Hunting Delilah

by Anne Baines

  She had no knives or knitting needles or bottles of water on her, however, so she hoped she’d be through without an issue. The pills worried her a little, but she could always say they were aspirin or allergy medication if she had to. There wasn’t a name on the bottles at least.

  Finally a busty middle-aged woman whose hair color definitely came from a bottle arrived behind the counter and called over the girls with faces like sieves. Then it was Delilah’s turn.

  “Hi,” she said. “I need to get to Portland, Oregon. Today.”

  “We have a flight leaving in about an hour that would get you to Portland about two this afternoon, local time,” the woman said, her fingers clacking on the keys. “There are some seats open, but you’ll be pushing it to get on, they’ll be boarding soon.”

  Delilah wondered if the woman typed as fast and thoroughly as she talked. When the woman finally took a breath, Delilah said, “Okay, that’s fine. How much? And I need only a one-way ticket.” She dug her hands into her pockets to stop the tremors of fear that danced through her fingertips.

  “One-way? Two-fifty-seven. I have an aisle or a middle seat?”

  Shit. “Um, do you have an exit row maybe? I like room.”

  The woman made a face at her that clearly implied that if Delilah liked room she probably should have booked her flight more than an hour in advance.

  “No, though I do have a seat in first class right at the front, plenty of leg room there.” Her watery blue eyes glanced over Delilah and her expression made it clear she didn’t think much of what she saw.

  “How much for that seat?” Delilah ignored the woman, mentally calculating how much money she had.

  “Eight-hundred-ninety-six dollars.”

  “I want that one.” Delilah dug into her pocket and counted out the bills. It would take most of her money, but money didn’t matter. Delilah could always find a way to get more if she needed it.

  “Name and Identification, please?” The woman’s eyes widened a little at the wad of cash, but she became all business once again.

  Delilah pulled out her fake driver’s license. She checked the name and address quickly before handing it over, mentally reminding herself who she was supposed to be.

  She gave her name and filled out the little form the woman gave her. Her stomach felt like an anthill, tiny feet burning their way through her insides. A part of her hoped that something would go wrong now, just a little wrong. Just enough to take away this decision. She could run from here, say oh well, she’d tried.

  But the US Airways woman handed her back her ID and asked if she wanted to check her bag.

  “No, thanks,” Delilah said. She took the printout with her gate number on it and the boarding pass.

  It was good, she reflected, that she was so fucked up physically. Walking slowly wouldn’t attract much attention and her wound kept her from running anywhere. She walked to security and held out her boarding pass and ID again.

  The older black man, who looked bored enough to be barely conscious, only glanced at her face before marking her boarding pass and waving her into line.

  She watched the other people go through the machines, noting how they removed their shoes and coats and belts. A couple people were taken aside, randomly as far as she could tell, and given a once-over with a wand-like device. A drug-dog, a German Shepherd, spun in little bored circles around his keeper to one side.

  Delilah sighed and wondered what had happened to Max. Hopefully he’d made it home or been picked up by someone nice. He’d sort of saved her life, she felt pretty rotten about leaving him out in the rain like that. It’d seemed necessary at the time. She could add it to her list of fuck-ups in the last two days.

  Bending over to remove her sandals made her whimper and Delilah bit her lower lip hard enough to taste blood. She removed her sweatshirt as well, glancing down to check for blood. Her tee-shirt remained clean.

  She emptied her pockets into her duffle bag and put it all on the belt. She watched her bag start to go through the machine, then turned to the small woman who beckoned her through the metal detector. There was no reason to be nervous, but that didn’t stop her. Visions of a tiny cell with no windows and only a single locked door took over her mind.

  Delilah forced herself to smile and stepped through the detector. The woman’s eyes flicked up to some screen or something, and then she nodded.

  “Thank you, go through.” The woman pointed her back at the conveyor belt where Delilah’s stuff awaited, piling up with the gray bins of others.

  Relief shot through her and then was gone again. She pulled on her sandals and her sweatshirt, lifting her bag carefully so as not to aggravate her stitches worse. She pulled out the little bottle of painkillers and tucked it into her sweatshirt pocket.

  She’d made it through security. But now she had to go to the gate, and get on the plane.

  Flying tin can death-trap. And that was if Ted wasn’t waiting at the gate for her. She hadn’t seen any other morning flights on the giant screen. So either he was waiting for her or he was long gone. Either way, how would she handle him?

  With the ants in her belly swarming over as her stomach turned to ropes, Delilah walked slowly toward her gate, her bag clutched in front of her like a shield.

  Thirty

  Delilah skirted the gate, watching for Ted. The hum of conversations seemed somehow farther off than they were, an infernal buzzing in her ears, as though everyone were speaking a different language. Walking by a cinnamon roll vender nearly knocked her over, the hot, sweet smells waking her hunger. But she couldn’t think about food, or anything else. Not yet.

  Not until she confirmed that Ted wasn’t at the gate, waiting to get onto the same plane she was. It would be hard enough to walk down the closed corridor to a tin deathtrap. If he’d boarded already, if he were waiting for her.

  She shivered and zipped up her sweatshirt. Hovering near a column, she scanned the crowd around the gate. Not too many people, that was good. Tall, handsome Ted should stand out in this group. Most everyone else looked like college kids going home with a family or two calming little children, or a group of business people. She eyed the business people the hardest, shifting to make sure of each face. If Ted were going to hide here, that would be his kind of folk.

  Her heart thumped hard in her chest as one man rose to his feet. His back was to her, but he looked broad and well-built enough to possibly be Ted. Delilah struggled to recall how long Ted’s hair had been, what the exact shade was. All she could remember clearly was his face, those empty cold eyes and his damp mouth pressing against her.

  The businessman turned and even before he’d started walking toward a magazine kiosk she relaxed. He looked good through the shoulders, but in turning he’d revealed a gut barely held in by a belt that cost more than Delilah had on her. She glanced at his face anyway, just to be sure, and confirmed that this wasn’t playboy Teddy.

  Two men in TSA uniforms walked by and abruptly Delilah knew exactly what she’d do if Ted showed his face here. There were multiple exits, fire doors, other gates. She could maybe even slip away into the growing crowd. After she yelled something like “that guy has a gun” or perhaps a bomb. It was an airport so they’d have to take something like that seriously. Anything to delay him, get him into custody.

  Some of her fear faded away as the plan formed and she studied each person approaching the gate, half-hoping now that psycho Teddy would appear.

  One of the people in uniform behind the check-in counter called out that they’d be boarding soon, special-needs passengers, people with small children, and first-class first. Delilah sighed. She wouldn’t be first on that plane. No need to sit there terrified any longer than necessary.

  With a final glance around for anyone resembling the man who’d stabbed her, Delilah turned back the way she had come and walked down the line of food stations. The cinnamon rolls called to her, hot and sticky. But her aching belly told her that she’d just throw up if she ate anything
solid, and there was nothing in the world that would get Delilah into a tiny plane bathroom.

  Though the flight was over five hours long, she decided she could risk a smoothie. She had to eat or drink something and it would help the pills she planned to take go down a lot better.

  She got a strawberry and banana smoothie, paying way too much for it, and leaned on the counter while she waited for the young blonde in a ridiculously colorful uniform to finish making her order. The last day had caught up to her and she blinked rapidly to keep the world in focus.

  “Miss, a number four?” The blonde’s voice was low and pleasant.

  Delilah shoved off the counter and tried to smile. “Thanks,” she said.

  About half the waiting people had boarded by the time Delilah got back to her gate. She decided not to sit down and wait, fearing she’d never get up. Instead she took small sips of the cold smoothie, sliding ice crystals back and forth through her teeth and trying to pretend she was just another girl going home.

  That thought made her laugh and she wiped banana and berry bits off her chin with one sleeve. She was going home, in a way. Born and raised in Oregon, though her father hadn’t moved them to Portland until she’d been in middle school. She hadn’t been back in years, not since the final fight with Jake, the final fight with Colin.

  She closed her eyes, forcing the memories away.

  Time passed too quickly and soon Delilah was nearly the last person at the gate. She walked forward, pulling out her boarding pass and ID.

  The small man ran her ticket through the barcode scanner, glanced at her ID, and then waved her through.

  She took a couple shallow breaths and stepped into the tunnel. Though it was probably six feet wide, Delilah felt squeezed in and she had to work to not hyperventilate. Slow, easy breaths, Dee. This wouldn’t kill her. The plane might, but not this damn tunnel. There was an exit at the end, a door hanging open as a couple guys passed strollers and an oversized bag outside.

  She paused by that opening to warm, fresh daylight.

  “Miss? We’re getting ready to close the doors.” A flight attendant stepped away from the entrance of the plane and beckoned to her.

  Delilah nodded, not trusting her voice, and forced herself to cross into the plane.

  It was worse in here, tight and dark compared to the tunnel. She handed her pass to the attendant and was shown to the first seat. Delilah let the woman put her duffle bag up overhead. The seat was big and cushy, half-swallowing Delilah as she sank into it. She set her smoothie into the cup holder and slowly pulled her seatbelt closed across her hips.

  The flight attendants started locking down the plane and Delilah shoved a fist into her mouth to keep from telling them to stop. Thousands of people fly on planes and don’t die, she told herself over and over. She would be fine. With the cup holder and seatbelt she could almost trick herself into believing she was in a car. Almost.

  At least no one was sitting in the seat next to her. With shaking hands she pulled out the painkillers and fished out three. With a sigh she dumped one back into the bottle. She was running low on pills and anyway, the flight wasn’t that long. If the drugs and her own exhaustion knocked her out too hard, she might not wake in time. She hoped two would be enough. Delilah glanced around and then swallowed both pills with a couple sips of her smoothie.

  “Blanket, miss?” One of the flight attendants, having sealed the deathtrap, offered Delilah a folded square of blue-gray fabric.

  “Yes, thanks.” Delilah didn’t even bother with a smile. She took the blanket and unfolded it over herself.

  The plane started to taxi out of the gate, the engine humming and rattling. Delilah swore she heard creaking and even cracking in the wall near her head. She leaned into the window and watched the sunlit asphalt slide past beneath them. Listening to the safety briefing, Delilah made herself finish her smoothie and handed the empty cup to one of the flight attendants as they passed by to take up their seats in the front.

  Delilah had just convinced herself this wasn’t so terrible, after all, the door was right there near her and the ground really only a few feet away, when the plane started gaining speed. The pavement became a blur and then suddenly she felt almost weightless as the tin can lifted off into the sky. Somewhere behind her, in the economy class seats, a baby started crying.

  Delilah closed her eyes, thinking of sunlight and ocean and huge open spaces. She tried to trick herself into believing she was in a car, driving far far away from any troubles, entirely in control. Driving toward dark pine and fir forests, cities with clean streets, and clear, fresh air filled with the scent of rain. Toward a man with warm, dark eyes who loved her, his face full of forgiveness and his arms strong as they folded around her body. Going home.

  Mercifully, the pills started doing their magic and the pain faded to a dull ache as her mind floated away from the hum of the plane and off into dreams.

  Thirty-one

  It was technically his day off, but Sam couldn’t help showing up the next morning. He didn’t know how fast Mike’s lab could run the DNA or if CODIS would even have a hit for them. But it didn’t matter. If he were at his desk, he would be ready to do whatever was necessary to help Donna.

  Her large, scared eyes had haunted his sleep, the lingering smell of clove cigarettes and rain followed him around his dump of an apartment as he’d manically tried to undo years of neglect in a single night. Sam’s car and home were cleaner now, but his head stayed cobwebbed and confused.

  He walked through the bull-pen and flicked the light on in his office. It was still early enough that either everyone was out on patrol or sleepily wandering in for the shift change at seven. From the delicious, acidic smell cutting across the usual almost musty smell of the station, Sam knew someone was in the tiny break room brewing fresh coffee. He made a mental note to go get some soon. After he checked his email.

  He swiveled his chair around and sighed. Propped in his seat was a large yellow wheel lock with a giant pink bow on it. Rocco and Petty. Great. Sam shook his head and pushed the heavy metal bar onto the floor, nudging it under his desk with his foot. He’d deal with them later.

  Sam opened his email and his heart started beating a little faster as he saw a message from Mike’s lab address, the time stamp saying it was sent twenty minutes before he’d arrived at the office.

  Hey Sam, the email began, got those samples. I’ll start on this right away and see what we can get. I’ll call you with results whenever that is. Maybe later today? You owe me, so call your damn sister. TTYL Mike.

  Sam stared at the email for a moment and then sighed. Guiltily, he tried to remember the last time he’d called Nina at all and couldn’t. He did not want to talk to his sister, to hear that mix of pity and exasperation in her voice.

  He got up out of his chair and headed toward the break room to get a cup of coffee. He’d call Nina soon. Part of getting his life back on some semblance of a track. Sam knew he needed to reconnect with people, people like Nina and Ronnie and all those who had patiently put up with his crap over the years.

  Later. After all this was settled, one way or another. Meanwhile, it looked like coffee and a lot of solitaire while he waited. His fingers itched and Sam considered going out for a smoke, but shoved that craving aside. No more smoking. He smelled too much like an ashtray already. Well, an ashtray mixed with cookies. At least cloves had a bit of sweetness in them to cut the acrid tobacco scent. But he’d had enough.

  Sam grabbed a cup of coffee and walked quickly back to his desk with his head down. It was too early for the Lieutenant to be in, but he was still nervous and not in the mood for idle chatter this morning. He had no idea how far the story of last night and his car had spread. Knowing Rocco and Petty, probably everywhere. Those two could spread gossip like it was peanut butter on toast.

  Sam’s stomach growled as he shut his office door. There was jerky and a Snickers in his desk that could keep him going for a while yet. Those and coffee. He set the cup
down on a paper napkin already ringed with multiple stains.

  Solitaire, or catching up on paperwork. Sam sat heavily in his chair and ran a hand through his thinning hair. Then he dug into his jean’s pocket and pulled out a quarter. Heads, solitaire. Tails, work.

  The coin flipped into the air, spinning around and around as it fell.

  The hours ticked by and the remainders of Sam’s coffee grew stale and cold in his cup. Though his quarter had landed in favor of computer games, he ended up doing a bunch of paperwork, filling out some forms, checking over his people’s schedules and reports for errors, and other busy work he usually hated and put off. And refreshing his email and checking his phone every few minutes.

  There were five ignored messages from Nina on his cell, as well as two from their mother, and one that he thought was a dentist appointment reminder. No call from Mike yet.

  Finally, just as he decided to open a new game of solitaire, his cell rang, the number coming up as unlisted.

  “Detective Arbichaut here,” Sam said, not sure if it was the FBI lab.

  “Hey, Sam.” The sound of Mike’s baritone through the cell got Sam’s heart pounding again. Sam was sure that Mike had found something or he wouldn’t have called.

  “Got something for me?” Sam forced himself to speak calmly.

  “Maybe. I’m still sorting some of these results. There was a lot of mixing and contamination. Looks like so far, from the house in Daytona, we’ve got two females and one male donor. The male matches the home-owner sample Ronnie sent, so we know who he is. I ran a clean sample from one female through CODIS and got a partial match. Ronnie’s supposed to send a sample to match up to female Unsub two, but sounds like she has a lot to handle. And as I said, I’m still sorting here and matching each sample to the others I was sent.”

  A partial match. It was something at least. “What kind of match?”