Coincidences do occur—especially among people who share interests. Ray Seale persuaded you of that. If Graeme has informants in organized crime then you have to accept the possibility that he may happen to be acquainted with one or two of the very same people who’ve been instructed to keep an eye peeled for a woman named Madeleine LaCasse, five-foot-five, a hundred and sixteen pounds, formerly blond, grey blue eyes, possibly still carrying a suitcase full of diamonds and cash.…
They may even have photographs of her. God knows there are enough of those around. In the scrapbook she left in the Third Avenue apartment her face appeared full length or head-shot only in nineteen full-page magazine layouts and sixty-one smaller ads. They won’t have had any trouble finding pictures of her to distribute.
She’s changed the hair, exposed herself to enough sun al fresco at Buffalo Bill’s Saloon to build a good tan, put on the glasses, changed her style of make-up. Anyone passing her casually in the street won’t be likely to connect her with that model in the photographs.
But this is something else. If one of those pictures ever comes into Graeme’s hands and he hears any part of the story that goes with the picture, he’ll study it with a little imagination and put things together and he’ll know whose face it is.
Granted, in constructing this scenario you’re relying on one or two far-fetched assumptions; probably no such thing will ever happen.
But it could happen.
And that means you have no choice.
For Ellen and for yourself, you’ve got to run again. Disappear again. Start over again.
She looks around the dismal kitchenette. The ceiling feels as if it’s pressing down.
35 “Let us know if there’s anything else we can do for you, Mrs. Holder.” The officer at the New Accounts desk is tidy in a three-piece suit. “Thanks for coming in.”
She gives him a distant polite smile and walks away; she’s slipping the book of temporary checks into her handbag alongside four others and the Nevada driver’s license. It’s the fifth bank Dorothy Holder has visited this morning in San Diego.
As she approaches the pay phones she realizes that she has no retinal image of the bank officer’s face. She remembers the dark suit and the neatly knotted tie but what color are his eyes? What shape is his face? Is his hair light or dark?
She picks up a phone and looks over her shoulder. Across the lobby he’s leaning back in his tilt chair talking to the white-haired woman at the next desk and his waning hair is a nondescript shade of sandy blond. Round face. Possibly a mustache but if so it blends right in; even from only forty feet away she can’t be sure.
Hot damn. I wish I had a face as forgettable as that.
She dials the number again. It’s the third time she’s tried. Most likely he’s still taking some eager would-be Chuck Yeager through loop-the-loops and Immelmann turns. She listens to it ring.
An operator with a computerized voice speaks in disembodied words that are like a juggler’s pins spinning through the air, each in its own orbit unconnected to the others. Please. Deposit. Eighty. Five. Cents.
She plugs coins in and listens to the bong and ping.
She’s surprised when it’s picked up. “Reid Air Service and Flying School. Charlie Reid speaking.”
She keeps it light. “Hi Charlie. It’s Jennifer.”
“Hello there, doll baby.” He sounds cheerful enough. “Where the hell you been?”
“Busy. Are we set for Tuesday?”
“Bet your bottom.”
She’s relieved to hear him say it.
His voice rumbles down the line: “I made some calls. Located a four-place Cessna for rent in Plattsburgh. That’s about thirty miles northeast of Fort Keene. You’re north of Lake Placid, right?”
“North and a little west.”
“Got it on the map here. Mountains around there run to thirty-five hundred, four thousand feet. Lot of contour lines. You sure there’s a place to set down an aircraft?”
“It may have cows in it,” she says, “but it’s flat enough to land on.”
“Don’t forget, love, you need more distance taking off than setting down. If the runway’s a little short you can always stop an airplane against a tree but I never knew anybody who had much success taking off that way.”
“They’ve landed planes there before. I’ve seen it. One of them had two engines. You know, the kind with the V-shaped tail?”
“Twin Bonanza? All right. Then it can accommodate a baby Cessna. But we’ll have to do a recon. If the grass is too high or the soil’s too boggy we’ll have to forget it. We’d be glued to the ground for the duration—bring your hiking boots.”
“It’ll be all right, Charlie.”
“It’s your charter. You’re the boss.”
“You didn’t rent the airplane in your own name, did you?”
“Phony pilot’s license, phony name. I’ve played that game before. I don’t want to end up in jail any more than you do. Where and when do we meet?”
“Can you fly up to San Francisco on Monday night?”
“I guess. Why not.”
“Good. I’ll meet you Tuesday morning at San Francisco International. Make it seven-thirty. United Airlines.”
“What flight?”
“I forget the number. It’s the eight-fifteen for Chicago.”
“Okay. In that case, my dove—you busy for dinner Monday?”
“I’ll be in San Francisco …”
“Fine. I know a little place near the Embarcadero. Not a tourist joint. The waiters are surly but if you like pesto they grow the basil themselves in window boxes.”
Instinct urges her to decline.
Keep your distance. Don’t be stupid.
But she hears herself say: “Where is it—and what time?”
A few minutes later she’s walking out to the car and she feels something like the beginnings of a jaunty bounce in her step and for a moment or two she enjoys it.
The car this time is a sand-colored Buick compact, five years old, a couple of dents and the paint chipped here and there. Drab transportation to go with the slightly frumpy style of the brunette woman she now portrays: thick sensible brown shoes, dull green plaid skirt, loose white blouse in need of ironing, pastel green scarf tied carelessly about the neck, hair drawn back from her temples with tortoise-shell combs. Nearly an academic look.
By the time she’s driven two blocks she has brought herself back down from the momentary high.
Face the truth. If you didn’t need him to fly the plane you’d have left him flat the same way you left Doyle and Marian; even as it is you’ll never see him after Tuesday.
So let’s don’t for Christ’s sake start looking forward to anything.
It can’t be any other way. Ellen has to come first. Doyle and Marian—and Charlie too—they know you as Jennifer Hartman.
And so does Graeme.
That’s the kicker. Graeme. Picture Graeme exchanging confidences with Ray Seale …
And by this time next week Charlie will know altogether too much about Jennifer Hartman and her daughter who’s just turned fifteen months old and the summer place they come from in the Adirondacks. If somebody like Ray Seale gets the bright idea to start questioning licensed charter pilots …
It’s the only way: after Wednesday, Jennifer Hartman must cease to exist.
36 The motel in La Jolla has become a welcome refuge. To reach the ocean she only needs to step out of her room and walk across the narrow street and climb down a steep worn little trail. There are bits and pieces of beach amid the massive dark eroded rocks.