“No. I hate that. Call me kid, like you did before. That’s what my dad calls me.”
“Okay, kid. Why aren’t you in school?”
“What’s it to you?”
Before she could think of anything to say, the plane rocked and slid right. Lynnette grabbed the girl’s hand. “My name’s Lynnette.” Her voice sounded high-pitched and breathless.
“You totally look like a Lynnette,” the kid said. Her voice sounded calm and confident.
Lynnette looked at her, wondering what she meant, wondering what a “Lynnette” was supposed to look like. “What does your mother call you?”
The kid pulled her hand away and rubbed her neck. “Smart mouth. Brat. Whatever.”
“I totally get that.”
“Call me Grace,” the kid added as though Lynnette hadn’t spoken. “I like Grace.”
“Fine. Grace. That’s a lovely name.”
Lynnette swallowed her next question as the plane rocked them back and forth, performing a series of jolts and lunges that rattled her teeth. This time Grace grabbed for Lynnette’s hand and held on tight.
The captain announced they would be circling the Denver airport for a while. He apologized for the bumpy ride but blamed high winds in the Denver area, and, oh, by the way, they needed to use up fuel before they could attempt a landing, just in case.
Minutes later, the retching sounds began. Flight attendants staggered along the aisle with a supply of barf bags. The next thirty minutes made Lynnette swear off air travel for the rest of her life.
CHAPTER 8
* * *
Denver, Colorado
Wednesday, January 22
No one applauded the safe but late landing in Denver at 9:00 p.m. By then, Lynnette doubted if the passengers cared whether they lived or died. The only thing worse than nausea was nausea in the presence of someone else’s vomit. When even the flight attendants couldn’t hold it in, Lynnette began to wonder about the pilot and co-pilot. Were they up there in the cockpit, puking up their guts?
She couldn’t continue on to Los Angeles until she felt less queasy. It didn’t matter. She could do what she damned well pleased.
The crew gave those passengers disembarking in Denver permission to gather their things and leave the plane, with instructions to check with an airline employee regarding connections. Lynnette was more than ready to go. She pulled her computer and purse from under the seat, stepped across the kid’s legs, and opened the overhead bin.
“Where are you going?” Grace asked.
“Sorry, Grace. I have to split. You take care of yourself.” Lynnette turned and glared at the grossly fat man who now studied Grace’s face with interest. He looked away, fumbled with his seatbelt, then pulled a rumpled handkerchief from his shirt pocket and mopped his brow.
The flight attendant hurried toward Lynnette from the cockpit, raising her hand as though to stop her from retrieving her luggage. “Wait, dear. You need an escort to go with you.”
“You must be kidding!”
The attendant laughed. “No, I mean this young lady.”
Lynnette glanced at Grace and saw she had pulled her backpack from under the seat and stood as though she’d planned to follow Lynnette into the airport. Grace plopped into the seat and stared toward the window.
A shout came from the back of the plane. “Someone here needs help!”
“Hey, don’t forget about this kid,” Lynnette said. She pointedly looked at the fat man and then raised her eyebrows as she looked at the flight attendant. She gestured too late. The attendant had turned toward the shout and rushed toward the rear of the plane, forcing passengers back into their seat rows as she went.
Lynnette took her carry-on, her laptop case, and her purse and walked off the plane.
Twenty minutes later, armed with a map that showed the bus station, the 16th Street Mall, the Amtrak station and all points of interest in between, she boarded a bus. Her first stop at the bus station was the restroom. When she finally wrestled her bags out of the stall and turned toward the sinks, she saw a kid in a pink and purple shirt, washing her hands. A kid in a ponytail and hiking boots, a mini-backpack strapped across her shoulders.
“Hi,” Grace said. She looked away, seemed to search for the towel dispenser, finally spied it by the door.
“What are you doing here?”
“I don’t want to fly the rest of the way sitting across the aisle from that creepy fat guy. Anyway, you left. I figured you had a good reason.”
“Yeah, but kid, I’m a grownup. I don’t need a good reason to change my mind. I can do crazy stuff. Did you tell anyone where you were going?”
“Uh, duh! Like they would have let me leave?”
“How’d you get off the plane? Didn’t anyone try to stop you?”
“Some old guy in the back had a heart attack. Even the pilot went to help. I think he wanted to try out those zapper things. He seemed pretty excited.”
Lynnette looked around the restroom. “Don’t you have luggage?”
“Just my pack.”
“What did your mom say?”
“Nothing.”
Lynnette watched Grace as the girl continued to face the towel dispenser, drying her hands over and over. “You didn’t call your mom, did you?”
Grace shrugged. “I can’t.”
“What? No phone? You can use mine.”
“No . . . I mean I’m not supposed to.”
Lynnette walked over to Grace, placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder and turned her far enough to see her face. “Explain.”
“After she took me to the gate at the airport, Mom went to Daytona with her boyfriend. She said not to call her until I wanted to come home. She said if I wanted to live with Dad so bad, then I obviously didn’t need her.”
“So you’re going to Los Angeles to live with your dad.”
“Yeah.”
“So you called him instead of your mother.”
Grace didn’t answer.
“Grace, you called your dad, right?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean, not exactly? You got off the plane and you didn’t tell anyone? You didn’t call your parents?” Lynnette grabbed Grace’s hand and pulled her toward the restroom door. “I saw a cop in the waiting room.”
Grace jerked her hand away. “No way. Don’t turn me over to a cop. You know what they do with kids like me? They stick us in foster care.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. They’ll call your dad and help you get to L.A.”
“That’s not how it works. They won’t be able to reach my dad and they’ll call Social Services to take care of me, and they’ll assume my folks don’t want me and I’m a runaway, and I’ll be stuck in some home with a pervert and a lousy cook and half a dozen other foster kids who wet the bed and skip school—”
“Where did you hear stuff like that? Never mind. Tell me how to get hold of your dad. We’ll call him now.”
“I can’t.”
Lynnette gritted her teeth, counted to ten, and took a deep breath. “Why not?”
“He’s in Kandahar.”
“Kandahar. You mean—”
“In Afghanistan? Yeah.”
“Why is he in Afghanistan if he knows you’re on your way to California to live with him?”
Grace took a deep breath and blew the long puff of air out through her pursed lips.
“He doesn’t know you’re coming?” Lynnette heard her voice grow higher and thinner as she spoke. “Your mom didn’t let him know you were coming? What was she thinking? Didn’t he tell her he’d be out of the country?”
“They don’t talk. I told her he said okay.”
Lynnette shook her head. She had to turn the kid in. She couldn’t leave her alone in Denver, especially not at night.
She glanced at her watch. It was already after nine. She had no intention of dragging Grace around the country with her. Hell, as soon as I cross a state line with the kid in tow, I could face kidnapping char
ges.
When the airline realized they’d lost a child, they would notify the police. There would be cops all over the city looking for Grace. They’d have her description, would be looking for that pink and purple shirt.
“What’s your dad doing in Kandahar? How long will he be gone?”
“He works for the government. He said he’d be back in a week.”
“How long has he been there?”
“Three days.”
“What were you going to do in L.A. by yourself for the next four days?”
Grace took a sudden interest in her backpack, unzipping the top and feeling around inside. “Stay at his place,” she mumbled.
“By yourself?”
“I took care of myself most of the time in Miami. What’s the big deal?”
“Your mom left you by yourself while she went out with her boyfriend?”
“Yeah. But Mom works. She’s a waitress.”
Lynnette frowned. How could she possibly drag this kid around for four days?
“If you even look like you’re going to tell a cop, I’ll run away,” Grace said. “Think about it. I’ll be out on the streets in downtown Denver. At night. Perverts and white slave traders everywhere. I’ll probably disappear and never be seen again. I’ll be sold into prostitution. Me, a little kid. That will be on your conscience, Lynnette. You’ll never forgive yourself.”
“You watch too much TV, kiddo.” Lynnette slung her purse strap over her shoulder and reached for her bags. “Come on. Let’s get out here. We’ll talk.”
“I need to change my shirt first.”
“Smart. Is this the first time you’ve run away?”
Grace grinned. “I do watch a lot of TV.” She pulled a light blue shirt and a dark blue padded vest from her pack and changed out of the top she’d worn on the airplane. “If I go out there with you, you promise you won’t tell the cop?”
“We’ll talk. For now, we’ll just talk.”
“Okay. But I’ll run at the first sign—”
“Fine, I got it.”
Lynnette glanced around the station waiting room, checking to see if the building had wireless access. No signs. She’d have to pull out her laptop and try. She knew how to find the train station, knew she could hike it without any trouble, but it would be a pointless exercise if the schedule showed no westbound train until the next day.
First she had to deal with the kid. If she turned Grace over to a cop, what would happen? They probably would put Grace in the custody of Social Services in Colorado until they contacted one of the two parents. And then what? Would one or both parents be charged with neglect? Would Grace be removed from her home? From both homes?
“Look, Lynnette, you were flying to L.A. You’re still going there, right?”
“Yeah, but I don’t feel like flying now. I might take the train.”
“Can’t I tag along? I won’t bother you. I won’t even talk. Just let me stay close enough so weirdo creeps think you’re my mom.”
“You think I look old enough to be your mother?”
“Or my sister. My aunt. Whatever.”
Lynnette studied Grace’s face, tried to figure out how much of what she’d said was a lie and how much the truth. “You have to call your dad.”
“I told you. He’s in Kandahar.”
“Doesn’t he have an answering machine? Or voice mail on his cell phone?”
“Sure. Both.”
“Then call and leave a message in both places. Do you have a cell phone, or do you need to use mine?”
“I have one.”
“Then call. Now.”
Grace unzipped a pocket in her backpack and pulled out her phone. She turned it on and waited for a signal. Then she stood up.
“No,” Lynnette said. “Stay here. I want to watch you make the calls. I want to hear the messages you leave.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“That’s correct.”
“Bummer.”
“Just do it.”
Grace made the calls. Left the messages. Gave her dad Lynnette’s first name. Told her dad about the bumpy flight, that she was safe and might travel on to California by train. Said she’d call again when she found out for sure. Said she’d call every day ’til he got back. Told him again about the nice woman who promised to watch out for her. When Lynnette motioned for Grace to give her the phone, she handed it over.
Lynnette left her full name and cell phone number on the dad’s answering machine.
Almost satisfied, she insisted on one more thing from Grace—her dad’s name and contact information, just in case. She wrote down the name, Bob McCoy, and the numbers Grace gave her. Then, to cover her ass a bit further, she asked for a number where Grace’s mother could be reached. Reluctantly, Grace finally gave Lynnette her home number in Miami. She said she didn’t dare give out her mom’s cell phone number or she’d be killed.
Lynnette shifted her glance to the teenage girl sitting behind Grace in the next row of bus station seats.
The girl, who had turned her head and clearly eavesdropped on their conversation, stared at Lynnette’s right eye. “Quite a shiner you got there,” the girl said. “Run into somebody’s fist?”
CHAPTER 9
* * *
Denver, Colorado
Wednesday, January 22
Sammy desperately needed to take a leak but he refused to do that on the plane. The thought of wedging his body into one of those fucking upright coffins filled him with anxiety. He had to wait until he was inside the airport where he’d make a beeline to the nearest restroom. With one foot stuck into the aisle to hold his place, he wrestled his briefcase from under the seat and pulled it onto his lap.
After struggling to his feet and into the aisle, Sammy moved toward the exit, ignoring the frantic activity going on at the rear of the plane. He’d barely made it into the airport before two blue-uniformed guys carrying satchels and an oxygen tank shoved him aside. Another one followed, pushing a stretcher on wheels.
He rushed into the handicapped stall of the first men’s room he found, dropped his pants to the floor, and sat down. His chin propped on one fist and his elbow digging into the top of his thigh, Sammy stared at the floor. His gaze shifted to his briefcase.
Something wasn’t right. “Son of a bitch!” he screamed.
Total silence descended throughout the restroom.
Sammy began to sweat. He pulled his case closer to his feet and examined it from all sides. It had outside pockets with zippers. His case had outside pockets but they snapped. This one had two zippered compartments. Sammy’s case had only one. He opened both sections and examined the contents, hoping he suffered from some kind of short-lived memory lapse and that he’d find Mr. O’s stuff inside. Instead, he found a laptop computer, a cell phone, wires and computer crap, file folders . . . but nothing that belonged to Benny Ortega, or to Sammy.
He closed his eyes and leaned forward, his head cradled in his hands. He tried to think. Every step of the way, he’d kept his hand on the briefcase, just like Mr. O said. Hadn’t he? Even in the car on the way to the airport, he’d placed his case on the passenger seat, right next to him. It had never left his sight.
As he’d passed through security, he’d kept one eye on the case and waited until the path through the security sensor cleared before he even pushed the bag forward on the belt to be X-rayed. He passed through the sensor and waited for the case on the other side. No one had touched it.
Wait. When he stopped to put on his shoes, he set the case on the floor while he tied his laces. I only have two hands, for God’s sake.
He took a deep breath. The woman with the beat-up face. It had to be her. She had gotten off the plane before he had time to get his case out from under the seat. He glanced at his watch, then used a handful of toilet paper to swipe at the sweat dripping from his nose. Hopeless. Too much time had passed. She’d be long gone.
Sammy left the men’s room and headed for the nearest bar. He placed the
case on the table in front of him and glared at it as though it would feel threatened and give up its secrets. A waitress took his order for a burger and fries and a double J.D. While he waited, he removed the folders and studied the papers inside.
Lynnette figured the teenage girl hanging out at the bus station was a runaway. Probably a druggie. She looked about fifteen. Black jeans, black ankle-high boots, black leather jacket, black hair, black lipstick. Pierced body parts—nose, ears, lip. Radical girl hitting up folks for money.
“Or did he take a baseball bat to your face?” the girl said.
Annoyed by the teen’s curiosity, Lynnette still didn’t answer.
“She says she wrecked her car.” Grace glanced at Lynnette before continuing. “But my mom says stuff like that when her boyfriend beats her up. I think Lynnette’s boyfriend hit her.”
“Husband,” Lynnette said. “My husband hit me. Now let’s drop it. Do not bring this up again. Ever.”
“Your husband?” The teen raised her eyebrows. “Did you off him?”
“Yeah, I offed him all right. What do you think?”
“Honest? You killed him?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Can you spare a few bucks?” The girl held out her hand as though she expected Lynnette to oblige her without question.
“No.” Lynnette ignored the girl’s outstretched palm, which seemed to hover in the air. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grace hand over a couple of one-dollar bills.
“Thanks, kid,” the girl said. “What’s your name?”
“Delilah.”
“Wow. Delilah, huh? You don’t—”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, we’re not going through this again,” said Lynnette. “Her name is Grace.”
“Hey, Grace. I’m Brittany.”
Lynnette exchanged a glance with Grace, but neither said a word. Grace smirked.
The teen took her hand away, still clutching Grace’s dollar bills, and walked toward the end of the bench. A few seconds later she stood in front of Grace. “I’m just jerking you around. If my name was Brittany, I’d kill myself. My friends call me Blue.”
Dead Wrong Page 4
