Terminal

“That’s what I’d expect,” Sterling said. “I trust that they’re all Japanese.”

“You got it, man,” Wayne said.

“I’m surprised they’re here at Forbes,” Sterling said. “Tanaka’s preferred technique is to abduct people in an isolated location so there will be no witnesses.”

“They’ll probably follow him,” Wayne suggested. “Then just wait for the right spot.”

“I imagine you are right,” Sterling said. He saw a second man get out of the limousine. He was tall compared to Tanaka. “Let me have a look with those binoculars,” Sterling said. Wayne passed them over the seat. Sterling adjusted the focus of the glasses and studied the two Orientals. He didn’t recognize the second one.

“Why don’t we go over there and introduce ourselves?” Wayne suggested. “Let them know this is a risky operation. Maybe they’d give up the whole plan.”

“That would only serve to alert them,” Sterling said. “It’s better this way. If we announce ourselves too soon they’ll merely operate more clandestinely. We have to catch them in the act so we have something we can use to bargain with them.”

“It seems like such a cat-and-mouse game,” Wayne said.

“You are absolutely correct,” Sterling said.

ROBERT HARRIS had been sitting in his car a few doors down from Tom Widdicomb’s home on Palmetto Lane in Hialeah since early that morning. Although he’d been there for over four hours, Harris had seen no sign of life except that the lights had all gone out. Once he thought he saw the curtains move the way they had the night before, but he couldn’t be certain. He thought maybe in his boredom his eyes were playing tricks on him.

Several times Harris had been on the verge of giving up. He was wasting too much valuable time on one individual who was suspicious only because of a career switch, the fact that he kept all his lights on, and because he wouldn’t answer his doorbell. Yet the idea that the attack on the two nurses could be related to the cancer patient episodes gnawed at Harris. With no other current ideas or leads, he stayed where he was.

It was just after two P.M., and just when Harris was about to leave to deal with hunger and other bodily needs, that he first saw Tom Widdicomb. The garage door went up, and there he was, blinking in the bright sunlight.

Physically, Tom fit the bill. He was of medium height and medium build with brown hair. His clothes were mildly disheveled. His shirt and pants were unpressed. One sleeve of his shirt was rolled up to mid-forearm, the other was down but unbuttoned. On his feet were old, lightweight running shoes.

There were two cars in the garage: a huge, vintage lime green Cadillac convertible and a gray Ford Escort. Tom started the Ford with some difficulty. Once the engine caught, black smoke billowed out of the exhaust as if the car had not been started for some time. Tom backed it out of the garage, closed the garage door manually, then got back into the Escort. When he pulled out of the driveway, Harris let him build up a lead before following.

Harris did not have any preconceived plan. When he first saw Tom the moment the garage door opened, he considered getting out of the car and having a conversation with the man. But he’d held back, and now he was following him for no specific reason. But soon it became apparent where Tom was headed, and Harris got progressively interested. Tom was heading for the Forbes Cancer Center.

When Tom entered the parking lot, Harris followed but purposefully turned in the opposite direction to avoid Tom’s noticing him. Harris stopped quickly, opened the door, and stood on the running board as he watched Tom cruise around the parking lot and finally stop near the entrance to the hospital.

Harris got back into his car and worked his way closer, finding a vacant spot about fifty feet from the Escort. What was going through his mind was the possibility that Tom Widdicomb might be stalking the second nurse to be attacked, Janet Reardon. If that were true, perhaps he’d been the one who had attacked her, and if he had, maybe he was the breast cancer patients’ killer.

Harris shook his head. It was all so conjectural, with so many “ifs” and so contrary to the way he liked to think and act. He liked facts, not vague suppositions. Yet this was all he had for the moment, and Tom Widdicomb was acting strange: staying in a house with every light on; hiding out most of the day; now loitering in the hospital parking area on his day off, especially when he was supposed to be home sick. As ridiculous as it all might have sounded from a rational point of view it was enough to keep Harris sitting in his car wishing he’d had the foresight to bring sandwiches and Gatorade.