The Hunted

Eugene tried his best with lively tales about his slew of marriages, how they all belly-flopped into messy divorces. The stories were deliciously vulgar and quite funny. He had nicknames for each ex, wedded to a hysterical talent for mimicry. Number Two-Dallaszilla-apparently had an aggravating Texas twang, chewed loudly with her mouth open, and couldn't mutter a word without violently flapping her arms-a stuttering windmill stuck on overdrive. Eugene shucked his New York accent and produced an impersonation that was almost frightening.

This was the same ex who hired a PI to track her husband, then showed up at Eugene's suite at the Plaza, catching him red-handed with his newest mistress. The door burst open and Dallaszilla screamed and bellowed and howled with the unadulterated fury only a native Texan lady can manufacture. Her arms whipped around so hard, the mistress thought she was witnessing an epileptic fit and promptly dialed 911 for an ambulance. Eugene never spoke to the mistress again. He was furious with her. Forgiveness would never come. In court, he adhered to his lawyer's standard legal dictum-he denied, denied, denied-until three paramedics showed up to corroborate the affair. The judge happened to be a she, herself an aggrieved veteran of two nasty divorces with husbands who had philandered and then lied their way out of what she considered fair settlements.

His lawyer swore afterward that that gaffe cost him an additional five million dollars.

Elena found the stories hilarious. She laughed until it ached. For one brief, shining moment she almost forgot people were out there chasing, trying to murder them. Alex managed an occasional stiff smile, but had either heard the tales before or was preoccupied, or exhausted.

They were back on the road at two o'clock. An hour later, after twice getting lost, they turned off a highway and entered the airport complex. Elena pumped the brakes and said, "You two get down. I'll cruise the terminal. See how it looks."

Alex reminded Elena, for the fourth time, "Be sure to check the cars in the lot," then both men tried their best to melt into the seats.

Crawling at fifteen kilometers per hour, Elena made a slow pass, quietly tapping the brakes and searching with quick shifts of her head. The airport turned out to be the aeronautic equivalent of a one-horse town, small, sleepy, with only one main building, and definitely shut down for the night. Few lights were on. A solitary janitor in loose gray coveralls was shoving a mop around the floor. That was it. She saw nobody else inside the terminal or loitering suspiciously in front of it.

Another twenty yards and a quick glance to her left. The parking lot contained only a few cars; all appeared dark and thankfully empty. Then, in one of them-yes!-in an otherwise dark car she could swear she saw the flicker of two burning cigarettes.

She slowed almost to a stop. She stared hard at the car, then came to her senses, sped up, and retreated back the way they came, toward the capital. Alex and Eugene straightened up. "It's closed," she informed them, obviously surprised, obviously disappointed. "But in one of the cars in the parking lot, somebody was inside, smoking. I saw at least two cigarettes."

"You think it's them?" Eugene asked, bending forward with the help of Alex's seatback.

Elena replied. "I think they're just lovers too cheap to buy a hotel room. What do you think?"

"Yeah, I think it's them, too," Eugene answered.

Alex asked her, "What kind of car?"

"You know I'm not good with that kind of thing."

"All right, what color? This is important, honey."

"White."

"Not tan?"

"No, white. I'm positive."

"Big car, small car, medium, what?"

"A sedan. Fairly large. Four doors. I thought I saw an ornament of some sort on the end of a long hood. But it was dark, and by then I was scared, so I'm not sure. The car looked expensive, too, but how would I know? Are we through playing thirty questions?"

"Almost. Could it have been a Jaguar?"

"No, it was definitely a car."

Obviously they were through.

They drove for about five minutes in silence. A light rain began falling, and the wipers flopped wildly back and forth, never close to touching the windshield.

Apropos of nothing, Alex observed, "If you're interested, the doors to the terminal open at seven. A flight for New York leaves at eight every morning."

Eugene asked, "You knew the airport would be closed?"

"I thought it would, yes."

"And you knew about the New York flight?"

"Would it make a difference if I'd told you?"

"I don't guess it would, nope."

"But New York?" Elena asked.

"Yes, well, for one thing, the only open visas that match in both our passports are for America. Second, it's the one destination in the world where we'll be safe from these people. It's only temporary, anyway, until I get this cleared up."

Eugene remarked, "I'd offer you my place, but Maria will be there, and it's going to be a war zone."