more in the bag; a small package that he opened to find himself looking at a bottle of hair dye and a mustache, a tube of spirit gum. “Aw, now, wait a minute,” he said, scowling. Play-acting now? A disguise? Jesus God, that was absurd. Still, why was it in there if Gene (he had to be behind this) didn’t think it was important?
Chris sighed and shook his head. Then he saw another package on the bottom of the bag and lifted it out, a plastic envelope. It was heavy and he almost dropped it. Snatching at it clumsily before it could fall, he put the overnight bag on the floor and put the plastic envelope on his lap to unzip it.
He stared blankly at what was in the envelope.
Now the picture seemed complete. His life a maddening enigma.Men chasing him. Mysterious events. A flight to London. A change of clothes. A disguise kit.
A pistol.
He stared at it, an expression of distaste on his face. A clip of bullets was wrapped beside it. He had no idea what caliber it was except that it was smaller than a .45. Probably smaller than a .38 as well.
For what? he thought, unable to repress a shudder. What in God’s name was he up against? Did Gene actually think he might have to
shoot
someone?
He gasped and almost dropped the pistol as someone pounded on the door.
“Come on, there’s people waiting!” said an angry man.
Chris swallowed hard. Sweet Jesus, he thought. It’s heart-attack time.
Hastily, he put the pistol back into the plastic envelope, zipped it up and pushed it under the clothes inside the overnight bag. He’d dump the damn thing as soon as he could.
He wondered, for a few moments, how the bag had been brought up to the boarding area. How could it have passed the metal-detector? Another mystery. His brain was swollen with puzzles. He could sit in this booth for a year just analyzing all the questions raised since early this morning.
Forget it, he thought. Just… damn, forget it. He unlocked the door and left the booth; there
were
a lot of men waiting. A fat man wearing a red sport coat pushed by him and entered the booth, slamming the door. Sorry, pal, Chris thought. Have a primo b.m.
He made his way to the exit and left the men’s room. As he walked into the boarding area, he wondered if he should have stayed in the booth long enough to put on the mustache.
“Oh, that’s
ridiculous
,” he muttered. Forget about breakfast. He was going to down a couple of drinks so fast, they’d vaporize in his throat.
By the time he reached the bar, he’d changed his mind. His stomach was too empty. Except for a small bag of Fritos in Yuma, he’d had nothing since his mother’s house. Two drinks mightmake him reel. He ordered an Irish coffee and sat at the counter; there were no tables open.
A
mustache
, he thought, making a scoffing noise. He’d look like a Spanish pimp. No, if they were going to pick him up, let it be as himself, and not some character from a spy movie.
Fifteen minutes later, he paid for the Irish coffee and left the bar. He walked over to the gift shop and bought a copy of the
Los Angeles Times
to read on the plane. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to read about Nelson or not—or about himself for that matter, if there was anything about his situation. But he had to know.
Is this what it feels like to be a fugitive from justice? he thought as he crossed the boarding area to his boarding gate.
Fugitive from the law, you mean
, he told himself. Justice had no part in this game. Thank God for Gene, he thought. He didn’t know why Gene was being so helpful but bless him for it.
He sat in a corner, waiting quietly until they announced the boarding for his flight, first-class passengers first. Drawing in a deep breath, he stood and moved toward the doorway.
As he drew nearer to it, his heartbeat quickened more and more until he could actually hear it thumping in his ears. Was he going to make it? Was someone on the lookout for him? Did he look completely guilty? It was like a bad dream
Chris sighed and shook his head. Then he saw another package on the bottom of the bag and lifted it out, a plastic envelope. It was heavy and he almost dropped it. Snatching at it clumsily before it could fall, he put the overnight bag on the floor and put the plastic envelope on his lap to unzip it.
He stared blankly at what was in the envelope.
Now the picture seemed complete. His life a maddening enigma.Men chasing him. Mysterious events. A flight to London. A change of clothes. A disguise kit.
A pistol.
He stared at it, an expression of distaste on his face. A clip of bullets was wrapped beside it. He had no idea what caliber it was except that it was smaller than a .45. Probably smaller than a .38 as well.
For what? he thought, unable to repress a shudder. What in God’s name was he up against? Did Gene actually think he might have to
shoot
someone?
He gasped and almost dropped the pistol as someone pounded on the door.
“Come on, there’s people waiting!” said an angry man.
Chris swallowed hard. Sweet Jesus, he thought. It’s heart-attack time.
Hastily, he put the pistol back into the plastic envelope, zipped it up and pushed it under the clothes inside the overnight bag. He’d dump the damn thing as soon as he could.
He wondered, for a few moments, how the bag had been brought up to the boarding area. How could it have passed the metal-detector? Another mystery. His brain was swollen with puzzles. He could sit in this booth for a year just analyzing all the questions raised since early this morning.
Forget it, he thought. Just… damn, forget it. He unlocked the door and left the booth; there
were
a lot of men waiting. A fat man wearing a red sport coat pushed by him and entered the booth, slamming the door. Sorry, pal, Chris thought. Have a primo b.m.
He made his way to the exit and left the men’s room. As he walked into the boarding area, he wondered if he should have stayed in the booth long enough to put on the mustache.
“Oh, that’s
ridiculous
,” he muttered. Forget about breakfast. He was going to down a couple of drinks so fast, they’d vaporize in his throat.
By the time he reached the bar, he’d changed his mind. His stomach was too empty. Except for a small bag of Fritos in Yuma, he’d had nothing since his mother’s house. Two drinks mightmake him reel. He ordered an Irish coffee and sat at the counter; there were no tables open.
A
mustache
, he thought, making a scoffing noise. He’d look like a Spanish pimp. No, if they were going to pick him up, let it be as himself, and not some character from a spy movie.
Fifteen minutes later, he paid for the Irish coffee and left the bar. He walked over to the gift shop and bought a copy of the
Los Angeles Times
to read on the plane. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to read about Nelson or not—or about himself for that matter, if there was anything about his situation. But he had to know.
Is this what it feels like to be a fugitive from justice? he thought as he crossed the boarding area to his boarding gate.
Fugitive from the law, you mean
, he told himself. Justice had no part in this game. Thank God for Gene, he thought. He didn’t know why Gene was being so helpful but bless him for it.
He sat in a corner, waiting quietly until they announced the boarding for his flight, first-class passengers first. Drawing in a deep breath, he stood and moved toward the doorway.
As he drew nearer to it, his heartbeat quickened more and more until he could actually hear it thumping in his ears. Was he going to make it? Was someone on the lookout for him? Did he look completely guilty? It was like a bad dream
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