As they drew up to the intersection, Barnes sat stiff in the passenger seat, angled to the window.
"You look at that folder?" Widow asked, as the blinker clicked on-off.
"Laurence Engers," he said to the curbside maildrop. "Laurence Engers was not a cancer researcher. He operated the machine. And the needles."
"People can be many things." Widow eased onto the gas. "Don't you know?"
Barnes said nothing.
Widow turned on the radio.
It curdled him. The percussion of shots, filtered through the tinny speakers, was enough. "Turn it off-" He twisted in his seat, recoiling and pressing himself against the cold glass. The audio track faded out to narration.
"...new development in the Taffel-Elliot murders-"
"Turn it off!" he gasped.
"-dead in his home."
Widow silenced the radio. "Okay. Autodrive please."
"Autodrive initiated."
Widow slid her hand into the bag at her left, fingers curling around an icer. Barnes was hanging onto his seatbelt with both hands, like a child afraid of being extricated from the car.
"Barnes," she murmured. "You're okay."
The seatbelt slid from his grip. He turned.
It's okay.
Her hand was half in her bag and he could just see the metal contour of the pistol grip. Outrage flickered in his mind. They had been played.
"You?" he asked as he pulled his own weapon and shot her in the stomach. "How could you lie to Steve?"
The car eased through two intersections, found the highway and took the first exit. Barnes looked at the unfamiliar gun snug in his grip, looked at Widow, and couldn't find the right questions.
The car pulled into a nondescript parking lot and idled.
"Destination," the car smiled.