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instant his eyes linked with the detective's; then Cole looked away. On the other side of the metal arch,
Dr. Peters grabbed his bag and hurried off.
"Hold it! Just a moment "
Dr. Peters froze, his face suddenly gone white. He turned, slowly, to see the security officer
approaching, waving a pair of jockey shorts.
"Sir! You forgot these "
Dr. Peters grabbed them, stuffing them into his bag as he strode down the windowed concourse
toward the gates.
"I said, get your hands off her," Cole repeated in a steely tone. In front of him the security officer
somewhat unsteadily stood his ground. "She's not a criminal. She's a doctor a psychiatrist."
Kathryn shot him an alarmed look, turning as she heard a flurry of footsteps. A few yards away she
recognized the bulky figure of Detective Dalva, several photos clutched in his hand. Behind him the
airport detective brandished a walkie-talkie. Desperately she turned back to Cole and spotted Dr. Peters
hurrying out of sight.
"THERE HE IS!" she shouted, pointing down the concourse. "THAT MAN! HE'S CARRYING A
DEADLY VIRUS! STOP HIM!"
Cole whirled. He saw a ponytailed man hurrying down the hallway, looking back over his shoulder
with a pinched, frightened face. A man with a ponytail and baggy plaid pants.
The man from his dream.
"PLEASE, SOMEBODY STOP HIM!" Kathryn's voice rose to a shriek as Detective Dalva ran up
beside her.
"Police officer," he gasped, flashing a badge. "Would you step over here, please?"
Before she could move Cole lunged at him, knocking him off balance, then sprinted toward the
magnetic arch and through it. With a deafening wail the alarm went off. People murmured, then cried out
as the airport security officer dashed after him. Without looking aside Cole slammed his fist into him and
sent him crashing to the floor. On the concourse fifty yards ahead, the ashen-faced Dr. Peters looked back
to see James Cole yank a pistol from his pocket. On the ground the sprawling officer shouted, horrified.
"He's got a gun!"
Cole raced on, heedless of terrified travelers screaming and diving for cover in his wake, heedless of
the small boy standing before the observation window between his parents, watching in pure wonder as a
737 touched down upon the runway.
Another scream. Brow furrowed, the boy turned, and was knocked backward as a ponytailed man
bumped into him.
"Watch it!" the man yelled.
The boy stared wide-eyed as the man clutched a Chicago Bulls gym bag to his chest, pirouetting
gracelessly as he ran. An instant later a second man appeared: blond, wild-eyed, a mustache drooping
ridiculously from his lip as he waved a pistol. Behind him lunged a uniformed man with another gun,
aiming for the blond man as he angled through the crowded passageway.
"NOOOOOO!"
As in a dream the boy turned, slowly, slowly. Up the hall raced a blond woman, her high heels nearly
tripping her as she staggered forward desperately, her mouth thrown open in anguish. There was a crack!
a thousand thunderous echoes in the endless corridor. A few feet in front of the boy the blond man
shuddered, staggered forward a few steps and then fell falling, falling...
"My God! They've shot that man!"
His mother's voice, his mother's hand tightening on his shoulder. The boy stared, mesmerized, as the
blond woman rushed up to the fallen man and knelt beside him. Across the gaudy tropical print crimson
petals bloomed, stained the woman's hands as she leaned over him. So slowly he almost seemed not to
move at all, the blond man lifted his hand. Tenderly he grazed the woman's cheek, touched her tears as
she grasped him and shook her head.
"Come on, son." His father pulled him away, gently but insistently, as airport medics ran up and
pushed the woman aside, frantically trying to save the man. "This is no place for us."
As his father led him away, he looked back. The medics exchanged looks, shrugging helplessly. His
father pulled him roughly toward a corner. His mother's hand nestled in his hair and he could hear her
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