Paul had to be cheating on her. She tried to think of who and when. It could easily be that little dance instructor Mindy, the puppy dog. She had been flirting with Paul for at least a year, and lately she’d been overtly trying to get between them by using Paul as her partner, almost a second instructor. The woman could be any woman, or lots of women. There was no way to catch Paul after the fact, or know whether he had even started cheating yet. He was emotionally separating himself from her, and that was the big step.
How could Paul be so disloyal? She knew the answer to that, too. He would consider himself justified—all the work was done for him in advance. It wouldn’t matter that Sylvie had been completely faithful to him for fifteen years, and shared his difficulties and dangers—literally killed for him. He would believe that because of those two years in her life when she was very young and naive, she had no rights. The fact that she had stopped doing films four years before she met him and already been a respectable married woman would be irrelevant. She simply had no right to be jealous.
Arguing with Paul’s justification was a meaningless activity. Justification was meaningless. What he wanted to do, he would do.
Sylvie looked at Paul again, driving along the dark highway. He had such a strong, appealing profile. The slight upturn of his lips and the arched eyebrows gave him a special expression, the look of a perfect partner. The expression had always struck her as the look of a flamenco dancer, dangerous in a sexual way—jealous, aggressive, maybe just on the edge of violence.
Her breath caught in her chest and stayed there for a moment. She forced it out slowly through pursed lips and waited a moment before she took another, just as slowly, to calm herself. She looked at him again. Paul wasn’t some fat, soft-minded little business executive. Was he likely to file for divorce and then wait quietly for six months while Sylvie’s lawyers stripped the meat off his bones?
If Paul had made the decision that he was finished with Sylvie, then she would have a problem. “I love you, Paul.”
“What?
“I was just thinking about what a difference meeting you has made in my life. If it were all over now, I wouldn’t regret it.”
She studied him. He seemed genuinely puzzled, but not quite daring to be pleased, as though he were waiting anxiously for something unpleasant to follow. “What brought this on?”
“I don’t know. Just being here with you, I guess. I was just thinking that things in life—even ones that seem permanent—are temporary.”
He glanced at her with a look of amusement. “Are you trying to kiss me off?”
She laughed once, with no conviction. “Of course not. I just said I loved you. But since you brought up kissing people off, I guess it applies to that, too. If you did decide to leave me someday, I love you too much to make it hard for you.” She had been listening to her own voice to hear whether the lie sounded convincing, but she wasn’t sure how well she had done. He seemed merely confused.
“What do you mean?”
“You know. All of those women who get dumped think they have to get revenge in court and leave their husbands in poverty. I’ve heard them at lunch in restaurants laughing about how much they took, like harpies or something. They gossip about the ex-husband and the new woman, and try to sabotage them any way they can.” Her eyes stayed on him as she talked. “You know. They turn him in to the IRS for hiding income or something like that.” With some effort, she softened. “I just want you to know I’m not like them. If you want somebody younger and don’t find me attractive anymore, I won’t punish you for that.”
“Oh. So that’s it.” He sounded tired and annoyed. “I had no idea what you were talking about. I should have known, I guess, but I didn’t. I never said you weren’t attractive, or that I wanted somebody younger.”
“No. Please don’t be mad. I’m not trying to start a fight. It’s just the opposite. I’m trying to tell you that I’ve thought about you in all kinds of ways. And what I feel most is gratitude. I’ve had such an incredible time with you. I’ve learned so much—even that. You’re the one who taught me to make all the decisions I can in advance.”
“Okay.” His voice sounded tight, as though he were holding back anger. He was reacting as though she had said the opposite of what she had said. She took a breath to speak, then held it. She was getting herself in deeper. She let out the breath and sat in silence, staring ahead at the red taillights. The cars went around a long, slow curve and she could see the ones ahead of her better. The headlights of the car directly ahead shone on the side of the next, and she could make out the head of the driver. “There. That’s Jack Till.”
Sylvie turned in her seat and squinted through the rear window at the configuration of headlights behind their car. As their car began the long curve, the headlights of the cars behind aimed off to the left, and she could see them better. There seemed to her to be none in the pack that were troublesome. There were an overdecorated white SUV with gold trim, a Volvo station wagon, and two Japanese cars that were too small for cops to use. She looked ahead again. “I don’t think any of those cars can be searching for us, and I don’t see any of them that could be a backup for Till. That’s what I would have done if I were Till. I’d have a second car following me with a couple of cops in it, just in case.”
“This isn’t a presidential motorcade,” Paul said. “And Till isn’t even a cop anymore. He was just trying to sneak her into L.A., and he’s failed.”
She watched Paul’s expression of concentration, and his eyes moving from the rearview mirror to the highway ahead and back. It occurred to her that for the moment she was in no danger. Paul was an expert strategist, and he knew that his biggest advantage over his adversary right now was Sylvie. With her he had double the firepower, an extra set of eyes and hands and an extra brain.
Paul said, “Okay, here we go. He’s pulling off the freeway, taking the exit up there.”
“It’s about time. I was wondering if those people ever had to pee.” Sylvie took the silencer out of her purse and screwed it onto the barrel of her pistol.
“Get ready.”
She resisted the impulse to say, “What do you think I’m doing?” Instead, she said, “Hand me your gun.”
He pulled the gun out of the well in the door beside him and handed it to her. She took the second silencer out of her purse and screwed it on, then ejected the magazine and looked at it. “You didn’t reload after the cop.”
He looked mildly surprised, but he was busy trying to get off the freeway at the right speed and distance from Till’s car. Sylvie could see he was staying barely within sight, only close enough to see which way Till turned before he disappeared. Till’s car turned left and drove under the freeway overpass.
She wanted time, and the time was speeding up, slipping away. She rested both guns in her lap, one in each hand. She wondered for a moment whether in the long run she wouldn’t be wise simply to wait for Paul to pull the car off the exit and put it in neutral, and then fire his pistol into his right temple. She would be able to squeeze the gun into his right hand and walk away. Then she could get a flight home, clean up the house, and await the visit from the quiet, respectful police officers. The tears would be real. That was the problem with the idea.
No, she decided. She wouldn’t act now to prevent him from acting later. As long as this job was occupying him, he wouldn’t harm her. She checked to be sure the safety was on and handed him the gun. “There’s a round in the chamber.”
“Good. Thanks. You’re thinking better than I am.”
“A pretty good compliment.” She leaned over and gave him a soft, wet kiss on the cheek, then sat up in her seat, her eyes on the windshield again.
Paul followed Till’s car at a distance, the taillights so far ahead that they looked almost like one red spot instead of two. The car swerved into the driveway of a big hotel on the hillside. Instead of following Till into the parking lot, Paul stopped at a gas station down the street. He coasted up to a gas pump but stayed in the car watching the hotel parking lot. Paul said, “He’s parking in front of the hotel restaurant.”
Jack Till got out of his car and stood beside it to stretch his long body and twist his torso a couple of times. Sylvie could see that he was standing guard with his coat open and his gun in easy reach while Wendy Harper got out and walked toward the restaurant entrance.
When Jack Till and Wendy Harper had disappeared into the restaurant, Paul got out of the car, went into the gas station, and gave the teenaged boy inside some money. Then he returned, inserted the nozzle into the car, and began to fill the tank.
