Exit Row

by Judi Culbertson

  She fumbled frantically in her bag. “I have to start copying down names!”

  “No, just give me a flash drive.”

  Damn. She did have one with her, two in fact, but they were back in her room with her laptop. She had not thought beyond looking at the list and seeing if their passengers’ names were on it, but now it seemed important to have a copy. “I didn’t bring one.”

  “Oh, God. Okay, open that slatted closet door and switch on the printer inside.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t ask how he knew the machine was in there.

  Relying on touch, she pressed a button in the upper left. The printer started up with a hum, and she shoved the door shut, terrified that it would make too much noise. But except for a rising whir, oddly like the sound of a jet accelerating, the laser printer ran quietly and fast.

  “Grab it, and let’s get the fuck out of here,” Greg whispered. “Breaking into someone’s database could screw up my whole career!”

  Fiona snatched the paper from the tray as Greg did some last thing to the computer. Then she opened the door very slowly.

  The sound of voices made her lurch back. “Hide!” She pressed herself against the wall behind the door. Greg disappeared behind the desk.

  The door was ajar now, and she could hear a man’s voice, though not what he was saying. Then the door was pushed back, the doorknob pressing into her stomach, and a higher voice protested audibly, “But I didn’t see anyone come in.”

  “They must have. I saw them go around to the back.”

  “Who are they, anyway?”

  Instead of answering, he yanked the door shut.

  Fiona couldn’t get her breath. Either someone had been in a front office after all, or they were being followed. But why wouldn’t they be? Will knew where she was staying; they had her car information from the rental company. While she wasn’t paying attention, a net had dropped down over her.

  “Give them a minute. What time is it?” Greg said very low.

  “I can’t—” She twisted her watch around to try to see the dial. “Almost nine!”

  “Okay. Two more minutes and then we run.”

  Fiona folded the paper in quarters and stuck it firmly in the top of her purse.

  “Come on.” Greg stood up from behind the desk and moved silently to the door. She followed him into the hall, noticing that it was lit by a series of round lights at ankle height. She hadn’t seen them before.

  They reached the bend to the left that led straight to the back door.

  “Now,” Greg said, and they raced past ghostly photographs of the airline’s history, past the lighted room, and into the parking lot. They stopped outside only to take a breath, then ran again along the path, stopping finally on Paseo de Peralta.

  Fiona barely glanced at the car sitting opposite the Day Star entrance.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  THEY STOPPED FOR fajitas and beer in a bar on Guadeloupe Street, Cactus Joe’s. The long narrow room was packed with a summer crowd, but they managed to find a table against a mural of cowboy rabbits and pink coyotes wearing bandanas. It was also across from the kitchen.

  “Jesus, it’s brutal in here,” Greg complained, pulling his striped shirt collar away from his neck.

  “I know. That’s why there were no tables outside.”

  Jammed against the wall, Fiona wondered how two large plates would fit on the tiny circle of tile. She was finally hungry and gratefully gulped the beer from a clear plastic cup. Then she looked back down at the list that was taking up the table space. The names had a terrible finality.

  Greg stared at the page along with her:

  (Allmayer, Susan)

  454 Margarita Way, Santa Fe, NM

  Alvarez, Dimitri

  RR 3, Truchas, NM

  Basilea, Coral, 12

  15-02 Valverde, Taos, NM

  Bellows, Kirsten Anne, 10

  14 Albion Way, Santa Fe, NM

  Black Hook, Clayton

  Taos Pueblo, NM

  Boehngarm, Dieter, 7

  Venterstrausse 17, Bad Kreuznach, GER

  Boehngarm, Gretchen

  Venterstrausse 17, Bad Kreuznach, GER

  Boehngarm, Petra, 3

  Venterstrausse 17, Bad Kreuznach, GER

  Boehngarm, Thomas

  Venterstrausse 17, Bad Kreuznach, GER

  Circanis, George

  11 Bluebell Drive, Denver, CO

  Curley, Johanna

  1603 High Street, Newton, MA

  Fuller, George (F.O.)

  Mountain Trail, Taos, NM

  Jones, Karleen (F.A.)

  P.O. Box AB 121, Aspen, CO

  Madden, Ralph (F.O.)

  15 Old Santa Fe Trail, Albuquerque, NM

  Marshall, Eleanor P.

  3 Magnolia Street, Seattle, WA

  Marshall, Ralph K.

  3 Magnolia Street, Seattle, WA

  Martinez, Victor

  RR 1, Chimayo, NM

  O’Malley, Francis J.

  Leisure Village Way, Santa Fe, NM

  Pienaar, Lee

  137 Joralemon Street, Brooklyn, NY

  Pittare, Alfonzo

  57-13 17th Avenue, Apt. 3, Newark, NJ

  Redhawk, Jackson (F.A.)

  Taos Pueblo, NM

  Seelander, Martin

  University of Cincinnati, Cincinnati, OH

  Washington, Kwani

  RFD #2, Trussville, AL

  “It’s like—” But she could not say it aloud. “All those people who had never met before, who had different reasons for being on the plane. Now they’re linked together forever.”

  “Hold your horses, Pedro. It’s not like they’re dead.” Greg finished his beer, glanced at Fiona’s cup, and waved two fingers at a passing waitress.

  “We don’t know that. Which one’s your friend?”

  Greg pointed to the second name. Alvarez, Dimitri.

  “Francis J. O’Malley is probably Maggie’s father. I know he’s from Santa Fe. It’s true, he didn’t die . . . ”

  Then, amazingly, the reason why presented itself to her. She reached out and grabbed Greg’s wrist. “You know what? Maybe the thing that ‘happened’ in the note was that terrorists took the plane hostage and no one is supposed to know!” Everything fell into place. “That would explain why Maggie’s father was released. He’s old and ill. The government is probably negotiating with the terrorists right now! They forced the plane to land somewhere, took some hostages off, then let the plane fly on to Denver. That’s why they were late.” She sat back, stunned.

  “Terrorists?”

  “Day Star can’t let anyone know; it’s the same as in a kidnapping when they warn people not to call the police.” She looked into his dark brown eyes, willing him to believe.

  But he pulled at an eyebrow skeptically. “What do these terrorists want?”

  “I don’t know—money, safe passage somewhere, the release of political prisoners from jail. What do terrorists usually want?”

  “Publicity.” He took a sip of the beer that had appeared on their table and wiped at his mouth, satisfied. “Groups like that always claim responsibility.”

  “This one didn’t.” She clung to the idea of the passengers being safe somewhere, being released gradually with a cover story. Why hadn’t she thought of this in New York? “You know the government does all kinds of covert things.”

  “Then we’re better off not interfering with negotiations.”

  Was he serious? “But everything fits!”

  Greg handed her the list as plates of fajitas and sides of guacamole, black beans, and sour cream were crowded onto the table. Fiona refolded the paper in quarters and put it in her bag.

  He tore into a fajita without speaking and then said, “Okay. So we give them fifteen billion dollars and the Empire State Building and people will come tumbling back. Not to burst your bubble or anything, but why would terrorists pick a no-name airline that flies in the middle of nowhere and expect to get anything out of i
t? And pledge them to secrecy instead of just making the federal government pay up?”

  She dipped a chunk of chicken in the sour cream. “But that’s just it. You couldn’t keep it a secret if a 747 disappeared. But these are still American citizens, and the government will quietly save them.”

  “I thought we didn’t negotiate with terrorists.”

  “That’s why it has to be a secret.” Fiona’s hand brushed her cup and she righted it quickly. “I’ve got to tell the others!”

  “Finish your food.”

  “I’m done.”

  She stood up, feeling in her bag for her wallet to pay.

  Greg stood up too. “Hey, wait a minute. I’m still eating. ” He put his arm around her, squeezing her shoulder blade painfully. “Besides, I thought we were going to howl!”

  You think we’re coyotes? But his mouth was already on hers, beery and warm, his hand massaging her back through her T-shirt.

  She pulled back. “Greg, stop!”

  “This is the reward for all my hard work?” But he moved away from her so quickly that she realized he had been doing what he thought a man in his position would. It was a persona he had adapted, a shorthand for dealing with the world.

  She knew about personas.

  “I’ve got to tell Rosa,” she said urgently. “You can keep eating; I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He sat down, eyeing her half-eaten food.

  “You can finish it. I’m done.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  THE INN OF the Kachinas was impressive. Just inside the carved wooden doors stood a cactus taller than Fiona. The largest copper pot she had ever seen was crammed with dried flowers and placed on a coffee table. The kiva fireplace was also oversized, large enough for a couple to dance in. The inn reminded her of a resort she once visited in Brazil.

  Fiona moved to the reception desk. “I’m looking for a guest who’s staying here. Rosa Cooper?”

  “In there, I believe.” The clerk smiled and pointed to the lounge.

  “Really? Thanks.”

  Rosa was sitting at a tall table, a book open in front of her on the ruby cloth. She was wearing a deep blue dress smocked with an Indian design, a beaded sweatband pinning down her mottled hair. “Hi, there!” She seemed delighted to see Fiona. “Date over already?”

  “We’ve got the list of passengers!” She found herself suddenly as breathless as if she’d run all the way.

  “You’re a wonder.” She returned Alice Munro to her Guatemalan bag. “They’ve got piña coladas here to die for. Let me order you one.” She waved to the waiter.

  Fiona sat down on the stool across from Rosa. “Lee was on the plane. So were Susan and Dominick’s daughter. Everybody who’s missing!”

  “Imagine that.” She gave the waiter the order for two more drinks. “And they’ve got a fabulous piano player. He just went on break.”

  “Rosa, are you listening?”

  “Of course I’m listening.” She gave Fiona an irritated look. “But how is that different from what we knew?”

  “It’s tangible proof! We can take it to the police. And it shows that Day Star was lying to me. Why would they lie if nothing happened?” Reaching into her shoulder bag, she pulled out the paper and held it out to Rosa.

  Rosa took it and held it far away from her. Then she laid it back on the table. “Why is Susan’s name in parenthesis?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she was flying standby?”

  “Is Maggie’s father on this list?”

  “He’s Francis O’Malley.”

  Rosa gave an emphatic and slightly tipsy nod. “We’ll see what the police have to say about this.”

  “I think I know what happened.” Quickly Fiona explained her theory about the terrorists. “The local police may have been told not to interfere.”

  “Terrorists!” Rosa reached over and clasped Fiona’s arm. “I like it. That’s why none of them could communicate with us.”

  She paused as the waiter set down two drinks on the table. Fiona stared at them. Like everything else in the hotel, they were huge.

  “But I was thinking that we could call the people on the list—their homes—to see if they’d been released yet. If they were, they could tell us what really happened, what the government is doing.”

  “If they haven’t been sworn to secrecy.” Rosa was slurring her words.

  “Good evening, ladies.” A darkly tanned man in a pale yellow dinner jacket smiled as he passed their table.

  “That’s him,” Rosa whispered and followed the man greedily with her eyes.

  Fiona watched him approach a grand piano on a platform, surrounded by tall, rush-seated stools. Before he was fully on the piano bench, he had launched into “Someone to Watch Over Me.”

  Fiona did not recognize the next song, but Rosa closed her eyes and began to sing along, first softly, then gaining volume. To Fiona’s surprise she had a beautiful, plaintive voice. “My buddy,” she sang, “my buddy, your buddy misses you.”

  Was she thinking about her husband?

  It was too much. It struck a match, illuminating all the sad relationships of Fiona’s life that no longer existed. She thought of the best moments she and Lee had had together—sharing Chinese food in his apartment, parodying a silly movie, lying curled up in bed doing nothing at all. Would she ever see him again? Pushing up from the table, she fled to the restroom, feeling sick to her stomach. She sat in a stall, hands over her face, and tried to calm herself.

  Remember that the terrorists are keeping Lee incommunicado, but safe. Don’t think of the way those situations too often end.

  ROSA WAS NO longer at the table. Fiona wondered if she been more upset than she had shown, or simply gotten tired and gone to bed without saying good night. Then, turning in the direction of the piano, she saw Rosa sitting to the pianist’s right. A few other people had joined them, taking the empty stools and balancing their drinks on the piano top. They were singing “On the Sunny Side of the Street.”

  Fiona sat back down at the table. She wasn’t a singer. She would finish her piña colada and go. Twisting around, she smiled reassuringly at Rosa, though her friend hardly seemed to need cheering up. How many of those coconut confections had she consumed? Fiona turned back to the empty red tablecloth. The list! Where was the list? She had left it in the middle of the table between them and now it was gone. Had the waiter taken it away by mistake? She had run off, Rosa had abandoned the table to wax nostalgic, and perhaps the waiter thought they were finished.

  But no. He had left her own half-finished drink; Rosa’s woven purse was leaning against one chair leg. Slipping off her stool, Fiona peered down into Rosa’s bag. With great relief, she saw a white paper folded in quarters. Thank God!

  Her pulsing heart slowed. She picked up the paper and, without unfolding it, stuffed it into her own bag. Then she sat back down, wondering at her flash of panic. Sneaking around Day Star and the shock of seeing the names on the list had pushed her close to the edge. That and the man’s voice from the hall confirming that they had been seen.

  It was past time to go. She went over to the piano and said good night to Rosa, thanking her for the drink, and made her way dizzily back through the lobby. What she needed was a copy machine, though she could photograph the list with her phone back in her room.

  Halfway to her inn she remembered Greg, sitting at the table waiting for her. She had promised to come back. But it was so late already. . . . All she wanted to do was collapse on her bed and sleep.

  The bed and breakfast was still floodlit when she made her way unsteadily up the steps. She never drank this much when she was with Lee or traveling by herself, but people had kept buying her drinks. Poor baby. Moving down the long hall, Fiona let herself into her room and tossed her bag on her bed. The evening had cooled down nicely, and she unlocked the patio doors, opening them wide for some fresh air. She was too well trained not to wash her face and brush her teeth, so she picked up her travel kit from the dresser a
nd headed for the shared bathroom across the hall.

  When she came back, she locked the patio doors firmly and fell into bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  FIONA WOKE THE next morning with an insistent throbbing at the back of her neck. Her first thoughts were of the German couple on the flight list and their two young children. Innocent tourists visiting America, caught up in a terrorist web. Lying under her sheet in the cool mountain air, she thought about the family. Where were they now?

  Wondering if the parents were already back at work was an unwelcome reminder that she had to get to her dangerous beauty piece finished. It had been due yesterday. Could she push the deadline up to Monday? That left only today to find out as much as she could here, fly home Saturday, and pull it together Sunday. At least with the list, they could contact the other passengers. And surely Maggie’s father would remember more this morning.

  Glancing at the digital clock that came with the room, Fiona saw that she had only fifteen minutes before meeting the others for breakfast. If she showered quickly she could make it. Rummaging through her travel bag, she pulled out her jeans and a gold T-shirt. Then, armed with the courtesy bar of soap and a rather threadbare towel, she opened the door.

  She could immediately see that the shower was in use, and even the door to the toilet was closed. Rosa was right. The downside of authentic accommodations was their inconvenience. Deciding to give it another five minutes, she moved back into the room. Time to photograph the list. Her purse was still perched on the side of the bed she had not slept in, near the French doors.

  Reaching into its leather depths, she came up with her sunglasses. They were smudged and needing a good cleaning, so she left them on the bed. She dipped into the bag again, and this time brought out a crisp square of paper. As she unfolded it, she saw that it was the travel voucher that she had picked up at Day Star. Well, she wouldn’t be needing that this morning.