by Alina Adams
Gil Cahill may have been a rotten person to work for. But, he was the only one to imitate when you wanted to alienate friends and intimidate people.
A pause on the other end. And then, "Yes, ma'am. I guess I could do that for you."
"That's Tufts." Bex refused to let up on her hectoring tone. "T-U-F-T-S. Felicia. I rented the car in New York City this morning."
"Yes. Yes, ma'am, Felicia Tufts, New York City. I see your records, right here."
"And?"
"And... well, it looks like the information you were given was correct. According to our records, your car was turned in at the Highpoint New York Airport about an hour ago. Now, I'm not certain how that happened, but, if you connect me to your attendant—"
"That's all right," Bex said. "I think I've got it now. Thank you for your help."
She hung up the phone. She turned to Craig. With impeccable politeness, he inquired, "Does that obnoxious act always work so well for you?"
"Go with your strengths, that's my motto," Bex told him. And then she dropped the piece de resistance. "Felicia Tufts turned in her car about an hour ago at the Ignel hub of the Highpoint Airport. Highpoint Airport... the Mall at Highpoint... now I think we've got a trail to follow."
Craig stared at her in disbelief.
"This is the part where you shower me with compliments vis-à-vis my research skills and all-around general brilliance," Bex prompted.
He just kept staring. Bex guessed he wasn't in the mood for showering.
Craig blinked. He seemed to be processing her information. And then he said, "What are we waiting for? Let's go."
This time, he had the keys out and was already on the front porch before Bex caught up with him. "No," she said. "You can't go."
"Why the hell not? She dropped her car off at the airport, Bex. She could be taking Jeremy anywhere on the planet. They could already be gone. I've got to get over there!"
"No." Bex grabbed his arm. "For one thing, Highpoint Airport isn't JFK or La Guardia. I bet it's just a tiny little commuter place. So it's not like they've got flights leaving every couple of minutes. They can't be going too far, definitely not overseas, and it should be easy to find someone who remembers them, so we've caught a break there."
"They could still be out of state, by now!"
"You're right. Someone should go up there immediately. But, it shouldn't be you."
"He's my son!"
"And if he were going to call anyone again, who do you think that would be?"
Craig hesitated.
Bex said, "He might call again, Craig. Do you really want to risk missing it?"
She could practically see the tug-of-war going on in his head. Craig's eyebrows were so furrowed, they looked like one was poised to swallow the other. Finally, he relaxed his stance just a little and stopped trying to pull away from her. He asked, "You'll go to the airport?"
"I'll leave as soon as you give me your car keys."
"And you'll call me. You'll call me as soon as you get there? Tell me what's going on?"
"I've got my cell phone, right here."
Craig still looked not thoroughly convinced.
"I've gotten you this far," Bex gently reminded. "Let's see if my patented obnoxious act can bring Jeremy all the way home?"
Craig swallowed hard. And handed Bex his car keys.
She drove as fast as was humanly possible, without breaking the speed limit—well, okay, without doubling it—to the Highpoint Airport. As expected, it was one of those tiny, we've-only-got-three-planes deals rarely seen by world travelers like Bex outside of Wings reruns. The road ninety-nine percent of the way there was utterly straightforward. Highway after highway, complete with colorful signs touting the Hilton Springs Mall at Highpoint on each side. The last half a mile, though, was up a mountain (hence the "high" and the "point," Bex figured out), along a winding, ostensibly two-lane but more like one-and-a-half lane road. With no guardrail.
Driving an unfamiliar car—albeit, a nicer one than her own—where, half the time, her attempts to shift gears resulted in turning on the windshield wipers, did not exactly fill Bex with confidence. Neither did the rocky drop that seemed to loom like a demented, open-mouthed jack-in-the-box and pull her by the elbow every time Bex made a turn. By the time she'd made it to the parking lot, Bex was nauseous, not to mention stressed. As she sat in the car, trying to catch her breath, settle her stomach, and formulate a tentative plan prior to her traditional barging into the airport act, Bex heard the whoosh of a small plane taking off overhead. She sighed. With her luck, Felicia and Jeremy were probably on it. Looking down at her. Chortling.
Bex got out of the car, and, already expecting to fail, entered the airport's main terminal. And by main, she meant only. The entire place was only six counters and four airlines. The staff practically outnumbered the passengers.
Six blue benches, one in front of each counter, were the only other furnishings of note. They were the double-sided kind, where you could face either the clerks, or the big, open window to watch the planes take off.
Jeremy and Felicia had chosen to face the window.
Bex spotted them as soon as she came in. In a place that size, it was hardly a major feat of detective work. Jeremy sat on the leftmost seat, both his legs tucked underneath him, Indian-style, reading a brightly illustrated (was there ever any other kind?) issue of “Fangoria" that still had its white price sticker on the front. His denim jacket lay in a ball on the floor, beside his duffle bag. Next to him, Felicia, wearing jeans and a black turtleneck sweater so subtle it could only have cost several hundreds of dollars in an Upper East Side boutique (where they specialized in expensive clothes that were practically imperceptible, that's how you knew they were expensive), had a magazine open on her lap, but she was staring straight ahead. Not so much at the planes, as past them.
For a moment, Bex was so relieved to have found them, not to mention so darn proud of her own cleverness and key contributions to the endeavor, that she didn't pay any attention to the third person sharing Jeremy and Felicia's bench.
Bex was, in fact, in the process of heading over to confront Felicia and Jeremy when her incontrovertibly brighter subconscious suddenly rang a bell loud enough to frighten away every pigeon in the tri-state area. The third person sharing Jeremy and Felicia's bench had blonde hair. He wore black sneakers, a dark green, V-necked sweater, and wrinkled khaki pants strained to the hems from the muscles in his thighs and calves. He was fingering his airline ticket, ripping tiny, even ridges in the envelope without seeming to notice that he was doing it. His head was down. Bex could only make out his profile. Even with the picture window in front of him, he'd chosen, instead, to study the tiles on the floor. And yet, even from that awkward angle, his identity was unmistakable.
The third person sharing Jeremy's and Felicia's bench was Robby Sharpton.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Bex's first instinct was to hide.
It was not an instinct born of many years of investigative experience and the knowledge that the last thing you want to do in a fragile situation is tip your hand and reveal your presence before formulating a game plan. It was more like the instinct of a toddler who, upon seeing something she hadn't expected, covers her eyes with her chubby palms in the erroneous belief that if you can't see the scary man, the scary man can't see you.
A split second after spotting Robby sitting next to Felicia and Jeremy, Bex found herself trapped somewhere in between the two states. While she did very much want to cover her eyes with her hands and hide, she also had just enough mature life-experience to realize that it most likely wouldn't get the job done. So, while she still intended to hide, Bex suspected that a slightly less diaphanous surface might be required.
Easier ruefully thought than done, though. The airport was basically a football-field-sized open room. There were no luggage carousels, no other passengers, or even a handy shrub to duck behind. Bex's selection of hiding spaces came down to One: behind the reservation co
unters—and wouldn't the women working there have something to say about that?—or Two: the big white pillar at the entrance. So, really, what she was saying was that Bex had no choices. She ducked behind the pillar.
Subtly, of course.
Once behind the pillar, Bex evaluated her choices. She could step out, approach the happy and unconventional Sharpton/Tufts/Hunt family and politely ask something along the lines of, "So, what are you all doing here, lounging about in a nonchalant manner while Craig believes Jeremy has been kidnapped? Oh, and by the way, did any of you recently bash in Rachel Rose's brains?"
Or, she could always not.
Of the three, Bex eventually decided that she would probably get the most honest answers from Jeremy. Unless, of course, he was some sort of child-genius psychopath (which, with his iffy DNA, was not exactly out the question, if you bought into that whole nature over nurture thing). On the other hand, Bex thought Felicia was more likely to have a better grasp of the whole, big picture, since, according to Craig, she was really at the center of this whole convoluted saga.
And there was one more detail to consider. The only way Bex could hope to get Jeremy alone was if the boy spontaneously decided to wander out of the airport and into some area where neither Felicia nor Robby could follow him (but Bex could). That didn't seem to be a very likely scenario. The kidnapped were rarely given free play time.
On the other hand, there was an area where Felicia and Bex could both go, with the full expectation that they would not be disturbed by either Jeremy or Robby. The Ladies' Room.
It was conveniently situated at exactly the midpoint between Felicia's bench and Bex's handy-dandy pillar. Now all Bex had to do was figure out how to get Felicia into said Ladies' Room, and her plan could be deemed a whopping success.
Her first instinct was to keep sending complimentary bottles of water over until nature could no longer be denied. Bex judged that plan about on par with her earlier, close-your-little-eyes-and-hide scenario.
Her second instinct was just to stare really hard at the back of Felicia's neck.
Yes, Bex knew how bizarre that sounded. What was even more bizarre, though, was that she knew it worked. When Bex was a child, she and her mother passed many an afternoon at the mall (neither had been born with a shopping gene, and so their idea of a good time was to go into the first store open, buy the first item they saw that was within the general parameters of what was currently desperately needed at home, and then retire to the food court), where they would amuse themselves by staring intently at the backs, shoulders, and necks of random passersby, until they quizzically turned around, or at least began uncomfortably scratching the suddenly unexplainably itchy, stared-at area. Bex didn't know how the process worked scientifically. All she knew was that it worked more often than it didn't. And that, at the moment, it was the only plan she had.
And so Bex stared. She picked a spot on Felicia's neck, right below where her expensive, Upper East Side haircut ended, and her equally expensive, Upper East Side sweater began. And she stared. Very intently. While thinking thoughts along the lines of, "Turn around, Felicia. Turn around now. Oh, and please do it in a subtle way, so Robby and Jeremy don't see you, okay?"
A minute passed.
Felicia began to shift uncomfortably in her seat. First she arched her back, and then she brought her shoulders inward, lowering her head until her chin touched her chest. This was good. The staring was obviously working.
Or she just needed to stretch after a combination of God knows how many hours behind the wheel and then sitting on an uncomfortable airport bench.
Felicia, chin still pointing toward her lap, turned her head, first right, then left. She ran a hand though her hair, shaking it a little. Jeremy noticed. This was less good.
He asked Felicia something Bex couldn't hear. His question caught Robby's attention, who also asked her something. Definitely less good.
Felicia answered them, patting Jeremy's hand for good measure, and then—oh, great, only then!—she looked around the airport, as though searching for something.
It could end up being Bex's only chance at getting Felicia's attention.
But it could also end up giving Robby and Jeremy the chance to see her, too.
Did she dare risk it?
Did she dare not risk it?
Bex didn't even know what flight the three of them were waiting for. They might be getting ready to board now. And then what was Bex supposed to do? Huff and puff after them down the runway, still trying to stare at Felicia through the little oval shaped window? Her plan had been kind of odd to begin with. No need to add totally crazy to the list.
And so, figuring this might be her only shot, Bex took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the pillar.
Felicia, of course, at that moment, wasn't even looking in her direction.
Great. Here Bex had gone all brave, and it wasn't even being appreciated.
She wondered if jumping up and down and waving her arms would help.
Probably not if Felicia was still sitting with her back to her.
And then a miracle happened. (Or, as Bex liked to think of it: The logical conclusion to her brilliant, scientific, and well-thought-out plan happened.) Felicia turned her head, and her eyes met Bex's. Her eyes also clearly recognized Bex, because they got very, very wide, and her head froze at an angle that could not have been comfortable or natural. She swallowed hard and, like Bex only a moment before, stared intently. She seemed frozen and unsure of what to do.
This is where Bex came in. They were fine, as long as one of them had a plan.
Making sure that Felicia was still watching, Bex used both her hands to point toward the Ladies' Room door. She even stuck out two of her fingers like arrows and animatedly shook them in the right direction several times, so there could be no misunderstanding.
Felicia continued staring, seemingly uncomprehending.
What, did Bex have to hold up a sign for her?
Instead, she decided to casually head toward the Ladies' Room, herself, and hope Felicia got the message and followed. Boy, did Bex really hope that Felicia got the message and followed.
Bex didn't dare turn around and see for herself. There was too much risk of coming face-to-face with Robby or Jeremy. Her ears strained to make out the sound of Felicia's shoes on the gray tile floor. But, at that moment, a plane chose to come in for a landing, and there went that idea.
Bex entered the Ladies' Room and closed the heavy, swinging door behind her. And she waited. And she wondered if Felicia wasn't taking advantage of her waiting to hustle Robby and Jeremy out of there. And she wondered if she were an idiot.
The jury was still annoyingly out on that last one, when the bathroom door swung open and Felicia appeared— sans escorts. Bex exhaled slightly. At least she wasn't a total idiot. Maybe merely a fool. After all, hadn't Bex just invited a potential murderer to trap her alone in a more-or-less soundproof room with plenty of opportunity to wash up afterward?
Perhaps it was that particular possibility that prompted Bex, with no preamble whatsoever, to blurt out, "Did you kill Rachel, Felicia?"
Felicia had obviously been ready for a variety of questions. Felicia had obviously not been expecting that one.
"No!" Felicia didn't just metaphorically spit out her emphatic denial. There was an actual spit bubble that shot from her lip and toward the bathroom mirror to the left of them. "Ms. Levy, what the hell are you doing here?"
"I'm looking for Jeremy," Bex said.
"Where are the police?"
Now it was Bex's turn to be dumbfounded. "The police? What police?"
"I don't know what police. The local police, the state, the FBI. This is a kidnapping. Why aren't the police here?"
"You want them here?" This conversation was most certainly not going the way Bex would have imagined it, had she had time to imagine it, between all the ducking behind pillars and frantic, pointy hand gestures.
"Where's Craig?"
"He's a
t home. In case Jeremy calls again." But, that wasn't the important part. What Bex really wanted to know was—
"Calls again? What do you mean, calls again? Did Jeremy call Craig? When?"
"This morning. From some video arcade. He said he'd forgotten his skates and you told him Craig could just mail them to the hotel where you were staying. Jeremy said Craig knew where the two of you were going. This came as a pretty big surprise to Craig. Or, at least, so he said to me."
"The arcade!" Felicia said. "I should have known. He kept asking me about the skates, so I had to make up that story about Craig—I never thought it would come to this. I thought it would all be over by now. Craig knew Jeremy was with me? Damn it! His skates, of all things! His goddamn skates! This has got to be some kind of joke, right? Why does every screw-up in my life come with a pair of goddamn skates attached?"
"Felicia," Bex said calmly. "You aren't making any sense. What is going on here? Why did you take Jeremy without telling Craig?"
"Because I needed him to call the police!"
"So they could arrest you?"
"Not me! Robby!"
"How would your kidnapping Jeremy—"
"You don't understand. There's more going on here than you know."
"I know that you and Robby are Jeremy's biological parents," Bex offered, figuring that one single statement would stem the "you don't know what's really going on here" tide.
And indeed it did. Felicia's mouth closed abruptly. And then it opened. And then it closed again. "Oh," she said.
"Craig told me."
"Good God, why?"
"Because. He needed my help to track down Jeremy, and I refused to move a muscle until he gave me all the facts."
