“THERE YOU ARE, MR. Foster.” The airline clerk handed over the ticket envelope with a practiced flourish and a mechanical smile. “That flight will be boarding in exactly an hour, gate thirty-three.”
“Thank you.” Kane pocketed the envelope, turned away from the sales counter, glanced up at the overhead display of gate numbers. Yes, gate thirty-three, concourse C. There would be a snack bar on the concourse. He would have doughnuts and coffee. On the airplane, they would certainly serve lunch.
At a souvenir shop he’d bought a flimsy nylon flight bag, for carry-on luggage. “Protective coloration” was the phrase. A man traveling without luggage from San Francisco to New York would surely be remembered. Then he’d bought two newspapers and two paperback books, to give the flight bag bulk. Now he walked to the security scanner, put the flight bag on the conveyor belt and stepped through the scanner, no buzzers, no alarms.
No alarms …
“Kane,” the woman had shouted.
Over and over, the words had reverberated: “Kane,” followed by “Drop it, you bastard.”
And he’d run. He’d turned his back, run to the car, driven away. His hands on the steering wheel had been shaking. He’d hardly turned the corner before the images had begun to flash: the woman, standing in the middle of the street, watching him drive away. The woman, surely a policewoman, surely copying down the rental car’s license number. Then the green-on-black computer screen, displaying the name of the car-rental agency.
Followed by his name, his address, his New York driver’s license number.
Ahead, he saw the snack bar sign. There was no line. He placed the nylon flight bag beside a small table facing out across the airport. He bought a cup of overpriced coffee and an overpriced butterhorn. Carrying the coffee cup, almost full, his hands were steady. Seated at the table, biting into the butterhorn without tasting it, he turned his attention to the runway far beyond the snack bar’s window, where a DC-10 was about to touch down.
But the images persisted: Diane and the policewoman, at police headquarters. Constable Joe Farnsworth, his pig eyes studying a printout: Bruce Kane, current address. Occupation.
Current employer: Preston Daniels.
Preston Daniels, questioned by the police. Preston Daniels, consulting with his lawyers. Pompous, bloated lawyers, the rich protecting the rich. Making the deals. Paying off the politicians who paid off the police who took the money and smiled.
Take the money and smile.
Take the money and run.
Buy an airplane. A Beechcraft single, or a Mooney. Fly up to Canada, and disappear.
Fly down to Texas, then into Mexico. Fly low, turn off the transponder, get down below the radar. Southbound, no one cared. A vacationing Americano with an inoperative transponder, flying his own airplane into Mexico.
Olé.