Catherine Hobbes waited until Officer Gutierrez had pulled into the long-term parking lot at the airport and come to a complete stop. "This is probably about as close as we ought to get," he said.

They both got out of the patrol car and Catherine walked toward Mary Tilson's small gray Honda. She could see uniformed officers outside the perimeter of yellow tape that had been set up around the car. They were stringing more tape to force cars coming into the lot to go up another aisle, one that led away from the technicians who were working around the Honda.

Catherine reached the tape, and a police officer in a pair of suit pants and a white shirt with a lieutenant's badge clipped on the pocket stepped up to meet her.

When he talked she could see him making decisions. Even though he must have seen her get out of Gutierrez's patrol car, he had to verify that she was Hobbes. "h.e.l.lo. Are you Sergeant Hobbes?"

"Yes," she said.

Next he had to tell her that he was in charge. "I'm Lieutenant Hartnell."

She held out her hand so he could shake it. "Pleased to meet you."

She saw him decide that he wanted to have her think he was informal and spontaneous, not the sort of man who made decisions every time he spoke, so he said, "Steve Hartnell" as he shook her hand.

"My name is Catherine." She had her small notebook in her hand, and she compared the California license number on the plate of the Honda with the number in her notebook, then put the notebook away.

Hartnell said, "We've got it roped off so we can screen the area around the car for footprints, dropped items, and so on. The flatbed will be here in a few minutes to bring it in so we can have the trace evidence people give it a closer look."

"Do you know the time when it was left here?"

"The ticket is on the floor on the pa.s.senger side, as though she tossed it there after she took it and the automatic stile went up. It says three forty-eight A.M., A.M., two nights ago. In a way, it's a relief. It means she went to the terminal and took a taxi right to the Sky Inn. She didn't have time to stop off and kill a family of six." two nights ago. In a way, it's a relief. It means she went to the terminal and took a taxi right to the Sky Inn. She didn't have time to stop off and kill a family of six."

Catherine ignored the last sentence because she was thinking about Tanya. "She must have been exhausted."

Hartnell looked at her as though he wondered about her sanity.

Catherine saw his expression. "She killed a woman in Los Angeles early in the evening, cleaned her whole apartment, packed up, and drove off in the victim's car. She must have stopped somewhere for a day and traveled after dark, but it took her until three A.M. A.M. on the second night to get here. I think she must have been worn out." on the second night to get here. I think she must have been worn out."

"I'm not exactly moved to sympathy," said Hartnell.

"I'm just ruling a few things out in my own mind," Catherine said. "I don't think she had somebody here that she was trying to reach-somebody who would take her in or help her get away. At four A.M. A.M. the person would almost certainly have been home, and she would have gone there. Instead, she ditched the car here and went to the Sky Inn. I think she probably stopped here because she was falling asleep at the wheel." the person would almost certainly have been home, and she would have gone there. Instead, she ditched the car here and went to the Sky Inn. I think she probably stopped here because she was falling asleep at the wheel."

"But somebody picked her up within a minute after she called the hotel from the bus station the next day," said Hartnell. "She could have made an arrangement for that during the daytime. Maybe the accomplice worked nights or wasn't home until then."

"I don't think so," said Catherine. "She seems to be an expert at getting people to help her, to take an interest in her. Usually it's a man, but it doesn't have to be. I think that's what got Mary Tilson killed. She befriended the young woman who lived across the hall in her apartment building. She had invited her into her kitchen and started to get her something to eat or drink when she got stabbed."

"Do you have any way to use that?" asked Hartnell.

"I think we've got to concentrate on the person who picked Tanya up. If he drove her someplace, we need to know where he let her off. If he's still with her, we need to persuade him to turn her in."

Hartnell seemed to be making one of his decisions. He said carefully, "I'll talk to the chief about having a press conference."

"Great," said Catherine. "I also think we ought to check with your missing persons section to find out if there's anybody with a car who hasn't been seen in the past two days."

"Good idea," he said. "See you later." As he walked to his unmarked car, Catherine knew that she had gone too far, trying to tell a lieutenant in another state how he ought to organize his investigation. She had alienated him. She watched him start his car and drive out of the parking lot.

She turned to look at the car again, and thought about Tanya. She had been stuck in Los Angeles, on the verge of being discovered because of the photograph on the front page of the Daily News. Daily News. She must have reacted desperately to get herself out-gone across the hall and stabbed her sixty-year-old neighbor to death just to steal her car. She had driven the car just about as long as she could without getting spotted: she had probably known that she had to get rid of it before daylight. When she had run out of time, she had ditched the car here. She had picked a place where she could leave it with a collection of other cars, and not have anyone wonder about it for a few days. She had been trying to buy time. She was pressed. She was running hard, and she was feeling vulnerable and scared. She must have reacted desperately to get herself out-gone across the hall and stabbed her sixty-year-old neighbor to death just to steal her car. She had driven the car just about as long as she could without getting spotted: she had probably known that she had to get rid of it before daylight. When she had run out of time, she had ditched the car here. She had picked a place where she could leave it with a collection of other cars, and not have anyone wonder about it for a few days. She had been trying to buy time. She was pressed. She was running hard, and she was feeling vulnerable and scared.

Officer Gutierrez appeared at Catherine's shoulder. "Looks as though she didn't leave any footprints or anything. The tow truck is here."

"We may as well go," Catherine said. "Can you drop me at the station?"

"Sure."

Gutierrez drove her to the station and let her out at the front entrance. "What are you going to do now?" he asked.

"I'm going to try to persuade Lieutenant Hartnell to get me a chance to talk to Tanya."

30.

Driver's licenses were difficult, and they were the form of identification that counted. She judged that the Rachel Sturbridge driver's license from California was the best one to scan. It had been issued most recently, and it had the greatest number and variety of devices on it to deter counterfeiters. There was a large color picture of her on the left side, a smaller one on the right, and lots of overlapping silver hologram state seals with the letters DMV. But once she was out of California, the address and numbers had no meaning to anyone.

She scanned the Rachel Sturbridge license onto a CD, typed in the name Anne Margaret Forster, her new eye color, hair color, and birth date, printed and cropped it, then inserted it into the plastic sleeve in her wallet. With the slight clouding, the license looked perfect.

She scanned Ty's high school group picture, and began to play with the images. In a few minutes she had separated Ty's face from the others and superimposed it on the image of the California license. Then she typed in the name James Russell Forster. She put in a new eight-digit number in red and changed the birth date. Then she printed it and cut it to size.

She took off her clothes and washed them with Ty's. While the clothes were in the dryer she took a hot bath. Before it got dark she found Ty's mother's nail kit and did her nails. In the last of the natural light she did her makeup and brushed her hair.

When she heard Ty's car come up the driveway, she moved to the kitchen to wait for him. She heard the garage door open and the car glide in. Ty closed the garage door, then came to the kitchen door, opened it, and turned on the light. He was carrying a bag of food from El Taco Rancho.

"Welcome home, Ty."

At first he was startled, but he recovered quickly. He stepped closer to her, looked at her hair, stared into her eyes. "Unbelievable."

"Do you like it?"

"It's awesome. You look like my aunt."

"Now I'm your aunt?"

"I didn't mean that," he said. "You just look a little bit like her. Not like she looks now. It's my aunt Darlene, my mother's sister. You're a lot younger, but I bet that's what she looked like when she was young. She was supposed to be hot. My father says she was a piece of a.s.s, but now she's just a pain in the a.s.s." He walked around her in a circle. "I can't get over this. You look so different. Your eyes and everything."

"So it looks all right?"

"Yeah, it does. It's a turn-on."

"You're a sixteen-year-old boy. Everything is a turn-on to you."

"Everything about you is." He set the bag of food on the counter and put his arms around her, so she had to kiss him. When his hands began to move from her waist, she grasped them and held on.

"I've got some other things to show you. Come on." She pulled him to his bedroom, where she had the new birth certificate and driver's license for James Russell Forster.

He picked them up and looked from one to the other. "Man, I can hardly believe this. It's . . . like, perfect. Can you make me one that says I'm twenty-one?"

She laughed. "You mean so you can get into bars?"

"Yeah."

"I want you to use this one when we're traveling." She grinned. "But later I'll do my best."

"That's all I ask." He went to his closet, opened the door, and took off his uniform shirt. As he pulled out a clean shirt, she saw something.

"Is that a gun?"

He reached into the corner of the closet and grasped it by the walnut foregrip and pulled it out. "Yeah. See? It was my father's old one, the first one he ever had, when he was my age. It's a thirty-ought-six."

She touched the smooth wooden stock, the bolt, and the scope. "Have you ever fired it?"

"h.e.l.l, yes. A million times. I'm a great shot."

"What have you shot at?"

"Deer, elk."

"You kill deer?"

"We didn't last year. My dad had to work weekends for practically the whole season, and I had football practice."

"But you've used it?"

"Yeah. Now you're going to tell me you hate me because I iced Bambi's mom, aren't you?"

She realized she must have had a lapse of concentration and let him see her disenchantment with hunting. She touched his arm. "There's nothing about you I don't like, Ty. You're a special person."

He put the rifle back in the closet, turned back to her, and said, "s.h.i.t. I forgot to bring in all the stuff I bought. It's still in the trunk." He hurried out of the room, then came back a few minutes later with three large shopping bags.

He reached into his pocket. "I had about sixty bucks left from buying that stuff."

"Hold on to it. I need to give you more, so you can get some supplies tomorrow for the trip."

He studied her. "Is that when we're leaving?"

She shrugged. "The longer we wait, the safer it is. But I'd like to be out of here at least two days before your parents show up." She frowned. "Why don't they ever call you?"

"They do. They called me about five times while they were in Lake Havasu. I think they were feeling guilty. Or maybe they just wanted to be sure I was going to work. Since then I called them twice on my cell phone."

She grinned. "You don't want me to hear what you're saying, huh? Do you call them 'Mommy' and 'Daddy'?"

"No," he said. "I just don't want any trouble. If they heard you talking or I sounded like somebody was with me, we'd be screwed." He asked, "Where are we going? We haven't talked about it at all."

"I don't know."

"Where were you going before?"

"I didn't know then, either. We need to get out of Flagstaff, out of this part of the country, where people expect to spot me. Beyond that, it doesn't matter. Every place has something nice about it."

"But we have to be heading somewhere."

"I have an idea. After dinner, why don't you go on the Internet and see if you can work out a route heading east, with maps and everything?"

"Okay," he said. "I'll map out a couple of ways, in case the first one is too dangerous."

"Good idea." Then she added, "Jim."

"Thanks, Anne."

After dinner she cleared the table and went into the living room to examine the clothes he had bought. She looked into the first bag with trepidation, but in it she found two pairs of pants-one black, which was perfect, and one brown, which was ugly-a pair of blue jeans, and a pair of Nike running shoes. The tags told her he had bought the sizes she had given him. She was relieved.

In another bag were six pairs of socks, six pairs of panties, and three bras, supposedly obtained for the price of two. She thought of Ty going into that section of the store to buy those things and it made her smile. He had bought himself a jacket, as though to a.s.suage his embarra.s.sment.

The third bag had a couple of T-shirts, one of which had a picture of a cat and said "Cat-fight Boxing"; the other said "Hotel Juicy." The sweatshirt with them mercifully said nothing. There were three other tops, one a hideous pink, one sky blue, and the other the sort of green that people wore on St. Patrick's Day. All of the tops were completely wrong for her, but with the exception of the green top, none of them stood out, and all seemed to be the right sizes. She had never been seen wearing anything like them before. The more she considered the clothes, the happier she was.

She noticed that Ty was standing in the doorway, looking at her anxiously, so she said, "Ty, this is just fabulous. You did a wonderful job, much better than I ever expected." She put her arms around his neck and hugged him.

"Did I get the right sizes?"

"I haven't tried them on yet, but the tags say you got what I asked for."

"How about the suitcase?"

She took it out of the bag, unzipped it, and said, "It's perfect. Thank you so much." She busied herself removing all of the tags and pins, and throwing them in the trash with the plastic bags. Then she went into Ty's parents' bathroom to try on the clothes. She went through the process quickly, and found that everything would serve its purpose. Since she had been trying to hide, she had found little in the refrigerator, and nothing Ty had brought home from El Taco Rancho was more than marginally edible, so she had lost weight. She put on the black pants and the sky blue top, and went back to Ty's bedroom.

She opened his closet and studied herself in the full-length mirror that was attached to the closet door. Today she had made some good progress. She studied her eyes, her hair, her clothes. She looked like a new person again, and felt strong. She heard the sound of the ink-jet printer taking in a sheet of paper, and raised her eyes slightly to look into the mirror at the part of the room behind her.

Ty was printing his maps and directions, but he wasn't looking at the printer. He was staring at her now, looking at her longingly, hoping that the lightning was going to strike again.

She looked into the mirror at herself. "They fit," she said. She locked her eyes on his. She had to keep him happy, just a little bit longer. She began slowly, deliberately, to take off her new clothes.

Two hours later she lay on the couch in Tyler's bathrobe with her head on his lap. As he held the remote control and flicked from channel to channel, she said, "Stop." The policeman with the potbelly that hung out over his silver belt buckle was behind the podium again.

Behind the chief were four severe-looking men in suits and a woman in a navy blue pantsuit with the cuffs and collar of a white silk blouse showing. She liked the look of it, she decided. She would probably look good in navy, now that her hair was light again.

"Nicole?"

"Anne. Learn to call me Anne. Get used to it, Jimmy, because we leave in a day. We're Anne and James Forster."

"Do you think-"

"Hush," she said. "I want to hear this." She took the remote control out of his hand and turned up the volume.

The chief said, ". . . and now I would like to let Detective Sergeant Catherine Hobbes of the Portland, Oregon, Police Bureau have the microphone."