by Tami Kidd
“I don’t, Mr. Porter. I know you were just doing your job.”
“Thank you.”
“What’s your story?” she asked. “You don’t seem like a bad guy. I assume you’re a veteran. Were you injured during combat based on your limp? Were you Black Ops, Navy Seals?”
“Nothing so glamorous I’m afraid. My official title is Special Assistant to the chief of staff of the president. In other words, I’m a general flunky. I do whatever David Ruiz tells me to do.”
“I see. That sounds like a pretty important job, nonetheless. Do you often get called to take women off planes?” Unable to hide her sarcasm, Mara dabbed the corner of her mouth with her toasty-warm napkin. She sniffed the silky fabric and sighed. Ah, almond scented.
Michael looked at her squarely. “No, ma’am, you’re the first.”
“Well, I must say you did an extraordinary job. I hope they give you a bonus for a job well done.” Mara stared at him without flinching.
Without looking at her, Michael rose from the chair and shuffled to the door. “Have a good day, Ms. Byrne.” He shut the door so only the click of the latch could be heard.
“Damn it,” she said under her breath.
“Is everything all right, Ms. Mara?” Dodger asked when he entered the room to clear the table.
“No, Dodger, I was just very rude to Mr. Porter.”
“Oh no, Ms. Mara, you are not rude. Perhaps you are frustrated and angry at the situation, but you are not rude. Mr. Michael knows you do not mean what you say. He understands that you are in a difficult situation.”
“Just what is my situation?” Mara looked up into his twinkling eyes.
His gaze turned serious as he returned her stare. Putting the tray on the table, he leaned closer and whispered, “You have a very, very important decision to make.” Dodger took the tray and left the room.
Mara stared after him without realizing she had held her breath. The hairs on the back of her neck sprang up. What on Earth is going on here?
Eleven
A few minutes after midnight, Alex checked into the Sleep EZ Motel located across the interstate from the airport in Little Rock, Arkansas. Though his flight left Ontario at two in the afternoon, with a layover in Phoenix and another in Dallas, it took almost nine hours to arrive at his destination. Include a two-hour time difference, his nine-hour trip turned into an eleven-hour ordeal.
The similarities between this room and the one at the Riverside Inn creeped him out. Did all that happen just last night? It seemed like a lifetime ago. Shaking his head, he couldn’t think about that now. He had to stay focused on finding Mara. His mind kept returning to the envelope someone had left for him inside the room. The contents had rattled him to the core, leaving no doubt in his mind that Mara needed him. If the phone call from the mysterious woman and the note someone left in his jacket pocket had not been convincing enough, the manifest for Flight 1286 sealed the deal.
The phone call to Matt, after leaving the Riverside Inn, confirmed the manifest was not his doing. Matt regretted not being able to take credit for the information, although he had worked hard to obtain the passenger list, red tape prevented his success.
Possession of the passenger list energized Alex, anticipation rushing through him. He hoped a spark of recognition or anything that might stand out of the ordinary would prove valuable. Nothing. The list bore Mara’s name and seat number on the flight from Ontario to Dallas-Fort Worth, but both had been removed on the flight to Little Rock. This explained why the customer agent told Noah she wasn’t on the list, because she never boarded. On the first leg of the trip, Mara sat in row 24, Seat A, next to the window. The two seats beside her remained empty.
Alex made a phone call to Skip Daley, a tough-as-nails Los Angeles cop who treated him like the son he never had. Alex knew that if he ever needed anything, Skip would do whatever possible to help him.
“Hey Skip, how are you, buddy?” Alex jumped right in, wasting no time. “Listen I have a huge favor to ask.” Without hesitating, he asked, “Can you run a name through the system for me?”
“I’ll do what I can, you know that, son.” Skip’s gruff, but gentle voice reassured Alex.
“The name is Calvin Lewis from Hot Springs, Arkansas. That’s all I have.”
“Why are you looking for this guy?”
Uncertain whether to go into the story about Mara’s disappearance or not, Alex debated.
“You still there?” Skip asked.
Inhaling Alex filled him in. “Mara got on a plane yesterday morning and never made it to her destination.” He heard Skip wheeze through the phone. “She flew out for a visit with her family and I was supposed to join her in a few days. Anyway, when her flight arrived in Little Rock, she wasn’t on it.” Alex ran his hand through his curly blonde hair.
“What the hell?” Skip whispered.
“Calvin Lewis was assigned to the seat across the aisle from Mara. I wanted to talk to him. See if he can shed any light on what happened. She may have struck up a conversation with him.”
“Let me run his name through the system to see if I can find anything. I’m really sorry to hear about Mara, but she’s a tough lady. She’ll be fine.”
“I hope so.”
“Hang in there, kid. I’ll call you back as soon as I find out anything.”
“Thanks for your help, Skip. I know this isn’t exactly department policy—”
“Don’t say another word. Not an issue. I practically run this joint.” Skip hung up.
Hearing a deafening roar of a jet engine overhead brought Alex back to his smoke infused room at the Sleep EZ Motel. He pulled out the notes he jotted down during his free time between flights and studied them.
A half hour later, his cell phone chimed. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand as he read the text from Skip. A man by the name of Doyle Fisher used the alias Calvin Lewis. The last known address for Fisher was Pearcy, Arkansas. Skip also added in the text that Doyle Fisher served time at the Federal Correctional Institution-Medium in Forrest City, Arkansas, for mail and wire fraud, bank fraud, and bankruptcy fraud. Released in 2011 for good behavior after serving eight of a ten-year sentence, Fisher remained a free man. This information raised a red flag. Alex decided to meet Doyle Fisher, a.k.a. Calvin Lewis, in the flesh. The answers you seek are in Arkansas.
Exhausted, Alex tossed and turned, but sleep evaded him. At six a.m. in the morning, he could no longer remain in bed. Rolling out, he fumbled with the tiny coffee maker in the room. While the coffee brewed, he took a quick shower.
Showered and on his second cup of coffee, Alex pulled out his laptop to validate his route. Google Maps indicated the Sleep EZ Motel was seventy-one miles from Pearcy, where Doyle Fisher lived. “I hope you have the answers I’m looking for, buddy.” Alex closed his laptop and walked across the street to Waffle House, where he ate a hearty breakfast. With a full stomach, full tank of gas, and directions, Alex drove from Bankhead Drive to I-440 and eventually to U.S. 70 to Hot Springs. After setting the cruise control, he found a radio station playing his favorite song, “Simple Man” by Lynyrd Skynyrd. His heart ached when he started to sing along and his mind filled with memories of his mother and Mara. Go find a woman and you’ll find love, and don’t forget this, son, there is someone up above. He found love and intended to keep it.
The lush-green scenery passing by astounded him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen so many tall pines. Mara would appreciate the beauty and share in his excitement.
Traffic was light so Alex made great time. He arrived in Hot Springs by midmorning. During the drive, he considered how he should approach Doyle Fisher. If Doyle traveled from Ontario to Little Rock under an assumed name, then the odds were high he would not take lightly to someone asking questions. Alex must handle the situation with some delicacy.
Parched and needing to stretch his legs, Alex pulled into a convenience store after exiting onto Airport Road in Hot Springs. He walked directly to th
e back of the store to the restroom. Upon exiting, he went to the refrigerated case and got a bottle of water. At the checkout, he asked the clerk, “Excuse me, do you know how far I am from South Tulip Road?” Alex knew from his GPS how far it was, but he wanted to get an accurate report from a local.
The redheaded clerk behind the counter appeared to be in his early twenties and very eager to help. “Yes sir. It’s about ten more miles down that road,” he said pointing at the highway outside the store. “Just keep heading west and you can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.” Alex gave him a casual salute.
“No problem.” The clerk grinned proudly and stood a little taller. “Can I get you anything else? Smokes?”
“No, I’m good. Thanks for your help.” Alex waved to the young man as he left the store. When he got back into the rental, he called Noah. “Noah, this is Alex. I’m in Hot Springs. I’m getting ready to go talk to a guy who may have been on the plane with Mara. He sat in the seat opposite her. He’s an ex-con who used an alias on his flight. He’s not violent, or at least I hope he’s not, but I just wanted you to know where I’m at in case I disappear too.”
“Don’t even joke around about that,” Noah said. “What’s this dude’s name?”
“His real name is Doyle Fisher, but the alias he used was Calvin Lewis.”
“Call me when you get through talking to him.”
“I will.” Alex hung up.
Lost in thought, curious as to why Doyle used an alias, Alex drove to the address programmed into the GPS. Doyle Fisher’s house was located on a lonely stretch of South Tulip Road. Houses dotted the rolling hills, most of which had huge yards, barns, fishing boats or travel trailers in their yards. Some had it all.
Finding the house easily, Alex pulled into the drive and cut his engine. He stared at the house, let out a breath, and got out of the car. When he reached the front door to the small frame house, he knocked and waited. He noticed a dusty Ford pickup with faded red paint parked crookedly at the corner of the house. This meant someone might be home, so he knocked again, this time with a little more determination.
A muffled voice from inside the house grew louder as it approached the door. “Hang on, I’m coming”
The distinctive sound of the dead bolt clicked from the other side of the door. A woman in her early thirties, wearing a powder-blue bathrobe that didn’t quite cover her bosom hidden underneath, stood before Alex. Her sleepy green eyes and disheveled long blonde hair framed an angelic face. Smoke curled from a skinny cigarette held between her bright red fingernails. Faded red smudges surrounded her plump, pouty lips.
“Yeah, can I help you?” She cocked her head to one side, her eyes sizing him up.
Alex’s face warmed from embarrassment. “Yes, I’m sorry to bother you so early, but I’m looking for Doyle Fisher. Does he live here?” Alex smiled.
“Yeah, he lives here. Whatcha want with ’im?”
“I’d like to ask him a few questions.”
“’Bout what?” she asked tilting her head to the opposite side, blowing a puff of smoke through the screen toward Alex.
“Please, if he’s here, tell him I’d like a few words.”
“Alright, alright, don’t get your panties in a wad. Come in.” She swung the screen door wide to allow Alex to enter. “I’ll have to wake him. He had a late night.” Pointing to a chair, she said, “Have a seat, I’ll be right back.”
Alex sat on a brown chair the color of mud. He crinkled his nose and then turned to the table next to the chair. An ashtray overflowed with butts branded with bright red lipstick. Newspapers, magazines, and racing forms littered the coffee table in front of him. Discarded clothes lay limply across a couch, the same muddy brown. On the floor next to the couch, red stiletto heels rested like dead bodies on their side.
From the conversation he heard in the other room, Alex judged the thickness of the walls to be paper-thin. He could hear every word.
“Come on, Boo, a man is here to see you,” the woman said in a sickly sweet voice. “Says he has some questions he wants to ask you.”
A male voice with a deep southern tone asked, “He ain’t a cop, is he? Cause I don’t want no cops in my house.”
“I don’t think he’s a cop. He doesn’t look like a one. He’s too pretty. Come on get up,” she whined.
The girl entered the living room smiling. This time her robe cinched tighter around her tiny waist. “Sorry, it’ll be a few minutes. He’s a booger to get out of bed sometimes.” She walked over to Alex offering her hand. “I’m Ginger by the way, Ginger Rodgers. My mama wanted to be a dancer.”
“Ah, very nice. Luckily she didn’t name you Fred.” Alex laughed as he shook her hand.
“Huh? Why would she want to name me Fred?” Ginger’s face scrunched in confusion.
“Because—oh never mind.” Alex swiped the air with his hand.
Ginger grabbed an armful of clothes from the couch and threw them on the floor to make room to sit. “Are you a cop?”
“No, I’m not a cop.”
“Good, cause Doyle don’t like cops.”
Doyle entered the living room. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned, and a pair of wrinkled jeans he was still zipping as he walked in. A belt dangled from his waist. As he approached, Alex could make out the distinct odor of stale alcohol on his breath. Barefoot and blond, his pencil straight hair looked like it had not seen shampooed in at least a few days. He was stocky, and underneath his shirt, Alex could see well-defined muscles. Doyle Fisher apparently liked to take care of his body even though his personal hygiene seemed lacking. It is early. Maybe I’m not giving him a fair shake.
Doyle shoved more clothes aside on the couch and sat down. He patted Ginger on the leg and said, “Baby Doll, would you make us some coffee, please?”
“Sure, Boo.” Ginger sashayed from the living room to the kitchen. A waist-high bar separated the two rooms.
“Ginger said you have some questions you want to ask me? What about? Who are you anyway?” Doyle’s eyes narrowed.
Alex stood and offered his hand. Doyle studied it before he took it. “My name is Alex Strange and—”
“Strange? That’s a strange name.” He laughed. “Get it? Strange.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot. Anyway, I was hoping you could help me with something.”
“Help you?” Doyle asked. “What’s in it for me?”
Alex pinched the bridge of his nose. “What do you want?”
“Well, that sorta depends on what kind of help you want.”
I want to ask you about a flight you were on a few days ago, the one from Ontario, California to Little Rock. You were on that flight, correct?” Looking him squarely in the eyes to appraise his reaction, Alex waited.
Doyle’s left eye twitched and he pulled on his lower lip. “Maybe. Why?”
Alex looked into the kitchen at Ginger preparing the coffee. “If you’d like to discuss this outside, we can take a walk.”
Doyle looked back into the kitchen. “She’s okay. I don’t keep nothing from her.”
Alex nodded and continued. “My fiancée was on that flight and I was hoping you could tell me if anything unusual happened.”
“What do you mean by unusual?”
Ginger walked in from the kitchen with a steaming hot cup of coffee and handed it to Doyle.
“Thank you, Baby.”
Turning to Alex she asked, “Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thank you, I’m fine.” Alex leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and continued, “As I said my fiancée was on that flight. Something happened between Ontario and Little Rock. When the plane arrived in Little Rock, she didn’t get off.”
“That’s terrible.” Ginger’s hand covered her heart.
“How am I supposed to know what happened to your girlfriend?” Doyle asked.
“She was sitting directly across the aisle from you. Her name is Mara Byrne.”
Doyle set his coffee down on the ta
ble. “Well, Mr. Strange, your girlfriend didn’t get off the plane in Little Rock, cause she was removed from the plane before it ever reached Little Rock.”
Alex felt the blood drain from his face as he slumped back into the awful mud brown chair.
Twelve
Mara sat at a conference table with President Riley, David Ruiz, and an older gentleman she had not seen before. David Ruiz introduced the stranger as Dr. Samuel Avery, though he did not explain his presence or the purpose of the meeting.
A short, slim man, Dr. Avery’s skin drooped comically below his chin. Mara lowered her eyes and scolded herself for imagining a turkey with round wire-framed glasses balanced on the tip of his beak-like nose. A checkered bow tie and gray hair parted severely to the right added whimsy to the character sitting across from her.
The president linked his hands in front of him and leaned forward. “Mara, last night I attempted, rather ineffectively, to explain the function of telomeres within the body. I invited Dr. Avery here today to provide a clear-cut explanation.”
Mara shrugged her shoulders. “Okay.”
“Dr. Avery, please proceed.”
The doctor stood and inclined his head toward the president. “Thank you, sir.” He turned to Mara and Ruiz as he pushed his glasses higher onto his nose with one finger. “Ms. Byrne, Mr. Ruiz, a pleasure.” He clicked the small remote in his hand, producing a quiet hum as a screen emerged from the ceiling. Dr. Avery clicked the remote again to begin his presentation.
With ease and grace, almost second nature, the doctor explained what the president tried to relate to Mara the night before. This time, she followed along with ease. His words captivated her, and she no longer saw him as amusing but as intelligent and eloquent.
When Dr. Avery clicked off the final slide, he glanced around the table. “Does anyone have any questions?”
Mara shyly raised her hand. She felt like she was back in school. Asking questions had always filled her with dread. She felt the familiar heat rise in her cheeks.
