Watch Them Die

The uniformed driver stood near the American Airlines terminal’s security checkpoint, holding a sign: KENNETH WOODLEY. Arriving Seattle passengers filed past the husky, middle-aged Arabic man on their way to baggage claim. Ari held the placard a bit higher. There were a half dozen other chauffeurs waiting around with signs. One by one, they met up with their fares. Ari was beginning to think Kenneth Woodley hadn’t made his plane from Chicago.

He didn’t see him coming. The lean man in his mid-thirties wore a Polo sportshirt and carried a duffel bag. His dark eyes seemed very intense, and there were traces of gray in his wavy brown hair. He was talking on a cell phone. Without a word or a nod of recognition, he unloaded his bag on Ari, then kept moving toward the escalator. Startled, Ari chased after him with the duffel and the sign.

“No, listen,” Kenneth Woodley was saying into his cell phone. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. You don’t think she’s caught on to you yet, do you?”

Ari hovered behind him as the escalator carried them down to baggage claim.

“Well, she might not be letting on that she’s wise to you. Watch out for her. She’s a crafty bitch. Have you seen the kid yet? What? Well, what the fuck is wrong with you? How long have you been on the job?”

He stepped off the escalator and headed toward the baggage carousel. Ari was a step in back of him.

“Well, if we can, I want to pin Craig’s murder on her. I don’t care what you say. You stick with her long enough, and we’ll come up with something. One way or another, I’ll see she gets what’s coming to her. So—keep doing what you’re doing. I gotta go. You’re breaking up here.”

With a flick of the wrist, he folded up the tiny phone and shoved it in his pants pocket.

“Excuse me?” Ari piped up finally. “You’re Mr. Woodley?”

Kenneth Woodley turned and laughed. “No, I’m fucking Santa Claus. Who do you think I am?” He handed Ari his ticket envelope. “A black suitcase with a royal blue stripe down the center. Think you can remember that?”

“Yessir,” Ari replied. “We’re going to the Four Seasons Hotel, sir?”

Kenneth chuckled again. “I’m going to the Four Seasons. I don’t give a shit where you end up. Only, along the way, I want you drive me to someplace where I can lease a yacht. I might be here a few days. I may as well get some sailing in.”

“The fishing here is excellent, too, Mr. Woodley,” Ari offered.

“I don’t give a damn about that,” he replied. “I’m not fishing here. I’m on a hunting expedition. Now, get the suitcase, okay? I gotta take a leak.”

Neither of them had finished their lunch. Hannah’s chicken was gnarly and hard. All she could do was pick at her rice.

Tiptop Teriyaki was new to the mall’s food court, and not likely to last very long. Hannah and Ben were the only customers seated at the counter bar that curved around Tiptop’s nearly vacant eating area.

Over their inedible meal, Hannah told Ben about the other murders, and the videos forecasting them. She didn’t have to explain much. He was already familiar with the pattern. She told him about finding Casino in her purse, and her concern for her coworker.

Britt hadn’t shown up for work today, and she hadn’t answered any of Hannah’s phone messages since the night before last.

“Anyway,” Hannah sighed, pushing her plate away. “I’m worried she might be next.”

“What do the police think?” Ben asked.

“Well, I—I haven’t talked to them,” Hannah answered. “I haven’t contacted them about any of this.”

“What?” Ben squinted at her. “Why not?”

She glanced at her wristwatch. “Listen, I need to get back to work. You want to walk with me?”

They headed back toward the store.

“I can’t believe you haven’t talked to the police,” Ben said, as they crossed the street. “You know, after that deliberate hit-and-run the other night, it struck me as weird you never approached the police about Craig. I mean, he’d been there to see you. Why didn’t you say something?”

Hannah hurried toward Emerald City Video. She shook her head. “I’m not sure. I was scared, confused.”

“Well, why don’t you talk to the police now? Between the two of us, we have enough information—”

“Ben, I’m going to be late for work,” she cut in, pausing in front of the door. “Maybe we can talk tonight. Okay?”

“Well, wait a minute—”

Hannah opened the door, stepped inside, and stopped dead.

Two uniformed policemen and a third man—heavyset with a tie, and badge on his windbreaker—stood by the front counter. At the register, Cheryl seemed confused. Tish stared back at Hannah with tears in her eyes. A slapstick comedy was showing on the store’s TVs.

“Ms. Doyle?” the plainclothes cop said.

Hannah took a step back, and almost bumped into Ben. She’d known this was coming, yet they’d still caught her off guard. They were here to arrest her. “Where’s my son?” she heard herself ask.

Tish approached her. “Honey, it’s not Guy. It’s Britt. Something happened.”

Wide-eyed, Hannah shook her head.

Tish hugged her, then whispered in her ear, “Oh, Han, they found her this morning in some hotel….”

“She was seeing this man named Roy Webster,” Hannah explained while shelving videos and DVDs. She moved from aisle to aisle with a stack of movies. The husky detective was following her around the store. He held a little recorder in his hand.

“He goes by the nickname ‘Webb,’” Hannah went on. “Britt was spending the weekend with him. As I said, I just talked with her the night before last, and she was fine.”

Hannah stayed as busy as she could around the plainclothes cop. That way, she could avoid looking him in the eye.

As she ran around the store, Hannah caught an occasional glimpse of Ben, browsing in New Releases. She could tell he was studying her, probably waiting for her to say something to the detective about the video murders. But she couldn’t. She could barely get through this casual interrogation without almost giving herself away. Fortunately, Ben had kept his mouth shut—so far.

He’d been in the store for about twenty minutes now. Ben had waited, along with the three policemen, while Tish and Hannah had ducked into the break room.

“Listen, honey,” Tish said, once they’d had a good cry in the little closet of a room. “I could send you home, but it would kill us here. I hate to ask, but could you hang in there and finish off your shift? You can take tomorrow off. I’ll fill in for Britt.”

Hannah hunted for a Kleenex in her purse. Her heart ached as she pulled out the packet of Capt’n Crunch decals Britt had saved for Guy. She began to cry all over again.

Tish handed her some tissues from her own bag, and suggested maybe she should go home after all.

“No, I’ll stick it out here,” she’d managed to say. “It’s best I keep busy for the next few hours.”

The two uniformed policemen left. Tish took to the register with Cheryl, while Hannah darted around the store, filing away returns.

“Were you aware that your friend had a drug habit?” the detective asked her, in the Documentaries section.

“That’s a side of her I don’t know much about,” Hannah answered steadily. “The person you should really ask is Webb. He’s the one you ought to talk to.”

“Britt had a couple of priors for possession,” the detective said, following her to the Sci-Fi section. “Do you know any of the people she might have—um, partied with?”

“No. As I said, that was a part of her life she didn’t share with me.” Hannah’s voice began to quaver. “She was really a sweet person, with a kind heart.” She paused and took a couple of deep breaths. Standing there among