Run for Your Life - James Patterson [36]
The young woman smiled at his nervous suitor act, and tapped at the keyboard in front of her.
“You’re in luck,” she said. “Ms. Broussard is still here.”
The Teacher put on a look of ecstatic relief. “Thank God.” Then he asked her earnestly, “Do you think she’ll like them? Too over the top? I don’t want to come off as desperate.”
“She’ll like them, believe me,” the clerk said. “They’re gorgeous.”
The Teacher bit at his thumbnail anxiously.
“We only met two days ago, and I know it’s crazy, but this morning I woke up certain that if I let her leave without telling her how I truly feel, I’d never forgive myself. But I want to surprise her. Where would be the best place to wait so I don’t miss her?”
The clerk’s smile widened. She was in on this with him now, happy to be part of true love in the making.
“The couches over by the elevator,” she said, pointing at them. “Good luck.”
The Teacher took a seat, with the bouquet in his lap. His hand edged inside his jacket to the small of his back, where both of his pistols were holstered inside his belt. He chose the .22 Colt and eased it around to his front.
Less than five minutes later, a musical ding signaled an arriving elevator, and one of the gleaming brass doors opened. The Teacher stood as five stewardesses stepped out, all with Air France logos on their knotted blue silk scarves. They could have been models. Or maybe actresses from the kind of movies the hotel made you pay extra for.
The sight of them made him feel like his stomach was filled with helium. He was dizzy at the thought of what he was about to pull.
Martine Broussard was in the lead. Six feet tall, aggressively beautiful, with long hair trailing behind her like blond satin as she strode, preening, out onto the marble as if it were a Victoria’s Secret runway.
The Teacher stood and rushed to meet her, thrusting the flowers forward.
“Martine! Here, I got these for your birthday!”
The statuesque blonde stopped, eyeing the bouquet in confusion.
“My birthday?” she said, pronouncing it “birzday.” “What are you talking about? That is not for three months more.” Her gaze shifted to the Teacher’s face. “Do I know you, monsieur?” But a flirtatious look came into her eyes. Same as the desk clerk, she liked what she saw.
The Teacher held his breath while his hand snaked the .22, barrel-first, into the bouquet. Everything was suddenly quieter, slower, incredibly peaceful. Had he ever felt this untroubled? This free? He felt like a fetus floating weightlessly in its mother’s womb.
Flower petals exploded into the air as he squeezed the pistol’s trigger. The bullet hit her just below her left eye. She dropped to the marble floor without even a twitch, blood pouring down her face.
“Did I just say your birthday?” the Teacher growled. “I’m sorry. I meant your funeral.” He fired twice more into her exquisite bosom.
The other flight attendants stampeded away, screaming. He tossed the flowers onto Martine’s corpse, reholstered the .22, and backed toward the lobby door.
Chapter 32
THE HOTEL DOORMAN, at his post outside, actually held the door open as the Teacher strode through it. Obviously, he hadn’t heard the muffled shots, but now he paused and stared in at the panicked, screaming Frenchwomen.
“Call the cops quick!” the Teacher yelled at him. “Some nutcase in there has a gun.”
The doorman took off running into the building. The Teacher walked fast but smoothly, covering ground but not attracting attention. As he passed the fountain outside the hotel, he took the Treo from the pocket of his jeans and brought up his list.
“Air France Stewardess” disappeared with a peppy little press of his thumb.
Then, out of nowhere, he heard the shriek of brakes behind him. Car doors thunked open, along with the unmistakable static burst of police radio chatter.
Don’t even turn around, he told himself. Keep moving. Blend with the crowd. No way could the cops have a description of him yet.
“That’s him!” somebody screamed.
The Teacher tossed a quick glance over his shoulder. Across the plaza, the hotel