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Should the shotgun ever be found, it could not be traced to him. His mission satisfactorily completed, he would then drive his car to California. He had always wanted to drive across the United States, and, with his new and quite legal passport and Virginia driver’s license, obtained a few weeks ago, he would be safe from an unexpected arrest. He had already begun to grow a beard, and it was looking quite attractive, he thought.
After a look at California he would drive across the border to Tijuana, and thence down to Baja, where he would, eventually, move the funds he had mailed to a bank in the Cayman Islands to a neighborhood Mexican bank, then buy a little house.
He would then begin his new career as a novelist, the mysterious E. Gifford, and he just knew he would be successful at it.
Kelli had just left the Post building for the day when her cell phone buzzed. “Hello?”
“Kelli Keane?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“This is Karen Kohler at Vanity Fair. Prunie Wheaton sent me your manuscript this morning.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Everybody here loves it,” she said. “I walked it through the office, and nobody could put it down. We just had to cancel a piece in the next issue that couldn’t pass fact-checking, so we can slip it right in, instead of waiting for the usual two or three months.”
“Wonderful!”
“Do you have an agent?”
Kelli gave her the name and phone number.
“Well, assuming we can make a deal, and if the piece gets through fact-checking with no major changes, you’ll see it in the next issue.”
“That’s great news, Karen,” Kelli said.
“There’s one more thing we need, though.”
“What’s that?”
“A decent photograph of this suspect, Tim Rutledge. A head shot will do, but get the best one you can.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Kelli said.
“I’ll call you in a day or two to come over here so we can go through the fact-checking and my notes. Can you bring your laptop and make any changes on the spot?”
“Sure, I can.”
“I’ll be in touch, then.” The woman hung up.
Kelli flung herself in front of a taxi and headed for home. She couldn’t wait to tell David.
58
P eter met Hattie after school, and they walked down to Second Avenue and got a cab uptown. He took her hand. “Are you still sure this is what you want to do?”
“Are you against it?” she asked, looking alarmed.
“No. If it’s what you want, I’m all for it. I just want to be sure you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” she said.
They got out at the corner nearest the clinic and walked upstairs. There was a friendly-looking waiti
ng room with landscapes on the walls and current magazines, not all of them for women. Hattie gave the assumed name she was using to the receptionist and came and sat next to Peter.
“I’ve got the titles finished and in the movie,” he said. “It’s as good as it’s ever going to be now.” He told her this to keep her mind off where she was.
