Free Hiding Tom Hawk by Robert Neil Baker Page B

and make sure he’s all right if you do something else for me.”
    “What would that be?”
    “Meet someone at the airport. You’ll just make it in time unless the plane is running late. I’ll swap you the Plymouth for the Nash since she might have a lot of luggage.”
    Tom struggled not to salivate at a chance to get out of the little Nash. “She?”
    “Her name is Renada Schneider. She’s sort of a friend coming to, ah, to visit me, from Europe.”
    The idea of Robert having international female friends—of Robert having female friends—surprised Tom. “And you’ll really check up on Gary?”
    “Scout’s honor; I’ll head straight out there.”
    Tom didn’t know whether or not to believe him. But he had no idea where the tribal elders might have taken Gary, and Robert did.
    Robert must have seen his resolve weakening. He promised, “You can keep on using the Plymouth until your car is fixed if you’ll do this for me.”
    It was an escape from a tiny English prison. Tom capitulated. “Done deal. Where do I take this Renada after I get her from the plane?”
    “She’ll be staying out at Beth’s place. Just take her there. We both need to get going, Tom.”
    The Plymouth was in the alley behind the Nash. Robert had wired the front bumper approximately back into place, and he had somehow even re-attached the missing tooth of the grill. The thing was still butt-ugly, though. At the cars, as they exchanged keys, Robert gave him a small black-and-white wallet photograph of a stiff-looking, thin, almost gaunt woman perhaps in her mid-thirties.
    “What’s the flight number?” asked Tom.
    Robert looked puzzled. “Geez, Tom, I don’t know. We only get two airplanes in here a day and one on Sundays, so it doesn’t matter.”
    “Oh. Yeah, got it. Call me at Beth’s in an hour and tell me if you and Gary are all right.”
    “You got it.” Robert started the Nash and was off.
    The Plymouth was enormous after the Nash, and Tom luxuriated in the tattered front bench seat. He found a parking place a hundred feet from the terminal door as a Douglas DC-9 made a placid descent to the airstrip. By the time he was at the gate the first handicapped passenger was being helped into the terminal. Then he watched what seemed like a full planeload of passengers enter before finally seeing Renada Schneider. She looked like the photograph, but even stiffer in posture. She was, he guessed, a fairly muscular five-foot-seven, hair pulled severely back to a bun.
    Tom approached her as she stopped and looked about, perplexed. “Miss Schneider?” he asked.
    “Yah, I am Renada. My, you are so much better looking than your photograph. We will get along famously.” Her English was good enough, but she was German. She snatched his hand like a drowning woman, and flashed a 300-watt smile. Once he recovered from the light, he realized the problem.
    “Miss Schneider, I’m not Robert Matthews. He sent me to meet you, with his apologies. He was called away on some urgent business.”
    The radiance of a moment before was replaced by thunderclouds in her eyes and a furrowed forehead. “Oh, you are not he, and he has business more urgent than me. How interesting. You bear his picture some resemblance, you know. Your name is?”
    “My name is Tom Hawk. I’m pleased to meet you.”
    “Yes. Do you know where is the baggage claim?”
    Tom could see it from where they stood: a stationary rack rather than a carousel, but bags were being brought in rapidly. He pointed toward it. She smiled and stroked his arm. Maybe that was the European social custom. She held on to his arm as they walked to the bags.
    Her luggage filled a cart. She was happy to let him do the heavy lifting while she gathered two small cases, bumping against him twice as they worked. He disguised the discomfort in his back and shoulder from her, and wondered why he did so. He was not attracted to Miss Schneider.
    When they reached the Plymouth she looked incredulous.