“Seattle.” Let’s not go through this again.
The clerk conferred with his computer. “Here we go. It’s a window. 24A.”
“Great! I’ll take it.”
Again he was the last through the door. Hudson, who was always so early he had to wait for whomever he was meeting, found this unsettling. He’d never make it as a private eye; tailing had too many things that could go wrong.
At Salt Lake City she put on her coat and headed for the exit. Hudson followed, several passengers behind. She walked toward baggage control. Why? She had no luggage - did she? - only a hand bag that presumably contained the urn. Did she have a car here? If so, he’d follow in a taxi. A lot more convenient if he could rent a car, but unless
She was in no hurry, stopping at a newsstand and then at a rest room. Just stretching her legs. He convinced himself she was continuing on to Seattle, and was on his pillow immersed in a newspaper when she returned. The stop had forced his lazy brain to think. He’d been to Seattle. SeaTac was a substantial airport with several possible exits. One led to taxis and buses, another to the garage where, as he remembered it, private and rental cars were both parked. If this was the end of her flight, she’d probably have her own automobile, using a different exit than the one to the taxi rank. Could he keep her in sight and still rent a car to follow? No way. Unless he had one waiting. He shrunk down in his seat and turned on his cell. Information gave him the names of rental car companies at SeaTac. He picked one and dialed. Renting a car was no problem, but there was always paperwork at a desk when picking it up. He couldn’t afford that extra time. He transferred his call to the firm’s garage desk.
“I need a little special help, and I’m told if anyone can handle it you folks can.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I’m on flight 721, due at SeaTac at 3:20. I need to have a car ready and waiting, not in a parking space but the garage is right outside the room you’re in, isn’t it?” The response was affirmative. “I can’t afford time standing in line but I’m willing to pay extra to have the paperwork so I can sign it and be on my way. I’ll give you my credit card number if you can do it.”
“Do you want something sporty?”
“No, just horsepower.”
As the plane came to a stop at a SeaTac gate, he felt he’d done all he could. Either exit the woman took he was prepared for. She stopped for a moment, looking in her handbag at the beginning of the bridge to the garage. Hudson put his pillow under his coat and went past her at a fast pace. Now came the gamble. She could take the elevator to a number of different floors. If he followed to see which one, he’d be without means to stay with her car. His lone chance was to be ready in a car himself.
There was a couple ahead of him at the rental car counter, but he waved a paper with his name at the clerk and got a response. She excused herself from the couple and placed a document on the counter, pointing to where his signature was required. He handed her his credit card and signed and initialed. The keys were in the car, just outside the glass-walled room. The whole process had taken less than two minutes. But he’d lost sight of the woman. For the third time since the funeral parlor he was not in contact. Following someone was a series of guesses, he thought, and you had to be right on every single one. One wrong move and you’d come several thousand miles for nothing. Well, not completely nothing. He knew for pretty certain that Loni was somewhere in western Washington. That left him only a few million places to look.
The car was a Mercedes, that old preppie symbol of having “made it”. It wasn’t Hudson’s taste, but it had the speed he’d asked for - wasted speed if he didn’t locate camel hair. Once out of the garage...he could advertise: “Loni, need to talk. Slip away from the FBI agent protecting you and meet stranger in dark alley.”
The rental car ramp was opposite that of the parking garage. He positioned his car near the exit, waving other vehicles around him and closely examining each as it headed for the street. The light shining on windshields approaching from the parking garage made it difficult to see who was within. What will she be driving? Was the Dodge in Massachusetts her personal taste? Probably not. More likely an FBI choice, to be picked up from the garage later by another.
He’d counted fifty-five when he saw her. Another Dodge, this one blue. The Mercedes slipped smoothly behind, through the airport grounds and out to Route 5. Didn’t that lead north to Alaska? To Canada anyway. But she turned south. Through SeaTac - was there really a town named that? - and on to Tacoma. Off to his left the immense cone of Mt. Rainier dominated the landscape. She kept a steady sixty-five. After an hour her right turn signal came on. He looked for signs. Olympia. Exit 54. He had kept several cars behind; He closed to one car intervening. After a mile the road split, then down a long hill and a right on Puget Street. His memory told him Olympia was at the foot of Puget Sound, the waters that separated the mainland from the Olympic Peninsula. Hudson dropped back a hundred yards. Easy, don’t mess it up. At Puget’s end she went right. When he reached the corner, he increased speed and crested the small hill just as she turned into Garrison Street. He slowed nearly to a stop. When he turned left on Garrison the blue Dodge had disappeared. Okay, she couldn’t have made it to the end. It must be one of the houses on it. Fortunately there was no one outside as he drove slowly down Garrison Street, peering in driveways and looking no doubt, to anyone who might have peered out a window, like a sex murderer on the prowl. It wasn’t all that long ago that a car driving slowly down a city’s residential street was assumed only to be looking for the address of friends.
Two-thirds of the way down on the left he saw it. It was in the yard of a low, single-story gray ranch with carport and fenced-in yard. As he drove past, a light came on in the front room. He stopped at the end of the street and considered. What now? First he had to be sure Loni was inside. He parked on a different street, several blocks away, feeling a little uncomfortable. The neighborhood was one of modest single-family residences. A Mercedes was out of place. Fortunately, it was getting dark, and there were still few signs of activity. He studied the gray ranch from across the street; there were no windows on the front. After ten minutes, he crossed to two trees on the property that offered a view of the interior while shielding from anyone within. The woman had taken off her coat and was sitting talking to someone whose back was to the window. He had to get closer. Keeping the blue car between himself and the window, he crept up, his eye on the woman with her back to him. Just as he rounded the car she stood up and turned toward the window.
“What are you doing there?” Hudson turned quickly toward the street. The voice came from a stocky man of thirty in mechanic’s overalls.
“Eh?”
“You don’t live there.”
“No. I was trying to see the number of the house. I’m looking for some friends of mine.”
“And that isn’t your car.”
Damn! Just when he was about to verify if it was really Loni. “You sound like you live around here; just what I need. Eddie and Dot Marble, know them?”
“There’s no one by that name on Garrison.”
Of all the people I could run into it looks like I’ve got the city clerk. “They’re from back East, just moved out here someplace. Want to welcome them to the northwest.”
“Sounds to me like you’re not from here yourself.”
Now he’s a linguist. Hudson walked out the driveway to him. “Exactly. That’s why I’m looking so hard for the Marbles.” Good God, Hudson, you’ve lost your Marbles. Couldn’t have picked another name? “Homesick, I guess, for someone else from New England.”
“Thought I caught a Yankee twang,” the man said with some pride. “You don’t want to prowl around buildings in this section of the country. We’ve had too many serial killers in Warshington. You’ve heard of Ted Bundy? We’ve had another one working here in Olympia. Lot a people got rifles. Don’t much know how to use them; get your head blown off before they hear your voice.”
“Why would the voice help?”
“We figure our killers are home-grown, not outatowners. What’s the address of your friends?” The suspicion had gone from the other’s voice.
“That’s the problem. I know the number is 5025, and I know it’s in this general area, but I don’t know the street.”
“Better try a couple streets over. They don’t live within two blocks of here.”
“Many thanks. That’ll save me some time.” He strolled off, the mechanic watching him go. Hudson looked
