nightmare; I was walking alone up this gradually sloping bare white-tiled corridor, scared to look behind me for fear that whoever got McMurtrie would be coming after me, scared to push ahead because I knew there were things in that city out there that I'd rather not face up to. But as I went past the deserted passenger inspection station, with its X-ray cameras for searching baggage and its magnetic detectors for finding metal on passengers, the whole gloomy airport lit up for me. Vickie was sitting there, reading a magazine.
I was the first of the half-dozen passengers coming out of the plane, and she hadn't looked up yet to notice anyone approaching. Her golden hair was a touch of sun warmth in the impersonal coldness of the terminal building. She was dressed casually in slacks and sweater, but she looked grand to me.
"You don't get paid overtime, you know," I said.
She looked up, startled momentarily, and then grinned. "I happened to be in the neighborhood . . ." She got up and stuffed the magazine into her shoulder bag.
"How'd you know which flight I'd be on?"
"Checked with Denver." She looked very pleased with herself. "I may not have started life as a newspaper reporter, but I know how to find things out when I want to."
"You ended a sentence with a preposition," I said.
"The hell I did."
We walked together out past the empty, echoing baggage carousels, mindlessly turning even though there was no luggage on any of them. The traffic rotary outside the terminal, so noisy and bustling all day long, was dark and quiet now. I didn't see a cab anywhere.
"I've got my car," Vickie said, pointing toward the parking area on the other side of the rotary.
"I didn't know you had a car." It was a little chilly in the night air. The sky was clouded over, although a quarter moon glowed through the overcast dimly.
"Well, it's not really mine. It belongs to a friend. He's out of town and I'm minding it for him."
I didn't reply. We walked straight across the rotary, just like Boston pedestrians, marching across six traffic lanes, a big circle of withered grass, and six more lanes on the other side. The parking area was automated. We got into the car—a thoroughly battered old gas burner that roared and coughed when Vickie started it up—and drove out, stopping only to pay the parking fee at the unattended gate.
"You didn't walk around here in the dark by yourself," I said.
"Sure. It's okay . . . the place is really deserted. And they've got television monitors watching everything. The guards would have come out of the terminal building if anyone had bothered me."
"Just in time to join the gang bang," I muttered.
"Worried about my honor?" she asked as she turned onto the bridge that led across the Potomac.
"Worried about your life."
"I can take care of myself. I've never been raped yet."
"Once is enough, from what I hear."
She grimaced. "I suppose you're right."
By the time we had pulled up in front of my apartment building, she had told me all about the car and its owner. The engine had been converted to hydrogen fuel, which is why the old five-seat sedan was now a two-seater. The rest was fuel tank. Very bulky. And highly flammable.
"But don't worry," Vickie assured me. "Ron tells me the tank is very crashworthy."
"I'm thrilled."
Ron was a staffer for a Congressman from Kentucky. A very likeable hillbilly with a passion for cars, the way Vickie described him. I could feel my lip curl in contempt, in the darkness of the car. Twanging accent and the brains of a grease monkey, I thought.
"I met him at a car rally in Bethesda last year," Vickie said. "We go to lots of races and rallies."
"I didn't know you were a car freak," I said.
"There's a lot about me you don't know," she answered as she pulled the stick shift back into parking gear. "Well . . . here you are. Door-to-door service."
"Come on up," I said. "Least I can do is make you a drink. Or some coffee."
She shook her head slightly. "I can't leave the
I was the first of the half-dozen passengers coming out of the plane, and she hadn't looked up yet to notice anyone approaching. Her golden hair was a touch of sun warmth in the impersonal coldness of the terminal building. She was dressed casually in slacks and sweater, but she looked grand to me.
"You don't get paid overtime, you know," I said.
She looked up, startled momentarily, and then grinned. "I happened to be in the neighborhood . . ." She got up and stuffed the magazine into her shoulder bag.
"How'd you know which flight I'd be on?"
"Checked with Denver." She looked very pleased with herself. "I may not have started life as a newspaper reporter, but I know how to find things out when I want to."
"You ended a sentence with a preposition," I said.
"The hell I did."
We walked together out past the empty, echoing baggage carousels, mindlessly turning even though there was no luggage on any of them. The traffic rotary outside the terminal, so noisy and bustling all day long, was dark and quiet now. I didn't see a cab anywhere.
"I've got my car," Vickie said, pointing toward the parking area on the other side of the rotary.
"I didn't know you had a car." It was a little chilly in the night air. The sky was clouded over, although a quarter moon glowed through the overcast dimly.
"Well, it's not really mine. It belongs to a friend. He's out of town and I'm minding it for him."
I didn't reply. We walked straight across the rotary, just like Boston pedestrians, marching across six traffic lanes, a big circle of withered grass, and six more lanes on the other side. The parking area was automated. We got into the car—a thoroughly battered old gas burner that roared and coughed when Vickie started it up—and drove out, stopping only to pay the parking fee at the unattended gate.
"You didn't walk around here in the dark by yourself," I said.
"Sure. It's okay . . . the place is really deserted. And they've got television monitors watching everything. The guards would have come out of the terminal building if anyone had bothered me."
"Just in time to join the gang bang," I muttered.
"Worried about my honor?" she asked as she turned onto the bridge that led across the Potomac.
"Worried about your life."
"I can take care of myself. I've never been raped yet."
"Once is enough, from what I hear."
She grimaced. "I suppose you're right."
By the time we had pulled up in front of my apartment building, she had told me all about the car and its owner. The engine had been converted to hydrogen fuel, which is why the old five-seat sedan was now a two-seater. The rest was fuel tank. Very bulky. And highly flammable.
"But don't worry," Vickie assured me. "Ron tells me the tank is very crashworthy."
"I'm thrilled."
Ron was a staffer for a Congressman from Kentucky. A very likeable hillbilly with a passion for cars, the way Vickie described him. I could feel my lip curl in contempt, in the darkness of the car. Twanging accent and the brains of a grease monkey, I thought.
"I met him at a car rally in Bethesda last year," Vickie said. "We go to lots of races and rallies."
"I didn't know you were a car freak," I said.
"There's a lot about me you don't know," she answered as she pulled the stick shift back into parking gear. "Well . . . here you are. Door-to-door service."
"Come on up," I said. "Least I can do is make you a drink. Or some coffee."
She shook her head slightly. "I can't leave the
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