Looks like Pretty Boy got hisself lost. Turned down the wrong damn street, did ya?
Cathy leaped to her feet. Hes here!
She and Victor pushed through the crowd to find Jack standing guard over the Jaguars gleaming finish.
Dont-dont touch her! he snapped as one man ran a grimy finger across the hood. Why cant you people go find yourselves a job or something?
A job? someone yelled. Whats that?
Jack! called Cathy.
Jack let out a sigh of relief when he spotted her. This is the last favor. The absolute last favor-
Where is it? she asked.
Jack walked around to the trunk, where he slapped away another hand as it stroked the Jaguars burgundy flank. Its right here. The whole kit and kaboodle. He swung out the makeup case and handed it over. Delivered as promised. Now I gotta run.
Where are you going? she called.
I dont know. He climbed back into the car. Somewhere. Anywhere!
Sounds like were headed in the same direction.
God, I hope not. He started the engine and revved it up a few times.
Someone yelled: So long, Pretty Boy!
Jack gazed out dryly at Cathy. You know, you really should do something about the company you keep. Ciao, sweetcakes.
The Jaguar lurched away. With a screech of tires, it spun around the corner and vanished into traffic.
Cathy turned and saw that every eye was watching her. Automatically, Victor moved close beside her, one tired and hungry man facing a tired and hungry crowd.
Someone called out: So whos the jerk in the Jag?
My ex-husband, said Cathy.
Doin a lot better than you are, honey.
No kidding. She held up the makeup case and managed a careless laugh. I ask the creep for my clothes, he throws me a change of underwear.
Babe, now aint that just the way it works?
Already, the men were wandering away, regrouping in doorways, or over by the corner newsstands. The Jaguar was gone, and so was their interest.
Only one man stood before Cathy and Victor, and the look he gave them was distinctly sympathetic. Thats all he left you, huh? Him with that nice, fancy car? He turned to leave, then glanced back at them. Say, you two need a place to stay or somethin? I got a lot of friends. And I hate to see a lady out in the cold.
Thanks for the offer, said Victor, taking Cathys hand. But weve got a bus to catch.
Thanks for the offer, said Victor, taking Cathys hand. But weve got a bus to catch.
The man nodded and shuffled away, a kind but unfortunate soul whom the streets had not robbed of decency.
We have a half hour to get on that bus, said Victor, hurrying Cathy along. Better get to work.
They were headed up the street, toward the cover of an alley, when Cathy suddenly halted. Victor-
Whats the matter?
Look. She pointed at the newsstand, her hand shaking.
Beneath the plastic cover was the afternoon edition of the San Francisco Examiner. The headline read: Two Victims, Same Name. Police Probe Coincidence. Beside it was a photo of a young blond woman. The caption was hidden by the fold, but Cathy didnt need to read it. She could already guess the womans name.
Two of them, she whispered. Victor, you were right
All the more reason for us to get out of town. He pulled on her arm. Hurry.
She let him lead her away. But even as they headed down the street, even as they left the newsstand behind them, she carried that image in her mind: the photograph of a blond woman, the second victim.
The second Catherine Weaver.
Patrolman OHanley was a helpful soul. Unlike too many of his colleagues, OHanley had joined the force out of a true desire to serve and protect. The Boy Scout was what the other men called him behind his back. The epithet both annoyed and pleased him. It told him he didnt fit in with the rough-and-tumble gang on the force. It also told him he was above it all, above the petty bribe-taking and backbiting and maneu-verings for promotion. He wasnt out to glorify the badge on his chest. What he wanted was the chance to pat a kid on the head, rescue an old granny from a mugging.
Thats why he found this particular assignment so frustrating. All this standing around in the bus depot, watching for a man some witness might have spotted a few hours ago. OHanley hadnt noticed any such character. Hed eyeballed every person whod walked in the door. A sorry lot, most of them. Not surprising since, these days, anyone with the cash to spare took a plane. By the looks of these folks, none of em could spare much more than pennies. Take that pair over there, huddled together in the waiting area. A father and daughter, he figured, and both of em down on their luck. The daughter was bundled up in an old raincoat, the collar pulled up to reveal only a mop of windblown hair. The father was an even sorrier sight, gaunt-faced, white-whiskered, about as old as Methuselah. Still, there was a remnant of pride in the old codger-OHanley could see it in the way the man held himself, stiff and straight. Mustve been an impressive fellow in his younger years since he was still well over six feet tall.
The public speaker announced final boarding for number fourteen to Palo Alto.
The old man and his daughter rose to their feet.
OHanley watched with concern as the pair shuffled across the terminal toward the departure gate. The woman was carrying only one small case, but it appeared to be a heavy one. And she already had her hands full, trying to guide the old man in the right direction. But they were making progress, and OHanley figured theyd make it to the bus okay.
That is, until the kid ran into them.
He was about six, the kind of kid no mother wants to admit she produced, the kind of kid who gives all sixyear-olds a bad name. For the last half hour the boy had been tearing around the terminal, scattering ashtray sand, tipping over suitcases, banging locker doors. Now he was running. Only this kid was doing it backward.
OHanley saw it coming. The old man and his daughter were crossing slowly toward the departure gate. The kid was scuttling toward them. Intersecting paths, inevitable collision. The kid slammed into the womans knees; the case flew out of her grasp. She stumbled against her companion. OHanley, paralyzed, expected the codger to keel over. To his surprise, the old man simply caught the woman in his arms and handily set her back on her feet.
By now OHanley was hurrying to their aid. He got to the woman just as shed regained her footing. You folks okay? he asked.
The woman reacted as though hed slapped her. She stared up at him with the eyes of a terrified animal. What? she said.
Are you okay? Looked to me like he hit you pretty hard.
She nodded.
How bout you, Gramps?
The woman glanced at her companion. It seemed to OHanley that there was a lot being said in that glance, a lot he wasnt privy to.
Were both fine, the woman said quickly. Come on, Pop. Well miss our bus.
Can I give you a hand with him?
Thats mighty kind of you, officer, but well do fine. The woman smiled at OHanley. Something about that smile wasnt right. As he watched the pair shuffle off toward bus number fourteen, OHanley kept trying to figure it out. Kept trying to put his finger on what was wrong with that pair of travelers.
He turned away and almost tripped over the fallen case. The woman had forgotten it. He snatched it up and started to run for the bus. Too late; the number fourteen to Palo Alto was already pulling away. OHanley stood helplessly on the curb, watching the taillights vanish around the corner.
Oh, well.
He turned in the makeup case at Lost and Found. Then he stationed himself once again at the entrance. Seven oclock already and still no sighting of the suspect Victor Holland.
OHanley sighed. What a waste of a policemans time.
Five minutes out of San Francisco, aboard the number fourteen bus, the old man turned to the woman in the raincoat and said, This beard is killing me.
Laughing, Cathy reached up and gave the fake whiskers a tug. It did the trick, didnt it?
No kidding. We practically got a police escort to the getaway bus. He scratched furiously at his chin. Geez, how do those actors stand this stuff, anyway? The itch is driving me up a wall.
Want me to take it off?
Better not. Not till we get to Palo Alto.
Another hour, she thought. She sat back and gazed out at the highway gliding past the bus window. Then what? she asked softly.
Ill knock on a few doors. See if I can dig up an old friend or two. Its been a long time, but I think there are still a few in town.
You used to live there?
Years ago. Back when I was in college.
Oh. She sat up straight. A Stanford man.
Why do you make it sound just a tad disreputable?
I rooted for the Bears, myself.
Im consorting with the arch enemy?
Giggling, she burrowed against his chest and inhaled the warm, familiar scent of his body. It seems like another lifetime. Berkeley and blue jeans.
Football. Wild parties.
Wild parties? she asked. You?
Well, rumors of wild parties.
Frisbee. Classes on the lawn
Innocence, he said softly.
They both fell silent.
Victor? she asked. What if your friends arent there any longer? Or what if they wont take us in?
One step at a time. Thats how we have to take it. Otherwise itll all seem too overwhelming.
It already does.
He squeezed her tightly against him. Hey, were doing okay. We made it out of the city. In fact, we waltzed out right under the nose of a cop. Id call that pretty damn impressive.
One step at a time. Thats how we have to take it. Otherwise itll all seem too overwhelming.
It already does.
He squeezed her tightly against him. Hey, were doing okay. We made it out of the city. In fact, we waltzed out right under the nose of a cop. Id call that pretty damn impressive.
Cathy couldnt help grinning at the memory of the earnest young Patrolman OHanley. All policemen should be so helpful.
Or blind, Victor snorted. I cant believe he called me Gramps.
When I set out to change a face, I do it right.
Apparently.
She looped her arm through his and pressed a kiss to one scowling, bewhiskered cheek. Can I tell you a secret?
Whats that?
Im crazy about older men.
The scowl melted away, slowly reformed into a dubious smile. How much older are we talking about?