Final Approach

by Rachel Brady

  “Park in Terminal C,” she continued. “Wear the sweater that’s in your trunk. Put the money in the pillow.”

  “The pillow?”

  “There’s a boarding pass in your glove box. Use it to—”

  “A boarding pass to go where?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re not getting on the plane. Use the boarding pass to get through the security checkpoint in Terminal C. When I’m satisfied you’re not armed or wired, I’ll be in touch.”

  “But I don’t have—”

  She hung up.

  “Shit.” My driver’s license was at the motel in Freeport with the rest of my things. Without it, I’d never get past security.

  My palms slipped over the leather-wrapped wheel. Beltway 8 came up quickly, and I took it east like she’d said. Within minutes, I saw signs for the airport. At the first red light, I leaned over the seat, opened the glove box, and removed an envelope. Inside was a ticket to New Orleans and my driver’s license. Trish’s pervasive ways of doing business chilled me. I grew more worried with each new, meticulous detail.

  I set the envelope on the seat and called Jeannie.

  “Don’t go in,” she said. “Wait for help.”

  “If I take too long, she’ll know something’s up.”

  “It’s a bad idea.”

  “Tell Richard to make sure the FBI knows what’s going on. The airport’s packed. I don’t think she’d hurt me in front of all these people.”

  “She’s capable of anything. You should wait for the FBI.”

  I followed overhead signs for Terminal C and tried to stay out of the way of parking lot shuttle busses.

  “I won’t risk botching this trade. Tell them where I am. I’m sure they can move fast when they want to.”

  My lane veered to the left and took me under a set of bridges meant for planes, not cars. At the terminal, a long series of identical airplanes waited at the gates, parked in neat rows. I followed signs for short-term parking and drove up a spiral ramp into the garage.

  “I’m here,” I said. “I’ll call you when I get through security.”

  I parked in the first parking space I saw, marked for compact cars only, and popped the trunk. Inside, a sweater and a flesh-colored pillow in the shape of a half-oval were neatly arranged in a plastic grocery store sack. The pillow had an elastic band that looked like a belt, and when I lifted it and realized what it was, I felt queasy. The tag inside the sweater confirmed my fear: GapMaternity.

  I’d worn a similar faux-belly once—maternity stores keep them in dressing rooms so expectant moms can see how the clothes will fit later. What troubled me about Trish’s model was the careful stitching and added zipper that concealed a hollowed-out cavity. Grime along the lining and frayed edges near the clasp told me I wasn’t the first to wear it.

  I returned to the driver’s seat, stuffed the cash bundles into the pillow, and zipped it. Satisfied that no one was looking, I pulled off my cardigan and buckled the fake belly over the camisole I was wearing. Then I pulled the maternity sweater over my head, making sure to smooth it over my new baby bump. I locked the car and took the elevator to ground level. Even from a distance, jet fuel and exhaust fumes were unmistakable.

  Skycaps at the terminal entrance ignored me because I didn’t have a bag to check. I walked straight past customer check-in lines, computerized self-check kiosks, and bag check-in stations and stepped into the security line with a backpack containing two phones and a cardigan. A young mother in front of me collapsed a stroller with one swift stomp on its frame.

  “Guess this’ll be you soon,” she said, bending to lift it. “How much longer?”

  “Two months.”

  She gave a tired smile. “Prepare to haul a lot of stuff.”

  Behind her, a TSA officer patted down a Muslim passenger at the metal detector. I got nervous watching the officer’s blue latex gloves feel the back of a woman’s head through her hijab. Then the passenger raised her arms to the side and the gloved hands smoothed over each sleeve one at a time before running down the sides of her body. The gravity of what I was about to do overwhelmed me and it was an effort just to breathe. I acted like I was adjusting my waist band and discreetly moved the strap of my belly-pillow down so that it would overlay on the waistline of my Capris.

  At the x-ray machine, I put my shoes into a gray plastic bin and set them on the conveyer belt next to my bag. Then I took a slow, deep breath—careful to be subtle about it—looked straight ahead, and waited to be waved through the metal detector.

  The officer on the other side motioned me forward and nothing beeped.

  “Raise your arms to the sides, please.”

  I did what she said and willed myself not to sweat. She ran her hands along each of my arms as she’d done to the passengers before me. Then she ran them straight down my back and over my hips. She felt my ankles. Wordlessly, she nodded me through.

  I stepped to the side, put my shoes on, and headed toward my gate with the bag slung over one shoulder. To my right, an enormous longhorn steer head was mounted over the entrance to some kind of ranch-themed gift shop. A phone rang, muffled in the backpack.

  “That was good,” Trish said. “Now turn around and go back the way you came. Go downstairs to baggage claim.”

  I looked up and down the wide corridor and didn’t see her anywhere. Above me, an overhead walkway extended from the elevators and escalators toward the parking garage I’d come from. A glass half-wall ran the length of the banister, and I could see she wasn’t up there either, but a wide concrete pillar spanning both levels near the elevator bank worried me. Anyone could be hiding behind it.

  “How much longer?”

  “Go to baggage claim. If you do what you’re told, you’ll have the kids within the hour.”

  The phone’s line went silent. Within the hour repeated in my mind. I imagined Annette in my arms and stepped onto the escalator, thankful to not have to limp down the steps.

  When the baggage claim area came into view, I counted eleven carousels. Unsure where to go, I dropped into a seat near the Visitor Information desk and watched a kid with light-up shoes chase his sister. A woman next to me complained to her friend that Newark was always a mess. She was chewing some potent spearmint gum. Trish called again.

  “See the ladies room in the corner behind Carousel 10?”

  I looked around and found it about ten yards ahead on the left.

  “Yes.”

  “See the pay phones?”

  Four telephones were directly in front of the restroom next to a stainless steel table built into the floor. None were in use.

  “Yes.”

  “When I hang up, go into the ladies room and leave both of your cell phones in the trashcan in the third stall. I’ll know if you call someone, so don’t blow it. Go to the pay phones and pick up the one that rings.”

  “Both of…what’d you say?” How could she possibly know about the disposable back-up phone in my bag?

  “Both phones. Yours and Kurt’s.”

  “I don’t have my phone,” I said. “Jeannie does.”

  “Sure, honey. Leave two phones or the deal’s off.”

  “Call her if you don’t believe me. The number’s—”

  “I have the number.” She hung up.

  Unsure what to do, I stayed in my seat. Six minutes later Trish called back.

  “Your friend’s a trash talker.” She paused. “Go to the restroom like I said and leave Kurt’s phone in the third stall.”

  The line went silent, and for a moment I felt paralyzed even though I was already hustling. In the restroom, several stalls, including the third, were occupied. When it was vacant, I went inside, chucked the phone into the trash, and backtracked toward the pay phones. I waited nearby until the phone nearest the table rang.

  “Stand by,” Trish said. “I’m waiting to hear about the phone.”

  “I did what you said.”

  She didn’t answer.

  I watched the
ladies room only a few paces away. A mother came out with a little girl in red cowboy boots, towing a miniature bag on wheels. Two women in saris and scarves emerged. A middle-aged woman came out backward, pulling an elderly woman in her wheelchair. Who among them was checking the trash for Kurt’s phone?

  “Good,” Trish said finally. “An envelope is taped to the bottom of the table next to you.”

  I crouched and looked up at its base. “Got it.”

  “There’s another car key.”

  I opened the envelope as she spoke.

  “This one’s a silver Volvo. Take the inter-terminal train to Terminal A and go to its garage. The parking spot’s marked on the keychain.”

  I turned the key over.

  “There’s also a set of directions. That’s where we’ll make the exchange.”

  I closed my eyes. It was really going to happen.

  “Finally,” she said, “You’re being watched at the airport. And after you leave, you should know there’s a transponder on the car. No pit stops. Otherwise, deal’s off.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  I didn’t dare stop driving. I imagined Trish at our meeting place, watching a circular blip, my car, creep across a computer screen. Beside her, maybe Casey was chewing on a teething toy or pulling himself up on furniture. I wondered if she’d feed him or change him if he cried.

  Annette would be terrified, and I felt responsible. She’d been torn from a second home, and this time she’d remember. How had Trish gotten her, and what had she told her, if anything? The line of thought stopped me. Maybe she’d been taken violently. What if her new parents, like Jack, were murdered during the abduction? I swallowed. Maybe Annette had been bound or blindfolded. Or slapped. I started to cry.

  Who had kept her all these years? If she hadn’t grown up with the knowledge of having been adopted, then hearing it from me—a stranger to her by now, I realized—would be confusing and scary. She wouldn’t believe me. More likely, she’d think I was a kidnapper.

  Railroad tracks were ahead, beyond a flashing yellow light. Sixty-five minutes had passed since I’d left the airport, and I’d been off the highway for twenty, long enough for the sun to drop to the horizon in my rearview mirror. I turned on my headlights and flipped open the disposable phone Jeannie had given me. Dividing my attention between the road and the display, I sent a quick text message to update her on my location. It would have been easier to just call, but if Trish really did have a transponder on the car, I worried she might also have it bugged. Jeannie would get my message to Richard and the authorities if my phone had any juice left.

  The uncertainty left too much to chance. I texted Richard too.

  Except for the tracks, the only sign of civilization was a leaning barbed-wire fence separating me from empty, overgrown fields. I passed an ancient wooden barn that had toppled sideways next to a sun-bleached old pick-up, left so long ago its bumpers touched the ground. The road began to morph into something made more of dirt than asphalt. I crossed the railroad tracks and checked my odometer.

  A quarter-mile later, the driveway I was looking for disappeared to the right into a forest of pines. My directions said to look for two No Trespassing signs nailed to trees on either side of the drive. They were worn and faded, neglected like everything else—including my common sense, I supposed. But what else could I do?

  I eased onto the dirt track. The car bumped when its tires rolled off the road and I let it creep slowly, hearing only the crunch of a thick layer of pine needles. Far ahead, the drive curved, and I couldn’t see where it ended. The forest swallowed most of the remaining light from the disappearing sun.

  Red reflectors glinted some distance ahead and realized I was coming up on a vehicle parked at the driveway’s end. When I came around a final patch of trees, I found the car beside a rustic cabin. An elevated porch wrapped around the modest shack, and thick curtains covered its windows. I pulled up beside the other car. The porch light flicked on. Its feeble glow barely extended to the edge of the porch, but I felt like I was under floodlights.

  I turned off the engine and took a quick look around. No one was in sight, but several bags of trash had been left beside the porch steps. Beside them, a couple of shovels and a stack of firewood leaned against the porch.

  In front of me, a screen door swung open and Trish stepped outside. I was eye-level with her suede boots. I followed her slim figure all the way up, past jeans and a pullover sweater, to a hateful, steady gaze and opened my car door.

  The screen door smacked shut behind her and I stepped out of the car into muggy evening air that smelled like damp earth and pines. My shoes sank into the soft ground. Far away, I heard a train whistle.

  “Where’s my money?” Trish said.

  I leaned into the car and got the pillow from my maternity disguise. When I unzipped it showed her a fistful of cash, she nodded.

  “What about the kids?” I could hardly breathe, much less speak. I wondered if Annette was really inside the dumpy little cabin.

  Trish pulled the screen door open and held it, never taking her eyes off me. Faint sounds of a television program grew louder and softer as light flashed on the door in various hues.

  “No,” I said. “You bring them out here, to me.”

  She shrugged and disappeared inside, and the screen door slammed behind her. A moment later, she returned with Casey on her hip. His curls and cheeks were exactly as I remembered from Richard’s pictures. I couldn’t believe she’d kept her word. My eyes went immediately to the doorway behind her, but Annette wasn’t there.

  Trish stalked down the front porch steps, the heels of her boots clacking on the wood. Casey looked sleepy, but not mistreated. She thrust him at me. “Here.”

  The baby clutched my blouse and laid his head on my shoulder. He turned his face into my collar and began to suck his thumb. Maybe anybody was more comforting than Trish.

  She stared at me. “Your little girl’s a brat. Like her bitchy mother.”

  I clutched Casey tighter. “Give her to me.”

  She tossed her head so her blond hair fell behind her shoulders.

  “First, the locker key.” She extended an open palm.

  I dug in my pants pocket for the key and dropped it into her hand. “Once the kids are safe, I’ll tell you where to find the rest of the cash.”

  She turned and walked up the steps. When she got to the door, she held it open, and called inside. There was no answer.

  “Come on!” she called again, and a defiant, “No!” came back.

  The voice was small but willful. I darted for the stairs, holding Casey close against my chest, and fought to keep my feet from slipping across the saturated ground. My vision was blurred from tears before I reached the porch.

  “No!” I heard again, and Trish stomped inside. When I got to the door, she was suddenly back, first tugging at a delicate wrist, then yanking it hard. A crying little girl appeared from behind the door, pushing and writhing with all her might.

  “Let her go!” I shoved Trish with my free hand.

  She released her grasp, and Annette stared up at me, wide-eyed. Time had sculpted her to look even more like Jack than I remembered. I dropped to my knees.

  “Come here, baby.” And—miracle of miracles—she did. I pulled her close.

  Her skin radiated warmth and her clothes were damp with sweat. I ran a hand over her beautiful cheek. Blond bangs stuck to her forehead in a wet cluster. She was shaking. I kissed her.

  “We’re leaving,” I told her softly, and hoped she’d find something comforting in me.

  Dark, full lashes lined her eyes now. I’d missed all the subtle changes that had transformed her from a baby to a child. She nodded with more maturity than I thought a five-year-old would have, then placed a tiny hand on Casey’s back. She dropped her head and kissed him on his cheek.

  I stood and led her down the steps. She had gorgeous, thick pigtails and her hair was the color of straw, like her dad’s.

 
As we walked from the cabin, she looked over her shoulder. “I don’t like that lady. She’s mean.”

  My baby had more courage than I had. I couldn’t look back.

  “I don’t like her either, sweetheart.” With a gentle press on her head, I redirected her attention to the car. “Let’s get in.”

  I let her silky pigtail slip through my fingers. It was impossible not to stare at her.

  “Are you taking me home?” she asked.

  I could only stroke her cheek in response.

  The woods flared in a sudden pulse of brightness. Headlights.

  I’d been so focused on Annette that I hadn’t noticed a car coming from the main road.

  I whirled to Trish. “What’s going on?”

  The lights grew closer, faster, their beams bounding with each dip in the path.

  Trish folded her arms across her chest. “You said you’d keep our deal between us,” she said. “But I know you lied.”

  Annette tugged on my hand. “What’s happening?”

  The vehicle pulled up behind my car and stopped so suddenly the front end dipped. It was a white, full size van with tinted windows. The driver’s door flung open.

  “The car that took me!” Annette’s squeal startled Casey so badly he jumped. I had to use both hands to keep him from falling backward. Annette clutched my leg. I shifted the baby and freed a hand for Annette. She turned her face into my hip.

  I recognized the driver; it was Kurt, the man who’d attacked me on the plane the night before. He stepped from the van, pursed his lips in a smug grin, and leaned on the fender.

  Trish said, “Tell me the locker location.”

  “When the kids are safe,” I insisted. “Not before.”

  Annette began to sob.

  Trish nodded to Kurt. I followed her gaze, and watched him slide a jacket panel back far enough to reveal a gun. I looked at Trish again.

  “Change of plans. Sorry to damper your reunion.”

  Her eyes flashed at Kurt. I caught a shared smile.

  “Give me the kids,” Kurt said. He motioned for me to pass the baby.

  “Go to hell.”

  Annette raised her head, chin trembling. Her eyes darted fervently, as if searching for something or someone to make her world good and safe again.