His words hung between them. She watched the scenery go by, houses after houses after houses filled with people who went about their ordinary lives, not worrying about stalkers or death or losing everything.
“This isn’t normal for you, is it?” she asked after a moment.
“Being cautious?” he said. “Of course it is.”
“No.” Paige spoke softly. “Taking care of someone like this.”
He seemed even more intent on the road than he had been. “All cases are different.”
“Really?”
He turned to her, opened his mouth, and then closed it again, sighing. “Josiah Wells is a predator.”
“I know,” she said.
“We have to do what we can to catch him.” His tone was odd. She frowned. Was that an apology for something she didn’t understand? Or an explanation for his attentiveness?
Maybe it was both.
He turned onto the road leading to San Francisco International Airport. The traffic seemed even thicker here, through all the construction and the dust. It seemed like they were constantly remodeling the place. Somehow he made it through the confusing signs to Short Term Parking. He found a space, parked, and then grabbed her laptop from the back.
“You’re coming in?” she asked.
“I want to see you get on that plane.” He seemed oddly determined.
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course I do,” he said and got out of the car.
San Francisco International Airport was an old airport, built right on the bay. The airport had been trying to modernize for years. The new parts were grafted on like artificial limbs.
Paige took a deep breath, grabbed her stuffed oversized purse, and let Conover lead her inside. She supposed they looked like any couple as they went through the automatic doors, stopping to examine the signs above them pointing to the proper airline. Conover was watching the other passengers. Paige was checking out the lines.
She had bought herself a first class ticket—spending more money than she had spent for her very first car. But she was leaving everything behind. The last thing she wanted was to be crammed into couch next to a howling baby and an underpaid, stressed businessman.
She hurried to the first class line, relieved that it was short. Conover stayed beside her, frowning as he watched the people flow past. He seemed both disappointed and alert. He was expecting something. But what?
Paige stepped to the ticket counter, gave her name, showed her identification, answered the silly security questions, and got her E-ticket with the gate number written on the front.
“You’ve got an hour and a half,” Conover said as she left the ticket counter. “Let’s get breakfast.”
His hand rested possessively on her elbow, and he pulled her close as he spoke. She glanced at him, but he still wasn’t watching her.
“I have to make a stop first,” she said.
He nodded.
They walked past the arrival and departure monitors, past the newspaper vending machines and toward the nearest restrooms. This part of the San Francisco airport still had a seventies security design. Instead of a bank of x-ray machines and metal detectors blocking entry into the main part of the terminal, there was nothing. The security measures were in front of each gate: you couldn’t enter without going past a security checkpoint. So different from New York, where you couldn’t even walk into some areas without a ticket. Conover would have no trouble remaining beside her until it was time for her to take off.
She went into the ladies room, leaving Conover near the departure monitors outside. The line was long—several flights had just arrived— but Paige didn’t mind. This was the first time she had a moment to herself since Conover had arrived the night before.
It seemed like weeks ago.
She was going to be sorry to say good-bye to him at the gate. In that short period of time, she had come to rely on him more than she wanted to admit. He made her feel safe for the first time since she had met Josiah Wells.
As she exited the ladies room, a hand grabbed her arm and pulled her sideways. She felt something poke against her back.
“Think you could leave me?”
Wells. She shook her arm, trying to get away, but he clamped harder.
“Scream,” he said, “and I will hurt you.”
“You can’t hurt me,” she said. “You can’t have weapons in an airport.”
“You can bring a gun into an airport,” he said softly, right in her ear. “You just can’t take it through security.”
She felt cold then. He was as crazy as Conover said, then. And as dangerous.
“Josiah.” She spoke loudly, hoping that Conover could hear her. She didn’t see him anywhere. “I’m going to New York on business. When I come back, we can start planning the wedding.”
Wells was silent for a moment. He didn’t move at all. She couldn’t see his face, but she could feel his body go rigid. “You’re playing with me.”
“No,” she said, letting her voice work for her, hoping it sounded convincing. She kept scanning the crowd, but Conover was gone. “I got your ring last night. I decided I needed to settle a few things in New York before I told you I’d say yes.”
Wells put his chin on her shoulder. His breath blew against her hair. “You’re not wearing the ring.”
“It didn’t fit.” she said. “But I have it with me. I was going to have it sized in New York.”
“Let me see it,” he said.
“You’ll have to let me dig into my purse.”
She wasn’t sure he’d believe her. Then, after a moment, he let her go. She brought up her purse, pretended to rummage through it, and took a step toward the ladies room door, praying her plan would work.
He was frowning. He looked like any other businessman in the airport, his suit neat and well tailored, his trench coat long and expensive, marred only by the way he held his hand in the pocket.
She waited just a split second, until there were a lot of people around from another arriving plane, and then she screamed, “He’s got a gun!” and ran toward the ladies room.
Only she didn’t make it. She was tackled from behind, and went sprawling across the faded carpet. A gunshot echoed around her, and people started screaming, running. The body on top of hers prevented her from moving, and for a moment, she thought whoever had hit her had been shot.
Then she felt arms around her, dragging her toward the departure monitors.
“You little fool,” Conover said in her ear. “I had this under control.”
He pushed her against the base of the monitor, then turned around. Half the people around Wells had remained, and two of them had him in their grasp, while another was handcuffing him. Plainclothes airport police officers. More airport police were hurrying to the spot from the front door.
Passengers were still screaming and running out of the airport. Airline personnel were crouched behind their desks. Paige looked to see whether anyone was shot, but she didn’t see anyone lying injured anywhere.
Her breathing was shallow, and she suddenly realized how terrified she had been. “What do you mean, under control? This doesn’t look under control to me.”
Security had Wells against the wall and were searching him for more weapons. One of the uniformed airport police had pulled Wells’ head back and was yelling at him. Some of the passengers, realizing the threat was over, were drifting back toward the action.
Conover kept one hand on her, holding her in place. With the other, he pulled out his cell phone. He hit the speed-dial and put the small phone against his ear.
“Wait a minute!” Paige said.
He turned away slightly, as if he didn’t want to speak to her. Then he said into the phone, “Frank, do me a favor. Call the news media—everyone you can think of. Tell them something just happened at the airport…. No. I’m not going through official channels. That’s why I called you. Keep my name out of it and get them here.”
He hung up and glanced
at Paige. She had never felt so many emotions in her life. Anger, adrenaline, confusion. Then she saw security lead Wells away.
Conover took her arm and helped her up. “What’s going on?” she asked again.
“Outside,” he said, and pushed her through the crowd. After a moment, she remembered to check for her laptop. He had it, and somehow she had retained her purse. They reached the front sidewalk only to find it a confusion of milling people—some still terrified from the shots, others just arriving and trying to drop off their luggage. Cabs honked and nearly missed each other. Buses were backing up as the crowd spilled into the street.
“Oh, this is so much better,” she said.
He moved her down the sidewalk toward another terminal. The crowd thinned here.
“What the hell was that?” she asked. “Where were you? How did he get past you?”
“He didn’t get past me,” Conover said softly.
She felt the blood leave her face. “You set me up? I was bait?”
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”
“Oh, really? He was supposed to drag me onto the nearest flight? Or shoot me?”
“I didn’t know he had a gun,” Conover said. “He was ballsier than I expected. And he wouldn’t have taken you from San Francisco.”
“You know this how? Because you’re psychic?”
“No, he wanted to control you. He couldn’t control you on a plane. I had security waiting outside. A few plainclothes had been around us since we arrived. He was supposed to grab you, but you weren’t supposed to try to get away.”
“Nice if you would have told me that.”
He shook his head slightly. “Most people wouldn’t have fought him. Most people would have cooperated.”
“Most people would have appreciated an explanation!” Her voice rose and a few stray passengers looked her direction. She made herself take a deep breath before she went on. “You knew he was going to be here. You knew it and didn’t tell me.”
“I guessed,” he said.
“What did you do, tip him off?”
“No,” Conover said softly. “You did.”
“I did? I didn’t talk to him.”
“You booked your e-ticket on-line.” His face was close to hers, his voice as soft as possible in all the noise. “He’d hacked into your system weeks ago. That’s how he found your address and your phone number. Your public e-mail comes into the same computer as all your other e-mail. He’s been following your every move ever since.”
“Software genius,” she muttered, shaking her head. She should have seen that.
Conover nodded. Across the way, reporters started converging on the building, cameras hefted on shoulders, running toward the doors. Conover shielded her, but she knew they would want to talk to her.
“Why didn’t you warn me?” she asked again.
“I thought you’d be too obvious then, and he wouldn’t try for you. I didn’t expect you to be so cool under pressure. Telling him about the ring, pretending you were interested, was smart.”
One of the reporters was working the crowd. People were turning toward the camera.
“Where were you?” she asked. “I looked for you.”
“I was behind you all the time.”
“So if he took me outside…?”
“I would have followed.”
“I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell me not to get the ticket on line?”
“The ticket was a gift,” Conover said. “I didn’t realize you were going to do it that way. You told me when you finished. His file from the previous case mentioned how he had used the internet to spy on his first victim. He was obviously doing that with you.”
“But the airport, how did they know?”
“I called ahead, said that I was coming in, expecting a difficult passenger. I faxed his photo from your place while you were asleep. I asked them to wait until I got him outside, unless he did something threatening.”
She frowned. More reporters were approaching. These looked like print media. No cameras, but lots of determination. “You could have waited and caught him at home.”
“I could have,” Conover said. “But this is better.”
She turned to him, remembering the feel of the gun against her back, the screaming passengers, the explosive sound when the gun went off. “Someone could have been killed.”
“I didn’t expect a gun,” Conover said. “And I didn’t think he’d be rash enough to use it in an airport.”
“But he did,” she said.
“And it’s going to help us.” Conover watched another set of reporters run into the building. “First, his assault on you in an airport makes it a federal case. The gun adds to the case, and all the witnesses make it even better. Then there is the fact that airports are filled with security cameras. There’s bound to be tape on this.”
She frowned, trying to take herself out of this, trying to listen like a writer instead of a potential victim.
“And then,” Conover said, “he attacked you. You’re nationally known. It’ll be big news. Our DA might have lost a stalking case against Wells, but the feds aren’t going to let a guy who went nuts in an airport walk, no matter how much money he has.”
“You set him up,” she said. “If this had failed—”
“At the very least, I would have been fired,” Conover said. “But it wouldn’t have failed. I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you. I didn’t let anything happen to you.”
“But you took such a risk.” She raised her head toward his. “Why?”
He put a finger under her chin, and for a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her.
“Because you didn’t want to leave San Francisco,” he said softly.
“I get to stay home?” she asked.
He smiled, and let his finger drop. “Yeah.”
He stared at her uncertainly, as if he were afraid she was going to yell at him again. But she felt a relief so powerful that it completely overwhelmed her.
She threw her arms around him. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, his arms wrapped around her and pulled her close.
“I don’t even know your first name,” she whispered.
“Pete,” he said, burying his face in her hair.
“Pete.” She tested it. “It suits you.”
“I’d ask if I could call you,” he said, “but I’m not real good on dates.”
That pulled a reluctant laugh from her. “Obviously I’m not either. But I make a mean chocolate cake.”
“That’s right,” he said. “Let’s go finish it.”
“Don’t we have to talk to the press?”
“For a moment.” He pulled back just enough to smile at her. “And then I get to take you home.”
“Where I get to stay.” She couldn’t convey how much this meant to her. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “My pleasure.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling his strength, feeling the comfort. It didn’t matter how he looked or whether he knew La Boheme from Don Giovanni. All that mattered was how he made her feel.
Safe. Appreciated. And maybe even loved.
“The Perfect Man” by Kristine Kathryn Rusch first published in Murder Most Romantic, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Denise Little, Cumberland House Press, 2001.
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