“Experience. I had a sister, you know. Soccer injury.”
The detective nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him. The security man twisted the blinds closed, checked the camcorder, still looked nervous.
“What was that about?” Lydia said.
“I told them I was here to help you use the bathroom.” He waved the bottle a little. Then he leaned in very close and said, “Do you think the room is bugged?”
Lydia shook her head, said, “I can’t say.”
“Well, please, tell me you have to go do number two anyway. Can’t take a shit in here, can you?”
*
He held her on a toilet in the ladies room that had been cleared specifically for them. Lydia didn’t need to shit, but kept up the illusion. As this new security guy had rolled her to the restroom, guard walking ahead, he whispered, “You want to get out of here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Leave. Get away from the cops.”
Lydia wanted her arms and legs. A bathroom break, and then they could have the story out of her, and then she’d get her limbs. Something wasn’t quite normal about this guy, not a typical security guard.
“You think you can get me out of here? Know all the tricks on minimum wage? No, they pay more now. Federal.”
Then they were facing each other, her on the toilet, the man’s hands softer than Alan’s. He said, “Don’t freak out when I tell you this, all right? I forgot that you haven’t seen me much. You know the guys who sold Crabtree his car?”
Lydia gave him straight-eyes and her full attention.
“Do you?”
She nodded. “Terry and Lancaster.”
“Well,” he said. “I’m Terry. Please, don’t scream. I’m okay.”
“You’re security?”
“You’re shitting me, right? I got this off a fag guard. Surprised how easy it is, find one off duty, offer a blow job, and next thing I know, he’s taking me to this spot where the cameras can’t see.”
“You blew him off?”
“No, I got his pants down and knocked him out with a chair. God knows when he’ll wake up.”
Lydia said, “What do you want?”
He sighed, drooped his head. “I don’t know, really. Look, I saw them rolling you down here, and I thought you were so sad. See my face, right?” He pointed to his bruise.
“Yeah, I see.”
“This is Lancaster. The guy, I’ve known him a few years, like together a lot, and he was always a little edgy. Barely this side of psycho, probably. That was okay for what we did. He was muscle, and I ran the games. It was a good living, we got by, no responsibilities.”
“Why’d he hit you?”
“I think he’s lost it. After he got shot, there’s no filter anymore between thinking it and doing it. Jesus, he’s killing people. Gonna kill your boyfriend, you know.”
Lydia said, “Unless the cops catch him first. Yeah, that’s all over now.”
“Lancaster’s hooked up with that girl you picked up. So, fuck, I’ve got to get out of here.”
“And you want me along?”
Terry grinned. “Sure, if you want to go. We’ll figure something out.”
She breathed through her mouth and wished it were a dream. Terry wasn’t bad looking, a little paunchy.
Arms, legs, home.
And then what? Cops watching her every move?
The curtains, and the perfect limbs. That’s the real me.
No, the real Lydia, she thought, liked to have control. If Alan wasn’t taking her to Miami, then this frat boy could at least take her somewhere else. He was trainable.
She smiled. “Can you get rid of the guard?”
He smiled back. “I’ve come this far.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Alan banked on dumb, tired airport personnel. He wanted on that plane to Miami, knew in his heart that Lydia wouldn’t rat him out. So he locked himself in a bathroom stall and rifled through his pockets until he found a pen and a nail clipper, one with a little file on it. He wanted to change Ronnie’s name on the ID and boarding pass to Randall, thinking maybe the security brigade would be zoned in on finding Ronnie and let this blip pass by. Fuck the little voice in his head telling him it was hopeless and he should be in the car already, putting much space and even more space between himself and this airport.
Hey, it’s Miami.
Still, why not drive it in? Hadn’t he told Lydia something similar at the hotel? Maybe eighteen hours on the road, less chance of getting noticed than trying to muscle into a plane.
I want to be there quicker.
Like a kid, this side of him taking over and trying to make this ID real-looking, not the work of a nervous guy lifting the laminate and scribbling in a fake name. Changing the Chemistry grade in high school and hoping Dad wouldn’t notice. Trying to phony the winning horse’s name on another losing ticket.
It never worked.
Here he was, trying again. If you fall off the horse—ha ha, ‘horse’—get right back in the saddle. Horses, Miami. They mixed nicely. First night in town, he would be at the track, getting the feel of things before laying a few bets. Maybe he could work his way in, somehow. Betting was only an excuse to be near the business anyway. If he couldn’t ride them, why not train them? One day, maybe own a thoroughbred.
Alan shook the daydream off and noticed the pen had slipped. He licked his thumb and tried to wipe the line away. It smeared wide. He tried more licking, rubbing, tried toilet paper. Still left with a black stain.
No one will notice, he thought. The card trembled in his fingers and he felt his chest go tight, trying to keep from crying. Everything turning to shit so fast. He squeezed his eyes shut and then blinked tears away. He steadied his hands and tried to copy the computer font on the card with his felt tip. Funny how even though he was trying hard to make this work, staying at the airport felt a lot like giving up.
*
Alan waited until the line was a little thick, still moving quickly. Part of him was hoping the guards would go ahead and cuff him, slow his heart down a bit. The guy looking at his boarding pass and ID must’ve been a retired guy, ancient and skeletal, a face like Charlton Heston, in a blue sweater that swallowed him. A quick glance down, back up, and he handed the stuff back to Alan.
“Thank you,” was all he got.
“Sure,” Alan said. He moved ahead, two black women, the younger heavy on make-up, behind the bag screener, deep in conversation, while a white woman with acne asked him to step through the metal detector. He did. Nothing went off. Alan had left his belt and a handful of change in the bathroom stall. They ran the wand around him, asked him to lift his shoes. Still okay. He was free to keep going, find the gate, and wait for boarding. Only twenty minutes left. If he could keep the momentum going before the alert was sent out, maybe, maybe, he’d be on the flight to Miami and free. No longer a killer, the first thing he decided. And he would call himself Ronnie until he could find some new ID, maybe call himself Paul. Paul was a peaceful name. Nobody bothered guys named Paul. Paul Newman, Cool Hand Luke, that said it all. Play cool. Alan had never seen that movie, thought about renting it.
*
Megan caught a glimpse of Crabtree fading into the line at the concourse security check. She pointed and said, “There!”
Lancaster hopped off the bench, slapping Megan’s arm out of the way. He took a few quick steps that direction but then stopped. Megan eased beside him.
“What?” she said.
“He gets through security, we can’t touch him. They don’t let people in there unless you fly.”
They posed all pissed for a moment, the way the cool kids were supposed to, the slumped fidgety shit. Waves of people crashed through and Lancaster took inventory, all the doors and guards—those guards now paying attention to him.
“Wanna rush the security?” he said.
Megan sighed. “Baby, we said—”
“Only if possible, right? Now it doesn’t look
possible.”
“Why do you have to do this anyway? Leave him alone. He’s a sad, sad man.”
“I already told you why.”
“You did not.”
Lancaster turned on her, angry eyes. Then he softened. “You’re right. Must’ve been Terry. I told Terry.”
Where the hell is he? Lancaster thought. Earlier, he was supposing the guy took a walk, bought a beer or went after somebody’s wallet. A while later, no word from him, Lancaster realized the little prick abandoned ship, the easy way out. He didn’t like the way it felt, like he was mad enough to rage on the closest person and then desperate like he’d forgotten everything he knew. Planning stuff was Terry’s job. Shit. Now what?
More than planning, though, it was his friend, man. Friends fight, but come on, like he really hurt Terry enough to send him running. Pussy boy needed to toughen up, that was all. So he ran off, left Lancaster in the lurch. What kind of friend was that? Dragged him out of the hospital when logic said Get lost. It comes to the real deal, finally in arm’s length of Crabtree, and that’s when he bolts?
“We need Terry,” Lancaster said.
“Jesus, he’s probably fifty miles gone by now. You don’t need him, because I’m here now.”
He laughed at her. Those guards took double notice. He laughed loud.
“Bitch, you got a plan?” he said. “You better than Terry now, so don’t be jerking my chain. Tell me the plan. How do we get to Crabtree?”
“I told you—”
Right in her face, spitting words, “What you told me was bullshit. What you said was all about getting your pretty ass out of here. What I’m telling you now is that I want a goddamn good plan to go cap Crabtree because no one—no fucking one—does what he did to me and gets away with it.”
Megan teared up, eyes glossy. “You’re insane.”
“You think?”
“Crazy.”
He grinned and shook his head slowly, her eyes following left and right. “You had this image all cooked up in your head, didn’t you? Had me pegged like Travolta in Fever, right? Fucking women, you’re only good enough for dick sucking because you’re too stupid for anything else. Shit, wanting some fairy tale? This ain’t a movie. This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco, this ain’t no foolin’ around.”
Megan balled her fists. “You want a plan? How’s this? Fuck security. I’ll bet you can get out on the tarmac, grab an orange vest, then wait for him at the plane.”
Lancaster kept the stare intense. He was somewhere else, thinking about that idea. Finally said, “That’s pretty good. Shit. That’s not half bad.”
THIRTY-SIX
Can a walk look guilty? Alan worked on making his walk very innocent as he passed several more security guards on the way to his gate. He also passed a kiosk selling pretzels, and he was starving. They sold popcorn, too, smelled good. He groped in his pocket, a wad of bills in there. He stopped and turned around, walked back to the kiosk and bought an expensive box of popcorn and a Diet Coke. It was habit, the diet stuff. The taste never grew on him. Eating handfuls and walking at the same time, Coke bottle tucked between his chest and arm, he dropped kernels and thought maybe the guards would tell him to clean up his mess. No one gave a shit. He found his gate, a pretty packed flight, lot of older people, looked like it was group or something, matching T-shirts that Alan didn’t bother to read.
He sat near the window and looked out at the tarmac, big jets lined up across the way. No plane at the Miami gate yet. Jesus, it was time to board, where was the fucking plane? He craned his neck to get a look at the monitor behind the desk—Now 10:05. Alan checked his watch. 9:20. Another forty minutes until boarding, and too much could go wrong. He lifted another handful of popcorn to his mouth, not caring how much he dropped, pieces falling on his lap, the chair next to him. Swigged the Diet Coke, wishing it were beer.
Lydia won’t tell them a thing.
She wouldn’t have to, though. She wasn’t a Jane Doe. A couple of calls, trace some credit cards, bam zoom, call it all off.
Where’s the goddamned plane?
A phone behind the desk rang. The attendant picked it up. She was tall, like Lydia had been before the accident, all the photos she showed him. The woman at the desk had long brown hair to her waist, a narrow serious face. Alan couldn’t make out the conversation but she was sure intense, and then she looked at the passengers waiting, found Alan. She blinked and turned away, speaking into the phone quickly.
Alan checked his watch. Only two minutes had passed. Hands all slick again. He wondered if the people nearby could smell the sweat on him. Something like dead flowers, sickly sweet. He focused on a jet nearly. A big sucker, maybe a 757. Too many people on cell phones, couldn’t hear himself think.
A voice over the speakers, “Passenger Whipps, please report to gate D-7 immediately. Passenger Whipps for Delta flight 405 to Miami, report to gate D-7. It’s urgent.”
Alan barely moved his head, enough to see the attendant set the handset down, the speakers clicking off. A security guard standing with her now. Jesus, that was fast. The attendant’s back was to Alan, the guard scanning the seats over her shoulder until he found Alan, obvious she was pointing him out. The fat guy, the sweaty one with the popcorn by the window.
If he ignored the call, how could they know for sure he was pretending to be who he claimed to be? Stupid, since they probably had photos and his sheet and fingerprints and god knew what else. Until they actually approached and dragged him away, there was no reason to give up yet.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Another goddamn guard. Where did they come from? Beamed in from space or shot up from tunnels?
“Sir?”
On his left. Alan turned to face him, a scrawny guy with a skimpy mustache. He probably thought the women liked it. “Yeah?”
“You’re Mr. Whipps?”
Shit. “Yes, officer. Is there a problem?”
“We need to talk to you. Your wife, you know she’s here?”
Alan wrenched his neck around, leaned forward in his chair. “She all right?”
The officer, hands on his belt, said, “Come with me, please.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The officer rolled his eyes, reached for Alan’s arm. Once the guy touched him, Alan thought, it was over. Time to play another card. Alan stood, took a step back, finger wagging the guard. “I don’t like this little guessing game. You say there’s a problem, I want to know what it is.”
He quick-stepped around carry-on luggage littering the floor, made it to the desk, right in the attendant’s face. If she was freaked, she hid it. The other guard, beefy compared to the mustache-boy, didn’t move. If they weren’t grabbing him, throwing him against a wall and spraying shit in his face, Alan thought maybe he still had a chance.
“Excuse me,” he said. “This young man here isn’t really being very helpful, and I’d like some information. This is an important flight for me, and I don’t like games. What’s going on?”
The attendant spoke like a recorded phone operator, everything the same level of ease. “You’ll have to speak to security about that. I don’t have any details.”
“Can you get them? If we’re boarding in a half-hour, I don’t want to go all the way out and then have to rush to get back, re-do security, all that.”
The big guard finally spoke. “Sir, don’t concern yourself with that right now. Just come with us.”
The mustache-boy stood behind him. Passengers watched them because they were more interesting than CNN. Still, no one had demanded anything. It was all very calm. All the news he’d heard, Alan figured they wouldn’t put up with any unruly passengers, argumentative passengers, or even those who sighed too loud. Jesus, what was the play now?
Alan said, “I have a heart condition. This isn’t helping. So what I’m going to do is sit over there behind that thing.” He pointed to a bench of three seats by the desk, partially hidden from view by a blue divider. “When you people fe
el like playing straight with me, you can do it here.”
He brushed past the big guard and walked to the bench, sat down, took up most of two cushions. Left his popcorn in the waiting area. An exaggerated glance at his watch again, big head shake. The guards stayed where they were, the little one lifting a walkie-talkie and mumbling into it.
Unless they forced him out of there, Alan guessed he had five more minutes to think of a plan. Miami was fading fast. Lancaster was probably watching from the fringes, ready to pop him soon as the chance showed itself. A body in the trunk of his Monte Carlo. He was out of luck fighting with the guards if he tried to run for it, wouldn’t get through the security gate.
Think!
And then the door to the gate opened. The plane had arrived, already letting off passengers. The first group came through the door, luggage on wheels in tow, jackets draped over arms and shoulders, every one of them looking frazzled.
Maybe inside the airport he was out of luck, but outside? Alan turned to the guards, both with cold eyes intent on him. He waved over one. The mustache-boy stepped to his side, leaned over.
Alan pulled a Pepcid from his pocket, showed the guard. “I have to take this, keeps the blood pressure down. Would you mind getting me a glass of water? I feel dizzy.”
“Sure. Be right back.” The guard headed for a kiosk.
Easier to run from one than two.
And here we go…
THIRTY-SEVEN
Security like a motherfuck, Lancaster thought. He was losing hope fast, trying to find a way onto the tarmac without being noticed. Megan trailed behind, barely saying a word since she gave him the new plan, and sure as shit didn’t bother touching him. That was fine. She’d touch him later whether she wanted to or not.
Then he laughed, a bark, already thinking about later when he needed to concentrate on the moment. It wasn’t like he was going to survive anyway. Dumb bitch putting ideas in his head. Once he fucked Crabtree up good, the security would descend on him like locusts. God, man, he wanted a gun. If he was extinguished, he wanted to take a few pigs with him. Not a chance. Things were tight in the shiny new police state. He though, Can’t a man even bring a gun to an airport? Old West folks had it made.
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