Mae got into line at a ticket counter, and felt a rush of anxiety at the number of people who stood before her in line. She counted them: two women in business suits, a few passengers standing by themselves, and a family with several kids running around like banshees. The parents had apparently given up trying to maintain order. The dad was typing furiously on his phone and the mom was looking of f into space.
The person at the counter finished getting his ticket and the two businesswomen stepped up, moving the entire line forward a bit. Mae opened the Gerti's pocket book and found her credit card, hoping that there was enough credit for at least one ticket. She pulled out the credit card and put the wallet back into her bag, trying to look as bored as she could be.
Someone tapped Mae on the shoulder and her heart froze. She turned around and lost all the feeling in her legs
"Hello, Ms. Edwards," the man named Morales said. "You've been quite the pain this evening, and we’d like to talk to you a few minutes.”
The other man, whom Mae had yet to hear speak, stood a few meters away and watched her through narrowed eyes. In the poor lighting of the cabin, Mae hadn't noticed the thick scars running down his face.
“Where's Eddie?" Mae glanced around, trying to keep her voice light. "Still lost in the woods?"
A glint of anger entered Morales' eyes, but as quickly as it had arrived, it was gone. He smiled and took her arm in a firm grip.
“Ah, Eddie. I'm sure you'd be happy to know that he joined your mother on the path in the sky to the great unknown." Morales suddenly pulled her close. She could feel his hot breath on her face as he spoke in a harsh whisper, “We can do this the hard way, where other people get hurt, and there’s running and screaming, or we can leave this place without creating a scene. Either way, you’re coming with us.”
Mae’s entire body was tense, and her arm ached under Morales’ grip. She looked at him, her eyes wide, and felt that ball of panic squirming inside of her, so many worms and snakes. She nodded and his grip loosened. The taller man grabbed her backpack, and the three of them walked to the car.
“Where’d you think you were going to go?” Morales asked, his tone dark and mocking. They walked out the sliding doors and the taller man opened the door to a silver van that was parked in the unloading zone.
“I don’t know if you can park here,” Mae said quietly.
“Shut up.” Morales spat.
The three of them climbed into the rear of the van, which had two bench seats facing each other. There was no driver, and Mae could only assume that the driver was still in the airport, looking for her.
The tall man sat next to Mae, keeping his large hand around the back of her neck, and Morales sat across from them. The van was cold, and Mae shivered as she sat, thinking that the warmth of the airport had been way too short lived.
Morales took his phone from his pocket and dialed a number. After a few seconds, he said, “I’ve got her. Rally the troops.”
He put the phone into a little compartment near his armrest and clasped his hands together under his chin.
“Mae, Mae, Mae, flowers in May and showers in April, why did you run?”
She just stared at him, no expression on her face. Morales pulled the pistol from his holster and leveled it the girl. He smiled, rubbing the tip of the barrel with his thumb and middle finger.
“You know I just used this gun, not twenty minutes ago.” He pulled out a box of bullets, .50 caliber hollow points, and started loading his clip.
“Used this baddy on your good friend, the ghetto bus driver. In fact, hang on …”
Morales rummaged around in his front shirt pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. He unfolded it slowly, methodically, and examined the picture she’d drawn there. He looked at her and smiled.
“Did you draw a nice picture for your ghetto driver?” he snickered, “’cause that was probably the last nice thing anyone did for him, that is, until I put one in his head.”
Mae could feel the color draining from her face, could feel her stomach dropping as if in a slow motion free fall. The tall man sitting next to her chuckled—the first sound that Mae had ever heard from him—and she tried to squirm out of his grip. He tightened his clench on her neck, puller her close.
Not Nick.
She felt like she was going to vomit. All of the adrenaline and motivation that had kept her going from the dank room in the cabin, through the forest, and to the airport, drained from her. Her will to survive suddenly nose-dived.
Her dad and mom, so many others, and now Nick. A bus driver who'd done nothing other than help a lonely girl. They'd all been killed because of her. Because of what she was.
A terrorist, they said.
Click. Morales snapped the last round into his clip and shoved it back into the gun. He pointed it at her. She was about to close her eyes and give in …
But she couldn't. She thought of the grey wolf waiting for Little Red Riding Hood, the beast on its hind legs, standing and watching for her at the edge of the forest. Its yellow eyes glinting in the moonlight, the sparkle of moist white teeth. She was the hunter, not the prey. She would not be a victim.
"Yes, the kindly old bus driver covered for you until the end," Morales said. He was smiling at the despair on her face. "I shot him right here."
He touched the barrel of his big gun to the center of his forehead, and grinned.
"And your mother, well, we weren't as nice to her, were we, Oskar?" he asked the tall man, who chuckled again.
"Please stop," Mae said in almost a whimper. "I don't want to hear any more."
"That's what happens when you run, little missy. People die. They die like your mother, like the ghetto bus driver, like in Miami. People die when you run."
Mae glowered at Morales, the hint of despair that she'd felt earlier now all but gone.
“You forgot about something,” she whispered.
“Yeah?” He snapped off the gun’s safety with his thumb. “And what is that, Mae flowers, April showers?”
The gun lowered, and Mae watched the barrel carefully.
"You forgot about him.” She nodded to the window that ran along the door of the van. Morales followed her gaze, her bluff, for only a second, but it was long enough. Mae jutted her leg forward and kicked at the gun. Morales pulled the trigger, sending a bullet into Oskar’s chest, the blast of the gun was deafening in such tight quarters. A blossom of red spouted on Oskar's shirt, and his hand tightened around Mae’s neck for an agonizing second before going limp. Mae kicked at the gun again, knocking it from Morales’ hand.
Morales swore as both he and Mae lunged for the weapon, but Mae sent an elbow into his face, knocking him backwards. She snatched the gun from the floor of the van, raised it and pumped two bullets into Morales' shoulder and one into his leg. He screamed in pain, clutching his arm. Blood squeezed between his fingers, and an expression of pure hatred splayed on his face. Mae leaned forward until she was just inches from his face, pressing the gun into his stomach.
“If you follow me, I’ll kill you with your own gun,” she said and reached for his phone with her free hand. She thought about killing him anyway, to give herself more time, but she heard her mother once again.
The hunters will never stop hunting, and you must never stop running.
“We’ll find you, wherever you go.” He said through clenched teeth.
“And I'll never stop running.” She swung the butt of the pistol into Morales' temple, swung the gun hard, cracked it against the side of his head, and he went instantly unconscious. She sat back in her seat and took a deep breath. She checked her clothes to make sure no blood had splattered there. Mae noticed some drops of blood on her hair, the dark crimson a stark contrast to her blonde locks, and did her best to scrub it clean. She took her bag, the phone and the gun and climbed out of the van. She looked around and saw that the unloading zone of this particular gate was sparsely populated, and if anyone had heard the four shots from inside the van, no on
e was doing anything about it.
Mae walked back into the airport, slipping the gun and telephone into a trash can with a hollow clunk. She held back the tears as she pulled the borrowed passport and credit card from her bag.
She didn't cry until after she purchased a ticket and had gone through security. Mae didn't cry until she was at the departure gate, waiting for the plane to begin boarding. She turned away from the other people waiting for the same plane and leaned against the cold window where no one would see her face. Only then did she let the tears come.
Chapter Twenty-One
Paul dozed in a sitting position on the couch next to his desk, a manila folder opened on his lap, the same stack of papers lying on the coffee table before him. He was still in his office, not wanting to return to the empty room at the Monoco.
He jumped when his phone began to vibrate on the table. Paul rubbed his eyes and picked up the phone. It was Dennis calling. It was 1:12 AM, and he wondered if his assistant had gotten any sleep yet. Dennis was his third assistant in as many years and was shaping up to be the best of the bunch, mostly because he was as neurotic as Paul himself. Once he got onto something, he usually didn’t let it go.
“Yeah?” Paul asked.
“First off, you owe me big,” Dennis said while chewing something crunchy. Paul cringed at the sound.
“You gotta stop eating like that, or don’t call until you’re done.”
“I haven’t eaten since noon yesterday, and these chips are the only thing keeping me awake.”
“Then go to sleep.”
“I’m up ‘cause of you,” Dennis said, taking another bite and crunching loudly.
“Just tell me,” Paul growled. His back ached from falling asleep on the couch.
“Got a strange blip on the radio.” Dennis said and swallowed, “and you’re gonna like this.”
Paul sat up straight, stretching his back.
“Okay?”
“Well, it's kind of crazy that we were just talking about all this, because they just found an Officer Morales in the back of some van at the airport, shot three times.”
“Dead?”
“Nope, the guy’s still tickin’, but in pretty bad shape, I’d imagine."
"Okay. What does that have to do with anything?" Paul said, hoping that he didn't sound too impatient.
"Well, I turned on the news, and this shooting is everywhere, and they—the news stations and media—are running little bios of the fallen police officer, you know, giving us all the emotional touch. Turns out this guy was a cop with the Miami PD."
The Miami connection was something, but not much. Certainly, it was too much of a leap to make any real connection, so he assumed Dennis wasn't finished. Paul hoped the punch line would come soon, as he was still feeling sleepy. He wanted to get this over with, and if what Dennis had to say wasn't that impressive, it could wait until morning.
“Do they know who did it?” Paul asked.
“No, but here’s where it gets a little kooky,” Dennis said, and took in another mouthful of chips. The fried potatoes crunched in Paul's ear, and he cringed.
“The same bus you were riding all night—you know, Route B Michigan Avenue—they found it a little ways from the airport, and the driver, an older gent named Nick Ambrose, was shot dead. Single bullet to the forehead.”
Any sleepiness that Paul had felt a moment ago evaporated, and he felt sick about Nick. Of course, he hadn't known the bus driver before this evening, but he was a nice enough fellow. He whistled low and ran his hand through his hair.
“Any leads so far?”
“None that they're releasing to the public.” Dennis took a drink of something and gulped loudly. On another occasion, Paul would have hung up on the guy, sure that Dennis was doing this just to piss him off, but he stayed on the line. After hours of riding the bus to meet the mysterious woman who'd never shown, and then spending more time going through the same stack of notes and documents that he'd gone through a thousand times before, he'd convinced himself that that something was going on, that he'd somehow stumbled into the middle of something much larger than he'd anticipated.
There was no discernible connection between the woman he was supposed to meet, the bus, and the cop from Miami, but he was sure that if he had all of the information, he would find one.
“So," Dennis said, "I’m thinking that whatever you’ve got up your sleeve is in full 'play' mode at the moment, and that the cop went to investigate the bus and then wound up sniffing where he should not have been sniffing. Or maybe this cop has something to do with our contact and her paranoia, I don't know, but I thought the coincidence was a little much to let slide."
“No, thanks for this. Who knows about coincidences anymore?” Paul said. He was pulling on his clothes now, a white shirt and dark slacks. “What hospital?”
“Northwestern Memorial,” Dennis said, “but they won’t let you see him, there’s no way. Besides the fact that he is probably undergoing surgery, and is probably out like a light, he’s still a cop, and they don’t let just any shmoe off the streets see their downed cops.”
“I’m not going to be just any shmoe off the street, Dennis.” Paul was pulling his loafers on over his black socks—which socks he hadn't taken off for a day or two, and yet another thing that drove his ex-wife batty.
“I’ll bet this Officer Morales has a cousin, visiting for the holidays, who is completely aghast at the fact that his favorite cousin is holed up in the hospital, all shot up, and no family at his side,” Paul finished, transferring the phone from the crook of one shoulder to the other as he tied his laces. "I think I could be that cousin."
“Unless there is actually family at his side,” Dennis said, “family who will know their strange cousins, I’m sure.”
Paul shrugged but didn’t respond. If Morales’ family was at the hospital, so be it, but if not—people coming off anesthetics were the best people to gather information from. Maybe not all the information was accurate, but enough usually was to point in the right direction. He grabbed his keys and wallet and left the room.
“I’m getting into the elevator, so I’m going to sign off—” Paul said.
“Wait,” Dennis said, his breathing heavy. Paul could picture him standing nervously in the center of his kitchen. “I know you don't have much to live for."
"Thanks—"
"But you've got to be careful. They killed a bus driver, for heaven's sakes. A bus driver, and they shot up a cop. Now, I'm not one to get all mushy, but I think you should tread a little softly."
"Thanks again,” Paul said as the elevator dinged open. He could only wish it was so simple. He thought of the destruction in Miami, of the countless hours he'd spent obsessing over a conspiracy that he knew wasn't a theory. He thought of his marriage, of everything he'd sacrificed for answers.
"It's too late to tread softly, Dennis," Paul said.
Dennis was quiet for several seconds. The elevator doors had shut and the connection lost before he muttered, "I know."
Chapter Twenty-Two
The real Gertrude Pettingale—or Gerti, as she liked to be called, because she absolutely hated the name her parents had given her—paced in the tiny cinderblock room that was lit with bright fluorescent lights, and for what seemed like the zillionth time, checked her watch. Her blouse had dried already, although there was a large brown stain that covered a large portion of it. She crossed again to the tiny window in the metal door and looked out into the hallway which was equally bright. As was the same each time she’d looked through the window before, there was no one in the hallway.
Except for several large travel posters on the wall, the hallway was as bare as the room she was in. She looked at the posters and sighed. Each with a simple black frame, an easily recognizable landmark from around the world printed in bright colors, and large block letters announcing the name of the country. One of the posters depicted the Parthenon in Rome, which was where she was supposed to be in the morning—before
all this other crummy business happened. The spilled coffee on her blouse was a rotten deal, but she could handle it—had handled much worse being spewed onto her shirt. But this…
Gerti sat down at the table and covered her face with her hands. She moved her fingers to her temple and rubbed them with slow circular movements. How could this have happened? She was supposed to be on the plane right now, sleeping away the long hours of flying over the Atlantic Ocean.
When she landed at Heathrow, she would have met up with a longtime friend who was teaching art history at a university in Paris, and together they would have traveled to Rome. She’d tried calling her friend—Claire was her name, but she liked to be called CeCe—and had left several messages trying to explain the situation. At best, she’d have her ex-husband, a loser named Simon, with whom she’d been married for close to eleven years, bring her a credit card, and she’d get to London tomorrow. Of course, Simon’s credit cards were likely maxed out, but she could at least ask him, and she thought that he would lend her the money, even though he was borrowing it himself.
On the other hand, she was probably out of luck and would have to cancel the vacation altogether. The thought of cancelling the vacation was enough to make her feel sick. She’d been saving her money for months to go back to Europe, something she had frequently done with her ex. Their travelling, however, had almost always put them further and further into debt.
Once she’d cut the marriage string, she’d vowed to never use a credit card when she couldn't pay it off during the same month, which was another reason why she felt sick. When she’d called the credit card company to freeze her funds and cancel the credit cards, the polite customer service representative—who was far too cheerful for the situation, thank you very much—had told her that the thief had rung up more than $10,000 while purchasing multiple tickets at this very airport.
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