First, he tried a little old-fashioned confusion and mayhem. He used a pay phone back on the New Jersey border to make flight reservations from Newark Airport to Toronto. Maybe they'd track that down and figure he was an amateur. Maybe not. He hung up, moved to another pay phone, and made his other reservation. He wrote down his booking number, hung up, and shook his head.
This was not going to be easy.
Matt pulled into the Harrisburg airport parking lot. The Mauser M2 was still in his pocket. No way he could take it with him. Matt jammed the weapon under the front passenger seat because, if things did not go as planned, he might be back. The Isuzu had served him well. He wanted to write a note to its owner, explaining what he had done and why. With luck there'd be a chance to explain in the future.
Now to see if his plan worked…
But first, he needed sleep. He bought a baseball cap in the souvenir store. Then he found a free chair in the arrivals area, folded his arms across his chest, closed his eyes, pulled the brim low across his face. People slept in airports all the time, he figured. Why would anyone bother him?
He woke up an hour later, feeling like absolute hell. He headed upstairs to the departure level. He bought some extra-strength Tylenol and Motrin, took three of each. He cleaned up in the bathroom.
The line at the ticket sales counter was long. That was good, if the timing worked. He wanted the staff to be busy. When it was his turn, the woman behind the desk gave him that distracted smile.
"To Chicago, Flight 188," he said.
"That flight leaves in twenty minutes," she said.
"I know. There was traffic and-"
"May I see your picture ID, please?"
He gave her his driver's license. She typed in "Hunter, M." This was the moment of truth. He stood perfectly still. She frowned and typed some more. Nothing happened. "I don't see you in here, Mr. Hunter."
"That's odd."
"Do you have your booking number?"
"I sure do."
He handed the one he'd gotten when he made the reservation on the phone. She typed in the letters: YTIQZ2. Matt held his breath.
The woman sighed. "I see the problem."
"Oh?"
She shook her head. "Your name is misspelled on the reservation. You're listed here as Mike, not Matt. And the last name is Huntman, not Hunter."
"Honest mistake," Matt said.
"You'd be surprised how often it happens."
"Nothing would surprise me," he said.
They shared a world-is-full-of-dopes laugh. She printed out his ticket and collected the money. Matt smiled, thanked her, and headed to the plane.
There was no nonstop from Harrisburg to Reno, but that might work in his favor. He didn't know how the airline computer system meshed with the federal government's, but two short flights would probably work better than one long one. Would the computer system pick up his name right away? Matt doubted it- or maybe hope sprang eternal. Thinking logically, the whole thing would have to take some time- gathering the information, sorting it, getting it to the right person. A few hours at a minimum.
He'd be in Chicago in one.
It sounded good in theory.
When he landed safely at O'Hare in Chicago, he felt his heart start up again. He disembarked, trying not to look conspicuous, planning an escape route in case he saw a row of police officers at the gate. But no one grabbed him when he came off the plane. He let out a long breath. So they hadn't located him- yet. But now came the tricky part. The flight to Reno was longer. If they put together what he'd done the first time, they'd have plenty of time to nail him.
So he tried something slightly different.
Another long line at the airline purchasing desk. Matt might need that. He waited, snaking through the velvet ropes. He watched, seeing which employee looked most tired or complacent. He found her, on the far right. She looked bored past the point of tears. She examined IDs, but there was little spark in her eyes. She kept sighing. She kept glancing around, clearly distracted. Probably had a personal life, Matt thought. Maybe a fight with the husband or her teenage daughter or who knew what?
Or maybe, Matt, she's very astute and just has a tired-looking face.
Still, what other options were there? When Matt got to the front of the line and his agent wasn't free, he faked looking for something and told the family behind him to go ahead. He did that one more time and then it was his agent's turn to say, "Next."
He approached as inconspicuously as possible. "My name is Matthew Huntler." He handed her a piece of paper with the booking number on it. She took it and started typing.
"Chicago to Reno/Tahoe, Mr. Huntler."
"Yes."
"ID, please."
This was the hardest part. He had tried to set it up as smoothly as possible. M. Huntler was a member of their frequent-flier club- Matt had signed him up a few hours ago. Computers don't know from subtlety. Humans sometimes do.
He gave her his wallet. She did not look at it at first. She was still typing into the computer. Maybe he'd get lucky here. Maybe she wouldn't even check his ID.
"Any luggage to check?"
"Not today, no."
She nodded, still typing. Then she turned toward his ID. Matt felt his stomach tumble. He remembered something Bernie had sent him by e-mail several years ago. It said:
Here's a fun test. Read this sentence:
FINISHED FILES ARE THE RESULT OF YEARS OF SCIENTIFIC STUDY COMBINED WITH THE EXPERIENCE OF YEARS.
Now count the F's in that sentence.
He had done it and ended up with four. The real answer was six. You don't see every letter. That's not how we're built. He was counting on something like that here. Hunter, Huntler. Would someone really catch the difference?
The woman said to him. "Aisle or window."
"Aisle."
He'd made it. The security check went even easier- after all, Matt had already been ID'd at the counter, right? The security guard looked at his picture, at his face, but he didn't come up with the fact that the ID said Hunter while the boarding pass read Huntler. Typos are made all the time anyway. You see hundreds or thousands of boarding passes each day. You really wouldn't notice such a small thing.
Once again Matt got to his plane right as the gate was about to close. He settled into his aisle seat, closed his eyes, and didn't wake up until the pilot announced their descent into Reno.
The door to Mother Katherine's office was closed.
This time there was no flashback for Loren. She pounded hard on the door and put her hand on the knob. When she heard Mother Katherine say, "Come in," she was ready.
The Mother Superior had her back to the door. She did not turn around when Loren entered. She merely asked, "Are you sure Sister Mary Rose was murdered?"
"Yes."
"Do you know who did it?"
"Not yet."
Mother Katherine nodded slowly. "Have you learned her real identity?"
"Yes," Loren said. "But it would have been easier if you'd just told me."
She expected Mother Katherine to argue, but she didn't. "I couldn't."
"Why not?"
"Unfortunately it was not my place."
"She told you?"
"Not exactly, no. But I knew enough."
"How did you figure it out?"
The old nun shrugged. "Some of her statements about her past," she said. "They didn't add up."
"You confronted her?"
"No, never. And she never told me her true identity. She said it would endanger others. But I know that it was sordid. Sister Mary Rose wanted to move past it. She wanted to make amends. And she did. She contributed much to this school, to these children."
"With her work or with finances?"
"Both."
"She gave you money?"
"The parish," Mother Katherine corrected. "Yes, she gave quite a bit."
"Sounds like guilt money."
Mother Katherine smiled. "Is there any other kind?"
"So that story about chest compressions…?"