint can. My passport with her photo went into a zippered pocket next to a wad of bills.
    In the corner of the garage was a white sheet. Under it was my motor bike. Nothing fancy, just an old Honda Nighthawk 750. I cleaned off the spark plugs, checked the ignition, filled the gas tank, sprayed out the carburetor with Gunk. The charger on the workbench said the battery was full.
    The Honda was cranky, and spewed smoke when I finally got it to kick over. It still had plates but the registration had lapsed, and it wasn’t insured. That was the least of my problems. On the back of the bike was a saddle bag. I unhitched it and loaded it with the sparks and burglary tools.
    Fitting a shielded black helmet on my head, I goosed the sputtering Honda out of the garage and closed the doors. I took a last look at the barn—many a glass of Old Crow had been quietly toasted there after an operation, the sparks spread out on the workbench before me.
    I turned left at River Road. The sun shone, the birds tweeted, and a canopy of dark green locusts jostled above in a river breeze. It could have been a really nice day. Like the time I took Trudy on our fourth date. She was on the back, her chin on my shoulder, her arms clasped tight around my waist. We went on a picnic up the Palisades, at Bear Mountain, and tried to make love in the tall grass by a stream, just like in a movie, except we got covered in ticks. Believe it or not we had a big laugh over that. The memory was so strong, it was almost impossible to believe that her vibrant little body had been shredded by the grinders. That Trudy’s mind was gone, never to tease or laugh or plot or scheme again. You just never know when what you have will be taken away. All of it.
    I stopped at a deli for a fresh pack of Winstons. It wasn’t like I really cared about my health anymore. It