Hit List

go next. There was a slim chance that he’d somehow managed to learn the hitter’s name and address, as he’d evidently done with some of his previous victims. That would explain Roger’s disappearance—he’d go home for now, and in a week or a month he’d pay a visit to the hitter’s hometown and take him out at leisure.
    Nothing Keller could do about that. What was he supposedto do, track this murderous bastard back and forth across the country until he finally pulled into his own garage? Even if there were some way for him to do that, then what? He pictured himself holed up on the hitter’s back porch, waiting patiently for Roger to show.
    Time to pack it in, he told himself. Time to find the next flight to New York and buy a ticket. In coach this time, because he’d already spent enough money on a comfortable seat. He had better ways to waste his money.
    Speaking of which, weren’t there a couple of stamp dealers in Jacksonville? He didn’t have his catalog with him, but he always had a few checklists in his wallet, so that he could tell what stamps he needed from those particular countries. He could check the Yellow Pages, drop in on a dealer or two before he caught a return flight to New York. No reason why the trip had to be a total loss.
    So what was he waiting for?
    Whatever it was, it kept him close to the gate for the Atlanta flight. He was still there when the man who’d killed Maggie went up to the counter for a brief conversation with the clerk, then walked off in the direction she’d indicated.
    Where was he headed? Not the men’s room, it was directly opposite the gate, and clearly marked.
    Oh, right.
    Keller tagged along in his wake, stopping at a newsstand to buy cigarettes. If he’d guessed wrong, if the man’s destination wasn’t what he thought it was, well, he was out the price of a pack of Winstons. But no, there was a sign for the smoking lounge, and that’s where the man was headed.
    He slowed down and let his quarry get settled in. The man was puffing away by the time Keller opened the door and slipped inside. It was a glassed-in area, the furnishings limited to a double row of couches and a generous supply of standing metal ashtrays. The killer was at one end of the room, and two women were over at the other end, barely visible through the smoke, heads together, chatting away. And smoking, of course. No one would come to this foul little room except to smoke.
    Keller shook a cigarette out of his pack, put it between his lips. He approached the man, patting at his pockets, reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket. “Excuse me,” he said, “but have you got a light?” And, as recognition came into the man’s eyes, Keller said, “Say, didn’t I see you on the flight from Newark? I don’t know what the hell I did with my matches.”
    The man reached into a pocket, came out with a lighter. Keller bent toward the flame.

Thirty
----
    “Keller,” she said. “I swear to God I was sure you were dead.”
    “Dead? I just talked to you on the phone.”
    “Before that,” she said. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come on inside. What the hell happened to you, Keller? The last time I saw you, you were walking north on Crosby Street. Where have you been for the past four days?”
    “Jacksonville,” he said.
    “Jacksonville, Florida?”
    “That’s the only Jacksonville I know of.”
    “I’m pretty sure there’s one in North Carolina,” she said, “and there are probably others, but who cares? What the hell were you doing in Jacksonville, Florida?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Nothing?”
    “I went to the movies,” he said. “Dropped in on a few stamp dealers. Watched television in my motel room.”
    “Call a realtor? Look at some houses?”
    “No.”
    “Well, that’s something. I don’t want to sound like your mother, Keller, but how come you didn’t call?”
    He thought about it. “I was ashamed,” he said.
    “Ashamed?”
    “I guess that’s what it was.”
    “Ashamed of what?”
    “Ashamed of myself.”
    She rolled her eyes. “Keller,” she said, “do I look like a dentist?”
    “A dentist?”
    “So why does every conversation with you have to be like pulling teeth? Of course you were ashamed of yourself. A person can’t be ashamed of somebody else. Ashamed of yourself for what?”
    Why was he stalling? He drew a breath. “Ashamed of myself for what I did,” he said. “Dot, I killed a man.”
    “You killed a