Skygods (Hydraulic #2)
Page 33
“You have nothing to be sorry about.” She cleared her throat. “Be safe.”
“I love you.”
“Love you too, Aspen Kaye.”
There were ghosts in Boston and Samuel chased them. I didn’t understand why they still had such a hold on him after all these years, though it was all tangled in the fear he’d end up like his mother. I was petrified his flight was some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy.
In a way, aren’t we all afraid we’ll become our parents? Our parents could be saints or the scum of the earth; most fall somewhere in between. But because they are our parents, we see the flaws. Sometimes we remember the faults more than the good and we swear, up and down, we’ll never do that to our children, spouse, friends. Yet, no matter how much we fight the tide, we see a little more of them in ourselves with the passing of each day…
“Just to be clear,” I said to the woman at the gate check-in for my shuttle flight to Boston, “a person can fly with human ashes, as long as the urn is a carry-on and goes through X-ray? You don’t need some sort of prior dispensation from the airline?”
The woman sighed. “I told you three times, ma’am. We understand how painful losing a loved one is, and we respect anyone traveling with crematory remains. Typically our security screeners will allow an opaque urn through if they can see what’s inside.”
“And you can’t tell me whether my friend was on the previous flight?”
“No, ma’am. If you ask again, I’ll have to call security.”
Damn it, she’d tell me if this was a chick flick, then sob about the rarity of true love.
I dropped into my seat and crossed my arms, glaring at travelers as they wheeled through the concourse. Two whole hours on standby until the next available flight! I should have taken the train, but Justin swore up on down this was the quickest way to get to Boston. Mom’d beat me to Boston, at this rate. Nine o’clock…seven in Colorado. Alonso and Sofia would just be waking up. She’d play her up-an’-at-’em music in the kitchen and he’d read the paper. They’d smile at each other over coffee, both unaware their son had now been missing for eight hours.
I should call them.
My fingers shook as I scrolled to their number. I’d call them. They’d tell me not to panic, that Alonso would meet me in Boston and take care of everything, and wouldn’t it be best if I just went back to Boulder and saw to my lagging TrilbyJones accounts?
I couldn’t do it.
But Samuel is their son. They need to know.
Not yet. Not until I find Samuel.
He gave you power of attorney. They won’t shut you out.
I can’t.
The gate attendant’s voice crackled through the speakers, announcing the first boarding call for my flight. I didn’t have time now, anyway. I chucked my cell phone in my messenger bag and fell into line with other bleary-eyed passengers.
I tried to sleep on the brief flight to Boston. I’d been awake for twenty-eight hours straight. Not just any twenty-eight hours. Press interviews. Celebrities. PR coups. Fisticuffs. Legal documents for birthday presents and missing boyfriends. And a brisk jog through Washington Heights. Mr. Sandman would have knocked any normal person flat on their face. But sleep was as elusive as ever. The waiting was killing me. I willed the plane to go faster, to cut through the next cloud bank and poof!—there’s Boston.
Just as Samuel chased his ghosts, I chased him. I’d always chased Samuel…in age, achievement, friendships, family, secrets. He was my best friend. My lover. My world. And still, he was forever an arm ahead of me. He told me he belonged to me, but I’d never really truly caught him, had I? Was I doomed to repeat this chase over and over until the day I died?
If something happened to Samuel, if he…
A horrible pain in my heart ripped through me, and I bit my clenched fist. I thought…maybe…I might die, too.
“Take me to Fenway Park,” I said to the grizzled cabbie as I slid into the backseat, outside Logan International.
“In town for the game? It’s going to be a zoo, ma’am, just a head’s up. I’ll get you as close as I can.” I noticed he had a tiny plastic Red Sox helmet dangling from his mirror.
“That’s fine,” I sighed. Of course there was a home game this afternoon. “Who’re they playing?” I needed noise or I’d go crazy.
“Second game in the Orioles series. Pedroia’s lookin’ to surpass one hundred RBIs, so it’ll be a good ’un if the Sox can keep their heads out of their asses.”
I nodded, my eyes widening at the foreignness of the choppy Boston Harbor as we sped along the turnpike and into the city. I squinted against the midday sun, glinting against the downtown skyline. Traffic was heavy. All inbound lanes crawled to a stop, crept along, then stopped again. “Some sort of delay,” said the cabbie. “Typical weekday. We’re heading into the Back Bay Fens.” A semi pulled up alongside us, blocking my view of the river. I slid to the other window and watched as the road narrowed and passed into a neighborhood dense with brown brick, trees, and a towering Citgo Oil sign in the distance. I remembered the sign from televised Red Sox games, and I thought we must be close to the ballpark.
I tried to imagine Samuel seeing all of this as a child, from the backseat of his mother’s car. Were we anywhere near the place he used to live? Beacon Hill, he’d told me.
“Where’s Beacon Hill from here?”
“Back east a half mile or so. You got friends in one of those big ol’ mansions?”
“My husband used to live there,” I murmured.
The cabbie whistled. “Some husband.”
“He is.”
I checked my phone. Four missed calls from Jerome. Two from Samuel’s doctor. One each from Lexi, Justin, Indigo, Caroline, Patrick. Nothing from my mother. And nothing from Samuel, obviously. I had his phone in my purse.
I listened to Caroline’s message:
“I haven’t heard from him since the day you both visited my home. Let me know when you find him…”
Every single voice message from the others was the same, except for Jerome’s.
“Ms. Trilby, you must call me. I need to confer with Mr. Cabral if we’re to manage last night’s unfortunate event effectively and to our advantage…”
Fat chance, Mr. Buitre. Spin was on the back burner and last night seemed so far away.
“Only a few blocks,” said the cabbie. “I don’t think I can get you any closer.”
“Son-of-a-monkey.” I took in the thousands of people buzzing around Fenway Park like red and white bees, a massive swarm of Sox caps, jerseys, and foam fingers. And this was an hour before the game. Fans poured in and out of a dozen sports bars surrounding the compact ballpark, and the entire neighborhood unleashed a strangling claustrophobia. Prospects of finding Samuel in this mess? Bleak.
“Is it always like this?”
“Most game days, unless it’s raining. Even then, there’s always the diehards. I think they’re handing out bobble-heads today, so it’s a good thing you got here early. That’ll be twenty-two dollars.”
I handed him my card. Well, there went my plan. I couldn’t exactly go up to a security guard and ask him if he’d seen a thirty-year-old man in a Red Sox hat and jeans wandering around the ballpark. Hefting my bag onto my shoulder, I set out blind, hunting for some sign that Samuel was here.
I pushed my way through the crowds, standing on tiptoes to see over thunderous people raising their beer cups like toasts and shouting to their buddies. I was jostled by sticky kids on leashes dragging parents laden with strollers and diaper bags, street vendors selling Red Sox gear. The entire place was rife with festive excitement. If Samuel was with me, he’d be blinking up at Fenway’s shabby brick entrance like it was the Gate of Heaven. He would have laid down a fortune on pennants and gear within the first five minutes.
That’s where I started—the street vendors.
I sidled up to a bearded vendor not far from Ted Williams’ bronze immortalization, hocking plastic beer hats.
The vendor gave me a helpless shrug and said something. I cursed my bad ear in the midst of the ballpark cacophony and asked him to repeat it. “Lady, that could be half of Beantown,” he shouted.
“But an urn?”
“Like I said.”
Four more vendors and two security guards—no luck. “Is he here for the game?” one of them asked, handing me a hot dog.
“Um, maybe. He didn’t have a ticket.”
“Unless he’s paying big bucks on the street, he won’t get in. Wait around an hour until the crowd thins out. You might spot him.”
Hope blossomed in my chest. “Right. Absolutely right, thank you.” I took a bite from the dog, cringing as repulsive green relish oozed over my fingers.
My phone vibrated. I wiped my hands then whipped it out. My mother.
“Mom?”
“Kaye, I’m at Logan Airport. Now what?”
I wandered north, looking for a landmark. Citgo sign, perfect. “Look for the big Citgo sign in Kenmore Square, and there’s a coffee shop where we can meet. Take a cab and I’ll wait for you there.”
Forty minutes later, my mother strode into the coffee and donut shop, outright exhausted in a faded flannel shirt, her eyes baggy. Even her curls drooped. I flew at her.
“Mom.” She scooped me into a hug as if I were five. I cried into her shoulder, sucking in air and that earthy, Lyons scent that was all Gail. She stroked my hair.
“It’s all right, Aspen Kaye, we’ll find him. Right after I get a coffee.”
We settled into a booth. She blew across a cup of steaming black coffee and I told her what I knew.
“No one’s seen him, huh?”
I shook my head. “I’m beginning to think I was wrong, that maybe he didn’t come here.”
“What made you so sure it was Fenway Park?”
“He dwells on this place. His mother—his birth mother—promised to take him here a long time ago. Right before she killed herself, she was obsessed with spreading her husband’s ashes at Fenway. It was a manic fixation of hers and I thought, well…with the way he’s been eyeing her urn as of late…” Geez, it sounded crazy, even to my ears.
“Are you afraid he’s going to…?” She grimaced and dragged a thumb across her neck.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “Yesterday, I would have said no way. But now? I’m realizing I don’t know how deep this fear of his runs—or anything about this illness, except nothing about it is logical.”
“Fear?”
“Fear of hurting me like his mother hurt him. That’s why he left, the first time.”
“Kid never did do things half-assed, did he?” She studied her chipped nails with sober, pain-heavy eyes. She took another sip then tossed the rest of the contents in the garbage. “Well, I guess it’s useless to sit around and try to make sense of an illness that doesn’t make sense.” She tightened the bandana over her hair. “We should start looking.”
“How hard can it be to find a manic man trying to dump his cremated mom beneath the Green Monster?” I grumbled.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder, causing me to jump. “Excuse me. I’m sorry to eavesdrop. Did you say you’re looking for a man with a cremation urn?”
My breath caught in my throat. I looked up at the portly man and then beyond him, saw a tableful of off-duty security guards in bright red polos, walkie-talkies at their hips.
Mom winked at me and tugged me toward the table. “Yeah. Seen one of those around, lately?”
One of the guards chuckled. “You’d be surprised how many fans try to dump ashes on the field. Just heard some buzz over the radio, though. Security’s bringing out a guy right now who jumped the barrier. Crowd went nuts over it.”
“Young guy, dark brown hair, lots of hum about being famous. Didn’t you say that, Wayne?”
“Yup. Was lugging around a backpack and an urn. Security tackled him because he smuggled in that bag—bomb scare and all, but it was just filled with papers. They’ve called for police backup to arrest him for trespassing and disorderly conduct.”
“Samuel,” I breathed. He was okay. On his way to jail, most likely, but okay. Oh, thank God, thank God. I pressed my hands over my heart and felt it race. My mother squeezed my shoulder.
“That was his name, yeah.” Wayne gave me a curious once-over. “Last I heard, security was trying to get in touch with someone who knew the guy. They called the phone number on record and didn’t get a response.” I dug into my purse and pulled out his phone. Sure enough, there were missed calls from an unknown number. “Then they tried his emergency contact—Caroline something—but the number was disconnected.”
“Caroline Ortega.” She’d still be on record, wouldn’t she?
“I assume they’ll take him to lockup?” my mother asked. I widened my eyes; she watched too many Law & Order marathons.
“Yeah, D-4. That’s next to the Cathedral of the Holy Cross, can’t miss it,” the first man said, jabbing a thumb behind him.
“Thanks so much for your help.” I actually hugged the security guard. He politely patted me on the back as my mother rolled her eyes.
I grabbed my purse and Mom slung her bag over her shoulder. We pushed through the crowds around Fenway Park, much lighter now that the game had started. Organ music pumped over the brick walls and along Yawkey Street, gearing the fans up for what sounded like a Sox up-to-bat.
We’ll go to a game sometime, Samuel, I silently promised.
I heard his impassioned shouts mingling with the crowd noise, though I couldn’t see him. My mother grabbed my elbow and we sprinted toward a cluster of security guards leaving Fenway Park. A small gathering had begun to form around the scene, several taking pictures with camera phones. Crap, this mess would be on the Internet in two minutes flat—Samuel Caulfield Cabral, arrested in Boston.
“Fucking fat-asses, let go of me,” he bellowed. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“Samuel!” I pushed through the crowd.
“Kaye? Kaye!” he screamed. His head strained above the security guards, his unmistakable mess of hair matted from a hat that was now long gone. There was no sign of his laptop, either, but one of the guards carried his backpack and the urn. Every inch of him pulsed with manic energy, from his feral eyes to his wrenching limbs. I insinuated myself in the huddle and placed a hand on Samuel’s chest. A guard shouldered me out of the way.
“Ma’am, step back, please.”
“Kaye!” Frenzied ice eyes swept over me. “Oh fuck, I can’t believe you’re here. Tell them to stop taking my goddamned picture. Tell them who I am, Kaye, tell them I’m fucking famous. You know who I am. Tell them.”
A guard snorted. “Sure you are. We’ll just let you go then, Mr. Pitt.”
“Don’t antagonize him,” I sobbed. “Please, please let me touch him.”
“She’s family,” my mother explained.
The guards silently conferred, then nodded, keeping Samuel’s hands firmly trapped behind his back.
I stepped up to him and pressed a cautious palm to his face, feeling its flush.
“Hey, Sky Eyes,” Samuel slurred, gazing down at me. “That’s what she called me, you know? Sky Eyes. She said I was a fucking disgrace. She didn’t want to see my goddamned sky eyes staring at her. Fuck her. I don’t know why I even bothered, but here I am, at Fenway, and she can smack her own ugly face and keep her foam fingers and Wade Boggs posters. I can buy my own shit.”
My fingers trailed his jawbone. “I know. I’m so sorry.”
“They’re going to let me go, right? So I can go back in there? I have to take care of this, Kaye; that’s what she wanted me to do. She’ll never leave me alone until I do it.”
“T
ry to calm him down,” my mom hissed. “If he assaults a cop when they get here, that’s a felony.”
I nodded. “I love you, Samuel, so much. But you need to calm down, okay? Go with the officers when they get here. Don’t fight them.” I reached up on tip-toes and placed a soft kiss on his chin.
“I love you,” he mumbled. “I’ll try to be a better person. I swear I’ll be so good for you.”
“You are good for me.”
Samuel began to settle down, just as sirens grew louder and two police cars arrived.
“They’ll take me into Fenway, Kaye? Tell them, tell them, tell them they need to take me back in there.”
“We’ll go back in some day,” I soothed. God help me, I would not lie to him, not again.
My mother pulled me from the scene, but I couldn’t look away. Two cops forced him to the ground and cuffed him. Another read him his rights. Jerking him to his feet, they guided him toward the squad cars. His eyes went wild as realization painted him red, and he tried to twist out of their grip.
“You fucking tricked me! You’re helping her, Kaye! You lied to me! Kaye!” The police shoved him into the back of the car and closed the door, but I could still hear his fury.
He doesn’t mean it. He’s not well. Tears dripped from my chin and coated my neck. Mom handed me a tissue. I took it and scrubbed my face, then returned it, vaguely aware of her stuffing it into her pocket.
We stood there, somberly watching Samuel struggle and flail, hitting the reinforced car window with his shoulder. At last, the squad car flipped its lights and sirens, and pulled away.
“I don’t think I’m strong enough for him, Mom,” I whispered.
“Whoever ends up with that man will need the patience of a saint, that’s for sure.” My mother sighed. “Your father’s going to tell you to race the other way and don’t look back.”
“What do you think?”
She pressed her lips together. “Are you willing to fight this thing he has?”
“I’d like to try. You probably think I’m being foolish, don’t you?”