The Moonlit Earth

by Christopher Rice

  What had her mother said to her before the party? She had no reason not to hold her head up. Could that be true in this moment as well? She could feel the slouch in her back as she hurried down the hallway, trying to avoid any image that would unleash a flood of emotions she couldn’t control. She was fourteen again, entering high school for the first time, afraid of looking up from the floor lest someone see the fear in her eyes.

  Her mother was sitting on the edge of her bed, struggling with a pill bottle she had just removed from the nightstand drawer, which was still open on top of her left leg. Megan pulled the bottle from Lilah’s grip and read the label. Xanax, 2 milligrams.

  “Did you take any already?”

  Lilah shook her head. Megan pulled the cap off and dumped two white pills into her mother’s open palm. As if the Xanax had taken instant effect, Lilah rolled over onto one side, turning her back to Megan as she curled into the fetal position. Megan closed the nightstand drawer and sat where her mother had been sitting. For a while neither of them spoke. Then she felt her mother’s weight shift as she reached behind her and took one of Megan’s hands in hers.

  “Tell them I’m on the phone with someone,” Lilah muttered. “Someone from the airline or someone in Hong Kong. I don’t know. Just don’t tell them I’m in my room, falling apart.”

  “You get to do what you want today, Mom.”

  Her mother tightened her grip on her hand. Slowly, she rolled over onto her back and stared up at Megan with bloodshot, tearstained eyes. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispered. “You know, you go through life, and you make sacrifices for your kids, and when their lives work out, all those sacrifices … They seem worth it.”

  Megan wasn’t sure which sacrifices she was referring to. And she didn’t want to know. As much as she wanted to receive these warm words from her mother, she couldn’t bring herself to. Because the only child of hers she had referred to was Megan. Was that all it took? A breakdown and two Xanax and already she was burying Cameron. Focusing on the child she still had. Trying to keep things as positive as possible. Her mother always had a keen ability to ignore the uncomfortable but this was truly a feat.

  Get off her back, she said to herself. You’re the one who can’t even look at his photograph.

  “People brought food,” Megan said. “Sue’s here, of course, and a bunch of other women I don’t know. Most of them brought something. Do you want me to bring anything up? Maybe a sandwich or some kind of snack?”

  Her mother started to shake her head before Megan finished the sentence. “Just let me lie here for a bit,” she whispered.

  Megan squeezed her mother’s hand and brushed loose strands of hair from her moist forehead. Her urge was to give her mother a kiss on the cheek, but she was afraid they would both collapse into sobs against each other. So she left the room.

  Lucas was waiting for her in the hallway. Without a word exchanged between them, they stepped into the guest bedroom where Megan used to stay before she had moved back home. The drapes were half drawn over the morning glare. The gold silk duvet on the queen-size bed looked as smooth as fresh snow.

  “So there’s no boyfriend you know of?” Lucas asked her.

  “The last guy he dated lived in L.A. He was a jerk too. A publicist named Tom Larkin.”

  “Why did they break up?”

  “He had a coke problem. And he accused Cameron of dating him for his money.”

  “Was he?”

  “The guy didn’t have any money. He spent it all on his coke problem. Lucas, if there was anyone in Hong Kong, I don’t know about it.”

  “Any friends? Anyone overseas that he was hanging out with?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Come on, Megan. There’s nothing you two don’t know about each other.” The expression on her face seemed to send a chill through Lucas. “Jesus. What?”

  “We had a fight. The other night at the party. He was changing and his phone was on the bed and he got a call. … It was from Dad. He’s talking to Dad, apparently. Spending time with him, I guess.”

  Lucas was so stunned by this piece of information that he took a seat on the foot of the bed.

  “He was telling me I should give him another shot and I just lost it. I told him … I said, I didn’t date this man. And he said he was sorry, that he wanted to find another way to tell me and that we could talk about it when he got back.” Her voice cracked and her breath left her, and the next thing she knew, Lucas had his arms around her and was lifting her slightly so her bent knees wouldn’t bring her to the floor. Her sobs were silent except for the hiss of breath through her clenched teeth. She stilled her quivering jaw by pressing it against her cousin’s chest.

  “I’ll get you through this, both of you,” Lucas said. “Don’t think for a moment I won’t. I promised my father I would look out for you no matter what. This is part of it. This counts. It’s in my job description.”

  After a while, she was able to lift her head from his chest. Her tears had worked some magic on her. She was breathing easier and her heart rate had slowed for the first time that morning.

  “I need to get you on TV,” he said. “I need to get you on TV with a photograph of Cameron.”

  “Why?”

  “The news is saying there’s been over a hundred hospital admissions since the explosion. He could be one of them. He could be unconscious. Maybe he doesn’t have his passport on him. If we get his face out there, someone might recognize him. Someone from the scene, or maybe a doctor or a nurse. Who knows? We have to try.”

  Megan nodded.

  “Can you do that? Can you go on TV and talk about your brother? I don’t think your mom is up to it right now.”

  “Of course. I’ll do anything.”

  He held both her shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. Then he left her with the echo of his words. He would get them through this. Both of them. Who was the other person he had been referring to? Her brother or her mother?

  Was she the only one in her family who had not begun to turn Cameron into a simple memory?

  7

  South China Sea

  There was no television in the guest suite so Majed watched the interview with Megan Reynolds on his laptop, which he retrieved from his bunk once it was clear he would be allowed to recover from his injuries in one of the nicer rooms. Perhaps they considered it a small payment for his heroics. They also gave him several pink pills, which doused the sting of the burns along his back and muffled the throbbing ache where his jaw had hit the sidewalk in front of the hotel.

  He recognized Megan. She was the woman whose face kept flashing on the cracked plastic screen of Cameron’s iPhone. He was ignoring her calls. He was ignoring a great deal. The pills helped. But so did the slightly tinny voice of the young woman on his computer screen. She seemed remarkably composed. Was she drugged too? She was quite beautiful, regardless. Her eyes were different from those of her brother; they were round and dark and they gave her a sympathetic look. But she had the same straw-colored hair, the same defiant jaw and full-lipped mouth.

  She sat beneath a vine-covered pergola, a framed eight-by-ten photograph of her brother resting on her lap. In the photo, the Swan wore a flight attendant’s uniform Majed didn’t recognize, not the gray polyester outfit he wore whenever he landed in Hong Kong. He stood by himself in the aisle of an empty plane, his arms raised like those of a circus ringleader. His sister calmly explained that the photo was taken right before boarding for his first flight. She went on to explain that he hadn’t been heard from since the blast, that he could be one of the hundreds of people who had been rushed to local hospitals.

  The reporter’s voice-over cut her off, a man’s voice, full of pomp and insincerity. “Actually, the number of people who were admitted to hospitals immediately following the blast stands at about half that. But if anything, that lower figure only serves to magnify the pain and anxiety being felt by family members like Megan Reynolds. Because if their loved ones aren’
t among the dazed and injured currently being treated throughout Hong Kong, that raises the terrible likelihood that they will be found in the decimated lower floors of the Nordham Hotel.”

  Now there was a close-up of Megan’s face, a close-up of the tears standing in her eyes and her flaring nostrils, which she wiped at quickly with the back of one hand. “He loves flying more than anything in the world,” she said, a slight tremor in her voice. “He loves seeing the world and … there wasn’t anywhere he was afraid to go. I mean, he’s one of the bravest people I’ve ever met.” She bit her bottom lip. The camera zoomed in even closer as a tear slipped down her right cheek.

  The reporter took over again. “Not only does Cameron Reynolds love to fly, but earlier this year he was literally the face of the airline he flies for. He was one of two actual flight attendants used in an international ad campaign for Peninsula Airlines.”

  Majed was aware of the ad but this was the first time he had seen it. Cameron and his strikingly pretty female costar stood on either side of one of the airline’s enormous leather-padded business class seats beneath the slogan The Skies Are Yours To Love Again! Despite the velvety haze of the drugs, the terrible irony of Cameron’s beaming smile twisted a spike into Majed’s gut.

  The reporter had gone on to specify that Cameron was one of twelve Peninsula Airlines flight attendants who had been staying at the hotel, only seven of whom were accounted for. But all Majed could see was the bloody bruises on the young man’s face as the smoke had cleared. All he could hear were the choked groans coming from Cameron as he had carried him away from the chaos that had devoured the front of the Nordham Hotel.

  Cameron’s iPhone vibrated. By now, Majed was accustomed to the sound. The face of Megan Reynolds flashed beneath a message screen that told him Cameron had thirty-seven missed calls and fifteen unread text messages.

  Then there was a light knock on the door. He had no interest in explaining why he had kept the phone so he shoved it in his pants pocket. When he tried to stand, he felt the effects of the drugs.

  Ali stepped into the guest bedroom without bothering to knock a second time. His eyes cut straight to the laptop, where the interview with Megan Reynolds had just concluded, leaving the logo for CNN International in the media player’s screen.

  He was dressed in the unofficial uniform they always wore on board: black jeans and black T-shirt. He had once complained to Majed that his beliefs required him to grow a longer beard than the demands of the job would allow him to have. Although he carried the first swell of a belly, he was a thick, solid man, a veteran of the Saudi Royal Guard. Those days had left him with his powerful physique as well as his detached, professional attitude toward protecting the spoiled and temperamental rich.

  But that professionalism had left him now. He could not bring himself to look Majed in the eye.

  They had exchanged only a few words since Majed had come on board. Was it time for an interrogation?

  Ali crossed to the laptop computer, hit a few keys to refresh the screen, and then handed Majed the computer so he could see the screen up close. He was looking at himself. He was looking at a grainy black-and-white photo of him and Cameron rushing from the hotel lobby in the minutes before the explosion, their faces twin masks of fear and anxiety amid the laughter and broad smiles of people filtering out of the bar.

  “A security camera,” Ali said in a gentle voice. But Majed couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen. He had tried to pinpoint the location of the security cameras during his first visit to the hotel. But they had been well hidden in the ceiling of the lobby, which is why Ali had never given the Prince permission to visit Cameron there himself.

  The headline above the photo read missing FLIGHT ATTENDANT IDENTIFIED ON SECURITY FOOTAGE. In the brief article below, Majed was described as “an unidentified Middle Eastern man.” The article went on to explain that neither Cameron Reynolds nor his mysterious companion had been identified among the injured or dead, and closed with a mention that the hotel’s security center had been largely spared by the fire.

  Majed went to set the computer down. Ali was pointing his gun at him. It was a gun just like Majed’s, a SIG Sauer, probably acquired from the American friends of their employer’s family. The expression on Ali’s face was almost unreadable save for the slight tension at the corners of his long mouth and the crease above the bridge of his nose. Through the porthole behind him, the ocean was as flat and black as tundra at night.

  “Please …” And before Majed could protest further, he felt a burst of shame that this was the best response he could come up with. A gun in his face and all he could say was please. Blame the drugs. Blame the burns across his back. Blame anything except the drumbeat of fear in his chest.

  “They want me to kill you and dump your body into the sea,” Ali said.

  “Who?”

  “You have to ask?”

  Of course he did not have to ask. The question had been intended to buy time. There was no doubt this order had come from the Al-Farhan family. To Majed’s silence, Ali said, “They want me to kill you and dump your body into the sea so that you can never be traced back to their precious little drunk.”

  “And the Swan? What have they ordered you to do to him?”

  “They know nothing of the Swan’s connection to their son. They believe he is your friend.”

  “How long does the Prince plan on keeping him a secret?”

  “It does not matter. As of now, in the eyes of the entire world, you are the only connection between their son and what happened in that hotel.”

  “And so they want me dead?”

  “Yes. This is our predicament.”

  “Is it? Will we still share in this predicament when I am dead?”

  Ali offered him a thin smile at this remark. Then he lowered the gun a few inches and said, “Put your shirt on.”

  “I am not cold.”

  “You will be cold at sea,” Ali said. Majed just glared at him, hoping it would compel him to explain further. “The rich are terrible when they are afraid. Because they can make things happen so quickly. Later, there is always some moment of regret, but they are rich so they never truly learn patience.”

  “But you have patience?”

  “Put your shirt on,” he said. “I have loaded some basic supplies into one of the Zodiacs. It has GPS. Pratas Island is north of us. The mainland is maybe four hours. You are good at sea, yes? You come from fishermen?”

  Instead of answering, Majed reached for his T-shirt, which was hanging over the back of the wing chair he had been sitting in. He had to still his trembling hands and as he took care sliding it on over the bandages on his back, he didn’t feel the narcotic tug of the pills he had taken. Had they been flushed from his system by the shock of having a gun pointed at him?

  “And the Prince?” Majed asked. “Does he want me dead as well?”

  Ali shook his head and snorted, as if the Prince’s inability to order a man’s murder was just another one of his many personal failings. “My instructions are to tell him that you chose to depart on your own so that you would not risk bringing suspicion down on him.”

  “So I am a hero.”

  “You are a good man who has done your job.”

  For a few seconds, they stared at each other. The gun was still pointed at him so Majed was hesitant to move without first being instructed to do so. And Ali seemed to sense the question Majed was trying to summon the courage to ask.

  “May I leave with my gun?” Majed asked. “They took it from me when they were treating my back.”

  “No. You may not.”

  It was the answer he was expecting. Ali jerked the gun at the door and Majed started for it.

  As he left the cabin, his hands brushed the hard lump Cameron’s mobile phone made in his pants pocket. He decided not to make the mistake of handing over this piece of equipment as well.

  8

  San Diego

  As long as Megan kept talking, they kept liste
ning. Loehmann, the female agent, occasionally took notes on her steno pad with the casual air of a housewife at a gardening lecture. A clever ruse, Megan thought, given that you’re probably recording all of this. Fredericks never took his eyes off her.

  How many questions had they managed to ask? Only several. Were they being deferential because she had turned herself in? No. That was wrong. She hadn’t turned herself in. She wasn’t being accused of anything. Cameron wasn’t even being accused of anything. Not yet, anyway. He was just missing. All she had done was bring herself to the San Diego field office of the FBI on her own accord so that she would make a good impression. Lucas had insisted on it. Best to get things off on the right foot, he had said.

  This was the best response her cousin could come up with to the connections the delirious talking heads on cable news were already starting to make. The last story Megan had seen before she left the house—she gave up on avoiding CNN when the security camera footage was released showing her brother leaving the hotel just moments before the blast—featured images of Peninsula Airlines jets taxiing at LAX. The implication was clear—had her brother been planning to harm one of those planes? Or better yet, had the strange unidentified Middle Eastern man who seemed to be escorting him out of the hotel planned on using him for that purpose?

  Of course nobody on TV was saying those things. Not yet. It was the visuals that spoke for them, an interminable loop of images strung together to tell a story the reporters didn’t have the guts to voice. But the anchors and their so-called security analysts and terrorism experts had all taken the liberty of declaring Cameron Reynolds to be a “person of interest” before such a title could be bestowed upon him by any law enforcement agency here or in Hong Kong.