by Tom Savage
He looked around him. He had left the highway and entered the airport grounds. Now he was turning into the road that would lead to the terminal. Off on the left, dimly illuminated by yellow sodium-vapor lights, was a big, crowded parking lot. The sight of it gave him an idea.
He turned into the parking lot. Then he stopped the car, got out, and began to walk, moving quickly between the long rows of cars, remembering the cemetery and its rows of headstones. He walked until he came to a relatively uncrowded section at the farthest part of the lot from the terminal. There was a field beyond it, and runways beyond that. Off in the distance, the lights of a 747 winked in the night as it taxied slowly down the long runway and turned around, preparing for takeoff.
Mark stopped when he reached the edge of the lot, gazing out across the grassy field. It was a wide space, perhaps a hundred yards of grass before the fences separating it from the runways. Yes, he decided, this field would do. It was as good a place as any.
He dropped the bag, unzipped it, and reached inside, rummaging. When he found what he wanted, he walked out into the wet field. There was a rumbling in the distance, growing louder as the 747’s powerful engines revved to full capacity and the airliner began to move, gaining in speed as it went. The roar was deafening as the plane rose majestically up from the earth and sailed off into the night sky. Mark raised his arm, reared back, and threw.
The black cellular telephone took off, sailing up and out in a wide arc, as the plane had just done. The lights of the parking lot allowed him to watch it fly away across the field before plummeting down to land near the far fences. Even with the roar of the jet, Mark could hear the faint, profoundly satisfying sound as the phone, the instrument symbolic of Scavenger’s domination of him, smashed to pieces.
Then Mark picked up his bag, walked back across the parking lot to his car, and drove away. He parked in the Hertz lot and went into the terminal, moving purposefully, carefully surveying every person and knot of people before him as he went. No police, as far as he could see. He would avoid anyone in a uniform who might be airport security, and he would avoid any newsstands. He had not seen a newspaper since the one in New Orleans yesterday, and he had no way of knowing whether there were pictures of him in any of them.
No way of knowing, he mused as he approached the Hertz counter in the corner of the big main concourse: that was precisely the problem. He had no way of knowing the extent of police interest in him. The newscaster had merely said that he was wanted for questioning. He didn’t know how much manpower that would entail, how carefully or thoroughly they would be looking for him. But he was taking no chances.
The Hertz agent took no unusual notice of him as he turned in his keys and settled his bill. Then he moved on to the nearest bank of automated teller machines. He used his bank card to remove the maximum amount of cash allowed, hoping again that his checking account had not been flagged. He glanced nervously around the terminal as the machine produced his money. Three hundreds, the rest in twenties and tens. When he added it to the cash already in his wallet, he could buy a one-way ticket and still have several hundred left. Good. But first, another precaution.
He walked quickly away from the ATM, found a big chain drugstore in the row of shops on the mezzanine, and went inside. A quick stop in the men’s grooming section, then a pair of reflective mirrored sunglasses. Almost as an afterthought, he added a pair of scissors and a battery-operated electric shaver. What the hell? he decided as he paid in cash and went on to his next destination.
There was no security guard in the men’s room, he noted with relief. Nearly eleven at night: off hours. He went to a sink, removed his leather jacket, wet his hair, and went quickly to work. A few tired travelers came and went from the bathroom as he stood before the mirror, allowing the shampoolike substance to sink in, but no one took the slightest interest in him. Then he rinsed and started in with the scissors and the razor. The electric hand dryer did the rest. He gazed in the mirror, thinking, Not bad for an amateur.
Minutes later, the tall man with short, dark blond hair got in line at the airline’s ticket purchase counter. When it was his turn, he went up to the smiling young woman, producing an expression of sorrow on his face. He told her where he wanted to go, and she said there were seats available on the one o’clock flight. He pulled out several hundreds, which gave her pause. He explained in a low, sad voice that there was a family emergency. His father was ill, probably dying, and he would have to pay cash because his credit cards were maxed out. He even managed a couple of tears as he gazed sadly at the woman. Nodding sympathetically, she began to process the ticket.
“Name?’ she asked as she typed information on her computer keyboard.
Mark stared at the woman, not seeing her. He was lying in a wet road above this city, a dead police office beside him, staring into the eyes of madness. And now, as then, came on epiphany.
He took out his new sunglasses and put them on. Then he reached absently up to touch his short blond hair. He hadn’t uttered it in so long, he was wondering if he could, if it would be possible. But he surprised himself. He was going home, after all, home to his family. His voice, when it came, was clear and strong.
“My name is Matthew Farmer.”
ARTICLE #4
PHOTOGRAPH
FRIDAY
37
At first there was darkness, followed by a glimmer of light. No, not a glimmer; merely the sensation, the knowledge that there was light against her closed eyelids. It was her first thought as she swam slowly back to consciousness. Her second thought was that she was bound. She knew before she opened her eyes that her hands and feet had been restrained, were tied to something, and that there was tape over her mouth. Somewhere very close by, someone was playing a piano.
Wood. She felt cold, smooth, polished wood at her wrists and under her forearms. She was sitting in a chair with wooden arms, and there was upholstery, soft cushions under her and at her back. A big, sturdy, mahogany dining room chair, perhaps. She wriggled her left hand slightly: tape. She was not tied, but taped to the chair. Duct tape.
She did not open her eyes, not yet. Some instinct, some primeval rule of survival instructed her to stay very still in the chair. She listened: there were at least two other people in the room with her. The music was in front of her, and she heard the scrape of a chair and the rustling of paper—a newspaper?—behind her. She drew in a breath through her nose: smoke. The person somewhere behind her was seated, reading a newspaper and smoking a cigarette, or maybe a cigar.
Because her forearms were bare, she deduced that they had removed her coat. She was wearing the dark blue, short-sleeved wool dress from dinner with Jared. When had that been? she wondered. Yesterday? The day before? How long had she been unconscious?
Still without opening her eyes, Tracy tried to apply reason. The sweet chemical smell had to have been chloroform, or something very like it. It would only affect a human for—what? Three hours? Six? Not much more than that. The light against her closed eyelids seemed to be bright, brighter than artificial light. Conclusion: daylight. She’d been assaulted at ten o’clock at night, and the drug and her own shock would have kept her out for mere hours. It was the next morning, Friday. Had to be.
Now she concentrated on relaxing back into the chair and listening to the music. What could that tell her? She recognized the melody, an elegy by Mendelssohn. No, Massenet. Massenet wrote elegies. Her mind was working better now, getting up to speed. That would be important, she knew, after she opened her eyes and the people in the room with her knew she was awake. If there was going to be any opportunity for escape, she would have to be ready for it. She would probably be given only one chance, if that. As soon as she was unbound, she would run for her life. Or fight for it.
A sudden image came into her mind, of her mother preparing dinner in the house she’d grown up in, the house in Garden City, Long Island. And her father at the kitchen table, reading stock reports while her mother chopped vegetables. S
he’d stood in the kitchen doorway, just home from cheerleading practice, watching them, filled with a delicious feeling of warmth and security. Then the image faded, and she was in Paris with Alan, on their honeymoon, wandering along the left bank of the Seine, tossing breadcrumbs to the—
Birds. She banished the reverie and brought her frantic mind back to the present, to this unknown danger she was in. There was a bird nearby, somewhere outside the room, chattering. After a moment, another bird replied. And there was a different, more distant sound, nearly indistinguishable. Like a lawn mower, only deeper, more powerful. A tractor? Yes, a tractor. She was not in New York City, not in any city. She was in a house near trees, which explained the birds, and an open field, which would account for the tractor. The country. But where?
She inhaled deeply and took a risk. Slowly, carefully, she opened her eyes a little, just a slit, and peered into the gloom before her. The thin vertical line of harsh light came from between the drawn curtains of a very large window. No, French doors. The curtains were dark red and of some heavy material, velvet or damask. A wall, with pictures—framed photographs. A table by the wall, just at the perimeter of her vision, was crowded with gleaming white and black objects: a chessboard set for a game. Near the windows, in front of her and to her right, was a huge black grand piano with a silver candelabrum on it. The candles were lit, and whoever was playing the instrument was on the other side of them, blocked from her view. She dared not risk moving, attempting to twist around in the chair to see who was behind her. She closed her eyes again and waited.
While she waited, she allowed herself one more brief indulgence. She thought of Mark, of his eyes and his hair and his smile and his hard, lean body. They had made love that night, Sunday, the last time she had seen him. She thought of kissing him, laughing with him, grasping him, taking him inside her. His way of smiling across the pillows afterward, and of pulling her close before sleeping. Oh, God, she thought. Mark, will I ever see you again? Will we ever—
A harsh, discordant chord. Silence. A low, muttered profanity. Then the music began again, from the top of the piece. She strained slightly forward in the imprisoning chair, listening to the elegy more carefully because there was definitely something wrong with it. It was being played with a remarkable lack of skill, with frequent sour notes and fumbled chords, as if the pianist’s hands were unformed, too small to reach the required fingering. As if they were the hands of a child.
No, she reasoned. That is not possible. No one, not even a madman, would have a child in a room with a woman bound to a chair. She shook her head from side to side, dismissing the thought.
And the music stopped again.
“Good morning, Ms. Morgan.”
It was a man’s voice, low and clear. Amused? Her heart lurched against her chest, and then she shivered. In the silence of the moment that followed, she realized that she had been moving about, shaking her head, and that the pianist had seen it. He knew she was awake. It was no use pretending that she wasn’t. The scrape of a chair, the rustle of paper, and the person in the room behind her apparently stood up. Then the scrape of the piano bench, and the pianist, the one who had spoken, was on his feet as well. She took a long, deep breath through her nose and opened her eyes.
It was probably a good thing that her mouth was taped shut, she decided. When she saw, when she looked at the figure who now stood beside the piano, her first impulse was to scream. Bound as she was, she could only stare, her eyes widening in terror, in revulsion, in panic, as the figure grinned and came slowly toward her.
38
Thirteen years, Mark thought. Twelve years and four months, to be precise. He would be confronting the past, facing his demons here. Here, as never before.
He was home.
He remained in his seat until the plane had arrived at the gate and the seat belt sign was turned off. He listened as the engines’ roar subsided, stopped. A flight attendant was welcoming them to Chicago, thanking them for flying the airline, and reminding them to take all personal possessions. Please fly with us again, and have a nice day.
A nice day, he thought, glancing out through the porthole. Hardly that. Gray clouds were gathering here, as they had in Los Angeles. The bad weather seemed to be following him, tracking him across the continent. It was six in the morning here: he’d lost two hours flying east. The sun had presumably risen, but you wouldn’t know it looking out over the vast runways of America’s busiest airport. The clouds obscured everything, turning day to night.
He stood up and retrieved his bag from the overhead compartment, and he helped the pretty young blond woman who’d been sitting across the aisle from him to get down her overnight case. She smiled and thanked him. Mark smiled back, thinking briefly of Tracy. Then he followed the stream of passengers out of the plane into O’Hare International Airport.
Home, he thought again. I am here again, in the city where I spent the first twenty-three years of my life. Where my family lived, and where they died. I am in this place I vowed never to return to, and Scavenger has brought me here.
Scavenger. He began the now-familiar routine, scanning the crowds all around him for the tall, dark figure who was constantly there, constantly watching. He was not at all surprised to see that the man with the scar was nowhere in evidence. But he was here somewhere, Mark reasoned. He had to be.
Mark continued his surreptitious search as he made his way through the terminal to the Avis desk. He rented another Chevy, this one a Cavalier that turned out to be dark blue, watching the salesman nervously as the credit card sale was processed. No, Chicago wasn’t looking for him—yet. He went out to find the car in the lot, smiling once more at the pretty blond woman from the plane who was now getting into the rental car beside his. She smiled back, and he again thought, Tracy.
During the drive from the airport to Evanston, he went over it in his mind again. Second wind. That was what Scavenger had said, and his meaning was patently clear. Chicago, known variously as the Second City and the Windy City. Second wind. Very clever. But he already knew that his opponent was clever. It came as no surprise now.
Now it was up to Mark to be just as clever.
He had decided where to stay, hoping that the guest house within walking distance of his family home in Evanston was still in business and not full. No matter: there were other guest houses and hotels, and one would do as well as another. But he would start at the Red Rose Inn. He would book a room for two nights as Jared McKinley. He couldn’t use the name Matthew Farmer here, so close to the scene of the Farmer family tragedy. People might remember, particularly the British couple who owned the inn. He didn’t know them personally, but he remembered that their guest house was a favorite of the many visitors to nearby Northwestern University, designed along the lines of a small British hotel. He would drop off his bag in his room and proceed to the next move. His move, not Scavenger’s. The thought filled him with grim amusement.
The big, gabled white mansion was still there on the corner four blocks from his home, the pretty swinging sign still proclaiming it to be a guest house. He parked in the little lot behind the building, got his bag, and went inside, looking around him as he went up the walk to the front door. Still no sign of Scavenger, not that there would be. But Mark was being watched; he was certain of it.
The desk was in the front hall, with a cozy sitting room to his left and a cozy dining room with four or five tables on his right. The young woman who appeared when he rang the bell on the counter was American, not British, and Mark was sure he’d never seen her before. She introduced herself as Mrs. Baker, the proprietor, and Mark remembered that was the name of the old couple. This woman would be their daughter-in-law, he decided. They must have retired, leaving the business to their son and his wife. Mark smiled, paid cash for two nights, and signed the register as Jared McKinley.
“Welcome, Mr. McKinley,” she said as she led him upstairs to a cozy, immaculately clean little bedroom on the second floor. “We only have two gues
ts at the moment, you and an elderly lady across the hall from you, so you should find the place quiet. Enjoy your stay with us.”
Mark thanked her again, and with another smile she left him alone.
He looked at his watch: eight o’clock. He hadn’t been able to sleep on the plane, using the three-hour flight to formulate what he now thought of as his countermeasures, his defense against Scavenger. And he had only slept for a couple of hours last night, and fitfully at that. So his first order of business was a nap. He knew that Scavenger would show up eventually, later today, and he wanted to be alert when that happened.
He unpacked his toothbrush and other toiletries, and put them on the sink in the bathroom. Then he took off his shoes and socks and lay down on the big, firm bed. He was thinking about Ron O’Hara again. The agent was dead, a suicide, and Mark regretted it for several reasons. He had seemed like a nice man, but it was more than that. Mark knew that he could now use the man’s help. He needed the expertise of someone who was used to dealing with people like Scavenger. Someone who understood the twisted minds of sociopaths.
Just before he drifted off, he sat up on the bed, remembering his promise to himself. He reached for the bedside telephone, read the instructions for an outside line, and followed them. Tracy would not be home, as it would now be nine o’clock in New York, but he didn’t want to bother her in her office. He dialed her home number and waited while her recorded voice went through the familiar litany.
