Slice

VIP LOUNGE—BUCKHEAD AIRPORT

“I'm gonna get awfully lonesome for you guys.” You guys included the little kitten. Tuffy lay peacefully at Donna's high-heeled feet, asleep inside a white fiberglass carrying cage.

“We're gonna miss you,” she said, with her softest voice, and whispered, “Wish we could stay here with you."

“Me too, see.” The cat stirred. “How's our little pal there?"

“He's okay.” She looked down and in her cat voice purred, “I'm not gonna be real purrrrty for a while, but when I get my stitches taken out I'll look just as good as new."

“Yeah. Absolutely."

“They said there's no idea how long—"

“No"—he knew what she was going to say—"it's totally unpredictable. Can't take any chances though,” he said with a smile he didn't feel.

“I know."

“We can't call either. Won't talk to you until this is all over with, so it might be a few days."

“They told me. I'll be fine, honey. Don't worry about anything. Just, you know, take care. Okay?"

“Yeah. Sure.” They sat there in silence for a bit. There were marshals at both of the locked doors. Only the Eichords, Peg Lee, and the Tuny family were in the lounge. A company Lear was taxied and parked nearby, filling its tanks for the journey. There were more marshals in unmarked vans parked right by the gate, flanking the black stretch limo that would take them to their protected destination.

“Com'ere,” he said, and she snuggled over as close to him as she could get and be kissed her so hard it pulled her out of her chair.

“My stars,” remembering old expressions he whispered to her, “can you remember when they used to say, my stars?"

“Sure,” she said, snuggling.

“Land's sakes."

“Land sakes alive."

“Land a’ goshen.” They laughed.

“Lawd have mercy."

“Lawdy, Miss Claudy."

“Tooty fruity all-rooty?"

“That doesn't count."

“I see. YOURS are okay but mine don't count. I think I have the rules clearly in mind now."

“No song titles. My stars. My lands. That's the kind of thing. Old expressions."

“Well, in all my born days."

“Okay, that's more like it. Gosh all hemlock."

“Croop."

“Excuse me?"

“Croop. Whooping cough. Dropsy. Scarlatina. Mustard plasters."

“I'll accept those, but they're borderline."

“Borderline or not, it's your turn."

“Hully gully, guess how many."

“Bless my soul."

“Hubba-hubba."

“Mrs. Eichord?” a federal marshal said. She stood up. They had agreed beforehand not to say good-bye. They kissed again. And Donna walked away with the kitten in the carrying case. At the door he could overhear Peggy saying something to a marshal about what to tell the family when they arrived from China. The police were going to try to head them off before they changed planes for Buckhead.

Peggy looked over at Jack as she went out the door, Bev and Dana behind her. There was the rigmarole with the boarding tube, the portable thing that was connected to the limo, and then they were all safely behind the bulletproof privacy glass and the shiny car was moving to the small jet.

He watched through the window as they boarded. He could see Donna, voluptuous even at that distance, carrying Tuffy aboard, followed by Peggy, and Bev, and then Chunk's distinctive waddle as he climbed the steps and a marshal pulled the door of the plane closed. They were in the air and gone within a couple of minutes. And the guard vans returned to Buckhead.

Donna, Tuffy, Peg, Bev, Dana, were all in the back of one of the vans, and some very competent matrons and an overweight federal marshal on their way to a paid vacation somewhere. Nobody was taking any chances with this.

The real problem was that Jack Eichord didn't believe it. Not really. Not deep down inside. He knew he'd killed Daniel Bunkowski under the streets of Chicago. He knew that Jimmie Lee was not dead. He knew that their home had not been blown up by a satchel charge. He knew that he would wake up in the morning and the awful dream would be over, this madness of dead killers coming to life, this insanity of his friend's murder, this endless nightmare.

And then, of course, he knew THAT was bullshit.