Brian Haig - Man in the middle

But when two plus two equals five, you have to go back to the beginning and recompute. So I asked myself, had Sean Drummond been the first responder on the scene of both murders, what would have been his impressions?

I thought he would've hypothesized that Diane's killer was a male-somebody with big-time macho problems, a bad attitude toward women in general, and some fairly serious anger control issues. No finesse, no subtlety, just whack-down she went. Plus the killer used a hatchet, hardly a feminine tool. And the amputated fingers, maybe that was indicative of torture. But maybe it wasn't. Because maybe, as Phyllis had theorized, Diane's hand had merely been in the path of the deathblow.

And by comparison, he would've observed that Daniels's murder was more artful, more complexly dramatic, and in its sexually peculiar way, more vindictive. And that would reinforce something he already well knew: In matters of life, and of death, men are shallow. Women think of the little things-the birthday gift wrapped in colorful paper with a fancy bow, or the naked corpse with his hand gripped around his woodie-the special touches that make life or, in this case, death, more interesting.

And, if I carried that logic a step further, had Bian been Diane's assassin, for her this was all or nothing. Everybody with a hand in Mark's death was going to atone; maybe, or especially, Tigerman and Hirschfield.

So if Bian was in the airport, she wasn't killing Tigerman and Hirschfield. And maybe she had killed Cliff, but maybe not Diane. Did it matter? Technically, no. Murder is murder-says so in the Uniform Code of Military Justice. It was irrelevant how many she killed; just that she did commit murder. And Sean Drummond, sworn officer of the law, was supposed to do his duty and help apprehend the perp. Right?

Damn it, no. It did matter.

The counter person was calling for seat numbers 50 through 25, and a fresh crop of people began lining up. I no longer had a good view, so I left my hiding place and shifted to the middle of the aisle for a closer look.

And ten people back from the front of the line, with her back turned, stood an elderly Vietnamese lady with stooped shoulders, and directly to her rear, a thin, broad-shouldered young Vietnamese male, short-haired, wearing baggy black dress slacks and a shapeless white office shirt, with a red knapsack slung casually over the left shoulder. At that moment, the elderly lady turned around and exchanged words with the slender boy to her rear, and I recognized her-Bian's mother.

Except for that look, I never would've recognized Bian. She stood like a male, erect, with her shoulders perfectly squared, just as she had been trained and molded in her first month at West Point.

So now all that stood between Bian Tran and a new life were the last few people before her in line, and me. I took a deep breath.

Flight or capture? Nobody would ever know. Nobody would know that she wasn't in the hands of Iraqi kidnappers. Nobody would ever know she was alive and hiding out in Vietnam. And nobody would know that Sean Drummond had put his heart above his duty.

Three more passengers entered the boarding walk. Bian and her mother took a few more short steps, closer to freedom.

Possibly it was my ego, but I just could not believe Bian was a ruthless killer. And I knew what would happen if I apprehended her-a certain conviction for murder, possibly treason, and a slew of lesser charges tacked on for good measure by an overeager prosecutor. While I doubted she would get the chair, I was sure she would never leave Leavenworth and she would know I had sealed her fate.

Could I be responsible for that? What would I do if the love of my life died because a bunch of venal bureaucrats back in Washington were playing career games? I didn't know for sure, and I hoped I would never find out. But I would like to believe I would've found some clever way to make them pay.

So that was it; I would let her go, but first, I would have a word with her. I wanted to tell her I knew what happened. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was for her pain. But, most of all, after all we had been through, after all we had shared, I needed to say good-bye.

I stepped forward, when suddenly a hand grabbed my arm. I turned around, and a man in a dark suit said, "Excuse me, sir. Detective Sergeant Jones. Would you please step over here?"

The suit looked nice and expensive, and the man was about my height, only larger, with more powerful shoulders. "Why?" I asked him.

"A lady reported that she was assaulted by a soldier in uniform. You fit her description."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You know what?" He smiled and tightened his grip. "They never do."

I looked and saw that only two people were now ahead of Bian and her mother. I said to him, "Show me your badge."

"Sure. After you come with me."

"Just give me a moment. I need to say good-bye to a friend, then I'll tell you why you're full of shit."

"I'd rather learn why I'm full of shit now."

This guy was as sarcastic as me, and thus equally irritating. I looked again and Bian's mother was handing her boarding pass to the gateperson. I tried to tug my arm away, but he tightened his grip and said, "Don't make me cuff you. Come on, pal… do us both a favor."

"Get lost."

He pointed down the corridor and said, "My partner's with the victim. Let's give her a quick look-see. If it wasn't you, you're on your way."

Bian now was handing her pass to the lady at the gate. I reached over, twisted his wrist, and pulled my arm away, saying, "Don't make me hurt you."

I felt something round and hard press against my back. He said, "I won't." He jammed the barrel harder into my back and said, "Let's not upset the tourists by making me shoot you. Walk slowly-let's get this over with."

I looked and saw Bian's back disappear through the doorway and down the gangway to her flight, her new life, and out of my life. Shit.

The detective remained behind me as we walked back to Gate 20, where another man in a dark suit stood beneath a Starbucks sign, holding a conversation with a mildly attractive young lady also in a dark suit. The detective stayed behind me and said to the lady, "Is this the man who assaulted you? Take a close look."

She examined my face a moment. Sounding annoyed, she said, "No, the man was short and slightly overweight. I told you that."

I felt the pistol disappear. I turned around and faced the detective. I said, "Who put you up to this?"

"Don't get worked up, pal. Shit happens."

We stared at each other a moment.

The young lady said, "I told you, Officer, it wasn't that bad. Maybe the soldier was having a bad day. Let's forget this. I don't really want to press charges."

As I suspected he would, the detective shrugged, turned to his partner, and said, "Well, what can you do?"

The woman walked away, headed in the direction of the transporters back to the main terminal. I needed to call their bluff and said to both detectives, "Show me your badges. I intend to file a complaint with your department."

The one who'd been standing with the woman looked at the guy with the pistol. He gave me a nasty smile and answered for both of them, saying, "Fuck off and have a nice day."

They both walked away, and I stood and watched their backs until they were out of sight. I can usually smell cops and these two weren't cops. And neither was the young lady in the dark suit a victim.

I wanted to be mad, but what came out was a smile.

Bian Tran had outfoxed and outwitted me, for the final time.

I unlocked the door to my apartment, threw it open, and flipped on the lights.

The first thing I noticed was good and bad news. Nothing had changed in my absence. The place was a complete mess, so obviously my maid hadn't come and straightened things up, which I guess I understood since I don't have a maid.