reputation down to their size.
“You’ll be met by an advance man in California,” New York said.
“He’ll give you an update.”
“Terrific.”
Oslett frowned at the phone and pressed END, terminating the He needed a
drink.
In addition to the pilot and co-pilot, the flight crew included a
stewardess. With a button on the arm of his chair, he could summon her
from the small galley at the back of the plane. In seconds she arrived,
and he ordered a double Scotch on the rocks.
She was an attractive blonde in a burgundy blouse, gray skirt, and
matching gray jacket. He turned in his seat to watch her walk back to
the galley.
He wondered how easy she was. If he charmed her, maybe she’d let him
take her into the john and do it to her standing up.
For all of a minute, he indulged that fantasy, but then faced reality
and put her out of his mind. Even if she was easy, there would be
unpleasant consequences. Afterward, she would want to sit beside him,
probably all the way to California, and share with him her thoughts and
feelings about everything from love and fate to death and the
significance of Cheer Whiz. He didn’t care what she thought and felt,
only what she could do, and he was in no mood to pretend to be a
sensitive nineties kind of guy.
When she brought the Scotch, he asked what videotapes were available.
She gave him a list of forty titles. The best movie of all time was in
the plane’s library, Lethal Weapon 3. He had lost track of how many
times he’d seen it, and the pleasure he took from it did not diminish
with repetition. It was the ideal film because it had no story line
that made enough sense to bother following, did not expect the viewer to
watch the characters change and grow, was composed entirely of a series
of violent action sequences, and was louder than a stockcar race and a
Megadeth concert combined.
Four separately positioned monitors made it possible for four films to
be shown simultaneously to different passengers. The stewardess ran
Lethal Weapon 3 on the monitor nearest to Oslett and gave him a set of
headphones.
He put on the headset, turned the volume high, and settled back in his
seat with a grin.
Later, after he finished the Scotch, he dozed off while Danny Glover and
Mel Gibson screamed unintelligible dialogue at each other, fires raged,
machine guns chattered, explosives detonated, and music thundered.
Monday night they stayed in a pair of connecting units in a motel in
Laguna Beach. The accommodations didn’t qualify as five- or even
four-star lodging, but the rooms were clean and the bathrooms had plenty
of towels. With the holiday weekend gone and the summer tourist season
months in the future, at least half of the motel was unoccupied, and
though they were right off Pacific Coast Highway, quiet ruled.
The events of the day had taken their toll. Paige felt as if she had
been awake for a week. Even the too-soft and slightly lumpy motel
mattress was as enticing as a bed of clouds on which gods and goddesses
might sleep.
For dinner they ate pizza in the motel. Marty went out to fetch
it–also salads and cannoli with deliciously thick ricotta custard from
a restaurant a couple of blocks away.
When he returned with the food, he pounded insistently on the door, and
he was pale and hollow-eyed when he rushed inside, arms laden with
take-out boxes. At first Paige thought he had seen the look-alike
cruising the area, but then she realized he expected to return and find
them gone–or dead.
The outer doors of both rooms featured sturdy dead-bolt locks and
security chains. They engaged these and also wedged straight backed
desk chairs under the knobs.
Neither Paige nor Marty could imagine any means by which The Other could
possibly find them. They wedged the chairs under the knobs anyway.
Tight.
Incredibly, in spite of the terror they had been through, the kids were
willing to let Marty convince them that the night away from home was a