Mistress of Justice

face. She lifted her head and gazed at him, piteous. “Don’t, please.”
    But he leaned forward and lunged with the pick, aiming toward her neck.
    Which is when she dropped to her belly and scrabbled backward.
    She’d been feigning, remaining on all fours like an exhausted soldier, when in fact she had—somewhere—a tiny bit of strength left.
    “Ah, ah, ah, ah …”
    Taylor squinted at him, still in the position of attack, right arm extended, clutching that terrible weapon.
    “Ah, ah, ah, ah …” The terrible moan from his throat.
    In his haste to stab Taylor he’d ignored what was just beyond her body—what she’d been trying to sucker him into hitting: the electrified third rail of the subway, which held more amperage than an electric chair.
    “Ah, ah, ah, ah.”
    There were no sparks, no crackles but every muscle in his body was vibrating.
    Then blood appeared in his eyes and his sandy hair caught fire.
    “Ah, ah, ah—”
    Finally the muscles spasmed once and he collapsed onto the tracks, flames dancing from his collar and cuffs and head.
    Taylor heard voices and the electronic sound of walkie-talkies from the Rector Street platform. She supposed it would be the transit cops or the regular NYPD.
    It didn’t matter. She didn’t want to see them or talk to them.
    She knew now that there was only one thing to do that might save her. Taylor Lockwood turned and vanished into the darkness of the tunnel.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
     
    “Do you mind my saying? … I mean, will you take it personally if I say you don’t look very good?” John Silbert Hemming asked.
    Taylor Lockwood said to the huge private eye, “I lost eight pounds in two days.”
    “Quite a diet. You should maybe write a book. I’m told you can make a lot of money doing that.”
    “We couldn’t market it—the secret ingredient ain’t so appetizing. I’m feeling better now.”
    They were at Miracles Pub. She was probing at a bowl of Greek chicken soup flavored with lemon. It wasn’t on the menu. Dimitri’s wife had made it herself. She had some trouble with the spoon—she had to keep her fingers curled; her rings tended to fall off if she didn’t.
    “Maybe,” he joked cautiously, “you should’ve taken my offer to have dinner. Probably would’ve been better than where you ended up eating.”
    “You know, John, I wish I had.” Then she said, “I need a favor.”
    Hemming, who was eating a hamburger, said, “If it’s notillegal and not dangerous and if you agree to go to the opera with me a week from Saturday at eight o’clock sharp, I’d be happy to oblige.”
    She considered. She said, “One out of three?”
    “Which one?”
    “I’d like to go to the opera.”
    “Oh, dear. Still, it makes me very pleased. Though nervous—considering you’re balking on the other two. Now, what’s the favor?” He nodded toward his plate. “This is a very good hamburger. Can I offer you some?”
    She shook her head.
    “Ah.” He resumed eating. “Favor?” he repeated.
    After a moment, she asked, “Why do people murder?”
    “Temper, insanity, love and occasionally for money.”
    The spoon in her hand hovered over the surface of the soup, then made a soft landing on the table. She pushed the bowl away. “The favor is, I want you to get me something.”
    “What?”
    “A gun. That kind I was telling you about—the kind without any serial numbers.”
    It would be near quitting time at the firm.
    The end of another day at Hubbard, White & Willis.
    Files being stacked away, dress shoes being replaced with Adidas and Reeboks, places in law books being marked for the night, edits being dropped in the In Box for the night word processing staff.
    Four miles away Taylor Lockwood was hiding out in Mitchell Reece’s loft. She was concerned that the person behind Clayton’s death might figure out that she’d been responsible for the death of one hired gun and had called in a second one who was staking out her apartment right now.
    She picked up the scarred gray .38 revolver that John Silbert Hemming had gotten her. She smelled it, sweet oil and wood and metal warmed by her hand. She hefted the small pistol, much heavier than she’d thought it would be.
    Then she put the gun in her purse and walked unsteadilyto Mitchell Reece’s kitchen, where she found a pen and one of his pads of yellow foolscap.
    She wrote the note quickly—he was due home at any moment—and she didn’t want him here to deter her from what she