Sylvie moved into the entry, where a fake wood sign said “PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF.” She scanned the interior of the restaurant. Till and Wendy were to the left at the far end of the room, so she quickly turned right to find a table as far away from them as possible. Sylvie slid into a booth beside a large window overlooking the hotel and its parking lot. She could even see the gas station where she and Paul had stopped.
Paul sat down across the table from her. She could see his eyes focus on the part of the room where Till and Wendy sat. He let his eyes stay there too long, so she became more and more tense until he looked away. Then Sylvie tilted her head down and pretended to look at the menu while she surveyed the restaurant. She could see a counter along the back wall, and beyond that, the kitchen. There was about sixty feet of open floor between Sylvie and the far end of the counter where the hall began that led to the restrooms and telephones. Jack Till and Wendy Harper were on that side of the room, and she calculated that Wendy’s walk to the restroom would be no more than thirty feet.
Sylvie would have to see Wendy get up and move toward the ladies’ room, then get up herself and follow. She would reach the restroom after Wendy, put a bullet in Wendy’s head with the silenced pistol, turn, and walk back the sixty feet to the front door, where Paul would be waiting. It would all work fine if Wendy didn’t see the gun and scream.
Sylvie looked hard at the people sitting along the counter. When it was over, she was going to have to make it back here past all of them. Usually when bad things happened in public places, the people who were present stood with their mouths open, not able to move or even think. But sometimes there would be somebody who understood what he had seen and who acted instantly. She couldn’t shoot Wendy and then have one of those four big men at the counter reach out and grab her. She would have to keep her gun in her hand so if one of them tried, she could pop him. She would carry it in her right hand, because the seats along the counter would be on her left. The gun would need to be concealed. She supposed the only natural-looking way was to carry it with her jacket over her forearm to cover it.
Far across the restaurant, Wendy Harper pushed back her chair and rose. “She’s up,” Sylvie whispered. Wendy Harper pushed the chair in, turned toward the ladies’ room, and began to make her way past the tables. “Are you ready?”
Sylvie slid out of the booth, stood up, arranged her purse and jacket so her right hand was free, and took a step, but Paul’s hand shot out, clutched her arm and pulled her down onto the bench on his side of the table. He was smiling as though he were teasing her, but his face was close to hers, and he whispered, “Look. Outside in the parking lot. Careful.”
She kept her face close to his, but leaned to the right slightly so her right eye was clear of him and could see. There was a police car outside, stopped behind their rental car. The police officer inside had his radio microphone to his mouth.
“What are we going to do?”
“We’ve got to get out of here before more of them show up. They must have the license number.”
“How?”
“Who cares? Somebody saw what happened at the airport.”
“I mean how do we get out?”
“The hotel.”
She looked in the direction of Jack Till’s table, but Paul pushed against her with his hip. “Get up and go. Now.” She got up and walked toward the door. He opened it quickly and was out after her.
Paul guided Sylvie around the front of the restaurant away from the direction of the rental car, and they walked quickly toward the main hotel building.
Paul held the door at the hotel entrance for her, and she slipped in and turned while he caught up. All their motions were smooth and familiar. They weren’t nervous people fumbling to evade the cops. They were dancers again, a couple stepping gracefully into their hotel after a dinner date. She forced her anxiety to become excitement. She moved across the floor at Paul’s side, aware of the danger gathering behind her. Cars were on their way in answer to the lone policeman’s call.
Paul led her through an alcove and into a corridor lined with guest rooms. He moved along the hallway, turned twice until he reached a spot where the passage ended in a fire exit. He stepped to the door and looked out, then beckoned to Sylvie.
She could see the police cars arriving from the direction of the freeway. There were three of them already, all with lights on their roofs revolving and flashing. Paul put his hands on her shoulders. “Stay right here,” he whispered. “If the cops come in here, talk to them loud. If they come for me, open fire. I’m just waiting a second to give these people time to see the flashing lights outside.” He stood there, glanced at his watch, and gave her a pat. “Time.”
He stepped along the hall listening at doors. It was early evening, and the first few rooms seemed to be empty. Finally he knocked on one of them. There was a muffled voice that Sylvie couldn’t quite hear. Then Paul said, “Police. Open up.” He held his wallet in his hand, and passed it quickly in front of the peephole in the door.
The door opened and Paul pushed the door inward. “What the hell?” said a man’s voice, and then Sylvie heard the spitting sound of Paul’s suppressed pistol. The door closed.
There was a long wait, and then the door opened and Paul beckoned to Sylvie. She hurried to the door and slipped inside to join him. At first the room seemed empty, but on the far side of the bed she could see a man’s bare feet sticking out. She moved closer, and saw the body. It seemed to be the size of a walrus, a big, rounded torso beached on the floor. Paul said, “Help me find his car keys. Hurry.”
The flashing lights from the police cars blinked through a crack between the curtains, so she tugged them closed, then began to go through the pile of dirty clothes on the floor of the closet while Paul searched the drawers of the nightstands, the dressers, and the desk.
She looked up to begin searching the pockets of the clothes hanging above, and noticed that some of them didn’t belong to the dead man. “Paul,” she said. Someone in the hallway tried the doorknob.
“Shit!” Paul muttered under his breath.
Sylvie shook her head and pointed to the bathroom. Paul stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. Sylvie picked up her purse, slung it over her left shoulder and arranged her pistol in it so she could reach it quickly. Then she opened the door to the hallway.
Standing in front of her was a woman about fifty years old. She had a pizza box and a six-pack of beer in her hands, and dangling from her fingers was a set of keys. “Ray?” she said. “Oh, my God! Do I have the wrong room?”
“No, ma’am. Come in, please.” Sylvie watched the woman enter and closed the door gently behind her. She remained at the door so the woman would have to look at her instead of toward the bed. “I’m a police officer. Are you Ray’s wife?”
“Yes. I saw all your cars outside. What’s going on?”
“It’s a search for some fugitives. May I see your license, please?”
The woman set her pizza and beer on the dresser and opened her purse to take out a wallet. She slid a license out of a plastic sleeve and handed it to Sylvie with a shaking hand.
Sylvie held the license up to compare it with the woman’s face. She seemed satisfied, but held on to it. “Your car. Can you tell me the make and model, please?”
“It’s a green Toyota. It’s the one parked right near the door.”
“Are those the keys?”
The woman held the keys up where Sylvie could see them. Sylvie took them and the woman’s license and set them on the bed. “Thank you. Now, I’d like you to turn around and hold both arms out from your sides.”