He had not been here in months. Another large apartment complex next door had been razed, a bigger shopping center rising in its wake, just the shell of the building—steel beams and concrete floors—in place so far.
Pilgrim headed up the stairs. Sitting in front of his door was Ben. He held a gun between his raised knees, loosely, not aimed at Pilgrim. On his wrist Pilgrim could see the remnant of the plastic cuff. He was pale, shivering in pain, and Pilgrim saw dried blood on his hand. He could probably take him in three steps, knock the gun from his hand. But he wanted to hear what Ben had to say.
“Hello,” Pilgrim said. “I’m really surprised.”
“I’ll take that as an insult.”
Pilgrim shifted the bags in his grip.
“I do what I put my mind to,” Ben said.
“You didn’t bring the police with you.”
“Are you scared that I’m here?” A challenge rose in his voice.
“Scared. Of you.” Pilgrim set down the grocery bags. “How did you find me, Ben?”
“I got shot in the arm. You patch me up and I’ll tell you how I found you. And I’ll tell you exactly how Adam found you.”
“I’m suspicious you would trust me again.”
“I don’t trust you for a second. You screw me over, you screw yourself over.” A hard edge touched Ben’s gaze. “When Emily died, I was so frozen . . . it took me two minutes to call the police. Because her being dead couldn’t be true. I refused to see what was right before my eyes.”
“It’s called shock.”
“It’s called how I live. I saw a woman—completely innocent—die today. I can’t see that again, not after my wife. I can’t keep running. I want to take the fight back to these people. Whatever it takes.”
Pilgrim picked up the bags. “Come in and let’s get you cleaned up.”
Pilgrim disinfected and bandaged Ben’s arm as Ben gritted his teeth. “An expert shot Jackie made, to wound you.”
“Don’t compliment him.” Ben dry-swallowed four ibuprofen tablets. He sat still and then started to shake, the adrenaline easing out of him.
“So, Sherlock. How did you find me?”
“Bugs you, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t like security holes.”
“Your storage unit-slash-army depot. I figured if you had a storage unit near a major airport hub, you might also have an apartment close by. In case you needed to hide before you got on a plane, or you wanted to vanish for a few days without having to travel. It made sense to be close to your resources, as you call them. You didn’t want me to know about any residence you had since you were planning to dump me as soon as you were recovered enough from your injuries. So I went back to the storage facility office and they remembered I’d been there this morning, moving out boxes with you. I was asking about renting a unit myself, prices and such, and the very nice clerk was looking up units on their system to see what was available. She got a phone call, and when she turned to take it, I snuck a peek at their computer screen and typed in your unit number. It gave this address.”
“You’re lucky they didn’t recognize you from TV.”
“I wore a cap and I talked in a thick fake Boston accent. I didn’t even use the Sneeze and Hide.”
Pilgrim went into the narrow, compact kitchen. “Tell me how Adam found the Cellar.”
“No,” Ben said. “First you tell me what you found at Barker’s.”
“Ben, in your case, ignorance truly is bliss.”
“Wrong. Because if I know too much, you can’t abandon me again. Which means you’d have to kill me, and you won’t.”
“I killed seven people yesterday. I killed two more today. You’d make it an even number.” But he gave a crooked smile.
Ben pulled the small black sketchbook from his pocket. He tossed it to Pilgrim, who caught it one-handed and tucked it close to his chest. He then slid the sketchbook into his pocket.
“Thanks.” He turned back to the counter, started emptying the grocery sacks, heating the oven for frozen pizzas.
“You didn’t realize you’d lost your sketches.”
“I hope you like pepperoni.” Pilgrim checked the oven setting he’d fiddled with twenty seconds earlier.
“You dropped it when we fought in the bathroom.”
“I said thank you.”
“Who’s the kid in the drawings?” Ben asked.
Pilgrim slid two frozen pizzas into the oven.
“I know what it is to lose someone, Pilgrim. My wife was funny, and sharp-tongued, and brilliant, and loving, and hardworking. She drove me crazy, both good and bad. I’ve never been the same since she died. Not for a second.”