by Lee Stone
The second alarm of the night confused an already difficult situation for the police sergeant in charge of the scene around the scanner. They were administering first aid to the two officers who had been shot, which was hopeless. They had handcuffed the huge man slumped in the scanner, which was pointless.
She assumed that the alarm was a false one, but she knew that even with the airport almost empty there would still be a couple of hundred travelers stampeding past the scene any moment. She instructed a couple of officers to direct tourists through an adjacent corridor as they made their way out of the restricted part of the airport and back out onto the cold snowy street as the management worked out what the hell was going on. The whole airport needed shutting down anyway.
Lockhart was one of the first to walk back past the scanner, and down the stairs into the main entrance. He stepped out through the automatic doors and into the cold air. He could hear distant sirens as he walked towards the Range Rover, which hadn’t been clamped. The plan had worked well.
He drove off at a sensible speed as the first of the passengers spilled out onto the street behind him. Emergency vehicles were streaming as he left. He punched Gatwick Airport into the sat nav, and stole a glance in the rear-view mirror, more out of habit than anything. Nothing was following him.
Thousands of miles away, Ben Lang was staring at his screen in disbelief. The live news pictures were showing a dead man slumped in a heap. The body was too big to be anyone other than Tyler. It was clear that all hell had broken loose around him. The mission had failed, and he was too close to Tyler to be sure that the trail wouldn’t lead back to him. He shut off the laptop and began to close down the office.
Chapter Sixty-Three
“You want it all but you can't have it, It’s in your face but you can't grab it” Faith No More – Epic.
Lockhart exhaled. The snow had stopped and the sky was black as tar. There was nothing else on the road, and he had three hours to get to Gatwick. He took his time, never getting above fifty. He didn’t see another set of headlights for an hour.
When he arrived at Gatwick, he took the Range Rover to the long stay car-park, and tucked it away in a corner. He checked to see that he wasn’t being watched and then he tucked the keys under the wheel-arch. He would work out what to do with it later.
His grab bag contained his passport and as a first-class passenger he was ushered through security. As he stepped airside, Lockhart felt free. The hiding and the plotting were over. The house at Woodridge had never been home, and he wouldn’t miss it. He had always known that it was just a stopping point on his journey.
His flight was delayed because of the snow, and so he spent a couple of hours shopping for the things he would need in the next few days. He was traveling to Dallas, but he wouldn’t stay there for long. He bought a new shirt and suit for the city, and then a rucksack and a few cotton shirts for wherever he headed next.
After, he headed for the upper lounge, took a shower, and changed into the new suit. The bar in the upper lounge was exclusive and opulent. Lockhart sank back into a leather sofa in the darkest corner and watched the room. After a while he ordered a mint tea, and relaxed. He had no suitcase to check in, and he was carrying his new rucksack as hand luggage.
He pulled out his beaten copy of The Hidden Words, which he had kept in his grab bag.
O YE RICH ONES ON EARTH! The poor in your midst are My trust; guard ye My trust, and be not intent only on your own ease.
There was little chance that Lockhart would become religious; during his travels he had spent time in churches and chapels and shrines, but none of the great doctrines had turned his head or stirred his heart. He relied much more of fate and feeling, and yet something appealed to him about this beaten up little Bahá’í book which he had picked up in a marketplace in Baghdad. Each time he opened it and flicked to a verse, it seemed to tell him something important. Maybe he was becoming superstitious, like those middle-aged suburban housewives who become obsessed with star signs and tarot cards, twisting the readings to suit their heart’s desires.
Just before first light, his flight departure was announced, and he stood up and stretched. There would be plenty of time to sleep on the plane. He made one last call from the UK, transferring two million dollars into his personal account. The three hundred million would go back to Afghanistan, but Lockhart figured he’d earned the right to do what he wanted with the interest. So, he transferred two million, slung his bag over his shoulder and headed down to the gate.
Minutes later, the heavy plane accelerated into the sunrise and Lockhart felt the tide slowly beginning to pull through waters which had been tranquil for a year. Gently, insistently, the river was pulling him forward again.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Fort Worth Airport, Dallas.
“If I had a million dollars, I’d buy you a green dress.”
– Bare Naked Ladies, If I had a Million Dollars.
The journey to Dallas had been uneventful. Lockhart’s tatty copy of the Hidden Words had remained unread in front of him on the plane. The rising sun had chased his flight across the ocean and he’d been distracted by the vivid oranges and pinks which had stained the clouds beneath him. Eventually the daylight crashed in like a wave over a surfer, charging forward towards America more quickly than the Airbus. Once the light was up the view of the Atlantic became monotonous and he settled back into his seat.
Lockhart had driven all night with Tyler on his back, and now at last he was free of him. Sleep came easily, and when he woke, the ocean had been replaced by land, and he was heading south east across Indiana. The silver-black of the morning ocean had been replaced by a wintery green.
Two hours later, the Airbus landed in Dallas, and Lockhart breezed through Fort Worth in next to no time. He had no luggage to collect, and he was through immigration and into arrivals within minutes. He came through the sliding doors and into the main atrium. It was humming and people were rushing by.
There was a stainless-steel barrier with a small crowd of expectant relatives waiting behind it. Rachel White was in the middle of them, holding up a small sign saying “Fearless”. He smiled and made a beeline straight for her.
“Tyler’s dead” was the first thing he said to her. He knew she’d want to hear it. Tyler had almost killed her, and she had heard him kill David Barr. She wasn’t a vengeful person, but Tyler was someone the world could manage without. She smiled.
“Barr’s wife and daughter want to meet you,” she said. Lockhart told her that he wanted to meet them too. It was a weird way for strangers to start a conversation, but they were up and running. Rachel had already hired a car and soon they were out of Fort Worth International, and into the Dallas traffic. She headed out of the urban sprawl and into the open farmland beyond for the second time in a week. Drove through Hope again and watched it disappear in the rear-view mirror again. But this time she had company.
They spent the journey filling each other in on the past couple of days. Lockhart told what had happened to Tyler at Heathrow. She told Lockhart about the freezer and the waitress and how she had taken his advice and bust the cop’s lip. Lockhart smiled apologetically.
“It was all I could think of at the time,” he said.
“It saved my life,” Rachel replied. She looked round and stared at him in the passenger seat. “You saved my life.”
Lockhart shook his head and said “just keep your eyes on the road, will you?”
Rachel turned back around, and grinned. He liked her. After they’d passed through Hope, she explained what had happened to her once she was arrested. Explained how she’d slowly warmed up in the squad car to the point that she found her voice. She’d asked for coffee at the police station which had worked like a miracle cure. No signs of any lasting damage. The older cop told her what her rights were, and she made her phone call. Called Neilson, obviously.
His advice had been simple. The cops knew Tyler, and probably wouldn’t like her story about him t
rying to kill her. They probably wouldn’t want the hassle. Plus, Tyler probably wouldn’t have hung about. If she pushed the story about Tyler, she’d have ended up stuck in Pine Bluff arguing with cops and lawyers for a week.
So, she took Neilson’s advice; she kept quiet and put her hand up to the assault charge instead. Neilson spoke to the cops and the radio station’s Los Angeles lawyer had the whole thing straightened out within the hour. Neilson wired the money for the fine and before the day was over she was released back into the city.
“Were you worried about bumping into Tyler again?” Lockhart asked her as they drove closer to Pine Bluff.
“No,” said Rachel and then she paused, watching the cars in front of her. “Yes. A little bit.”
Lockhart smiled again. Rachel explained that she had called Neilson from a payphone outside the police station. He had told her the news team had found Lucy Barr’s address. It had been too late to go calling on her that night, so she had decided to stay in Pine Bluff. She went back to the Super 8 for the night. The helpful guy on the desk asked her if she’d found what she was looking for at Lucky Bar.
“Not exactly,” she’d told him.
Storm clouds were gathering over Pine Bluff as Rachel and Lockhart crossed the city limits. They met up with Lucy Barr in a homely coffee shop in the middle of town two hours later. The rain had really started to come down, and Lockhart and Rachel ran full pelt from the parking lot under a copy of the Dallas Morning News. By the time they burst into the coffee shop the newspaper was a soggy mess. Lockhart slung it into the nearest bin as the pair of them blustered and gasped and laughed.
Then they noticed Lucy Barr and her daughter at a table right in the middle of the shop, taking up two of the four seats. David Barr’s funeral was tomorrow. Lockhart and Rachel straightened up and calmed down. Showed some respect.
Lucy and Rachel exchanged easy waves; they’d obviously got the measure of each other over the past couple of days. Lucy stood up and smiled, hugged Rachel and shook hands with Lockhart. Lockhart took to her quickly. He was a good judge of character. She seemed like a gentle soul, taking it all in her stride. Her daughter said hi to Rachel, and Rachel introduced her to Charlie Lockhart.
“Charlie Lockhart, this is Charlotte Amelia Barr who is aged eight and a half years and lives here in Pine Bluff in Arkansas.”
Charlotte laughed at Rachel’s deliberately formal introduction. She seemed like a sparky kid.
“Hi Charlie,” she said, and she looked like she was measuring him up. “You know, sometimes my friends call me Charlie too.”
Lockhart smiled at her.
“I don’t like it much” she shrugged, and pulled a mischievous face.
Lockhart and Rachel both laughed as her mother gave her a look that was approving and disapproving all at the same time. She had good manners, and a bit of fight, probably a bit like her dad. She had a Coke while the other three drank coffee. The windows had steamed up, and the chairs were comfortable. The place was warm and the conversation was easy.
Lucy spoke openly about Barr in front of her daughter. She explained that she and Charlotte had done their mourning a year ago when he disappeared in Afghanistan. She told them stories about him which were full of warm memories. Sometimes Charlotte would chip in with a detail or two. They both spoke naturally about him in the past tense. Rachel explained again what she had told Lockhart and Lucy Barr separately. How she had become convinced that Barr hadn’t jumped, how he was holding the photograph before he died, and how Tyler had attacked her. From time to time Rachel would glance at Charlotte, and then at her mother.
“It’s fine,” Lucy would say. “She’s going to hear about it someday, so it might as well be today.”
Lockhart described his first meeting with Barr. The truck with the grenade stuck on the side of it. The tussle with the Afghan Guards. The moment that Barr had pulled his leg off in front of him as he sat down at his desk.
“Yeah, he did that,” Lucy smiled. “He used to weigh people up doing that. He made a man in a shoe shop scream once.”
They all smiled. His girls missed him. Lockhart told them about Tyler. How he had come to Woodridge to kill him, just like he had hunted down Barr. He didn’t tell them about the journalist or the other guy Tyler had killed at the top of the hill. But he did tell them about the airport, and how Tyler had shot at the police. How his blind rage had bought on his own downfall. Lockhart told them that the man who had killed Barr was definitely dead, and how he wasn’t coming back. He knew that they needed to hear it.
After an hour of so the conversation wound up, and Lucy invited Rachel and Lockhart to the following day’s funeral. Then they all braved the rain as they ran back to their cars. Lockhart could hear Charlotte squealing as she and Lucy dashed for cover. He and Rachel headed back to the Super 8. He checked into a room on a different floor to Rachel, and she booked them a table in the restaurant.
“My treat,” she said. “You saved my life remember.”
“Well, you won’t let me forget it,” Lockhart replied. They hit the bar for an hour before eating and shared a bottle of red with their meal and eventually wondered up to their rooms around midnight.
The funeral was reasonably well attended. It was brief and not religious. After it was done, Lockhart pulled Charlotte to one side while Rachel thanked Lucy for her hospitality.
“I need you to do me a favor,” he said.
He looked at her. She was bearing up well, considering. He handed her an envelope from his jacket pocket. He asked her to give it to Lucy when they got home. He made her promise.
“And don’t go opening it either,” he teased. She put it into a little black purse and held it close to her chest.
“I promise,” she said.
Lockhart and Rachel White traveled back together from Pine Bluff to Dallas, flew Dallas to LAX, and then hired a car and took it up north to Oxnard. They traveled the whole way wearing their tired funeral outfits, not caring who stared. Strangers taking pity. A week since they first spoke on the phone, they felt like old friends.
She drove through Los Angeles up to her place in Oxnard. He stayed awake, soaking up the billboards and the traffic and the newness of it all. It was dark by the time they reached Oxnard and the day had beaten them. She didn’t have to invite him to stay; it just happened. It was the kind of day which could have led to them accidentally tumbling into bed together, but they didn’t.
Rachel grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge and they sat watching TV. They sat close, and didn’t talk too much. Eventually, she wandered off and came back with a blanket for Lockhart. Then she wandered back out again with half a beer in her hand, and didn’t come back. Lockhart lay back on the sofa and was asleep in minutes.
Miles away, Lucy Barr’s day was coming to an end too. She had taken forever to say goodnight to Charlotte. Tucked her up, stroked her hair, kissed her forehead. They talked about everything and nothing. It seemed to Lucy that she was growing up too quickly. She was sadder and wiser than a young girl should be. But she was tough as her dad. She’d be ok.
Lucy finally dimmed the light and closed over Charlotte’s bedroom door. Left it open just a crack. Reluctantly she headed back downstairs with her daughter tucked up and her husband buried. She poured a glass of Shiraz and settled back into her end of the sofa. Sat staring at Barr’s end for a while. It looked very empty.
After a while she remembered the envelope that Charlotte had given her upstairs. She said it was from the Englishman. Said it was a surprise. It was thoughtful of Lockhart. He must have realized how she’d be feeling at the end of the day. Lucy wondered who else Lockhart had buried. Who he had mourned for. Who he had sat aching for on an empty sofa. Lockhart had seemed like a good guy who understood the world.
She took a gulp of red and listened for noises from upstairs. She hoped Charlotte had found sleep quickly. Then she opened Lockhart’s envelope. There was a sympathy card inside, along with a note. The note explained what Lockhart ha
d already told her over coffee; he believed that Barr was a good man, he was sorry for her loss, and he believed that the man who had killed her husband was now dead himself. He was sure that she and Charlotte were safe.
Then the note explained that Lockhart was planning to make right what had happened in Kandahar, returning the three hundred million dollars, so that schools and hospitals would thrive there. Lucy smiled. It was the right thing to do, and she believed that he would make it happen. He had that effortlessly determined way about him.
Finally, he explained he was planning to make sure the interest accrued from the stolen money would also go to good use, and that he hoped that the enclosed cheque would put Charlotte through college. He hoped it would make sure that they were both comfortable in David Barr’s absence.
Lucy checked inside the envelope. Sure enough, there was a small white slip inside. Her delicate fingers fished inside and pulled it out. She took another sip of her Shiraz and unfolded the cheque. She sat staring at it for a moment. Put her glass down. Stared some more. It was signed by Lockhart for two million dollars.
It’s always the kindness that brings the tears. Alone on the sofa, Lucy Barr sat and wept.
*
Lockhart didn’t hang around in Oxnard for long. He didn’t like it any more than he’d liked Pine Bluff. He had spent a year of his life stuck in one place and he needed to keep moving. Rachel understood. His plan was to head for Hong Kong, and then to plow on back into Asia, to put the three hundred million dollars back where they belonged.
Lockhart eyed up the distant horizon and set off down the 101 towards Los Angeles and its busy airport. Smiled as he eased into the Ventura traffic. There was no need to worry about his destination. His destination would come soon enough. Right now, he was back where he wanted to be. Back on the open road.
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