"Where to?" the driver asked her.

She tried to catch her breath. "Newark Airport, please."

Chapter 50

AS MATT CROSSED into Pennsylvania in the white Isuzu, he was amazed at how much of what he'd thought of as useless information he'd retained from prison. Of course, prison is not the great education in all things crime many thought it was. You have to keep in mind that the inhabitants had all been, well, caught, and thus any claimed expertise had something of a shadow cast over it.

He had also never listened too closely. Criminal activities did not interest him. His plan, which he'd maintained for nine years, was to stay away from anything even remotely unlawful.

That had changed.

Saul's stolen car method had borne fruit. And now Matt remembered other law-evading lessons from his time behind bars. He stopped in the parking lot of a Great Western off Route 80. No security, no surprise. He did not want to steal another car, just a license plate. He wanted a license plate with the letter P in it. He got lucky. There was a car in the employee lot with a plate that began with the letter P. The employee car would work well, he thought. It was eleven A.M. Most places would be in early- to mid-shift by then. The employee owner would probably be inside for several more hours at a minimum.

He stopped in a Home Depot and bought thin black electric tape, the kind you use to repair phone cords. Making sure no one was watching, he ripped a strip and put it on the letter P, turning it into the letter B. It wouldn't hold up under close scrutiny, but it should be good enough to get him where he was going.

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

There was no choice. Matt had to get to Reno. That meant flying on an airplane. He knew that would be risky. The prison tips for evading detection, even if good in their heyday, were all pre-9/11. Security had changed a lot since then, but there were still methods. He just had to think it through, move fast, and be more than a little lucky.

First, he tried a little old-fashioned confusion and mayhem. He used a pay phone back on the New Jersey border to make flight reservations from Newark Airport to Toronto. Maybe they'd track that down and figure he was an amateur. Maybe not. He hung up, moved to another pay phone, and made his other reservation. He wrote down his booking number, hung up, and shook his head.

This was not going to be easy.

Matt pulled into the Harrisburg airport parking lot. The Mauser M2 was still in his pocket. No way he could take it with him. Matt jammed the weapon under the front passenger seat because, if things did not go as planned, he might be back. The Isuzu had served him well. He wanted to write a note to its owner, explaining what he had done and why. With luck there'd be a chance to explain in the future.

Now to see if his plan worked…

But first, he needed sleep. He bought a baseball cap in the souvenir store. Then he found a free chair in the arrivals area, folded his arms across his chest, closed his eyes, pulled the brim low across his face. People slept in airports all the time, he figured. Why would anyone bother him?

He woke up an hour later, feeling like absolute hell. He headed upstairs to the departure level. He bought some extra-strength Tylenol and Motrin, took three of each. He cleaned up in the bathroom.

The line at the ticket sales counter was long. That was good, if the timing worked. He wanted the staff to be busy. When it was his turn, the woman behind the desk gave him that distracted smile.

"To Chicago, Flight 188," he said.

"That flight leaves in twenty minutes," she said.

"I know. There was traffic and-"

"May I see your picture ID, please?"

He gave her his driver's license. She typed in "Hunter, M." This was the moment of truth. He stood perfectly still. She frowned and typed some more. Nothing happened. "I don't see you in here, Mr. Hunter."

"That's odd."

"Do you have your booking number?"

"I sure do."

He handed the one he'd gotten when he made the reservation on the phone. She typed in the letters: YTIQZ2. Matt held his breath.

The woman sighed. "I see the problem."

"Oh?"

She shook her head. "Your name is misspelled on the reservation. You're listed here as Mike, not Matt. And the last name is Huntman, not Hunter."

"Honest mistake," Matt said.

"You'd be surprised how often it happens."

"Nothing would surprise me," he said.

They shared a world-is-full-of-dopes laugh. She printed out his ticket and collected the money. Matt smiled, thanked her, and headed to the plane.

There was no nonstop from Harrisburg to Reno, but that might work in his favor. He didn't know how the airline computer system meshed with the federal government's, but two short flights would probably work better than one long one. Would the computer system pick up his name right away? Matt doubted it- or maybe hope sprang eternal. Thinking logically, the whole thing would have to take some time- gathering the information, sorting it, getting it to the right person. A few hours at a minimum.

He'd be in Chicago in one.

It sounded good in theory.

When he landed safely at O'Hare in Chicago, he felt his heart start up again. He disembarked, trying not to look conspicuous, planning an escape route in case he saw a row of police officers at the gate. But no one grabbed him when he came off the plane. He let out a long breath. So they hadn't located him- yet. But now came the tricky part. The flight to Reno was longer. If they put together what he'd done the first time, they'd have plenty of time to nail him.

So he tried something slightly different.

Another long line at the airline purchasing desk. Matt might need that. He waited, snaking through the velvet ropes. He watched, seeing which employee looked most tired or complacent. He found her, on the far right. She looked bored past the point of tears. She examined IDs, but there was little spark in her eyes. She kept sighing. She kept glancing around, clearly distracted. Probably had a personal life, Matt thought. Maybe a fight with the husband or her teenage daughter or who knew what?

Or maybe, Matt, she's very astute and just has a tired-looking face.

Still, what other options were there? When Matt got to the front of the line and his agent wasn't free, he faked looking for something and told the family behind him to go ahead. He did that one more time and then it was his agent's turn to say, "Next."

He approached as inconspicuously as possible. "My name is Matthew Huntler." He handed her a piece of paper with the booking number on it. She took it and started typing.

"Chicago to Reno/Tahoe, Mr. Huntler."

"Yes."

"ID, please."

This was the hardest part. He had tried to set it up as smoothly as possible. M. Huntler was a member of their frequent-flier club- Matt had signed him up a few hours ago. Computers don't know from subtlety. Humans sometimes do.

He gave her his wallet. She did not look at it at first. She was still typing into the computer. Maybe he'd get lucky here. Maybe she wouldn't even check his ID.

"Any luggage to check?"

"Not today, no."

She nodded, still typing. Then she turned toward his ID. Matt felt his stomach tumble. He remembered something Bernie had sent him by e-mail several years ago. It said:

Here's a fun test. Read this sentence:

FINISHED FILES ARE THE RESULT OF YEARS OF SCIENTIFIC STUDY COMBINED WITH THE EXPERIENCE OF YEARS.

Now count the F's in that sentence.

He had done it and ended up with four. The real answer was six. You don't see every letter. That's not how we're built. He was counting on something like that here. Hunter, Huntler. Would someone really catch the difference?