Now Charles sat in a wheelchair at JFK Airport, passport and e-ticket in hand, waiting to board his flight to Vancouver. He knew places to get lost in Vancouver, places where he could heal and hide. He had the money from Doohan. It would carry him while he figured out a way to claim the insurance money.
He wasn't quite home free, but he was getting closer.
With the help of the crutches he had made it to the front of the hospital and into a cab, which had just pulled up. There were people ahead of him in line, but with crutches and bloody blue surgical garb he had pushed his way past them filled with apologies as he uttered, "Emergency. Sorry."
And they believed him, believed he was a doctor. It was one of his better performances. It had to be.
They would be able to track him to the cab he had taken. Of this Charles had no doubt. The pretty woman detective wouldn't give up or slow down. She had been relentless in rescuing him and her partner and figuring out what Charles had done. She would be relentless in tracking him.
But he had made it back to the hotel where he had a room. The front desk clerk glanced at the bloody blues, the crutches, the bandaged leg and said nothing. He got Charles's passport and cash from the hotel safe. Charles paid his bill, went to his room, changed his clothes in agonizing pain, and made his way back to the front of the hotel where he caught another cab.
All he had was a carry-on. No checking of luggage. In a washroom, Charles put on a pair of glasses, combed his hair forward and let his lower lip puff in a pout that announced that this character was not of high intellect.
A lean black man with a trim beard and a blue blazer and tie hurried him through security in a wheelchair. Charles had checked the departure board briefly, saw that the Vancouver flight was leaving in thirty-five minutes. He had purchased a one-way ticket. Charles knew Vancouver, had been in three episodes of The A-Team, two of 21 Jump Street and four pilots for shows that didn't go anywhere. That had been a long time ago, but he still knew people there. One of them would put him up. He would tell them tales, lies and partial truths till he healed. He would lose weight, grow a mustache, change the color of his hair, become someone different, buy an illegal Canadian passport. It could and would work out. Charles Cheswith was a resourceful man.
He got the man who was pushing the wheelchair to stop at a mall shop where he bought a Mets cap, a pair of sunglasses and a magazine. He was ready, at the front of the line, early boarding for the man who needed assistance.
Then he saw them. He wasn't sure at first that it was Detective Stella Bonasera and Dr. Hawkes. He had to take off the sunglasses to be certain, but there they were, heading toward him through the crowd.
It was almost certainly over. He had run out of all but one option and that was more a dramatic gesture than a sincere probability. Still it was a possibility. He reached into his carry-on, took out a small bottle filled with almost clear liquid, removed his watch from his wrist and fumbled for a small length of twisted wire.
When Stella and Hawkes were standing in front of the wheelchair, Charles was ready. He looked up at them and said, "How did you find me so damned fast? No, hold that explanation."
"It's over," said Stella.
"I was just thinking that myself," Charles said. "But I'll try this just the same."
He pulled down the blanket in his lap to reveal a small bottle wrapped in thin wires. The wires were attached to a wristwatch.
"I'd like to leave now," he said.
No one around them seemed to notice.
"I'm sure you would," said Stella.
"It's not going to happen," said Hawkes.
"What have I got to lose?" asked Charles. "Do you really want to take a chance?"
"No chance," said Hawkes. "That's not a bomb. It's shampoo."
"You're sure?" said Charles. "You willing to risk innocent lives?"
"No risk," said Hawkes.
Stella stepped forward and took the wired shampoo bottle and attached watch from his hand.
"This is the way the world ends," said Charles, shaking his head.
"Not with a bang but a whimper," Hawkes supplied.
"I don't know if I'm insurable," Keith said as he and Jerry walked across the lobby of the Gronten Hotel toward the elevator.
There were six people in the small lobby. One of them, the one with his hands folded over a paperback novel in his lap, was definitely a cop. The cop looked a little weary, but he was doing his job. Keith could sense the man looking at him and the insurance salesman from Dayton as they stepped into the elevator. There would be another cop outside of Ellen's room. He would deal with that.
"Everybody's insurable," said Jerry as the doors closed. "The only question is, how much will it cost and is it worth it?"
Keith was blessed with great peripheral vision. He was looking at Jerry and nodding as if the salesman had just said something profound, but Keith could also see the cop in the chair looking in his direction.
They were the only ones on the elevator. Jerry pushed the button for the sixth floor. Close enough. Keith would have only two flights up to get to Ellen Janecek.
"Your leg, right?" asked Jerry as they rose.
"My leg," Keith agreed. "Army's covering treatment but what about complications down the line? My mother, Dotty, you know her?"
"Don't think so," said Jerry.
"She died last year. Left me financially but not physically comfortable."
The elevator doors opened.
"Let's see what we can come up with," said Jerry with a smile.
Room service. Coffee. Toasted bagels and cream cheese and within fifteen minutes Jerry was preparing a policy. He couldn't believe how easy it had been to sell it. It was a good policy, but it wasn't cheap. When he finished making changes, he passed the four-page document across the small table to Keith who signed and initialed in all the right places.
Keith looked at his watch.
"I've got to go down to my room for a few minutes. I'll be right back with a check."
"Fine," said Jerry. "I'll just call my office and get the paperwork rolling."
Keith went to the door as Jerry picked up his cell phone and pressed a button.
Keith liked him. After he killed Ellen Janecek, he could come back and talk to him for a while, get him to accompany Keith out of the hotel. That was the plan in any case. He hoped he would not have to kill Jerry.
Ellen waited.
She wanted, needed to see Jeffrey. The television was on. The sound was off. She didn't want to miss the knock she was expecting on the door.
He would be coming soon.
The room was small. Two uncomfortable chairs with arms. A bed. The television. A single window with a mesh screen and beyond it a view of a dirty brick wall. Bathroom. Long dark lightning-shaped crack on the tile floor. The other hotel had been better, but he, the one she knew as Adam, had found her there. Yes, it was partly her fault. No, it was completely her fault, but "fault" wasn't quite the right word. It was her responsibility, and the consequence of her decision to tell him where she was had led to this small room.
But it was going to change.
And it was going to change now.
The knock at the door was gentle. Two raps. Ellen stood.
Keith stood in the hall. He was ready. He was lucky. There was no cop in the hall. In a few seconds, this part would be over. The circle would be complete. The letters of his brother's name would be carved in bloody gashes. A-D-A-M. This time all four letters in her soft, white flesh. Their bodies, what he had left of them, would forever be the reminder of Adam's death and their own unclean actions.