Funicular - The Wheelman

THE CONQUISTADOR’S INTERNET ACCESS WAS DOWN. Katie had to hire a driver to take her to a nearby Internet café to check the Philly news—no mean feat. It wasn’t until late before the Inquirer posted the story. Bank robbery. Suspects still at large. $650,000 stolen. Promising leads, and the FBI promising a swift resolution. Which was complete bullshit. The FBI had no idea.

But then again, where was Patrick?

He hadn’t told her the exact flight number into Puerto Rico; instead, he said, she should enjoy the resort and casino and the swimming pool and room service until he got there. Warm sun, instead of crisp Pocono mountain air. Katie had rented one of the exclusive guest cottages down the mountain from the main hotel and casino. To get to your room, you had to ride a cable car the resort called a funicular. She must have ridden the funicular a dozen times, up and down, up and down, admiring the clear blue ocean views and lush foliage that draped the mountains, and then in the dark, the boat lights that shimmered in the distance. She kept hoping she’d see Patrick walk across the casino floor and smile at her, and she’d know everything had gone okay. And then she’d take Patrick’s hand and lead him back down the funicular—she’d probably joke about how many times she had ridden the fucking thing, and that it almost made her queasy, but that of course, hah hah hah, wasn’t the only reason she was queasy. She’d lead him into their guest cottage, then uncork the bottle of Vueve Clicquot she’d prepared for the occasion, and then when he was relaxed enough …

… and then what?

Katie didn’t know.

How do you put something like this?

She couldn’t read the novel she’d packed—some Lorene Cary book about Philadelphia during the Civil War. It was the book that the whole city of Philadelphia was supposed to be reading at the same time. But she couldn’t keep her mind on it. And she couldn’t check the Internet without having to hire a cab, and she’d already done that in the past forty-five minutes.

So instead Katie stood on a chair and reached for the leather zip pouch she’d stashed up in the room’s curtains, up out of sight, between the folds of the shears and the main curtain, tucked away in a Ziploc freezer bag and secured to the fabric with safety pins. Inside the leather pouch was her gun, a Beretta. She stripped it, cleaned it, reassembled it, re-hid it.

That didn’t help, either.

There was a knock at the door. Katie made sure the gun pouch was out of sight and then looked through the keyhole.

Michael. A day early.

Jesus, if Patrick had shown up on time …

She opened the door, and couldn’t help herself.

“I know, I know, I’m early, but—”

Katie didn’t let him finish. She slid her hands under his arms and cupped his shoulders, then leaned forward, pressing her lips to his.