He turned in the rental car and hauled his things into the terminal to buy his ticket. Inside, the terminal was crawling with travelers, the lines to the counter snaking around to the door. Serves you right for not buying a ticket online, he thought.
Bentz told himself to hold on, be patient. He’d get on the next plane, though the only daily nonstop flight had already departed. He chose the airline on which he’d flown west, getting into what had seemed a short line. But, of course, there was a holdup. Slowly he inched forward behind a woman in tight jeans and a short jacket, a cell phone glued to her ear, a designer bag at her feet. Every so often she would nudge the carry-on forward with the pointed toe of a boot. The protest from inside the bag came in the form of a nasty little yip. “Just a sec,” Tight Jeans would say into the phone. Then she’d look down at the bag and coo, “It’s okay, Sherman.”
Sherman didn’t think so and yapped all the louder. Through mesh in the top of the bag, Bentz watched the dog spin crazily within his confines as Tight Jeans went back to her phone conversation. It would be just his luck if dog and owner ended up flying to New Orleans in the seat next to him. Not that it really mattered, as long as he got home.
The woman in front of him reached the ticket counter and clicked off her phone. “We’ve got a big problem,” she began, her tone already a challenge. “This ticket is all wrong. If I connect through Cincinnati, I won’t get to Savannah in time for my cousin’s rehearsal dinner. I need a direct flight.”
“I don’t think we have any directs to Savannah, but let me see what I can do,” the rep for the airline said and began typing on her keyboard.
Bentz shifted from one leg to the other and glanced down the length of the crowded terminal, past knots of people lugging backpacks, roller bags, or suitcases. A teenager toted an odd-sized guitar case while three men pulled what appeared to be golf bags. Near the doors, an attendant pushed an older man in a wheelchair past a solitary woman standing before the departure and arrival information board. Her face was tipped up as she searched the monitors. A beautiful familiar face.
Bentz froze.
She was the spitting image of Jennifer.
Don’t even think it!
But she stood there, eyeing the large screen through her sunglasses.
No way. Not now.
“No, that won’t work, either,” Tight Jeans was whining as if from a distance as Bentz squinted, trying to control his thundering pulse.
He told himself he was imagining things, conjuring up her image because he was leaving town. But as he stared the tanned woman with her coppery-brown hair pulled into a ponytail glanced toward him, the hint of a smile on her lips.
His felt as if a ghost had walked across his soul.
Then she turned and walked briskly in the opposite direction. White shorts, pink, tight, sleeveless T-shirt, shimmery flip-flops.
It could be anyone. A tourist on her way to Disneyland. Someone picking up family members. A woman waiting for a delayed flight.
Or someone pretending to be Jennifer. His long-dead ex-wife.
“Son of a bitch,” he said under his breath and broke away from the line to follow her. He couldn’t let her get away now-this imposter who’d been playing with him. Especially now that she was linked to the deaths of at least Shana McIntyre and Lorraine Newell, maybe even the Springer twins.
She looked over her shoulder again and his heart nearly stopped. If she wasn’t Jennifer, she was his ex-wife’s long-lost twin.
He dropped his cane near a trash receptacle and walked even faster, keeping up with her long strides as she disappeared amid a cluster of travelers. Faster and faster, pulling his damned roller bag with the computer case balanced atop it as she headed for an outside door. He wanted to drop his luggage, but couldn’t. His gun was tucked into his bag and he couldn’t risk leaving it.
She slipped through a group of Asian tourists moving down another terminal.
“Oh, no you don’t,” he whispered, keeping her in his sights. Adrenaline surging through his blood, he wended through the throng of travelers, cutting between a handful of Goth teenagers and a matronly woman with cheetah-print bags.
What the hell was “Jennifer” doing here?
Reeling you in, you moron. It’s no coincidence that she’s here at the airport, waiting in the same terminal. She had it planned.
But how had she known he’d come? What was this ridiculous cat-and-mouse game? The bait. The tease. Never letting him get too close, always lingering just out of his reach.
Murder, Bentz. She’s up to her beautiful eyeballs in murder.
She made it to the exterior doors, but Bentz was gaining on her, breathing hard. He was nearly jogging now, his heart pumping, his eyes trained on her. Without a word he swept past an airport police officer. He didn’t want to draw any attention to himself. He couldn’t risk being hauled in and questioned all the while knowing “Jennifer” was slipping away.
Nu-uh.
This time he was going to catch up with her.
Come hell or high water.
His damned leg was beginning to throb, but he gritted his teeth. As soon as the door closed behind her, he stepped through and dragged his luggage over the rough cement of the passenger pickup area.
Where the hell did she go? He stared past the smokers, the weary travelers sitting on benches, the people talking on cell phones and waiting for their rides. Airport security attendants waved cars on, trying to keep the traffic moving.
Then he spotted her, crossing to the short-term parking lot. She moved out of the shade and into the bright sunlight. Bentz hurried after her, nearly tripping as his bag caught on the edge of the curb.
“Hey!” he shouted. But she strode on, cutting through the parked cars baking in the sun, not once looking over her shoulder. “Hey! Jennifer!”
She sped up, digging inside her purse. A moment later keys flashed in her hand.
Bentz scanned the parking lot ahead and spotted the car-the silver Chevy Impala with a faded parking permit.
Ignoring the pain in his leg, he sprinted now, his luggage jerking along beside him. “Stop!”
Frantically, she was unlocking the door.
Dropping his luggage beside the Impala’s bumper, Bentz lunged and stripped the keys from her hand. “Not a chance.” Breathing hard, he stared at her through sweat beading between his brows.
Who was this woman, this younger version of his ex-wife? Flesh and blood; no unearthly wraith.
She tried to get by him, but he blocked her exit by filling the space between her car and the minivan parked next to it. “Who the hell are you?” The smell of her perfume, gardenias, permeated the air and messed with his mind, but he refused to be seduced by the past. He was putting an end to this game, here and now.
She turned her beautiful face toward him and his insides turned to jelly. She looked so much like his ex-wife, she could have been Jennifer’s identical twin. Except that she was too young.
“I need my keys back,” she said firmly, without fear.
“Not yet, lady.” He grabbed her arm and held on tight, wanting to shake the truth from her.
“What’s your problem?” she asked.
“You are.”
“Me?” Her eyes narrowed in a scowl as she deliberately pulled her arm from his grasp.
For a millisecond he wondered if he’d made a mistake, if she really had no idea that she resembled Jennifer so closely. Except that she was in the same damned car he’d spotted in San Juan Capistrano and on the freeway. This woman had been dogging him.
“Give me back my keys,” she demanded as a man walking toward his car, jacket tossed over one shoulder, eyed them suspiciously.
Realizing that he might appear to be assaulting her, Bentz released her arm but stood his ground. “You’re not going anywhere.” He pushed her keys into his pants pocket.