David Morrell - The naked edge

"Tell the police I'll leave Eddie with his car."

Cavanaugh told Karim the license number and directions to the shopping mall.

"Everything's the way it was when he got killed, except the needle's in a plastic bag on the seat next to him.

"The police won't be happy you moved the murder weapon."

"Would they rather somebody else died from being stung by it? Tell them to expect to find our fingerprints all over the car. But maybe they'll also find some evidence left by the killer. We'll call them later and answer their questions. But there's no way we'll take the risk of exposing ourselves by coming in."

In the mall, Cavanaugh and Jamie stood in a corner near glass doors, concealed by customers who came and went.

"Won't be long now," Jamie said. "The sign says it's supposed to come at four o'clock."

Air brakes hissing, a bus stopped outside the glass doors. The sign said, WEATHERVIEW RETIREMENT CENTER. As elderly people cued up to get on the bus, Cavanaugh and Jamie merged with them, the only young people in the group. Cavanaugh noticed that the driver wasn't collecting money. The bus was apparently some kind of community service.

"How'd the shopping go?" Cavanaugh asked a white-haired man ahead of him.

"Shopping? Don't come here to shop. I walk. Exercise. Know what I mean?"

"Sure do," Jamie said. "But why don't you walk in a park or some place nice?"

"And get killed?"

"Yeah, the streets aren't as safe as they used to be."

"The ozone layer's shot. Skin cancer. I'm talking about skin cancer. Know what I mean?"

"Sure do. Not to mention all the junk in the air. Smog. Car exhaust."

"That's what I mean."

As Cavanaugh and Jamie got on the bus, Jamie's rapport with the man made it seem they were together. When the man missed his step, Cavanaugh caught his arm, helping him inside. He gave the bus driver an "I need to keep an eye on the old fellow" look, then proceeded with Jamie and the elderly man toward seats in the back.

When the bus eased away from the mall, heading toward a busy street, Jamie touched Cavanaugh's arm and nodded toward the deserted part of the lot where they'd left Eddie in the Taurus.

Sirens wailing, three police cars sped toward the vehicle.

"Where to?" the taxi driver asked.

"Across the river," Jamie said.

"Manhattan? Gonna cost you." The driver ignored Cavanaugh, enjoying Jamie's figure and her captivating eyes. "Once I get over there, I'm not allowed to take a fare back to Hoboken."

"I don't have a choice. I've got a meeting I absolutely need to attend. I'll pay double, plus a twenty percent tip."

They got out at Times Square and went into a store that had CAMERA in its title but sold almost everything. They came out with two over-the-shoulder travel bags, went into a nearby drug store, bought the toiletries they needed, and put them in the bags. They went into a clothing store and used some of the cash from the Gulfstream's bug-out bag to buy a few more clothes, including underwear and socks.

They walked east on Forty-Second Street.

"Having fun yet?" Cavanaugh asked.

"Loving every minute. God help me, I've been with you so long I can't tell the difference between being scared and feeling an adrenaline surge."

"Did I ever tell you about the rule of five?"

"No." Jamie made her way along the congested sidewalk. The time was almost six o'clock. Car horns blared amid stalled traffic. "But I've got nothing better to do, so why don't you tell me?"

"You're sure?"

"Can't wait."

"In the Second World War, instructors training American fighter pilots couldn't help noticing how many students died on their early missions. No matter how hard the instructors tried to teach the pilots the way to spot traps and get out of tough places, a large percentage of each class got shot down. So the instructors researched files that dated all the way back to the First World War, and what they discovered was a mathematical pattern. The majority of novice pilots were shot down within their first five missions."

Jamie looked at him.

"The same pattern showed up in the Korean war and in Vietnam. Five was the magic number. After that, their chances of surviving combat flights increased dramatically. During the first five missions, the tension of combat was so unfamiliar that the students had trouble using what they'd learned. They were too busy adjusting. It was only after five missions that they started to know the difference between fear and adrenaline. Once the pilots understood that adrenaline primed their reflexes and made them better able to track a target and pull the trigger in the split second when it mattered, they were on their way to being professionals. The pilots who survived five missions tended to survive thirty and forty missions. If you consider everything that happened to us… I'm not talking about the training I gave you since we got married. Training's only half of what it takes. The real thing, adjusting to fear-that's the other half. You graduated. You passed your five missions."

"Is that supposed to give me confidence that I… that we have a better chance of surviving?"

"We got this far, didn't we?"

As the evening became dimmer and cooler, they stared up at the imposing entrance to Grand Central Station.

The stocky black man jogged around a curve and increased speed down a straightaway through a wooded park in a suburb of Washington, D.C. He wasn't alone. At 6:30 in the morning, an army of his fellow exercisers primed themselves for another day's combat in offices throughout the nation's capitol. The chill of October had its effect, prompting the black man to wear a long-legged, navy exercise suit. Breath vapor blew from his mouth.

Hearing rhythmic rapid footfalls behind him, he waited for the faster runners to pass him. A white man and woman, each wearing gray exercise suits, came abreast of him. He maintained his moderate pace, waiting for them to surge ahead, but instead they kept even with him, one on each side, their footfalls matching his.

When he looked at one and then the other, he almost faltered.

"I do believe," the Southern Baptist said.

"I'll tell you what I believe," Cavanaugh said.

"I'm not sure I want to know," the black man, John Rutherford, said.

"I believe in gun oil and plenty of ammunition."

"I'm relieved. For a second, I expected you to say something you hoped would shock me."

"Bull Durham," Jamie said.

Rutherford nodded, jogging past a duck pond. "Baseball's an enjoyable pastime."

"So are the slow kisses Kevin Costner's character believes in," Jamie said.

"If you expect me to be shocked by that-" Rutherford breathed hard as he ran. "-I remind you I was married. My wife… God rest her soul… believed in slow kisses, also. How are you, Jamie?" His smile was genuine. "The last time I saw you, you were in a hospital bed. I'm glad you recovered from your wound."

"How's the guy who shot me doing?"

"Not well, I'm afraid. Prison doesn't agree with him. Seems he prefers solitary confinement to all the inmates who want to be his friend."

"What a shame. And how about you, John?" Cavanaugh asked. "How are you getting along? I understand congratulations are in order."

"You mean my promotion?"

"Director of the FBI's counterterrorist unit. I'm proud of you."

"Sure, you are."

They ran past a homeless man asleep on a bench.

"I hate to ask this. We're having such a great time so far," Rutherford said. "How are you?"

"Need a little help, John."

"Gosh, and here I thought you'd just happened to be in the neighborhood. You decided to drop by at the crack of dawn, say hello, and catch up on old times while you joined me for a little exercise."