Free Pulse by John Lutz Page A

through it,” Penny said. “Both of us.”
    When they were finished with dinner, they went out into the night and strolled back toward the apartment. The evening had cooled down somewhat, and there was a nice breeze playing along the avenue.
    In the apartment, they left the air conditioners off and opened a couple of windows. Night sounds entered from outside, along with a slight movement of air.
    Fedderman encircled Penny with his arms, pulled her gently to him, and kissed her on the lips. She tasted like wine and garlic and sweet chocolate.
    “I know how to free your mind from worry completely,” he said.
    “Feds ...”

    “I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered in her ear.
How many times have cops said that to their wives?
“Nobody wants to lose anyone,” she said.

    He kissed her again, and they went into the bedroom.
    They made love as if it were their first time, or their last. Did this premonition of finality mean something? To Fedderman, everything meant something. And Penny was starting to think the same way.
    Afterward she slept peacefully beside him, while Fedderman lay awake staring into darkness, braced for impending nightmares and aware that nothing had been settled.
    He knew that Penny was the sort who, if there was a problem, did something about it.

13
    T he morning sun grew larger and more orange, dissipating the lingering haze. Quinn threaded the Lincoln through heavy traffic and drove from the city and into upper New York State. Pearl sat quietly beside him in the passenger’s seat. The sun burning through the windshield was making her sleepy. The radio was playing softly and had lapsed into a rap tune:

    You be the one
I got the gun
The favorite son
Run, bitch, run
You know I got the gun

    Pearl wondered if the lyrics had really been thought out, if they had any significance. She couldn’t help doubting. She reached forward and switched the radio off, then glanced over at Quinn. “Do you mind?”
    “Most of the time, if I’m told nice.”
    “What the hell do you think those lyrics mean?”
    “Means he’s got the gun.”
    She continued to stare at him but couldn’t make out his eyes behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses.
    Pearl settled back in the Lincoln’s plush upholstery and crossed her arms. She tried to doze off, but couldn’t.
    Run, bitch, run.
     
     
    The drive had taken them a little more than an hour. Waycliffe College was about a mile outside Putneyberg, a town easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention and drove past the “Business Loop.” The town proper was an assemblage of clapboard shops and shaded side streets. Quinn wouldn’t have been surprised to see Andy and Barney patrolling.
    Traffic was sparse. So was paint. The structures that weren’t brick had taken on a gray, weathered look. Quinn decided what the hell, call it rustic.
    As they drove along Main Street (what else?) the few people on the sidewalks didn’t pay much attention to the Lincoln. They were probably used to luxury vehicles coming and going, many of them carrying present and future trust-fund babies. The loop off the highway was now mostly for the college.
    Waycliffe wasn’t large enough to transform Putneyberg into a college town. Only one of the two local bars looked like the kind of place Waycliffe students would frequent. A twenty-four-hours place called Price’s. Of course, there was always the other bar, a dump called Eddies (without an apostrophe), if some dumb college kid wanted to pick a fight. Probably at either place they could score drugs.
    The newest-looking object in Putneyberg was the big shiny sign informing Quinn and Pearl that Waycliffe College was one mile ahead, and that Putneyberg wished them good-bye. Quinn looked for a HELLO sign on the other side of the street where traffic ran the opposite direction, and there it was.
    “No gown versus town here,” Pearl said. “It looks like gown won a long time ago.”
    “I didn’t see anyone of college age,”