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Her husband managed to raise his voice another notch, in case the pilots and first-class passengers couldn't hear him. "So he's going to pick you? Out of the three hundred million other people in this country?"
"I was just thinking--"
"Well, don't."
I turned from the window. The wife ducked my smile and sank into her seat. I put on my headphones, leaving one fewer witness to her humiliation. But before I could turn up the volume, the husband continued.
"Do you really think these are random killings?"
"The paper says--" she began.
"Bullshit. There's no such thing as random murder. These people, they did something wrong and it got them killed. The police will find the link. Drugs, I bet."
"I can't see that, George. Not that poor old woman in Atlanta."
"Ran a shop, didn't she? Who knows what she was selling? That third one? The Russian? Police admitted he had a record. Then there's the college girl, and we all know what kids do in college."
"What about the second one? The accountant."
"Stockbroker. And black. That says it all--" The man had the sense to stop short and cast an anxious glance around. "Stockbrokers, I mean. How do you think they make so much money?"
"I don't know, George..."
"You don't need to know. I've met my share of criminals and I can tell you, one look at those photos in the paper, and it's obvious those 'victims' were on the wrong side of the law."
A serving cart jangled down the aisle and stopped beside us.
"Two coffees," the husband said. "One cream. Two sugars."
He looked over at me. I tugged the headphones from my ears and smiled at the hostess.
"Coffee, please. Just cream."
As she poured, the husband leaned toward his wife, voice dropping a notch. "You don't need to worry, Anne. If you ever got within fifty feet of a killer, you'd see it in his face."
The hostess held out my coffee. The husband took it and passed it to me. Our eyes met.
"Thanks," I said.
He nodded, returned my smile and took his own cup from the hostess.
I exited the plane, swept along in the tide of passengers. Inside the terminal, I looked around and groaned. A crowded major American airport, and Jack hadn't specified a meeting spot. Plus he'd be wearing a disguise. Wonderful.
Did Jack expect me to be incognito? I stored all my things in New York, having no need or inclination to play dress-up at home. I took out the passport and checked the photo again. Shoulder-length auburn curls. Hazel eyes. Not smiling, but dimples threatening to break through. Yep, definitely me, so he obviously hadn't intended for me to wear a disguise. Hey, where'd he get a picture--? I shook my head. Better not to know.
I looped back toward the exit gate. Halfway there I spotted Jack. Something--maybe his posture or the tilt of his head--tripped a wire in my head. Normally I'd peg Jack at late thirties. Now he'd aged himself another decade,
deepening the lines around his eyes and mouth, roughening his skin. His hair was dark blond, pulled back into a ponytail. A Vandyke beard covered his chin. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved pullover pushed up to his elbows to reveal a garish forearm tattoo. He looked like an aging biker who'd retired from the life, settled down, bought himself and the missus a honky-tonk bar. I really hoped I didn't have to play the missus.
He stood back from the crowd, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. For at least a minute, I stood there, just watching. This was one huge step up from sitting with him in the forest, taking lessons. Could I trust Jack enough to work alongside him? Did I dare?
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, then started toward him.
As his gaze scanned the last trickle of exiting passengers, his mouth set in a firm line. The flow of passengers petered out. Jack strode to a garbage can and crushed the cup. It wasn't empty, and coffee spurted on his hand. He glared at the mess, pitched the cup into the trash and swiped his wet hand across his jeans. Then he stalked toward the exit. I slipped through a small crowd and put myself in his path. He nearly mowed me down before stopping short.
"Nad--" He rubbed his hand across his mouth, as if erasing the mistake.
"Surprise."
