CHAPTER SEVEN
March 07 2002
"Would Madam like a window seat?" The man behind the counter smiled at the woman so elegantly dressed.
"Yes please and non smoking. It is first class, is it not? I don't want to sit near some tourists." She sniffled her nose, glaring at the man behind her, a stubby guy in his mid fifties, fat, paunch bellied, wearing a worsted brown jacket, and smelling of old cigars, and several college students on their Spring Break.
"Naturally madam, first class, non-smoking. You can check your baggage over there. I might add, you're only allowed one carryon and if you have any scissors, knives, needles, or any that can be used as a weapon, please put them in the cargo hold "
"Thank you." The woman held out a Monaco tanned hand, took the ticket, went to the café, ordered a coffee, "plain no Irish coffee thank you," and a small salad. She had at least two hours before boarding the plane.
She looked around at the others, families with children, businessmen on trips, and even some Iranian refugees escaping from Saddam's cruelty. A black man slept on one of the seats. He must have been waiting there since last night. A two year old tried to toddle away towards a balloon display. The man in the table behind her was having steak and chips with globs of ketchup. The family besides her snacked on sandwiches and the intercom radio blared out "When Irish Eyes are Smiling" in honor of St. Patrick's Day.
"Excuse me, Señora."
The woman almost froze, and then her head snapped around.
"Sorry didn't mean to startle you."
"Quite all right I thought you were someone I did not want to see."
"Well do you mind if I sit here?"
He looks nice, white gray hair, distinguished, almost like a movie star if you preferred the nineteen fifties type, she thought, and said, "Not at all."
He was going to see his married daughter. She had lived in Delaware for most of her life, but had met her husband when he was here on holidays ten years ago. "Sure's nice, him coming from Los Angeles and wanted to live here. But I guess the cold weather got too much for him"
"So he persuaded her to move back with him."
"It's quite a bit away from the city," said the distinguished man, "a farming area and they have a riding stable, a dude ranch nearby."
"It sounds like they're happy. I just came back from the French Riviera myself."
"Yes they are. Did you spend the winter over there? I would expect you to be in Texas or Arizona and there are cruise ships going to Mexico." He fingered his coffee. "I was born in Mexico. I guess you can tell it by my accent."
The woman hoped he would not notice she never volunteered any information. She was quite good at that, drawing people out and she did find out his country, although not his city, but she could tell he came from somewhere south of Mexico City and he was European by looks. This meant he was descended from the Spanish Nobility, and his family held a lot of political power — something to keep in mind. This helped her get to where she was, although now it did not do any good with THEM.
An hour past, and the man had left, but she still had some time to kill so she went to the magazine rack and picked up a West Coast newspaper. Since she were going to California, she might as well know what was going on, the latest murders, the newest fashions, what movie star was going with whom, how the political situation was. She knew she had to be prepared if she wanted to stay away from THEM.
Funny they looked like everyone else, only when you got up close did you see the predatory look in their eyes. It was like that at the Centre, something she saw in Jarod when she saw him as a man with Miss Parker, different from when she observed him before Then the look had been curious, almost a little childlike, the type the Centre wanted for its lab rat.
Oh, she had seen how he looked when he was away, a little more adult, but still naïve until the last year or two, when something half- hidden came from the pictures the Centre photographers gave Miss Parker so she could hunt him down. Lady M did not know then what it meant. She thought it was the eyes of the hunted. If you ran a man down like an animal, sooner or later he'll act like one. She had seen this in escaped convicts, or killers, eyes almost cat like in their savagery. The Centre had kept him on the move, making sure he never had a home or a place to stay for long, but Lady M never realized that the change in Jarod's eyes were not a result of the pursuit, but something inborn in him.
"Passengers for Flight T200 heading for San Bernardino and all points west, please go to Gate 1."
The woman took her ticket out her purse and headed for Gate 1.
