Postcard killers

Chapter 16

Thirty-five minutes later Mac made a turn into the long-term parking lot at Arlanda Airport. Just to be safe, Sylvia wiped down the surfaces she might have touched with her fingers: the buttons that control ed the side windows, the instrument panel, Mac's seat.

Then they left the car among a couple of thousand others, a dark gray Ford Focus that even they lost sight of after walking just a few meters. It would probably be there for weeks before anyone noticed it.

The free bus to the airport's terminal buildings was almost empty. Sylvia sat on one of the seats, Mac standing beside her, wearing the backpack. No one paid any attention to them. Why should they?

They got off at International Terminal 5 and went straight to the departure hal.

Sylvia had managed to get a fair ways ahead before she noticed that Mac wasn't right behind her. Now where was he?

She turned al the way around and saw him standing and looking up at one of the large screens where departures were listed.

She hurried back quickly.

"Darling," she whispered, sidling up to him. "What are you doing?"

Mac's light gray eyes were staring fixedly at the flashing destinations.

"We could take a plane," he said.

Sylvia put her tongue in his ear.

"Come on, baby," she said in a low voice. "We've got lots left to do.

Today is party time!"

"We could go home," Mac said. "We could stop this game of ours now.

Quit while we're ahead. Retire as legends."

She wound her arm around his waist and blew softly on his neck.

"The train leaves in four minutes," she said. "You. Me. We're on it."

He let her lead him off to the escalators, down into the underground, and out onto the platform. Only when the doors had closed and the express train had set off for the center of Stockholm did Sylvia let go of him.

"Legends," she said, "always die young. But not us."