But now is the most nerve-wrecking part. I cross over the knoll and back to the Yaris, then hasten around the side of the restaurant. Collar up and head down, eyes slanted to look into the windows as I stroll by. If all goes well, I will see where Phil is seated but he won't see me. That's the idea.
Being spotted wouldn't be a big deal if I hadn't engaged my target already. Since Phil and I are all but blood brothers now, I have to be careful. I need the element of “Oh, shit.”
His group is occupying two tables near the back of the restaurant. I pick up my pace and complete my loop to the front door.
Inside, the lobby is warm and filled with people. The clattering of dishes, the scent of onions and garlic. A group of waitstaff are clapping and singing a birthday song.
A woman asks, “Table or booth?”
It's southern honey. I turn to where she stands at a counter. She has smooth, dark skin and gorgeous brown eyes. God damn. Maybe I can delay my return trip and take my twenty-four hour me-time here in the south.
She straightens. I'm busted. Stealth isn't my thing in any situation.
“Uh, no, thanks.” I snag a menu. “Just looking for my party.”
I hurry into the dining area before she can reply. The restaurant is busy, but there are a few seats to choose from. I slide into a booth and slouch down. I can see Phil, but he won't see me as long as he doesn't stand up.
A waiter brings me water and offers an appetizer. I say yes and wave him away. Not a clue what I just ordered. Don't care.
Actually, I kind of do. The menu is all sorts of southern goodies—the hostess excluded—but I can't kill on a full stomach. I did that once. It ended poorly.
Lucky for the guy he was already dead.
The waiter comes back with a soda. Apparently I ordered that.
He pulls out his notepad. “Have you decided what you would like?”
I glance down at the menu. This isn't the type of place that will let me sit around sucking down drinks and not order food.
“The manager's special,” I say, assuming there is one.
He nods and tries to take the menu.
I slap my hand on it. “I'd like to keep it. Please.”
“Sure.” He shrugs and walks off.
Halfway across the restaurant, Phil is living it up with pints of beer and platters of food. I would be envious that he gets to eat without worrying about emptying his stomach on a fresh corpse later, except he's going to be that corpse. It's sort of a fair trade.
My appetizer, as it turns out, is fried artichokes, which is about as exciting as a garden hose. The manager's special is surf and turf. Too bad I shouldn't eat it. What a waste of a perfectly good artery-clogging meal.
So I just sit here watching a bunch of old guys violate doctor's orders. Phil is having a good time for someone who is going to have a bullet for an after dinner mint.
With a small groan of irritation, I slump in my seat. The shrimp on my plate are taunting me, so I cave and snack on them with the cocktail sauce. Phil continues with his merriment. I've had more exciting visits to the dentist. Less painful, too.
I consider checking my phone, but I need to stay focused. Plus, I'll probably do something stupid if Syd hasn't texted yet. Like call her.
So much for learning about southern hospitality. That hostess up front is gorgeous, but I'm ready to get back to jumping my claim in the southwest.
After I've gone ahead and eaten all the shrimp, fried cheese sticks, and half of the steak, Phil is finally ready to leave. I scramble for the menu buried under my plates and hold it up. I'm not James Bond. I have no nifty moves. I just do what works. And a menu shield works pretty damn well.
It works well enough that Phil leaves the restaurant without seeing me, though he didn't have to get too close, anyway. I tune pass the hum as best as possible and listen for his voice. A moment later, the sound of the front door, and then his talking fades out.
That's my cue.
Dining and dashing is a dick move. I wouldn't do it in a normal situation.
This does not count as a normal situation.
I dined, and now I dash. Through the dining area, out the double front doors, and across the parking lot. I skid to a halt at my Yaris, unlock the door, and peel out.
The silver Lexus is on the move.
And I have had more than enough of this stupid game of Duck, Duck, Dead.
Half of the stupidity is my fault, though. I had a plan—and this was it. Follow him until the opportunity to pull the trigger arises.
I never said I was good at killing people. I just have to keep the damn hum from evolving. Once that happens, life becomes unpleasant.
The Lexus, a few cars lengths ahead, swerves a little. For all his brilliance, Doctor Phillip Ballantyne is a jerk waffle. He won't be a problem for much longer. I hope.
I trail him no more than five minutes. Then he pulls into a hotel parking lot. Decent place. I should be staying here. Bet the showers have better water pressure.