Page 23 of What Doesn't Kill Her
They arrived at baggage carousel eight as the first bags were tumbling down the chute. Kellen was pleased to note that Horst was out of breath, and she was not. A few weeks off for injury and she was still in good shape.
They both watched, poised to leap at the first black bag with an attached lime-green yarn fuzz ball. As time wore on, the waiting grew tense and worried, and Kellen scanned the crowd, looking for someone who fit the physical profile of a thief and killer. Foolish, that; last winter she had learned the hard way that killers hid in plain sight. Still, she watched for suspicious behavior.
She saw a large family having a rambunctious reunion...how easy to steal a bag and pass it from one person to another.
She saw a businessman standing right in front of the chute and staring hard, intent on grabbing his bag even before it slammed against the carousel’s bumper.
She saw a woman watching her and smiling, as if they were acquaintances. With a shock, Kellen realized they were; last December, that woman had vacationed at Yearning Sands Resort with her girlfriend and their children. That was the trouble with having worked for a well-known Washington resort—a lot of people knew Kellen Adams.
Kellen waved, and Horst elbowed her. “She your special friend?” He had that smarmy tone people get when asking personal questions that are none of their business.
“No.”
“You have a special friend?”
Kellen didn’t want him to develop any ideas, so she said, “Yes. Max Di Luca. He found me this job.”
“Sounds like yourspecial friendwants you to scram.”
Kellen smiled with chilling precision. “Maybe. But mostly, he knows I can take care of myself.”
“There it is!” Horst dived for the small black bag with the fluorescent green yarn fuzzy.
Kellen stood back and observed, ready to spring after him if he ran with the bag.
He didn’t. He pulled the handle out full-length, walked it over to her and handed it over. “You take it. That yarn poof makes me feel like an idiot.”
Leaning down, she unwound the yarn ball and tossed it in the garbage. “Let’s go.” She headed for the exit.
“Wait a minute.” He started toward the men’s room. “I need to take a leak.”
She kept walking. “You should have thought of that before.”
“I wasn’t allowed to leave you alone to pick up the bag by yourself!”
“You’re not supposed to leave me alone with the bag at all.”
“I’m going to pee.” He took more steps toward the men’s room, as if that would make her halt.
“Meet you at the van,” she said.
He stopped and said, “I’ve got the keys!”
She stopped and viewed the spoiled, frustrated man. “Do you really imagine I can’t break into that van and start it?” She turned and headed out of the terminal.
He joined her on the sidewalk, puffing like a steam engine. “What am I supposed to do? Hold it all the way into the mountains?”
“When we get to a rest stop, you can visit the little boys’ room. In the meantime, we’re a sitting target at the airport.” The parking garage was dark and cool, and she observed every person who passed, listened to every footstep behind them.
“Let’s go back to the airport so I can pee. Who’s going to grab the bag with all these people around?”
“Someone who has the proper ID to match the bag. Which we don’t.” She reached the back of the van.
He unlocked the doors.
She flung the bag into the back. It was heavy, forty or fifty pounds.
Mummy’s head, indeed. No mummy’s head would weigh so much.
