“At least your hands are warm.”
Someone had drawn blood and then the obstetrician, Dr. Landsman, had done the pelvic exam—the lubricant gel he’d used had been just as cold as this stuff, but it had been down there so it felt even colder. He’d said everything seemed fine, but the ultrasound would tell the real story.
Dawn lay on her back and hoped everything would be all right. She totally didn’t know what she’d been thinking before when she’d wanted an abortion. This was her baby, her flesh and blood. She could feel it moving inside her. No way she could kill it. She just hoped it was all right—no birth defects or anything like that.
Ayo pointed to a monitor on a wheeled cart.
“After I start the scan, you’ll be able to see the baby right there on the screen. You’ll see its head, and its bones, and even its heart beating. And when we switch to three-D, you’ll see its face.”
“Will you be able to tell if it’s a girl or a boy?”
Ayo shrugged. “Possibly, but no guarantee. All depends on the baby’s position.” She winked. “Some are more modest than others.”
The door opened and Dr. Landsman came in with Mr. Osala. Dawn resisted an impulse to cover her belly. What was he doing here? Not like he was the father or anything—and not like she’d let the real father anywhere near her baby anyway.
“Is she all set?” the doctor said.
“Yes. I was just about to begin.”
“I’ll take it from here.”
Ayo looked as if she’d been slapped. “But—”
“I said I’d take it, Ayo. Wait outside.”
With a totally dumbfounded look, the technician nodded and left the room. Dawn didn’t know what was going on here, but it sure seemed like someone was breaking with routine.
Dr. Landsman smiled down at her. “Now, Dawn, we’re going to take a look at your baby. It won’t hurt a bit. We use sound waves—”
“I know. Ayo explained it all. But I thought she was going to do it.”
“Normally, she would, but you’re a special patient and—”
Worry gnawed at her. “Why did you send her out of the room? Is something wrong?”
“Not at all, not at all. Just relax and this will be over in a few minutes.”
He kept his eyes on the monitor as he began rubbing this gizmo that looked like an electric shaver over her belly. She watched the monitor too but couldn’t make head or tail of the black-and-white image until Dr. Landsman pointed to a tiny black oval that seemed to be winking madly.
“See? There’s the heart, pumping away.”
Dawn stared at it, totally enthralled. Her baby’s heart. How wonderful.
“It’s okay, isn’t it—the heart, I mean?”
“It’s fine,” he said with a smile. “Everything is—oh. Oh, my.”
Dawn lifted her head. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” But he had this strange, avid light in his eyes.
He put down the gizmo and turned the monitor away from her, so that only he and Mr. Osala could see it.
The doctor said, “When Drexler told me what I’d be looking for, I couldn’t—well, I didn’t know what to believe. But he was right.”
Dawn felt a surge of panic. “Believe what? What are you talking about?”
They ignored her as Mr. Osala leaned forward.
“Where? Show me.”
Dr. Landsman pointed to the screen. “See that? That’s one. And this here is the other.”
“Other what?” Dawn cried.
Mr. Osala nodded. “I see. Very interesting.”
“ ‘Interesting’? It’s stunning! It’s—”
“It is not to leave this room. You will not speak of this and you will delete all images now.”
“But—”
“Now. I thank you for your efforts and your expertise. We will pay you periodic visits with the same protocol.”
“What do you see?” Dawn screamed.
Dr. Landsman looked at her as if he’d forgotten she was in the room.
“Oh. It’s . . . it’s a boy.”
A boy . . . her worries seemed to evaporate.
She was going to have a boy.
3
At the TSA checkpoint Jack waited in line until he reached an Arabic looking man with a bad toupee who matched the name on the boarding pass with that on the license, initialed the pass, and waved Jack through. He waited on line again and reached the scanning area where he doffed his work boots and belt, placed them in a bin, then deposited that and his carry-on bag on the conveyor belt. He breezed through the metal detector, retrieved his boots and belt, and that was it.
Simps. What had he been so worried about?
He looked back at the cadre of TSA workers, the armed guards, all the humming technology, and no one had a clue about the seven-inch composite dagger strapped to his left triceps.
He needed to get out more often.
He found Alice Laverty, looking better in person than in the photo, already seated at the gate when he arrived.
Good. She might have changed her plans, making this whole trip an exercise in futility.
Had she been involved in her mother’s death? If not, what could her father have said to keep her from hating him?
He wandered back to the bookstore and browsed the shelves. He found copies of P. Frank Winslow’s Rakshasa! and Berzerk! in all their exclamatory glory. He’d skimmed through those months ago and the way they paralleled episodes in his life still gave him the chills. He had no desire to revisit them, but he might want to revisit the author and find out what he’d been dreaming lately.
He found a Travis McGee novel he didn’t remember reading—all those colors in the titles ran together after a while—and bought that.
The boarding announcement came and, after standing on line again, he found himself sitting two rows ahead of Alice Laverty. The doors closed, the plane taxied out and took off a mere ten minutes late.
Now this was the way to tail someone—no way he could lose her between here and L.A.
The hours dragged by. After almost six of them—during which he drank three cups of coffee, ate a tiny sandwich of cold mystery meat on a cold roll, and napped during an unwatchable romantic comedy—the head attendant announced that the plane was making its final approach into LAX.
Perfect timing, he thought as he finished the last page and closed the cover on the McGee novel. Good story, but though McGee’s MO resembled Jack’s somewhat, he seemed to run into a better class of people during the course of his jobs. And all of them so well spoken, at times verging on eloquent. In fact, they all talked like McGee.
He followed Alice off the plane and stayed a ways behind her as she hurried along the concourse. He lost sight of her for a few seconds but found her again on the far side of the security area in a tearful reunion embrace with an older man.
Ernest Goren had aged considerably since his photo—completely gray now, with a heavily lined face. Jack might not have recognized him without his daughter.
They looked close. Real close. Co-conspirators or . . . what?
As he passed, Jack noticed that even in the clinch Goren was watching the passersby with a wary, darting gaze. Still an alert fugitive. Why? After all these years, did he think the cops would be in active pursuit?
Or maybe cops weren’t what he was afraid of.
Jack continued on to the baggage area. Alice’d been carrying only a shoulder bag, so he assumed she’d checked her luggage. He was right. She and her father showed up moments later.
Jack ignored them and joined the thickest cluster of waiting passengers, feigning avid interest as the chute began to vomit bags of all shapes and sizes onto the rattling carousel.
Out of the corner of his eye he watched Alice point to a large green bag. Goren lifted it free and wheeled it behind them as they headed for the exit.
Now the dicey part: following them home. Jack knew this was the weak link in his plan, where he’d lose them unless his timing was perfect. No problem if they took a cab. Easy to follow them then, but from what he understood about L.A., birthplace of the car culture, you needed a car to survive.