Thomas Perry - Runner

Jane veered to her right toward the shops and paused near the bookstore, using its big windows as a mirror. He was there, fifty feet behind her, talking on the telephone. He closed the phone and started walking, and so did Jane.

After a moment she half-heard, half-felt his presence at her shoulder. She could feel his huffing breaths move her hair near her ear. "Hi, there." His voice was choked with glee, the muscles in his throat tight.

Jane was shocked. She had expected him to follow her, not take the risk of approaching her. She didn't look at him. "What do you want?"

"I knew it. I knew you were out again. I read that e-mail that was getting bounced around, and I asked myself, 'How the hell does a young girl like that stay invisible all this time?' and the answer came to me. She's got some professional help. And then the next e-mail said she was traveling with a dark-haired woman, and that clinched it."

Jane repeated, "What do you want?"

"Don't you even remember me? I'm Brent Ketter. I've got eighteen inches of knife scar on my chest and belly to remember you by."

"You should be more careful. If you're smart you'll get away from me."

"Not this time," he said. "I know you're not going to scream for the cops. If you're out here flying somewhere, then you're carrying fake ID. These days they'll put you away for a hundred years and give me a medal. I'll tell you what's going to happen. I'll start by having you just keep walking to the baggage claim with everybody else, and out the door where we can have a talk."

"I'm not going outside with you."

"All I want to know is two things. First off, where is the girl you're traveling with right now? Is she in the airport, or are you meeting her someplace? I need the money they're offering. And second is, you're going to tell me where I can find David Tyler."

"I'm traveling alone, and I haven't seen David Tyler since the last time I saw you."

"But you know where he is. And when you tell me, I'll let you go."

Jane's mind was racing. If he was watching for somebody at the departure and arrival gates, he must have bought a ticket—probably to somewhere cheap and close, to save money. It was late now, and his flight had probably left hours ago. Jane made an abrupt right turn into the ladies' room, then pivoted just inside the doorway, waiting for him to be foolish enough to step inside.

He didn't come, so she moved to the far end of the room, stood by the sinks, and took out her boarding pass and cell phone. She dialed the number of the airline printed on the ticket envelope. A woman's voice answered, and Jane said, "Hello. My name is Rebecca Silverman, and I'm in Kennedy Airport. I've had to hide in the ladies' room near gate forty-two, because there's a man outside who's been following me, raving and threatening me. Can you call the airport police or give me their number?"

The woman on the line said, "I'm calling them right now." There was a pause, while the woman put Jane on hold. Then she came back. "Can you tell me your name again?"

"Rebecca Silverman."

"What does the man look like?"

"He's about forty-five, six feet one. He has light hair, almost blond. He's wearing a gray sport coat and dark pants, and a light blue shirt with the collar open."

"Hold on, please."

Jane held the line for at least fifteen seconds before the woman returned. "Okay. The police are on the way. Don't go out of the ladies' room until they get there. You should lock yourself in a stall and wait."

"Thanks so much. I just didn't know how—" and Jane turned off her telephone.

She prepared herself, then stepped just outside the ladies' room, where Ketter was waiting.

His face was red, and his jaw was clenched. "Don't you ever pull that on me." He reached to grab her arm.

Jane was ready. She struck his arm aside, delivered a quick jab to his face, and dodged backward. Her knuckles had hit him just at the upper lip where it covered his front teeth.

Ketter was enraged, not only at the pain, but at the memory of the terrible thing she had done twelve years ago. That night he had rushed in the back door of the apartment building where David Tyler was hiding. He had seen the distinctive shape of a woman—this woman—standing alone in the dark, narrow hallway. He could see Tyler slipping out the front door toward his car. Ketter had to keep from letting this woman slow him down. He ran toward her preparing to slap her aside, saw her right hand come down, and then saw his own shirt had opened. He didn't feel the cut at first, because the razor had made such a clean slice. After a second, when the cold air reached his wound, the stinging came. He looked down and saw his blood soaking the shirt.

That night was so long ago that she had probably forgotten it until now, but he hadn't. And here she was again, defying him, goading him with a sucker punch. Ketter lunged toward Jane, but she dodged him and threw a sharp elbow into his side as he passed her. Now, in his anger and hatred, he ignored appearances. He spread his arms and ducked toward her, trying to gather her into an embrace so he could wrestle her to the floor.

"Hold it!" The shout was sharp and authoritative. Jane resisted the temptation to turn her head and look in the direction of the cop. She couldn't look away from Ketter while he was still so close to her.

A different cop's voice said, "Don't move. Hands up, and lie down on your belly."

Ketter looked at the three cops moving to surround him. He was outraged, but he had been arrested enough times to know that if he didn't make it very obvious he was complying, he was going to be in danger. "All right, all right, yes sir," he called out, holding his hands up in the air as the men rushed in on him, threw him down, dragged his arms behind him, and handcuffed his wrists.

The three cops kept him on the ground. "Wait, wait," he yelled. "Take a look at her identification. Make her show it to you."

Two of the cops were busy patting him down. One of them said, "Are you armed? Do you have anything on you that I need to know about?"

Ketter said, "I'm not moving. Somebody make her stay."

One of the two reached into Ketter's pocket and brought out a flat object about eight inches long. "Hey, look at this!" he called to his colleagues. "It's a ceramic knife."

The third cop, who seemed to be slightly older, said, "Sir, you're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to have an attorney present during questioning..."

There were more police officers around them now, and two of them lifted Ketter to his feet and backed him to the wall while the warning continued. "If you can't afford an attorney..."

One of the first three cops stood close to Jane. "Do you know this man, miss?"

"No. I don't. He must be crazy."

She could hear the cops talking to Ketter a few feet away. "If she's got false identification, then who is she really? Can you tell me her name?"

"I don't know. If I knew that—" He stopped himself.

"You'd what?"

"I want a lawyer."

The officer with Jane said, "Can I see your ticket and a picture ID, please?"

She handed him her plane ticket stub for the flight from Chicago and her Rebecca Silverman license. He examined them and nodded wearily to his colleagues—genuine, of course. They immediately lost interest in her. He took out a notebook, copied Rebecca Silverman's name, address, and phone number from her license, then handed the license and ticket stub to her. "Miss Silverman, you're free to go. We'll handle this."

"You don't need me?"

"Not right now. Those are cameras." He pointed at the dark glass globes at intervals along the ceiling. "And he was carrying a weapon in an airport. That's more than enough to hold him. We'll call if we need anything."