Fountain Society Part 7

"Someone who's going to wire money?"

"To Home Savings."

"She must be a very good friend."

"My best in the world." Once inside, Elizabeth scanned the mall restaurants. "From before I had my accident," she added, almost without thinking. "Your accident?"

"Not worth going into." She swept her hair back from her face. "Listen, do you want anything to eat while we're waiting? I could eat a horse. Or at least a burrito." She gestured toward a nearby restaurant. "Of course," he said, taking the rest of the quarters. "And a c.o.ke, if you would. I need to freshen up. I'll meet you there." She pointed to an empty table. He bought two burritos, a lemonade and a c.o.ke, swinging his body around as mall security walked past. The uniformed woman, bouncing along to the rap music booming from the mall's PA system, didn't appear to be on any sort of alert. Eventually she vanished into a video store. He bit into his burrito, enjoying the frank uncomplicated goodness of it, finis.h.i.+ng it quickly. He also downed the lemonade. He was staffing to worry about the pain behind his sternumwondering whether it was acid reflux or his vagus nerve splices fraying-when he realized that almost twenty minutes had gone by and Elizabeth still hadn't returned. He took her c.o.ke and burrito and went in search of the rest rooms. The woman's room was open and empty.

For another twenty minutes he refused to face it. Like someone looking for a lost wallet, he kept returning to the same places over and over again, until finally the woman from mall security started to get suspicious. You knew this had to happen, he told himself, as he turned and walked toward a waiting taxi. But why now? Something was making him stupid, he thought, and then he revised that to conclude that he couldn't blame anything but himself. He was stupid. The loss of Elizabeth, the plaque in his cerebral arteries, the acc.u.mulation of guilt and suppressed panic was.h.i.+ng over him was like the panic of someone coming off hard drugs and suddenly facing years of pain. What had Beatrice taught him to call this? The rebound effect. Yes, that was it. A sense of black doom descended like a summer storm. He felt like he was six years old again. He took a cab back to the Rosaria Hotel, and while he was packing, he saw a patrol car pull into the parking lot. Quickly finding the fire stairs, he left by the back entrance. He hailed another cab and asked the driver to take him to the nearest phone booth, which turned out to be out near the Dixie Highway. After instructing the driver to wait, he took what was left of the quarters and dropped one into the pay phone. Again he dialed the number from memory. A recorded voice came on and announced that it was a long-distance call-$3.35 for the first three minutes and $1.05 for each additional minute. He went back to the driver to break a twenty and ended up taking all the small change the man had for an extra five dollars. Back in the booth, he dialed the cellular number. There were some electronic hems and haws, and then a voice picked up. "h.e.l.lo?"

"h.e.l.lo, Beatrice," he said.

There was a brain-numbing silence on the other end. Sweat sprang out on his forehead. Then her voice came back. "Peter?"

"Yes, it's me. Are you alone?"

"Yes."

He wondered if it were true. Probably not. "Where are you?" she asked.

"Where are you?"

"Miami. Peter, if you're here in the city, you're in terrible danger." "Believe me, I know that. Are you all right? I tried to call you at the lab " "Yes. I'm all right."

"Thank G.o.d. Listen," he started to say and then found he couldn't go on. Tears filled his eyes. "I know why you're calling."

"Then tell me.

"She left you.

"That's not why. I need to see you," he said. "Does she know now?"

"I had to tell her."

"You had to tell her what?"

Why was she being so obtuse? "Everything," he said. "Everything? Are you sure?" Her voice carried an odd teasing quality. "And just how did she take it?" "Not well. How did you expect her to take it?" he said, heartened by the fact that they were at least sparring once more. I've missed you, Beatrice." "No, you only think you have."

"Have it your way. I'm sorry. However you want to make me pay- "You've had me, Peter. The whole time." He stopped, took a deep breath. "Beatrice, you're not making any sense- "Just not to you. You were always a beat behind. Like Einstein baffled by his tax returns. Tell me, darling, do you know how to travel through time?" Darling, was all he could think. Otherwise he was utterly lost. "Do you think," he heard her say, "you can get back to the summer of '67?" "Beatrice, my head hurts."

"I know. Just get on the time machine. Someone will meet you, I promise." Her voice went away and came back, this time very loud. "I'm sorry, I don't respond to telephone solicitations," she said into the phone. "How did you get this number, anyway?" "Beatrice, did someone come in? Freddy? Henderson?" "And, no," she said, softly again, "I don't forgive you for a minute. Goodbye, darling, and happy landings. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye." 16 The summer of 67 had been their first at Vieques. Whenever they wanted to get away from the base or from Freddy or from the bur(lens of uneasy conscience, Peter and Beatrice would fly to Miami, rent a car and drive the causeway to Key West. It was Key West where they had discovered deep-sea fis.h.i.+ng, tantric s.e.x and French cooking. To Peter and Beatrice, Key West was Paradise Regained. Key West. It hit him like a thunderbolt that that was where she wanted him to go. Key West was where she was waiting for him. Unless, of course, it was a trap. If it were a trap, then Beatrice had deeper reserves of hatred than he had ever dared guess, more guile than Machiavelli and a real shot at an acting career. What he had heard in her voice was tender condescension and wifely disapproval, not anger. Nor the sound of a woman scorned. She had more the sound of a woman in control. It occurred to him that kind of control could be deadly No. She's not going to betray me, he thought. No matter what I de-serve. Still, as the cab rolled down Route 1, he kept turning to look out the back window while he listened for the sound of choppers. And he replayed their phone conversation in his head, over and over. I told Elizabeth everything. She might well have pa.s.sed that along to Wolfe and Henderson. What, after all, did she owe Elizabeth? There Beatrice might prove vindictive, and who could blame her? He had hurt her terribly. He had thrown her over for someone else, someone young like his new self Fifty years of marriage, and nothing they had built together had withstood the imperatives of newfound youth. That's how she would see it. But would she want Elizabeth dead?

She had been in collusion when it came to the death of Hans, he reminded himself. She had agonized over it, yes, no question, hut in the end, she had approved it. The greatest good for the greatest number. Genius conquers all. Moral piracy, that's what it amounted to, but she had gone for it, Or had she seen that by now? In what he knew any hack psychiatrist would diagnose as obsessive ruminations, he pa.s.sed through Key Largo, Islamorada, Layton, Key Colony Beach. Somewhere around Marathon or Big Pine he fell into a troubled sleep, dreaming of his wife as a Ja.n.u.s-faced monster, one face young and dismissive, the other smiling and old. Then it was the young face that was tender and the older that of Medusa. The next thing he knew the driver was shaking him and they were at Truman and Duval, in the heart of Key West. "Where you wanna go, buddy?" the cabby asked. Peter sat up and rubbed his eyes. "You know the Cafe des Artistes?"

"Over on Simonton?"

"That's the one."

He had the driver drop him a block away and approached the place cautiously on foot. Just short of it he stopped. Should he chance it or phone the restaurant from outside? Nay men were going in and out, but they were in uniform and mostly with wives or girlfriends; the people looking for him would be dressed in civilian clothing. Or would they be? He reminded himself that there were several bases here, so the presence of military was no particular cause for concern, in or out of uniform. Besides, the look of the place reeked of intrigue. It was part of an old hotel and was supposedly built in 1934 by Al Capone himself. No wonder Peter was paranoid. He wondered why he and Beatrice had found it so inviting before. More innocent days, perhaps. He went inside, inquiring at the desk if a Beatrice Jance had arrived. The desk clerk informed him that she had checked in that morning. His heart was in full gallop by the time he located the house phones and rang her room. There was no answer. On an impulse, he walked back through the ornate lobby to the restaurant. The floor tilted under his feet.

He ignored that. Looked around.

And there she was, eating quietly at their favorite table. In that room, sitting amid flowers and paintings by Key West artists and set off by the room's dark woods and linen-covered walls, she was stunning, set like a jewel in his memory. It was as though he had simply returned from one of his solitary walks along the shrimp-boat docks- thirty years ago-to meet her for lunch. Even the Rameau harpsichord suite playing on the stereo, he remembered that too. "Beatrice?"

She looked up in alarm. "Good Lord, you've lost your mind completely." Her gray hair was tied in a chignon and she was wearing a loose-fitting beach dress with an orchid print. She looked casually wan and worn and entirely wonderful. "May I sit down?" She studied his face as though she had forgotten it. "What if I'm being watched? Hasn't that occurred to you?" "Are you?"

"If they were triangulating my cellular." "Do they have reason to distrust you?"

"No," she said, and relaxed ever so slightly. "They think I want you six feet under. Jack?" A waiter scurried over.

"Yes, Mrs. Jance," he said with a Georgia drawl. "We need to move up to the deck," she said. "It's more private there." The man glanced at Peter. "I understand." "Jack, really. This is my son, Peter Junior." She said it so easily that Peter was caught completely off-guard. He realized she had given more thought to this meeting than he had imagined. Jack, examining Peter through half-closed lids, gave a gasp of delight. "He looks just like his father!"

"Spitting image, isn't he?" said Beatrice. "He's dead." "Oh my G.o.d. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Jance."

"Don't be. It was a mercy, really"

"I see."

"Senile dementia," she said, shooting a glance at Peter, then gathering her things. "But thank you so much for your concern, Jack," she said warmly and led the way upstairs and outside. The deck portion of the restaurant was open to the sky. There was a balmy breeze, the sound of cicadas and few customers this hour. Beatrice chose a table where they could watch the street. Or be watched, thought Peter, despite the emotions that were churning in his heart. Puppy love, it almost felt like, like they were starting all over again. And then he remembered feeling the identical thing for Elizabeth. His head began to swim. "Well, son," said Beatrice wryly, "you've been a busy boy, haven't you?" At least, he thought, she isn't smoking. The ashtray on the table downstairs had been empty. No more of Wolfe's d.a.m.n Gauloises. "It's been interesting," was all he could say. He felt like reaching across the table for her hand, but he knew she would draw it away. "Don't look at me so moon-eyed," she said, confirming his guess. "The last thing I want is to look like some dowager who's bought a surfer for the weekend." After his wine arrived, she raised her gla.s.s to him slightly and took a thoughtful sip. "So," she said at last. "Now she's left you." "She disappeared. I suppose you could say she left me," said Peter. "That's what 1 would call it if my lover disappeared." She took out a pack of Gauloises and removed one. His heart sank. "On the other hand, at least it made you call me. You wouldn't have otherwise, I'm sure. "Beatrice, that isn't true. All the time I was with her-" -you were thinking of me? I'm sure you were." She shrugged. "Sorry. It's just that on one level, that's utter nonsense." She looked off, checking the street, then said, "But on another, it's utterly plausible." She looked at the cigarette, then took the pack of Gauloises and dropped it and the cigarette into the ashtray, moving both to another table. Peter looked at her, but she revealed nothing more. Jack brought a second menu and a bottle of wine that Beatrice had ordered. It was a cabernet Peter loved. The label had changed slightly over the years, but the memories were still vivid of the times they had gone through a bottle of that wine talking about everything under the stars. When the waiter was gone, Peter leaned across the table. "Beatrice," he said. "I beg your forgiveness." "Don't grovel," she said. "Let me think." He sat back again, this time at a more respectful distance. When they had ordered, Beatrice fixed her eyes on him. In the glare of her disapproval, he drank his gla.s.s of wine down straight and poured himself another. "You know, sonny boy, that they're planning to kill you on sight?" "I guessed as much. And ixnay on the onnysay, all right?" The wine was quickly going to his head. "Alex ran the models and the Hammer looks good to go. They've already started construction back at White Sands." "Alex is back?" said Peter in disbelief. "That was the last thing he did before he left. Where he is now, who knows-they're still looking for him, too." She studied him for a moment, then asked: "Tell me, do you love her, Peter?" "Could we do this down at police headquarters?" he asked defensively. She didn't smile. He shrugged. "Yes, all right, I was infatuated." "Fickle, aren't you? Frankly, Peter, I'm disappointed. Just infatuated? With her body or her mind?" "Both," he said angrily. "And it wasn't just infatuation. I loved her. I still do, I think. It's crazy, but it's something much more than infatuation. She knew this body and this body knew her. Do you have any idea of what I'm saying?" "I'm afraid I do. And thank you for your honesty," she said, and she drank deeply. He refilled her gla.s.s. "You mustn't blame her," he said. "She was in love with Hans Brinkman. "Spoken like a true man. And what's your excuse?" Since he didn't have one, he said nothing and reached for his gla.s.s. Except... "Do you remember your research on cellular memory?" he asked. "Oh, spare me.

"I'm not making excuses. But I think you were on to something." "You're leaning on a thin reed here."

"I flew a plane. You know I don't know the first thing about flying." He saw she was listening despite herself. "But Hans did. He was a pilot, he was skilled at martial arts, he apparently even liked to mix it up. You heard about the fight at the hotel, I'm sure." She nodded, not wanting to give this any credence. But she had heard, and every time she had looked at that killer who followed Henderson around, she wondered how Peter could ever have taken him on. "Answer me this-did you ever in your life see me punch anybody out?" "At the n.o.bel dinner. When that little Croatian chemist started needling you. "I was drunk."

"You're drunk now. Are you saying the devil made you do it?" "No, I'm not. Unless we've met the devil and he is us. All I'm really saying is that she was blameless. As soon as I told her who I was, she left." "That's not the only reason why she took off," Beatrice said cryptically. He put his gla.s.s down and glared at her. "Beatrice, if you've got some information I should know, tell me, don't torture me!" "You deserve to be tortured. You're a p.r.i.c.k. A superficial, self-justifying, pompous a.s.shole-" He threw up his hands. Guilty as charged. Peter stared back at the people now staring at them. "Sorry. Lovers' quarrel."

Everyone looked from Peter to Beatrice, shook their heads and went back to their dinners. Beatrice's face colored. "Very funny," she said without smiling. She waited while another waiter scurried up and delivered their food, then leaned forward a gain. "Where do you think she went?" "I'm not sure, but I'd guess she's making a run for Zurich. Direct flight, I would think, so she won't risk another stop on American soil." "Which means she'll have to fly out of Miami. We should stop her." "If she wants to go, it's her decision." "She doesn't know half the danger she's in," Beatrice said solemnly or she wouldn't have taken on her own." "I tried to explain," Peter said. "But she's d.a.m.n near as stubborn as you are. "Just as, I'd guess," said Beatrice strangely. "They're not going to kill her, you know. Not exactly" He was starting to feel a deeper terror than usual. "You're worried about her?"

"We need her help, actually, as much as she needs ours," she said enigmatically, wearing a look that told him nothing except that he knew even less than he thought. "Why do we need her help?"

"Because we need to find the ninth clone." Peter let out an audible gasp. "Ninth?"

"They're about to harvest him. And I really don't think we want that to happen, do we?" "So I was what? The eighth?" He could only stare at her, stupefied. "You were the seventh, Peter," she said, and gave him a haunted look: "Seven was the lucky number." His head spun. "And the first six?"

She looked away. "They didn't make it. My glue took a long while to get right." He shuddered. All those years-how naive he had been. Neither his wife of half a century nor his friends nor the true nature of his work had been really known by him. "The first four died on the table," she went on. "The next one survived the transplant, but suffered brain death. They pulled the plug on that one, which was Barrola's, incidentally." Peter's eyes grew wider still. He couldn't talk. "Barrola went into clinical depression. You never noticed, of course. You always wore blinders when it came to other people's moods." He tried to catch his breath. Some terrible fear was working its way up his gut. "That's five. Number six?" "He died during transport." Beatrice gathered her sweater around her shoulders, Peter noticed that he felt chilled as well. "Remember," she asked, "that midair collision over Vieques two years ago?" He remembered. "The two business jets?"

"That's the one. One plane hadn't logged a flight plan, so the other didn't know to look out for it." "One was bringing in a clone?" he asked, as it all began to dawn on him. "Whose was it, do you know?" "Moores."

"The chemist working on the so-called Death Aerosol?" "That's him. He died of heart failure shortly thereafter. Or maybe a broken heart. Everyone who lost his clone had a hard time with it. Their immortality was almost in their hands and then it ran out through their fingers. And then there was you and yours. Hans Brinkman. And success. He looked down, ashamed to be part of such a cynical thing. "And the next one?" "He lives in New York."

"State?"

"City. Where, I don't know."

"New York's a big place, Beatrice. Eight or ten million people. Who told you all this-Wolfe?" "Correct."

Peter had known. "He's in love with you, isn't he?" "Grotesquely."

Peter reached across the table again and this time she allowed him to take her hands in his. Her hands were icy. Despite the stares from nearby tables, he continued to hold his wife's hands. "And you were faithful to me," he said. "And you were faithful to me," said Beatrice rnatter-of-factly. "In your fas.h.i.+on." Taking her hands from his, she tapped him lightly on the wrist. "Nine clones, Peter." She stared at him until it finally struck him. He took a deep breath, feeling like a kid tipping over the brim of the highest roller coaster ever built, half-exhilarated, half-terrified. "Holy Christ," he said under his breath. "Welcome to the new millennium."

"But it's not.., possible. . ."

"You of all people should know that anything is possible." "I would have recognized her-she would have looked exactly like..." "Like me. That's right. She did. Until she was eighteen. Then she had a skiing accident. Destroyed her face. Next came plastic surgery. New cheekbones, new nose, everything. And of course they always do the lips these days, it's practically a default option. I'm a little surprised you didn't recognize the body. but she might have had other things done as well. In for a penny. in for a pound." "It was her voice, Beatrice. And her eyes. They were yours. Even the love I felt, for G.o.d sakes." "I'd like to think so." She smiled sadly. "Actually. when I look at it from a certain perspective, I almost feel flattered. If I tried, I suppose I could even take some vicarious pleasure in your affair. "G.o.d in heaven," he groaned. The car was over the brink and hurling down a bottomless track. "Do you think she knows?" "She's not stupid," she said proudly. "If she doesn't yet, she'll piece it together soon enough. Did she tell you her father was in the Navy? Caribbean duty?" "On Vieques?" he asked, reeling.

"For a full two years."

He rubbed his eyes. "So they'll be looking for her for.. ." He looked at Beatrice, not wanting to believe he was thinking what he was thinking. "For me," Beatrice said simply. "We want to have us both, Peter?" "Oh, Jesus." He put his head in his hands. "We can't do that, Beatrice." "You, but not me? Is that it?"

When he looked up there were tears in his eyes. "Because it's not right."

She stared at him long and hard, and then slipped her hand into his again. "Thank G.o.d," she said. "Now do you see why we have to find her? In a way. she's the child we never had." She signaled for the check.

"But if you don't go back to Wolfe-"

"He needs us both. His gamble, I'm guessing, is that I'd change my mind once I was young again. There is some precedent to support that theory." she said with only partial irony. "But since I am marginally a better person than you are," she added, her smile warming slightly, "I don't think I'll stay with the program. You wouldn't happen to know Elizabeth's e-mail pa.s.sword?" "No" said Peter. "That intimate we didn't get." He cupped her hands in his and kissed them. An enormous burden had been lifted from his heart. For a few precious moments, the fear could wait. And then there was a long and fast drive to make it back to Miami. 17 The smart thing, Elizabeth reasoned, was not to go to the airport until she absolutely had to. She needed to clear her head big-time, so when the driver cut through Little Havana, she told him to let her off at one of the coffee stands that line Calle Ocho. She ordered the strongest coffee available and the clerk gave her a colada, straight espresso laced with sugar. To his amazement. she downed it straight off and ordered another. The place was vibrant with pleasant noise, as though her caffeine buzz had gone to everyone's heads. Cigarette smoke floated in the air, along with the sounds of Cuban Spanish and the recitation of baseball scores. For the first time in a very long while, she felt safe. She looked out the shop window into the morning haze and saw workers and commuters rus.h.i.+ng past, most Hispanic or black. How many wars, how many enslavements and horrors had these people or their gene pools survived? And now they were talking and laughing and going on with their lives. You'll survive this, too, she said, emptying her tray into the trash bin and hurrying outside. She hailed a taxi for Miami International. In the cab, she put on sungla.s.ses and a black wig she had bought for $50 at a store called Wig City in a strip mall. The size of Miami International Airport was another comfort. It was the eighth largest airport in the U.S., Mary Blanchard had told her: 1,500 takeoffs and landings a day, with connections to 2,200 cities on five continents. She remembered those numbers as if Mary had just whispered them in her ear. Game theory, hadn't Hans given her a lecture about that once? The hugeness of Miami International, plus the likelihood that they wouldn't expect her to exit from the same place she had entered the day before. Thirty million pa.s.sengers per year equals 82,000 a day; 118 gates in eight concourses, versus say two hundred available surveillance personnel. h.e.l.l, the odds were excellent that she wouldn't be spotted. But she was.

As she took the elevator to the fourth floor and stepped onto the horizontal escalator, she became convinced she was being followed- flurries of footsteps as she pa.s.sed through the maze of bookstores, bars and boutiques seemed somehow to be matching her own. To reach the Martinair/KLM counter in Concourse B, she had to go halfway around the gigantic horseshoe that const.i.tuted the architectural footprint of the airport. She stopped at a sungla.s.s kiosk and tried on a pair of Ray-Bans, examining herself in the rack's tiny mirror. In its reflection, she saw three people behind her who were more or less frozen in position. One was a man about twenty-five, with well trimmed, sandy hair. He was tying his shoelaces. The second was an airline flight officer or a man dressed as one, who glanced once in Elizabeth's direction and then looked away. The third was a hardbodied young woman in a track suit, with a bright duffel bag slung over her shoulder. With a weapon in it? Elizabeth carefully replaced the Ray-Bans and moved to the newsstand where she bought a Miami Herald. While waiting for her change she did a quick recheck. The pilot and the muscular young woman were gone, but the man who had been tying his shoelaces was still there, a hundred feet back, pretending to study a departure monitor. She lost herself by threading through the crowded lobby of the interminal hotel, emerging back on the concourse at its opposite end. She hooked a left, took the escalator down a floor, then walked rapidly for a full five minutes without looking back. At last, near her gate, she stopped in front of a Starbucks window. Carefully scanning the reflections in the gla.s.s, she found the man in the crowd. And since her back was turned, he was staring straight at her. Her throat clenched shut. It was the Navy Seal from the Casa del Frances. And he was now moving toward her. Fighting raw panic, she headed off as fast as she could without drawing attention. Then she heard his running footsteps behind her and broke into a sprint. He was fast, but she was faster.

In twenty seconds of flat-out running, she had built up a good enough lead to be able to vanish from his sight and into the crowd.

Lieutenant Lance Russell barreled around a corner and braked in alarm. The b.i.t.c.h wasn't there.

He had spotted her easily enough. Who did she think she was, anyway, thinking she could fool anybody with the black dye-job? But for the moment, she was off the scope. Worse, an airport security a.s.shole was heading in his direction. Russell ducked into a souvenir shop, trying to control his breathing. f.u.c.k, he thought, the cop had seen him come around that corner at warp speed and had to know something was up. Russell was more right than he knew: the security guard had, in fact, been told to watch out for a certain Dr. Peter Jance, Jr., age thirty-five. Since this guy with the buzz-cut and pale blue eyes was about that age, the guard popped the thumb strap on his holster and advanced. "Can I see your ticket, sir?"

I can't catch a break, thought Russell. On an a.s.signment like this, he never carried ID, not even counterfeit ID, and the gate agent who had pa.s.sed him through the metal detectors was nowhere in sight. His designation was secret and if taken into custody he was expected to remain silent and use his one telephone call to summon help from a properly equipped Naval Security officer. At this badly f.u.c.ked point in time he couldn't afford to be detained. "I'm meeting someone," he said, and moved away from the shop's entrance. "I would like to see some kind of ID," the security guard insisted, coming closer, his hand closing around the b.u.t.t of his 9mm. Russell smiled broadly as though he were about to comply, but then casually stepped through a door into the men's room. One of the stalls was occupied, but otherwise the place was deserted. As the angered security guard bolted in after him Russell wheeled and struck out with the heel of his hand, driving it upward into the man's chin, dislocating his jaw and knocking him unconscious. For an instant Russell contemplated killing him, but he decided that the uproar following the discovery of the body would sooner or later come back and bite him on the a.s.s. And so he merely dragged the guard into a stall and slung him upright onto a toilet. He locked the stall from the inside, and then launched himself off the toilet tissue dispenser and vaulted the door, landing an instant before a man in a business suit entered, dragging his wheeled carry-on. Russell walked past him and reentered the concourse. He now had a good idea where the girl had disappeared. The ladies' room was thirty feet down the corridor. A cleaning lady and her partner were just coming out, pus.h.i.+ng their trash cart and a mop bucket on casters. Russell stepped in front of them. "Miami Health Department. Anybody in there?" "It's clean," said the lady. "We just clean." Dumb Guatemalan, she was petrified. "Cotta check it, though. City Code. Anybody in there?" "One lady."

"She doing important business or just hanging out?" "Looking in the mirror, was.h.i.+ng her hands, looking around. She looked scared." Good, thought Russell. He liked fear in the eyes of his quarry just before he put them down, and this c.u.n.t was owed. His only regret was that he had orders not to kill her. His mandate was to simply keep her from getting on the plane until Wolfe and Henderson arrived. That didn't mean he couldn't hit her. He would just say she put up a fight. He found a crumpled five in his pocket.

"You keep any ladies from coming in for a few minutes, okay? Just till I do my look-see for the City of Miami. The cleaning women exchanged glances as the older one took the money. Russell went inside.

It was larger than the men's room, divided into two sub-areas, one containing stalls, the other sinks, a bench and a baby-changing table. As he entered, he heard one of the stall doors clank shut. He had a clear image of the girl crouched inside, p.i.s.sing her pants. If she were clever, and he knew she thought she was, she was probably standing on top of the toilet lid, holding her breath, praying he wouldn't do more than look under the stalls from the outside. She was in for a big surprise.

Slipping his knife from its shoulder sheath, he laid it along his pants leg and eased around the corner into the area where the toilets were. She wasn't in a stall, though. She was standing before a mirror straightening her skirt. There was something wrong here. As the woman turned around, Russell saw what it was. "Well" said Beatrice. "Did von take courses in stupidity or were you dumb enough when you enlisted?" "Ma'am, I'm sorry-"

"Put that knife away before you hurt somebody. Do you understand your a.s.signment or don't you?" "Yes, ma'am, of course I do."

"She is not to be physically harmed. In any way. "Yes, well, I've just found the knife to be a good persuader." But he put it away anyway. "And what if she started screaming?"

"I know how to deal with that, ma'am. We're trained in abduction; otherwise I wouldn't have been a.s.signed to find her. The fact is, ma'am, I made her five minutes ago, and I thought she came in here." "Hardly. I just saw her walk right down the jetway at Gate 15." "Beg pardon, ma'am, but why didn't you tell somebody?" Beatrice's withering look was all the answer Russell needed as he raced out of the ladies' room in a blind fury. Even the cleaning ladies were gone, not watching his back as he had f.u.c.king paid them to do. He pulled out his radio and called for backup. Okay, so forget about getting the collar himself; he just wanted to see the b.i.t.c.h in cuffs now. He careened down the jetway to Gate 15 as more men appeared. running toward the gate. Within sixty seconds, the plane was under siege, with a half-dozen Seals searching it from nose to tail. If necessary, their orders were to go into the baggage and wheel wells.

Meanwhile, Maria Morales and Elena Contrares-close friends since they had shared a van with fifteen other weeping and terrified illegal immigrants from El Salvador eight years before-stopped at the first level service bay, just as they had been instructed. During twenty years of having lived in a war zone, they had seen their share of strangeness. They had seen even more the next year while they worked their way north through Guatemala and the mountains of Mexico. But never had they been asked to do anything so crazy for money, and certainly not by a lady so elegant. A hundred dollars! In America, madness seemed to trickle down from the top. The cla.s.sy lady was right behind them, having hitched a ride on one of the electric carts reserved for the aged and the handicapped. "Hay otras aqui, amigas?" she asked, as she stepped off the cart, patting a strand of gray hair into place. "No," they said.

"Bueno," said Beatrice, giving the trash barrel a whack. "All right, end of the line, it's safe." The paper towels stirred as Elizabeth emerged from the barrel, stunned and grateful, but certainly on guard. "Thank you," she said to Beatrice as Maria and Elena helped her out. "Don't mention it," Beatrice replied. "Haven't had so much fun since menopause. "Who are you?"

"I'm the lady who just saved your life," said Beatrice, regretting the resentment and suspicion in her own voice. Was this kid going to recognize herself or not? She's had her new face for seven years, thought Beatrice. Is it possible she's forgotten the old one or is it so bad she can't recognize herself in such an older version? Maybe she was just plain thick. "Come on, we'll talk in the cab," she said. When Elizabeth hesitated, Beatrice gave her a maternal glare. "Or should we wait until they seal off the airport again?" Beatrice paid Elena and Maria another fifty dollars, then made for the taxi stand with Elizabeth following at a wary distance. "Why are you doing this?" "Because I want you to live," said Beatrice. "Is that a good enough reason? You do have friends in the world." "Annie? Did she send you?"

"No. Not Annie, whoever that is." Good Lord, she thought, is she faking it or has some of Peter's obtuseness rubbed off on her? She was starting to picture Peter and Elizabeth together and was having trouble not hating her, despite the sympathy she felt for the girl's plight. And the guilt, of course. Would she ever be free of that? The door to the cab was open, but Elizabeth was still balking. "I think I need to know who you are." "You'll figure it out. Now get in," said Beatrice sharply, grabbing Elizabeth and shoving her inside. "And if I were you, I'd duck down." This time Elizabeth did as she was told, slumping below window level as the cabby gunned the car out of the airport. Once they were on the expressway Elizabeth sat back up and stared at Beatrice. Beatrice did her best not to stare back. I certainly would have known myself; Beatrice thought. In a heartbeat. "Where are we going?" Elizabeth asked.

"I was thinking of Disney World," Beatrice said. "Last time I checked," said Elizabeth, "they didn't give discounts anymore for fugitives." Confident, sardonic-you might even end up liking this woman, Beatrice thought. And wouldn't Narcissus be green with envy? "Yes, well that's true, I suppose. Driver, take the next turnout." The cabby swung into an emergency pull-off and sounded the horn. "It's all right," Beatrice said as she saw Elizabeth tighten. "We're just picking up another pa.s.senger. The driver peered into the shrubbery ringing the turnout. "Senora, are you sure this is where we left him?" "I'm sure," Elizabeth looked ready to bolt, Beatrice put a steadying hand on her wrist while the cabby got out and stepped over the guardrail. "Senor?" he called.

Since there was no answer, the driver jumped the rail and disappeared into the bushes. Elizabeth was starting to squirm in Beatrice's grip. "What the h.e.l.l is this?" Elizabeth demanded. "Hold steady," said Beatrice. Her heart was starting to sink. "Who are you? You've got to tell me or I'm leaving." Beatrice kept her eyes on the shrubbery. "My name is Beatrice Jance." Elizabeth's face turned ashen.

"Your lover's wife-or rather your former lover. You left him, I got him back." Elizabeth's head sank onto her chest as she covered her face. "Oh my G.o.d-" "-And I suppose I'm also your... I don't know quite how to put it-" Elizabeth peered deep into Beatrice's eyes. And there was the look of terrified, stunned recognition. "Oh my G.o.d," she said, "Close enough," said Beatrice. Beatrice started to say something else, then stiffened, letting go of Elizabeth's arm as she threw open the door and stumbled out. Beyond, the driver was carrying somebody out of the bushes, somebody drunk or wounded or worse. Then Elizabeth was out of the cab, too. Elizabeth could easily have escaped at that moment, but she ran with Beatrice to Peter, whose eyes were closed and whose s.h.i.+rt was stained red. Together they helped support his deadweight. Blood was trickling from his mouth and nose, and his chest was heaving. He seemed barely alive. "Peter?" Elizabeth said numbly. Only a slurred response. She looked at Beatrice in terror. "It's happening again." "When did this happen before?"

"Once back in Vieques and then again at the airport in Puerto Rico. But never like this." "He never bled?" said Beatrice. icy calm. "Never."

"Was his pulse elevated? Were his pupils dilated?" Elizabeth took Peter's main weight and eased him into the back of the cab. "I'm not a doctor," she said through clenched teeth. "Yes, of course you're not," said Beatrice, climbing in. "And I didn't have anything to do with what made him like this either," Elizabeth said, more pointedly. Beatrice said nothing to that. "Go on," she said to the driver. "1-95 North." The car shot forward and Peter's head lolled onto the frayed tweed seat, looking in his delirium as if he were trying to listen to both of them, Beatrice on his left, Elizabeth on his right. "The first time he kind of glazed over," Elizabeth said more softly, as the cab knifed through traffic. "Then in Puerto Rico, when we were running away from the plane crash, he had a horrendous pain in his head and collapsed. Is it some kind of stroke?" "Something like that." And then Beatrice's voice softened too. "G.o.d knows." "The blood vessels in his brain, they're still old?" "Exactly," said Beatrice.

Peter's eyes blinked open. Abruptly he was conscious, though thoroughly dazed. "Very astute," he slurred. "Thank you," Elizabeth said coldly.

She took a Kleenex and swiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. Peter gave Elizabeth an unreadable look, then swung toward Beatrice. "You okay?" He reached out awkwardly for his wife's face, nearly poking her in the eye. "Sorry." "That's all right. I'm fine. How do you feel?" "With my fingers."

"That's quite frontal-lobish. What's your name?" "Peter Brinkman."

Beatrice glanced at Elizabeth. "He's all yours," she said. Peter flopped his head over and studied Elizabeth, as if seeing her for the first time. "Elizabeth?" he said foggily. "You're back?" Elizabeth jerked her head at Beatrice. "Your wife came and got me." "Beatrice?" His face twisted in disbelief. "That's right, Peter," said Beatrice.

"Peter," he repeated. "And Peter who?" she demanded. "Peter Jance," he said. "And you do know who I am?" "My better half?" he said, looking at Elizabeth for confirmation. "You're d.a.m.n right, you old goat," said Beatrice. "How many fingers?" she asked, holding up her hand spread wide. "Four."

"Try again."

"Four. The other one's a thumb."

He gave a sly, crooked grin. She gave him a shove. "Very funny. Now stop scaring the bejesus out of both of us." "I scared the s.h.i.+t out of myself;" he said solemnly, sitting up and shaking his head. He seemed to be getting more and more lucid. Turning to Elizabeth, he asked if she was okay. Elizabeth shrugged, holding back tears.

"They almost had her," said Beatrice.

"Is that a fact? See, I said you were better off with us, Elizabeth," Peter said. "You never said us."'

"I didn't know at the time. So Beatrice saved your life?" "She has reason to, doesn't she?"

Peter looked at Beatrice. "I told you she would be suspicious. "She has good reason to be," said Beatrice, echoing Elizabeth's phrase and waving a hand at her. She was actually starting to like this kid. "You can give Hans a hug," Beatrice said. "Just keep your hands off Peter." "Thank you, I'll pa.s.s."

"Up to you," said Beatrice.

The cab swung up the ramp toward I-95. After a moment, Elizabeth turned to Beatrice again, peering right past Peter. "What did you mean, of course I'm not a doctor'?" "I shouldn't have said that."

"You shouldn't have. You're like those mothers who can bake pies and like it when their daughters can't." "I couldn't bake a pie to save my life," Beatrice said quietly. "And I bet you would make a crackerjack doctor." "Did I miss something?" Peter asked.

"Be still," Beatrice said.

She and Elizabeth stared at each other until it seemed silly to continue, and then they all fell silent. When the cab pulled into Fort Lauderdale/Hollywood International Airport thirty minutes later, they had dressed Peter in a new s.h.i.+rt and had cleaned him up sufficiently so as not to draw attention to themselves. He was weak but alert, and after ditching the Combat Folder and the can of mace Peter had bought in Coral Gables, they all three caught Delta Airlines Flight 406 to New York without incident. Airborne and eavesdropping on their flight attendants, they learned why their escape had been so easy. A security guard at Miami International had been found half-strangled in a men's room, victim of an apparent terrorist attack, and all extra security at Fort Lauderdale International had been pulled to the site for support. 18 DELTA FLIGHT 406.

The Boeing 767 was only half-full; they were able to find three seats together in the rear, away from the other pa.s.sengers. For the first thirty minutes, Peter was on edge, half-expecting a tap on his shoulder from a flight attendant. "He's always been a little jumpy," Beatrice said to Elizabeth. "When we were young and poor, we used to slip into theater lobbies at intermission, then sneak in for the second act. Peter was always sure we d be hauled off to jail." "Yes, and one time they did kick us out," Elizabeth said, drawing from an unexpected memory of the usher's hand on her elbow. Beatrice blinked. "Once," she said carefully. "Some boorish usher who was out to prove something. Once out often times." She couldn't go on talking as if it were simple chatter. The girl's memory had profoundly startled her. "Peter, dear, why don't you sit by the window? Elizabeth and I need to have some girl talk." Peter dutifully got up and exchanged places with his wife. Beatrice sat down next to Elizabeth and leaned closer. "How many hours do you sleep at night?"

"Is this medical curiosity?" Elizabeth asked. "Let's call it that, yes.

Elizabeth decided to indulge her. At least Beatrice wasn't treating her like an ordinary person. She actually admired the woman's calm, her sense of irony and resilience. This is me in fifty years, she couldn't help thinking. If I live that long, she corrected herself. "Never more than six," she answered.