“I know I have it here somewhere...”
The canned organ music could be heard faintly. “Can we take care of it by mail? I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“Why yes, of course. I did want you to have a receipt.”
A receipt! Oh for Christ’s sake! Hudson was out of his chair, “Thank you, my check will do for that.” Swiftly he retraced his steps to the chapel. It was empty.
He moved quickly to the front door, pulled it open, looking up and down the street. There! The woman was climbing into a white two-door Dodge a block away. She had an object that could have been an urn in her hand. Damn! His car was in the other direction. Making a quick decision, he gimped toward her car - hoping the bleeding didn’t start again - until he was close enough to see the license plate, then went faster to his Subaru. Her car took off heading south; by the time he reached his, hers had disappeared. He eased his sore rear on a pillow he’d grabbed at Wally’s house, one with colorful green, red and yellow frogs on the case, and gave a gray-bearded man a start as he pulled suddenly in front of the man’s old red Plymouth, treading hard on the accelerator. Sorry...
Did O’Connor purposely give the woman an opening to avoid him? Why? Instructions from the ah federal agency no doubt. It couldn’t have been much of a service, he thought. He’d arrived a minute or two before the hour, and his business with the funeral director had taken less than ten.
Sixty on Atlantic Avenue was like a hundred on an expressway. A residential road with side streets popping up at irregular intervals, Hudson had to keep focus on driving. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. A car behind was matching his speed. He flicked his eyes back to it. An old red Plymouth. Gray-beard? Gets upset kind of easy. He crossed into Swampscott with still no sign of the white Dodge. Coming out of the curve where the old Preston hotel once stood stirred a brief memory of playing on that beach as a child on holiday from suburban Cambridge. Later there was a girl the guys called Turrets... he upped speed to seventy, blurring the once-stately old homes on either side. Brakes squealed as he slowed for the junction with Humphrey Street. Just one car ahead, she was accelerating on the road to Lynn. It was also the road to Boston. And Houston and Jackson Hole for that matter. Another Humphrey Street car inserted itself, so he was two back. They stayed that way along Lynn beach and over the bridge into Revere. She gave no indication she was aware of him, no sharp turns into other roads, just a steady drive. Stopped at the light, he heard a car backfire. His focus on the car ahead was so complete it was ten seconds before he realized inspection requirements had made backfiring cars extinct. He glanced again in the mirror; he glimpsed the red Plymouth one car back. Now
He didn’t need another problem and ran the light at the circle beyond Wonderland Dog Track. The red car got blocked by the law-abiding driver ahead of it. Both cars in front turned off for Everett, leaving him directly behind the courier. Someone sent to pick up the ashes and bring them - and Hudson inviting himself - to Loni. He had no plan after; somehow get her to talk to him. He had his initial questions, the rest to follow from the answers.
They swung left toward the tunnel and downtown Boston. And the Onyx Club, he thought, where Wally would arrive later in the day. Maybe he’d join his former father-in-law there for dinner, if he was allowed in. He’d heard a member was allowed one guest a month.
Suddenly all thoughts of meeting Wally vanished. The white Dodge turned onto the ramp for Logan airport! Damn! He should have expected that Loni be stashed not only not in Boston but also not in New England. Country living had relaxed him. Too much. He should be thinking more than one move ahead; that must be corrected. He inventoried; some cash and credit cards. Maybe the woman was just meeting someone; though he probably still had another damnable plane ride coming, else why meet here.
The Dodge turned into the airport garage. Hudson kept his Subaru as far behind as he dared. He was two hundred feet back when she parked. Since she took the first open space they’d encountered, he had to drive past her to find another. He sped up and kept his face turned away; God knows how long he’d have to follow her now - if he could get on the flight at all. He thought about that. There was no backup plan available, he either was on that plane or he’d lost the chance at Loni.
In the terminal she examined the departure schedule, then walked toward one of the corridors that led to multi gates. Part way down it was a man and a woman checking tickets. Only passengers were allowed beyond that point. He had to have a ticket to get by them, any ticket; he’d hope to get on her plane at its gate. He studied the courier from the back, camel hair three-quarter length coat, short light brown hair, brown shoes, then, pillow in hand, ran back to the ticket counters. The smallest line was three persons. He got in that one, but it was ten minutes before he reached the desk. He used the time to decide on a flight departing from one of the gates off the corridor he’d just left.
“Do you have space on 721 to New York?”
“Sorry, sir, that one’s sold out. I could put you on standby?”
“How about Washington? I see you have one at eleven-fifty.”
“Hmm. Nope, nothing there. It’s a busy season.”
“Cincinnati at eleven-forty?”
The clerk looked at him curiously. “Yes, sir, I have one in first class. It’s boarding now.”
“Done.” Hudson pulled out a credit card.
“Round trip?”
“One way.”
“Anyplace but Boston, huh?” the clerk grinned as he completed the paperwork.
“It’s the time of year,” said Hudson nonsensically.
“Luggage?” The clerk glancing at the froggy pillow.
“No. I’ll...carry this.”
With the precious ticket in hand, he dashed for the gates. Several waiting areas were empty; many had crowds of passengers awaiting boarding announcements. He’d noted the gate numbers with earliest departure, and those he checked first. It was eleven twenty-two. The wing of the airport was T shaped with over a dozen gates off it. In five minutes he covered them all. No camel hair coat. Could she have taken it off? He doubted it. It wasn’t that warm in here, and he saw no one who looked like his quarry. One of the ladies rooms? There appeared to be three. From the center of the T he could keep an eye on all of them. Another five minutes passed. Damn. Would she take that long? Sylvia, his first wife, often did. Cilla never. He looked at the ticket in his hand that had given him entree to the gates. Maybe she was on that plane! With Holmesian logic she had to be. Gate twenty-one. He got to the door just as they were closing it.
His seat was at the front of the plane where he entered. She wasn’t in first class, and the flight attendant was just drawing the curtain between first class and the rest of the plane. He wouldn’t know if he was right until they were in the air. Had he ever wanted to see Cincinnati?
He was committed, so there was no hurry checking if the woman was aboard. Will he even recognize her? He’d only seen her from the back, and she’d probably taken off the camel hair coat. He shifted from one cheek to the other until what passed for lunch had been served, then followed another passenger back as though headed for the tail toilets. Peering around the man’s shoulder, he saw her halfway back. Was he sure? Yes, the camel hair coat over her as a blanket. Holmes was right. Her eyes were closed, and she appeared to be sleeping. Lucky her. It would take general anesthesia to put him out on a plane.
At Cincinnati he enjoyed an advantage of first class; the other passengers had to pass by on their way out. From behind a magazine he studied them. No camel hair. After the last had deplaned he looked back. She was reading a book as though in her living room. He stopped an attendant.
“Where does this plane go from here?”
“This is a continuing flight to Salt Lake City and Seattle.”
Of course! There had even been an announcement about that, but he was so focused on Cincinnati...“Is there space from here on?”
“I don’t know, sir. You’d have to check with the desk in the airport.”
“How long before you take off?”
“Just as soon as we’re loaded. The weather over western New York put us behind. You probably have thirty minutes, though.”
The airport was mobbed, and the line at the check-in counter was long enough to interfere with foot traffic for other gates. Thirty minutes became twenty, then ten. Final calls were being announced for the flight when he reached the counter.
“Can you get me back on this flight? I was on it from Boston.”
“Salt Lake City or Seattle?”
