Chapter 4
The warehouse where Maura had been staying since she fled the FBI safehouse was sparsely furnished, but it had everything she needed. A bed, a desk with a computer, and a chair. She had left all her belongings behind at the motel when she had run, and the few things she'd picked up since were packed in an overnight bag. There was no sense in settling in- she needed to be able to leave quickly if necessary. Her room was a disused office space with a small adjoining washroom, and she would shower at one of a couple of local gyms where she worked out during the week- never the same one two days in a row.
The building was on the waterfront by the docks- it belonged to Steve, and was still operational, though cutbacks meant that it was operated by a minimal staff, and no one remarked as she came and went. They recognised her of course, and they knew better than to say anything. Her room was at the back of the building up a tall flight of stairs. A wall of internal windows looked out over the warehouse floor, and from this vantage point she could observe the activities below and react to any developments. There was also an emergency exit that lead to a fire escape and to the roof, which would serve her well if a swift departure became necessary.
The remnants of a busier time in a better economy were stacked against the far wall; boxes full of files, filing cabinets, shredded paper, all covered in a thick layer of dust. The room was dimly lit with the unnatural glow of dirty tube lights, but a small skylight allowed a shaft of sunlight to break through the gloom each morning.
It was hardly the Ritz. It was, in fact, like no way of life that Maura Isles had ever encountered before. But she could make do with very little when she needed to. And yet this placelessness, the feeling of being hunted, being always on edge- it was wearing on her. She hadn't realized how much until, with frayed nerves and adrenaline coursing through her veins, she had put down Sean Peters like some kind of animal.
When she'd jumped into Steve's car and sped away to safety she'd felt the weight of it all suddenly hit her. The wave of emotion at seeing Jane again, and the accompanying realization of how far away she had drifted, as day after day of living in this bizarre twilight zone had ticked by into normality, only to be confronted so viscerally with the life that she'd lost in the physical presence of her dearest friend.
Her friend who had been shot.
The dispassionate professionalism with which Maura had assessed Jane's condition only minutes earlier had abruptly crumbled into a nauseating fear for the woman's safety. Maura had looked down to see Jane's blood all over her hands- dark and sticky and metallic-smelling.
She had just killed a man. She was covered in Jane's blood. And overcome with shock, as the dual realizations hit her for the first time, she had yelled at Steve to pull over as she flung the passenger door open and wretched violently at the side of the road.
In the first few days of being on the run, she had found herself in floods of tears all the time, unable to fathom how she could possibly get herself out of this mess and get her life back, all while keeping safe the people who meant most to her. Slowly exhaustion and adrenaline had taken over, and the feeling of constant watchfulness and wakefulness, had become a haunted familiarity. She didn't cry any more. She just kept moving.
Turning to Paddy Doyle had not been a decision she'd made lightly. She wasn't even completely sure that he would help her after she'd worked so hard to put him away. She had even told him she wished he was dead. But he had been grateful that Maura had reached out to him; glad to have his daughter admit that she needed him. He had given her an address, and she had shown up on Steve MacAuley's doorstep in South Boston in the middle of the night. He was about the same age as Paddy Doyle, but they were quite different. Steve was unrefined but gentle, and she was discovering he had an awkward humour that was dated and often fell flat. Dad humour. He reminded her a little of Vince Korsak; and though she'd never thought of Korsak as being 'old enough to be her father', she supposed that given Paddy's young age when he had met Hope, that Korsak probably technically was old enough. At any rate, her affection for the detective had allowed room for a feeling of, if not warmth, at least wary trust, towards Steve MacAuley.
He generally made a point of minding his own business, but as he watched her dry-heaving on the edge of the road that night, he had offered up his two cents in gruff reassurance.
"He would have killed you," Steve had told her in the straightforward manner she had come to appreciate. "If you hadn't shot first, he would have killed you without hesitation. And then he'd have killed your friend."
It was small comfort. But as she'd pulled herself together and climbed back into the car, a strange calm had settled over her. It was as if she'd stepped outside of herself and was watching someone else's life unfold. It was oddly reassuring. The feeling of being out of control and constantly on the brink had begun to dissipate, and she'd started to think rationally about her situation. For the first time in weeks, she felt able to remove herself from her subjective experience and really consider her options.
Now she stood in the bare washroom under the bright fluorescent lights of the warehouse, washing Jane's blood from her hands. She considered her reflection in the dirty mirror; hollow eyes stared back at her, framed by dark hair and drawn, pale skin. She knew what she had to do.
She had to take control. Colin Ferguson had to go.