in which no matter where one hid, one was found.
The woman at the doorway checked his boarding pass, tore the stub off his ticket, smiled and said, “Have a nice flight, Mr. Barton.”
God, don’t say my name!
he thought in panic.
Anticlimax, he thought next as he walked along the slanting tunnel toward the plane. Entering it, he showed the boarding pass to the stewardess waiting there and she gestured toward the first-class section. “Would you like me to store your bag?” she asked.
“No, thank you, I’ll put it under my seat,” he told her.
The stewardess in the first-class section showed him to his seat. It was by a window. He slumped down, feeling suddenly exhausted.
“Would you like some champagne?” the stewardess asked.
“Could I have a screwdriver?” he said.
“Of course.” She smiled and turned away.
He slid the bag under the seat in front of him, put the folded copy of the
Times
beside him on the seat, then leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Was it really over? he thought.
Over?
his mind retorted.
It’s barely begun, you idiot. You’re on your way to London. Didn’t you notice that the ticket was only one way?
He blew out a long, slow stream of breath. Would he make it to London? Or would the plane explode halfway across the Atlantic? Was that the kind of film this was? Maybe he wasn’t the hero at all but some subsidiary character, the poor sap who got it in the first reel.
“Here you are, Mr. Barton,” the stewardess said.
Oh, Christ, am I going to be called by my name all the way to England?
he thought, opening his eyes. He forced a smile and a “Thank you” as he took the drink.
He took a deep swallow of the screwdriver. He could afford to get a little alcohol inside himself now. He felt at his neck.
As usual, stiff as ye boarde
, he thought.
Groaning softly, he put down the drink and picked up the newspaper.
Nothing different, conflicts and corruptions as always. Disinterested, Chris ran his gaze across the stories.
Until page five. Then, suddenly, he was having trouble with his breath again, the corners of his eyes were tearing.
Oh, my God, my good God
, he thought.
R EPORTER S HOT
Gene Wyskart, a reporter
on the
Tucson Herald
, was
killed last night by an
unidentified gunman.
12
Chris put aside the paper and closed his eyes.
I can’t go on with this
, he thought.
It’s too damn much.
It had been bad enough with Nelson and he hadn’t even known the man. Gene had been a friend.
“God,” he whispered. “Jesus.
God.
”
“May I move this?” said a man’s voice.
Chris opened his eyes and looked to his right. The man in the aisle was smiling cordially. Chris didn’t understand what he’d meant, then, abruptly, he saw the newspaper lying on the seat beside his and picked it up. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“No problem,” the man replied. He sat down and extended his hand. “Jim Basy.”
Chris almost knocked over his drink, then raised his hand above it. Basy smiled and shook it briefly. Chris wondered if the man was wondering why he hadn’t given his name in return.
Jim Basy was in his forties, wearing gray trousers and gray tweed jacket, a white shirt with a black knit tie. He looked like a successful executive, dark hair neatly trimmed, face cleanly shaven, black shoes polished to a gloss.
Chris winced and reached involuntarily to massage the back of his neck. It was really hurting now.
“Stiff neck?” the man asked.
Chris nodded. “Yeah.”
“I have problems with my neck too, sometimes,” Basy told him. “I hang upside down for it.”
Chris looked at him blankly.
“It’s like a trapeze,” the man explained. “Gravity helps to separate the neck vertebrae.”
“Oh.” Chris nodded. The part of him responding to the man was minor. Most of him was sick inside, getting ready to stand and leave the plane, surrender himself.
Putting the newspaper beside him, he reached beneath the seat in front of him and slid out the overnight bag.
The woman at the doorway checked his boarding pass, tore the stub off his ticket, smiled and said, “Have a nice flight, Mr. Barton.”
God, don’t say my name!
he thought in panic.
Anticlimax, he thought next as he walked along the slanting tunnel toward the plane. Entering it, he showed the boarding pass to the stewardess waiting there and she gestured toward the first-class section. “Would you like me to store your bag?” she asked.
“No, thank you, I’ll put it under my seat,” he told her.
The stewardess in the first-class section showed him to his seat. It was by a window. He slumped down, feeling suddenly exhausted.
“Would you like some champagne?” the stewardess asked.
“Could I have a screwdriver?” he said.
“Of course.” She smiled and turned away.
He slid the bag under the seat in front of him, put the folded copy of the
Times
beside him on the seat, then leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Was it really over? he thought.
Over?
his mind retorted.
It’s barely begun, you idiot. You’re on your way to London. Didn’t you notice that the ticket was only one way?
He blew out a long, slow stream of breath. Would he make it to London? Or would the plane explode halfway across the Atlantic? Was that the kind of film this was? Maybe he wasn’t the hero at all but some subsidiary character, the poor sap who got it in the first reel.
“Here you are, Mr. Barton,” the stewardess said.
Oh, Christ, am I going to be called by my name all the way to England?
he thought, opening his eyes. He forced a smile and a “Thank you” as he took the drink.
He took a deep swallow of the screwdriver. He could afford to get a little alcohol inside himself now. He felt at his neck.
As usual, stiff as ye boarde
, he thought.
Groaning softly, he put down the drink and picked up the newspaper.
Nothing different, conflicts and corruptions as always. Disinterested, Chris ran his gaze across the stories.
Until page five. Then, suddenly, he was having trouble with his breath again, the corners of his eyes were tearing.
Oh, my God, my good God
, he thought.
R EPORTER S HOT
Gene Wyskart, a reporter
on the
Tucson Herald
, was
killed last night by an
unidentified gunman.
12
Chris put aside the paper and closed his eyes.
I can’t go on with this
, he thought.
It’s too damn much.
It had been bad enough with Nelson and he hadn’t even known the man. Gene had been a friend.
“God,” he whispered. “Jesus.
God.
”
“May I move this?” said a man’s voice.
Chris opened his eyes and looked to his right. The man in the aisle was smiling cordially. Chris didn’t understand what he’d meant, then, abruptly, he saw the newspaper lying on the seat beside his and picked it up. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“No problem,” the man replied. He sat down and extended his hand. “Jim Basy.”
Chris almost knocked over his drink, then raised his hand above it. Basy smiled and shook it briefly. Chris wondered if the man was wondering why he hadn’t given his name in return.
Jim Basy was in his forties, wearing gray trousers and gray tweed jacket, a white shirt with a black knit tie. He looked like a successful executive, dark hair neatly trimmed, face cleanly shaven, black shoes polished to a gloss.
Chris winced and reached involuntarily to massage the back of his neck. It was really hurting now.
“Stiff neck?” the man asked.
Chris nodded. “Yeah.”
“I have problems with my neck too, sometimes,” Basy told him. “I hang upside down for it.”
Chris looked at him blankly.
“It’s like a trapeze,” the man explained. “Gravity helps to separate the neck vertebrae.”
“Oh.” Chris nodded. The part of him responding to the man was minor. Most of him was sick inside, getting ready to stand and leave the plane, surrender himself.
Putting the newspaper beside him, he reached beneath the seat in front of him and slid out the overnight bag.
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