by Harlan Coben
Matt pulled into the Harrisburg airport parking lot. The Mauser M2 was still in h is pocket. No way he could take it with him. Matt jammed the weapon under the f ront passenger seat because, if things did not go as planned, he might be back.
The Isuzu had served him well. He wanted to write a note to its owner, e xplaining what he had done and why. With luck there'd be a chance to explain in t he future.
Now to see if his plan worked. . . .
But first, he needed sleep. He bought a baseball cap in the souvenir store. Then h e found a free chair in the arrivals area, folded his arms across his chest, c losed his eyes, pulled the brim low across his face. People slept in airports a ll the time, he figured. Why would anyone bother him?
He woke up an hour later, feeling like absolute hell. He headed upstairs to the d eparture level. He bought some extra-strength Tylenol and Motrin, took three of e ach. He cleaned up in the bathroom.
The line at the ticket sales counter was long. That was good, if the timing w orked. He wanted the staff to be busy. When it was his turn, the woman behind t he desk gave him that distracted smile.
"To Chicago, Flight 188," he said.
"That flight leaves in twenty minutes," she said.
"I know. There was traffic and--"
"May I see your picture ID, please?"
He gave her his driver's license. She typed in "Hunter, M." This was the moment o f truth. He stood perfectly still. She frowned and typed some more. Nothing h appened. "I don't see you in here, Mr. Hunter."
"That's odd."
"Do you have your booking number?"
"I sure do."
He handed the one he'd gotten when he made the reservation on the phone. She t yped in the letters: YTIQZ2. Matt held his breath.
The woman sighed. "I see the problem."
"Oh?"
She shook her head. "Your name is misspelled on the reservation. You're listed h ere as Mike, not Matt. And the last name is Huntman, not Hunter."
"Honest mistake," Matt said.
"You'd be surprised how often it happens."
"Nothing would surprise me," he said.
They shared a world-is-full-of-dopes laugh. She printed out his ticket and c ollected the money. Matt smiled, thanked her, and headed to the plane.
There was no nonstop from Harrisburg to Reno, but that might work in his favor.
He didn't know how the airline computer system meshed with the federal g overnment's, but two short flights would probably work better than one long o ne. Would the computer system pick up his name right away? Matt doubted it-- or m aybe hope sprang eternal. Thinking logically, the whole thing would have to t ake some time-- gathering the information, sorting it, getting it to the right p erson. A few hours at a minimum.
He'd be in Chicago in one.
It sounded good in theory.
When he landed safely at O'Hare in Chicago, he felt his heart start up again. He d isembarked, trying not to look conspicuous, planning an escape route in case he s aw a row of police officers at the gate. But no one grabbed him when he came o ff the plane. He let out a long breath. So they hadn't located him-- yet. But n ow came the tricky part. The flight to Reno was longer. If they put together w hat he'd done the first time, they'd have plenty of time to nail him.
So he tried something slightly different.
Another long line at the airline purchasing desk. Matt might need that. He w aited, snaking through the velvet ropes. He watched, seeing which employee l ooked most tired or complacent. He found her, on the far right. She looked b ored past the point of tears. She examined IDs, but there was little spark in h er eyes. She kept sighing. She kept glancing around, clearly distracted.
Probably had a personal life, Matt thought. Maybe a fight with the husband or h er teenage daughter or who knew what?
Or maybe, Matt, she's very astute and just has a tired-looking face.
Still, what other options were there? When Matt got to the front of the line and h is agent wasn't free, he faked looking for something and told the family behind h im to go ahead. He did that one more time and then it was his agent's turn to s ay, "Next."
He approached as inconspicuously as possible. "My name is Matthew Huntler." He h anded her a piece of paper with the booking number on it. She took it and s tarted typing.
"Chicago to Reno/Tahoe, Mr. Huntler."
"Yes."
"ID, please."
This was the hardest part. He had tried to set it up as smoothly as possible. M.
Huntler was a member of their frequent-flier club-- Matt had signed him up a few h ours ago. Computers don't know from subtlety. Humans sometimes do.
He gave her his wallet. She did not look at it at first. She was still typing i nto the computer. Maybe he'd get lucky here. Maybe she wouldn't even check his ID.
"Any luggage to check?"
"Not today, no."
She nodded, still typing. Then she turned toward his ID. Matt felt his stomach t umble. He remembered something Bernie had sent him by e-mail several years ago.
It said:
Here's a fun test. Read this sentence: FINISHED FILES ARE THE RESULT OF YEARS OF SCIENTIFIC STUDY COMBINED WITH THE
EXPERIENCE OF YEARS.
Now count the F's in that sentence.
He had done it and ended up with four. The real answer was six. You don't see e very letter. That's not how we're built. He was counting on something like that h ere. Hunter, Huntler. Would someone really catch the difference?
The woman said to him. "Aisle or window."
"Aisle."
He'd made it. The security check went even easier-- after all, Matt had already b een ID'd at the counter, right? The security guard looked at his picture, at h is face, but he didn't come up with the fact that the ID said Hunter while the b oarding pass read Huntler. Typos are made all the time anyway. You see hundreds o r thousands of boarding passes each day. You really wouldn't notice such a s mall thing.
Once again Matt got to his plane right as the gate was about to close. He s ettled into his aisle seat, closed his eyes, and didn't wake up until the pilot a nnounced their descent into Reno.
The door to Mother Katherine's office was closed.
This time there was no flashback for Loren. She pounded hard on the door and put h er hand on the knob. When she heard Mother Katherine say, "Come in," she was r eady.
The Mother Superior had her back to the door. She did not turn around when Loren e ntered. She merely asked, "Are you sure Sister Mary Rose was murdered?"
"Yes."
"Do you know who did it?"
"Not yet."
Mother Katherine nodded slowly. "Have you learned her real identity?"
"Yes," Loren said. "But it would have been easier if you'd just told me."
She expected Mother Katherine to argue, but she didn't. "I couldn't."
"Why not?"
"Unfortunately it was not my place."
"She told you?"
"Not exactly, no. But I knew enough."
"How did you figure it out?"
The old nun shrugged. "Some of her statements about her past," she said. "They d idn't add up."
"You confronted her?"
"No, never. And she never told me her true identity. She said it would endanger o thers. But I know that it was sordid. Sister Mary Rose wanted to move past it.
She wanted to make amends. And she did. She contributed much to this school, to t hese children."
"With her work or with finances?"
"Both."
"She gave you money?"
"The parish," Mother Katherine corrected. "Yes, she gave quite a bit."
"Sounds like guilt money."
Mother Katherine smiled. "Is there any other kind?"
"So that story about chest compressions . . . ?"
"I already knew about the implants. She told me. She also told me that if s omeone learned who she really was, they'd kill her."
"But you didn't think that happened."
/> "It appeared to be death by natural causes. I thought it best to leave it a lone."
"What changed your mind?"
"Gossip," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"One of our sisters confided to me that she had seen a man in Sister Mary Rose's r oom. I was suspicious, of course, but I couldn't prove anything. I also needed t o protect the school's reputation. So I needed this investigated quietly and w ithout my betraying Sister Mary Rose's trust."
"Enter me."
"Yes."
"And now that you know she was murdered?"
"She left a letter."
"For whom?"
Mother Katherine showed her the envelope. "A woman named Olivia Hunter."
Adam Yates was closing in on panic.
He parked a good distance from the old brewery and waited while Cal quickly c leaned up. The clues would be gone. Cal's weapon could not be traced. The l icense plates they were using would lead to nowhere. Some crazy person might i dentify a huge man chasing a woman but there would be no practical way of l inking them with the dead bartender.
Perhaps.
No, no perhaps about it. He had been in worse scrapes. The bartender had pulled a rifle on Cal. It would have his fingerprints on it. The untraceable gun would b e left behind. They would both be out of state in a matter of hours.
They would get through it.
When Cal sat in the passenger seat, Adam said, "You messed up."
Cal nodded. "I did at that."
"You shouldn't have tried to shoot her."
He nodded again. "A mistake," he agreed. "But we can't let her go. If her b ackground comes out--"
"It's going to come out anyway. Loren Muse knows about it."
"True, but without Olivia Hunter, it doesn't lead anyplace. If she's caught, she w ill try to save herself. That may mean looking into what happened all those y ears ago."
Yates felt something inside him start to tear. "I don't want to hurt anyone."
"Adam?"
He looked at the big man.
"It's too late for that," Dollinger said. "Us or them, remember?"
He nodded slowly.
"We need to find Olivia," Dollinger said. "And I do mean we. If other agents a rrest her . . ."
Yates finished it for him. "She may talk."
"Precisely."
"So we call her in as a material witness," Yates said. "Tell them to keep an eye o n the nearby airports and train stations but not to do anything until they n otify us."
Cal nodded. "Already done."
Adam Yates considered his options. "Let's head back to the county office. Maybe Loren found something useful on that Kimmy Dale."
They had driven about five minutes when the phone rang. Cal picked it up and b arked, "Agent Dollinger."
Cal listened closely.
"Let her land. Have Ted follow her. Do not, repeat, do not, approach. I'll be on t he next plane out."
He hung up.
"What?"
"Olivia Hunter," he said. "She's already on a plane to Reno."
"Reno again," Yates said.
"Home of the deceased Charles Talley and Max Darrow."
"And maybe the tape." Yates made a right up ahead. "All the signs are pointing w est, Cal. I think we better get to Reno too."
Chapter 51
THE TAXI DRIVER WORKED for a company called Reno Rides. He pulled to a full s top, shifted in park, turned around, and looked Olivia up and down. "You sure t his is the place, ma'am?"
Olivia could only stare.
"Ma'am?"
An ornate cross dangled from the taxi's rearview mirror. Prayer cards w allpapered the glove compartment.
"Is this 488 Center Lane Drive?" she asked.
"It is."
"Then this is the place." Olivia reached into her purse. She handed him the m oney. He handed her a pamphlet.
"You don't have to do this," he said.
The pamphlet was church-affiliated. John 3:16 was on the cover. She managed to s mile.
"Jesus loves you," the driver said.
"Thank you."
"I'll take you anywhere else you want to go. No charge."
"It's okay," Olivia said.
She stepped out of the taxi. The driver gave her a forlorn look. She waved as he d eparted. Olivia cupped a hand over her eyes. The sign of tired neon read: EAGER BEAVER--NUDE DANCING.
Her body began to quake. Old reaction, she guessed. She had never been in this p lace, but she knew it. She knew the dirty pickups that littered the lot. She k new the men trudging in mindlessly, the low lights, the sticky feel of the d ance pole. She headed toward the door, knowing what she'd find inside.
Matt feared prison-- going back. This, right in front of her, was her prison.
Candi Cane lives another day.
Olivia Hunter had tried to exorcise Candace "Candi Cane" Potter years ago. Now t he girl was back in a big bad way. Forget what experts tell you: You can indeed w ipe away the past. Olivia knew that. She could jam Candi in some back room, l ock the door, destroy the key. She had almost done it-- would have done-- but t here'd been one thing that always kept that door, no matter how hard she p ushed, from closing all the way.
Her child.
A chill scrambled down her back. Oh, God, she thought. Was her daughter working h ere?
Please no.
It was four P. M. Still plenty of time before the midnight meeting. She could go s omewhere else, find a Starbucks maybe or get a motel room, grab some sleep. She h ad caught a little shut-eye on the plane out here, but she could definitely use m ore.
When she first landed, Olivia called FBI headquarters and asked to speak to Adam Yates. When she was connected to the office of the Special Agent in Charge, she h ung up.
So Yates was legit. Dollinger too, she supposed.
That meant that two FBI agents had tried to kill her.
There would be no arrest or capture. She knew too much.
The last words Clyde had said to her came back: "Just tell me where it is. . .
."
It was starting to make some sense. There were rumors about Clyde making tapes f or blackmail. He'd probably blackmailed the wrong guy-- either Yates or somebody c lose to them. Somehow that led him to poor Cassandra. Did she have the tapes?
Was she in them?
Standing there, reading the sign about the $4.99 EAGER BEAVER BUFFET! Olivia n odded to herself.
That was it. It had to be. She started walking toward the front door.
She should wait, come back.
No.
She got a curious look at the door. Women do not come to these places alone.
Every once in a while a man might bring a girlfriend. The girlfriend would be t rying to show she was hip. Or maybe she had lesbian tendencies. Whatever. But w omen never came in alone.
Heads turned when she entered, but not as many as you'd think. People reacted s lowly at places like this. The air was syrupy, languid. The lights were down.
Jaws remained slack. Most patrons probably assumed that she was either a working g irl on her downtime or a lesbian waiting for her lover's shift to end.
The Human League's "Don't You Want Me" played over the sound system, a song that h ad been an already aged classic when Olivia had danced. Retro, she guessed, but s he had always liked the track. In this place, the lyrics were supposed to be a s exy come-on, but if you listened closely, Phil Oakey, the lead singer, made you f eel the pain and shock of having your heart broken. The title wasn't repeated w ith lust. It was repeated with shattering disbelief.
Olivia took a seat in a back booth. There were three dancers onstage right now.
Two looked off at nothing. One worked a customer, feigning passion, inviting him t o jam dollar bills into her G-string. The man complied. She took in the a udience and realized that nothing had changed in the decade since she'd worked r ooms like these. The men were of the same variety. Some had the blank faces.
Some had the glazed smile. Some
tried a cocky look, a swagger in their e xpression, as if they were somehow above it all. Others aggressively downed t heir beers, staring at the girls with naked hostility, as if demanding an a nswer to the eternal question, "Is that all there is?"
The girls onstage were young and on drugs. You could tell. Her old roommate Kimmy had two brothers who OD'd. Kimmy wouldn't tolerate drug use. So Olivia--n o, Candi-- took to drinking, but Clyde Rangor had made her stop when she started s tumbling onstage. Clyde as a rehab counselor. Weird, but there you have it.
The grease from the awful lunch buffet took to the air, becoming more a skin c oating than a smell. Who ate that stuff? she wondered. Buffalo wings dating b ack to the Carter administration. Hot dogs that sit in water until, well, until t hey were gone. French fries so oily it makes picking them up a near i mpossibility. Fat men circled the dishes and piled their Styrofoam plates to d izzying heights. Olivia could almost see their arteries hardening in the dim l ight.
Some strip joints called themselves "gentlemen's clubs," and businessmen wore s uits and acted above the riffraff. There was no such pretense at the Eager Beaver. This was a place where tattoos outnumbered teeth. People fought. The b ouncers had bigger guts than muscle because muscle was show and these guys w ould seriously kick your ass.
Olivia was not scared or intimidated, but she wasn't sure what she was doing h ere. The girls onstage began their rotation. The dancer at the one spot went o ffstage. A bubbly young girl came on in the three spot. No way was she legal a ge. She was all legs, moving on the high heels like a colt. Her smile looked a lmost genuine, so Olivia figured that the life had not yet been ripped out of h er.
"Get you something?"
The waitress looked at the oddity that was Olivia with a wary eye.
"Coca-Cola please."
She left. Olivia kept her eye on the bubbly young girl. Something about her b rought back memories of poor Cassandra. Just the age, she guessed. Cassandra h ad been far prettier. And then, as she looked at the three girls still onstage, t he obvious question hit her: Was one of these girls her daughter?
She looked at their faces for any sort of resemblance and saw none. That meant n othing, of course. She knew that. The waitress delivered the Coke. Olivia just l et it sit there. There was no way she'd drink from any of these glasses.
Ten minutes later the girls rotated again. Another new girl. Probably running a f ive shift-- three girls on, two girls off, fairly steady rotation. Could be a s ix shift. She wondered about Matt, about how he'd find his way out here. He had s eemed so confident that he'd be able to make it, or had that been false bravado f or her sake?
