Chapter 8: The Motel in Gary

Luka did not throw the tracker into the lake.

He walked it down to the gravel road and waited for a milk truck to come grinding north.

When it slowed at the bend, he pressed the magnet against its rear bumper.

"Let him watch a dairy delivery for a while," he said.

It was the first thing he'd said in an hour. I could have kissed him again.

I took one of the harbor crew's vans, because the keys were still in it.

Luka drove, with Pavel Orlin curled on the back seat under a tarp and me beside him, watching the mirrors.

We stayed off the expressway.

Neither of us mentioned the porch, or the stitches, or the thing he'd said about not kissing him unless I meant it.

By noon we had crossed the state line into Indiana.

Mara's motel was called the Lamplighter.

It sat on a dead street in Gary behind a tire shop, with a vacancy sign that had lost its V.

She was waiting at the door of room nine.

She wore a man's navy blazer over a black T-shirt, and her bleached hair stood up in front.

"You look terrible," she said to me.

"Thank you."

"I mean it with love." She looked at Luka. Her face didn't change. "And you are Draganov."

"I am."

"I'm Mara."

"I know who you are," Luka said. "You're the number in her lining."

"I am many things."

"You booked her to work my city."

"I booked her to stay alive in a hard business. Your city is where she lived."

"You knew who I was."

"I know who everyone is. That's why I'm useful." She stepped back. "Come in. Don't touch the walls, they're tacky."

The room had a double bed, a folding cot, a card table, and a television bolted to the dresser.

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