Ellen
leaned forward over the sink and took a last, critical look at
her makeup in the bathroom mirror. She could see that the eyes
were good. The way to look trustworthy was to look trusting, and
her eyes seemed big and blue and wide-open. The color on the cheeks
was good, too: she could tell it was clear, smooth, and natural,
even though the mirror was pocked with black spots, and the light
in here was harsh and yellow. But she intended to be there early
enough to slip into the ladies' room, do a recheck, and make any
necessary revisions before she was seen. She had been training
herself not to take anything for granted since she was nine years
old, and she was twenty-four now. Not to anticipate problems was
to invite them.
She went back into her kitchen, picked her purse off the table,
and slung it over her shoulder, then opened her thin leather briefcase
to be sure she had everything. She always carried a small kit
consisting of the brochures and forms necessary to commit a customer
to one of the common policies: term life, whole life, health,
home owner's, auto. Before she had left the office last night,
she had added some of the more exotic ones to cover art, jewelry,
planes, and boats. The application forms she carried always had
her name typed in as agent, with her telephone extension and office
and e-mail addresses in the other boxes, and her signature already
in the space at the bottom. She never left the home office in
doubt about who should get the commission.
Clipped to the inside of her briefcase she carried a slim gold
pen that felt good in a customer's hand when he signed his name,
and she kept an identical one, never used, out of sight below
it so there could never be a moment when she was ready to close
on a customer and couldn't. Taking a few simple, habitual precautions
was usually enough to keep her from lying in bed at night worrying
about lost opportunity, failure, and humiliation.
She reached into the other side of the divider in her briefcase,
pulled out the claim forms she had prepared, and examined them.
She was not proofreading the entries. She knew there were no mistakes.
She had been up late, studying the files, filling in the blank
spaces on the forms with a typewriter, so there would be no real
paperwork left to do. This morning she used the forms to test
her memory of family names, addresses, dates.
She had no illusion that she was engaged in anything but an act
of dissimulation. It was conscious, studied, and practiced, and
anything less than a flawless performance would be a disaster.
When she had all the personal details by heart it made her listener
feel as though she cared about him. Having them wrong was to be
caught out as a hypocrite and a fraud. If she convinced her listener
that she cared--really had his interests at heart--then she was
not halfway there, she was all the way.
Ellen made sure the coffee was unplugged and the lights were all
off before she went out the door and locked it. As she turned,
she heard a sudden noise over her shoulder and jumped. She stared
in the direction of the sound, and decided it was nothing--just
an orange falling from the tree in the corner of the yard. But
it was still an hour before the sun would be up, and even Pasadena
could be a bit creepy in the darkness and silence.
She knew that if she screamed, she couldn't expect the other four
girls who lived in the small apartments in this building to come
to her rescue, but they would at least wake up and look out their
windows to see what was going on. If somebody grabbed her, she
must not rely on her neighbors' altruism. She must yell "Fire!"
while she fought. She had read that this was what the experts
advised, and so that was what she would try to do.
She wished she weren't feeling so jumpy. For the past two days
she had been increasingly anxious, and the discomfort seemed to
have gotten more vivid this morning. She had to remind herself
that this was not something to be afraid of. It was an opportunity.
If she used it well, it was a step toward getting everything she
wanted.
She looked down the empty driveway at the street, then stepped
toward the open garage where her car was parked, and took the
time to check and be sure the car was locked. This compulsion
to check everything made her a bit ashamed. She had not just been
worrying about accomplishing what she had to do this morning.
She had been having feelings that something was wrong. At times,
she had detected the sensation that someone was watching her.
Yesterday she had been walking down the street in Old Town, looking
in shops not far from the office, and had sensed eyes on her.
She had stopped abruptly, pretending to look in a store window,
and studied the sidewalk behind her in the reflection. She had
waited until the other pedestrians had walked past her and had
determined that they all appeared harmless before she moved on.
She had told herself that she had just sensed some man staring
at her. They did that, after all, and they meant no harm. But
she had not convinced herself: when they meant no harm, they were
always easy to catch. They wanted to be caught.
She made her way down the driveway to wait for the cab to arrive.
She glanced at her watch. It was still not even five a.m. There
was no reason to feel impatient. The cab wasn't late; she was
early. Probably she had been spending too much time alone lately.
She defended herself from her own accusation. The isolation had
not really been her fault. Even after a year here, the people
in the Pasadena office were still the only people she knew in
southern California. She had seen at the beginning that none of
them were likely to become close friends. At best they were allies,
and at worst they were obstacles, fixed objects she would have
to work her way around. To get what she needed, she would have
to deceive them about her feelings, keep certain information she
picked up away from them, and use it to her advantage, all the
while smiling and evading. She had done that. No wonder she was
nervous.
She stared up the dark street, searching for headlights. In the
heavy stillness of the residential neighborhood, she could hear
distant engine sounds at the far end of the next block, where
the street met Colorado Boulevard. Every few seconds, a car or
truck would swish past the intersection, but none of them made
the turn. The faintness of the sounds reminded her of how alone
she was.
She had read an article in a women's magazine that said if a person
had a feeling--an uneasy intuition that something was wrong, that
a man she was with made her uncomfortable, that a place made her
feel vulnerable--she should not ignore it. Her eyes had probably
seen something, her ears had probably heard something, but her
mind was trying to brush it aside and explain it away because
denial was easier than facing the danger.
Ellen caught herself forming a clear mental image of John Walker.
She could see his dark brown hair, his calm, wise eyes. She was
sure it was the uneasiness that had brought him back. When she
had been with him, she had always felt safe. It was not just because
he was tall and broad-shouldered and physically fit. He had a
quiet, thoughtful manner, and he was reliable. She felt a sharp
pang that surprised her. She could have been with him--maybe not
married him, because that would have ruined everything, but at
least had him nearby. Driving over here before dawn to pick her
up was exactly the sort of thing he would have done, and she would
have known--positively known--that he would be here on time. She
made an effort to push him out of her mind and obscure his image
in her memory. The worst thing for a person to worry about was
some decision she had made in the past.
She saw a pair of headlights turn off Colorado, took in a deep
breath, and waited. The car passed under the first street lamp
so she could see the white bar on the roof. It was the taxi. She
let the breath out in relief. The cab began to make its way up
the quiet street slowly. The driver must be searching for her
house number, but he wasn't even on the right block yet. She stepped
down to the street and waved her arm in the air. He didn't seem
to be able to see her yet. He was still crawling along. How could
he not see her? It was as though he were looking at every house,
every stretch of sidewalk, to reach her by the process of elimination.
The cab crept to a stop at the end of the driveway. From here
she could not see the driver's face, only a pair of big hands
on the wheel in the soft glow from the dashboard. She hesitated.
She reminded herself that she was being childish. She had called
for a cab and here it was--she glanced at her watch--and it was
actually early. The rest was just her overheated imagination.
She stepped toward the back seat of the cab, but the man didn't
get out to open the door for her. He only waved his hand in a
"get on with it" gesture. She pulled open the door,
got in, and pulled it shut.
"I'd like to go to the airport, please."
"I know," he muttered irritably.
She began to regret calling a cab. It was a decision she had reached
two days ago. She had made the call right away to reserve the
cab, then repeated it this morning in case they forgot. She had
meant to keep herself free and unencumbered this morning, but
she could have driven her own car down there. A cab meant relinquishing
control, and this driver was not very pleasant. At least the traffic
would be light at this hour, so it wouldn't take very long. She
could collect her thoughts before she had to start being convincing.
The cab pulled away from the curb and moved down the street. A
few seconds later, she noticed that the back of the driver's head
was easier to see, and then the mirror threw a bright reflection
across his eyes. She saw him squint for a moment before he flipped
the mirror up so the reflected glare was cast on the ceiling.
Another car was behind them. She was surprised. She had not seen
any car come off Colorado since the taxi had arrived, and she
was almost sure she would have noticed if any of her neighbors
had slammed a car door or started an engine in the silence.
The glow from behind did not go away, and ugly possibilities began
to float into the front of her mind. She had heard that cab drivers
who worked in the hours of darkness often got robbed. She had
always imagined them being robbed because they were alone. But
why wouldn't a robber strike when there was a passenger in the
car? Certainly he would get more money, and she couldn't stop
him. She looked at the back of the driver's head. He must know
that he was a potential victim, but he didn't seem to be concerned.
He did glance in the side mirror now and then, as though to verify
that nothing had changed.
She waited for the driver to make the first turn, then another
to head back toward Colorado, and looked behind. The car was still
there. It had fallen back a bit, but it had not gone away. The
driver turned again, and she waited. She counted to ten slowly,
then extended it to twenty. The lights were visible again. Then
it occurred to her that there was a reason why this might be happening,
and she felt foolish for not thinking of it before. She worked
for a big company in a competitive business. For over a year,
she had been polite but aloof with her supervisors and colleagues.
She had worked alone, developed her own leads, and pursued them.
She had been earning commissions that were multiples of the ones
other salespeople made. She had told her boss two days in advance
that she would not be in today, because she was meeting a client.
She had told him too much. She was amazed at herself for being
surprised. Big companies spied on their employees all the time.
Would it be so strange if the company had her followed?
She looked back. The car followed them onto the freeway entrance.
"That car has been behind us a long time."
The driver said, "Really? I didn't notice." He looked
into the side mirror again and shrugged. "Probably a cop."
"No," she said. "I don't think so. It's a compact
car."
He was silent for a few seconds. "A lot of times, people
who aren't sure where the airport is see a cab and follow. This
time of day, you take a cab, that's probably where you're going."
It made no sense to her. He seemed to think she was a fool, and
that made her panicky. "I know it's probably nothing, but
it gives me the creeps. Can you please lose him?"
"How? We're on a freeway!"
"I don't know. Take an exit, then get back on, I guess. Nothing
illegal or dangerous. I'll give you an extra twenty."
He looked behind, then pulled off the freeway at the next exit,
went down the street a half block, and headed up the entrance
ramp and back onto the freeway.
Ellen looked ahead for the car, then looked behind, and watched
the ramp until the freeway curved and she could not see it anymore.
No other car seemed to follow. She sat back and relaxed. "I
think it worked."
The car radio crackled and buzzed, and she could hear a man's
voice under the static. "Larry, where you at now?"
The driver lifted his microphone and held it so close to his mouth
that Ellen could hear the amplified sound of his lips brushing
it while he murmured, "Still on the One-ten south, heading
for LAX." He fiddled with a dial on the radio. There was
a lot of squawking and crackling, so that Ellen couldn't hear
the dispatcher's next words, but she heard the driver say, "Okay."
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Excerpted from Death Benefits by Thomas
Perry Copyright 2001 by Thomas Perry. Excerpted by permission
of Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights
reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted
without permission in writing from the publisher.
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