Damian FINUCANE's Arc

Chapter 18 of 57

The stakeout stretched into its second day. Damian sat by the shop window with a cold wrap and a mug he never drank. Rolo perched on a stool, feet hooked under the rail, watching the tower doors across the street. His raven waited on a ledge above. Damian had the name now. He had the habit, the shop, the schedule. What he did not have was a face he could trust. Ginger hair. Thin build. That was all. The morning crowd flowed past the glass, and among them walked three men with ginger hair. Damian's hand found the cane. "Which one," he said. Rolo did not blink. "Wait," she said. "Look, don't leap. If you're wrong, you scare the right one off." She was right, and he hated it. One wrong grab across the counter would empty the street. Parker would learn a hunter waited here. He would never come back. Damian breathed the way his teacher taught him. He cleared his mind and made his eyes work instead of his fear. The first ginger man bought a drink and left, loud and easy. The second carried a child on his shoulders. Neither watched the door. Neither moved like a killer. Then the third came in. He was average in every way, olive-skinned, round-faced, a man you would forget. But he did not look at the menu. He looked at the ceiling, at the tower above the shop. He crossed to the counter without a word. The worker's hands went stiff. Damian saw her face change, the same look she gave when she told him the truth. Rolo went still on her stool. The man leaned close to the counter and hummed. A slow tune, low in his chest, the kind that had no words. Jazz. Damian remembered the witness. He listens to a song before he kills. This was him. This was Tom Clarke Parker. Parker took an envelope from the worker's shaking hand. He turned to go, calm, unhurried. His collar shifted as he moved, and Damian saw it, a rope of scar riding his left shoulder. Damian stood. He did not draw. He did not shout. He set coins on the counter like any customer and walked out three steps behind. Rolo slid off her stool and followed, light as a cat. Outside, Parker walked into the crowd. Damian marked the ginger head, the fine build, the envelope tucked at his side. He had the man now, not a ghost, not a guess. A face he would know anywhere. Parker paused. His head turned, just slightly, as if he felt eyes on his back. Damian looked away in time, into a window, breathing slow. When he looked again, Parker had quickened his pace. He knew the crowd. He knew how to lose himself in it. "He felt us," Rolo whispered. "He's running soft." Damian gripped his cane and stepped into the crowd after him. The face was found. Now he had to keep it in sight.