by Thomas Perry
Cathy was walking along, planning to kill Catherine and take her name, identification, weapon, look—her place. The sight of it in the light of a streetlamp made it seem worse than just dying. This was a total obliteration, not like being killed but like being devoured.
She looked ahead to see if she could spot which of the cars parked at the curb would be the one, and her breath caught in her throat. It was a new, teal blue Acura. It was exactly the same as Catherine’s car, the one that had been burned in the fire.
Catherine knew now that Cathy had stepped off solid ground, and then kicked reality to pieces behind her. There was nothing holding her to the world anymore except some perverse interest in playing in the spaces between things—moving, fooling people, hiding, changing herself.
Catherine could see where this was going, as though simple foresight were clairvoyance. Cathy had made herself look enough like Catherine so she could flash the driver’s license or the police ID and get most people to think it was a match. She had probably become good enough at manipulating strangers to convince them that she was a police officer: people who met a cop weren’t suspicious of the cop’s identity; they were defensive about their own, anxious to get the cop’s approval.
What was coming was handcuffs. The handcuffs were in the purse, and Cathy had been using the purse to shield her gun from sight. She must have seen or felt the leather case with the handcuffs. She couldn’t hope to drive Catherine anywhere without them.
The handcuffs introduced a time limit. Cathy would walk her up to the car, and only then take out the cuffs. She would restrain Catherine’s wrists behind her, and put her in the seat. Catherine had to make a move before that happened, before they even got near the car. Cathy was smart enough to know that rather than being restrained and put in a car, Catherine would take the chance of dying in a fight.
Catherine stared ahead to detect an advantage, but it wasn’t there. It was still the broad, flat sidewalk, a few widely spaced saplings, a few parked cars. There were no garbage cans, no pieces of loose metal or wood, nothing she could snatch up and swing. The teal blue Acura was only forty feet away.
Catherine pivoted and swung hard. Her fist grazed Cathy’s chin, slid off, hit her neck and collarbone. Cathy staggered back, and the gun fired. There was a ricochet sound as the bullet chipped the pavement at their feet and flew off into the night.
The gun came up fast. Catherine had no time to strike it away, so she charged under it and plowed into Cathy’s midsection. Cathy’s left hand tangled in Catherine’s hair, tugging at it to pull her off, but Catherine kept pushing, digging in hard with her feet, and Cathy fell backward. Her back slammed into the door of a parked car, and the gun fired again. She couldn’t get the barrel of it around to aim it, so she pounded it down on Catherine’s head.
The pain exploded into a red flash in front of Catherine’s eyes, and she could feel it growing, blossoming. She punched at Cathy’s belly, and her hand hit something hard. She knew the feel—a gun. Cathy had taped a gun to her waist under her clothes. Catherine hit at Cathy’s face with her left hand and used her right to snatch the gun out of the tape, bring it upward, and pull the trigger.
Catherine Hobbes stepped off the airplane at Los Angeles International, hurried along the concourse carrying her overnight bag, and joined the gaggle of people stepping one by one onto the crowded escalator. She could hardly wait for it to take her down to the baggage area, where Joe Pitt would be waiting for her.
There was a tall man on the step ahead of her, so she had to look over his shoulder to see down through the glass wall below the escalator into the waiting area. She smiled when she spotted Pitt standing a distance away beneath the television sets that displayed flight arrival times. She could see him in profile, talking to someone. Catherine craned her neck to see the other person.
Beside him was a young blond woman clutching the extended handle of a small suitcase. She was clearly charmed with Joe Pitt. She reached up to touch her hair twice, her eyes widened as she looked at him, and she leaned forward to laugh at something he said. She gracefully reached into her purse, took out what seemed to be a business card, and held it out to Pitt. He took it.
Catherine’s stomach felt hollow, and her mouth was dry. She sensed that she was watching her time with him ending, just as she had watched the end of her marriage—Catherine was once again on the outside, looking into a room, seeing what she was not supposed to see. She knew that Joe had probably not even intended anything like this. He had come to the airport to pick her up, and while he was waiting, he had found himself in a conversation. He was simply being Joe Pitt. One of the reasons he was fun to be with was that he liked women. He had a cheerful, mildly cynical view of things that made them laugh. She was sure he had not searched for that young woman. He had simply found her—probably looked at her appreciatively, or said something friendly—and she had liked him.
There would always be women like that, and they would always like Joe Pitt. If Catherine was with him, moments like this would always be part of her life. They would happen over and over, and she would always catch herself wondering. She had known enough to understand this from the beginning, and she had decided she could live with the feeling. But this was more than a feeling. How could she have picked another man who would not be faithful to her? Somewhere there was a man who would be satisfied with just Catherine Hobbes, but Joe Pitt wasn’t the one.
Catherine looked over her shoulder, up the escalator. Maybe she could slip between the other passengers, make her way back up to the concourse, and exchange her return ticket for the next flight to Portland. She could call him on his cell phone. She would say, “Joe? You know, I’ve decided not to fly down to Los Angeles after all. Something’s come up and I can’t get away.” What was she thinking? A woman—an armed woman, at that—scrambling the wrong way up the escalator would be a breach of security, and they’d probably close down the whole terminal while they arrested her.
Already it was too late to do anything. She reached the foot of the escalator, looked down, and stepped off. She could not even pause, or she would cause other passengers to pile up behind her. She looked up and spotted him again, now standing alone. She walked directly toward him, and watched him recognize her. He grinned happily and bounded forward as though he was going to hug her.
She veered to stay an arm’s length from him, walking beside him toward the door to the street, and said, “Hi, Joe. Sorry if I’m late. I hope you didn’t get too lonely waiting for me.”
“No,” he said. “I happened to run into a woman I knew from the days in the D.A.’s office. She’s a crime reporter for the L.A. Times, the one who covered Tanya’s killings here.” He reached into his pocket, produced the business card that Catherine had seen him take a moment ago, and held it out to her. “She asked me to give you her card. She wants to interview you about the case.”
Catherine glanced down at it, then stopped and faced him. She said, “Aren’t you going to kiss me or anything?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THOMAS PERRY graduated from Cornell University with honors in English in 1969 and received a Ph.D. in English from the University of Rochester in 1974. He has been a university administrator and teacher, a writer-producer of prime-time network television series, and a writer of fiction. He is the author of thirteen previous critically acclaimed novels, including the Edgar Award winner The Butcher’s Boy and its sequel, Sleeping Dogs, the five-volume Jane Whitefield series, and the national bestsellers Death Benefits and Pursuit.
ALSO BY THOMAS PERRY
The Butcher’s Boy
Metzger’s Dog
Big Fish
Island
Sleeping Dogs
Vanishing Act
Dance for the Dead
Shadow Woman
The Face-Changers
Blood Money
Death Benefits
Pursuit
Dead Aim
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