He could hear people in the bar laughing. The couple behind him was sharing their wildest travel stories. Each story out did the last one as the conversation progressed. He could hear the slight slurs in their speech. It was obvious both had been drinking for quite some time. The man was cursing like a devil with each story. His language got progressively worse with each scotch and water. His girlfriend was of zero class and less intelligence. She was tattooed all the way up her left arm. Each time she told a travel story she included a tattoo she received on that trip. If she traveled anymore she would be a billboard by year's end. The last thing Aaron needed was trailer park trash sitting behind him. He could not move though. His table was perfectly positioned in the back of the bar at the farthest point from any traffic.
His short, stubby waitress came back with his gin and tonic. She also handed him a napkin with three more limes on it. “You look tired sweetheart, I figured you deserve as much lime as I can give you. I was also a little heavy on the gin for you sweetie.”
She winked at him while nudging him in the shoulder and walked back into the crowd and smoke. He almost wanted to hug her. She was polite and that was what he needed most again. He found himself drifting back and forth into daydreams about his family. He prayed they were safe every twenty minutes it seemed.
Off in the far corner of the bar, Aaron noticed a small hallway with a sign above it that read: KITCHEN, with an arrow pointing down the hallway. It seemed like the perfect setting for a pay phone, he thought. Although he could not see one from where he was sitting, he just figured there would be one there. He could call his father's house from there. The call from a pay phone would not be traced and no one probably knew to tap phone wires in New York at his father's house. He had to call to check on them.
He made the phone call collect for two reasons. He did not want to use his calling card for the same reason he would not use credit cards or ATM cards. He also was down to almost nothing in his wallet and needed to conserve his money. He told the operator that his name was 'Ritchie'. His wife used to call him Ritchie Rich when they first met. Aaron's father made very good money back then and always helped them out with cash when they were younger and times were tough. Using the name Ritchie would further confuse any uninvited listeners. The phone hardly rang when he heard his wife answer.
The operator could not even finish her speech. Emily accepted the charges. “Baby? Are you OK? What's going on?”
“I'm OK,” he said, not letting on completely to save his wife from a nervous breakdown. “I have been followed a lot, but I think I lost them.”
“Who is 'they' sweetie? Who is following you? You didn't do anything!” She began to cry.
“I think they are, well, I know this sounds crazy, but I think they are Secret Service guys or something.” Aaron explained in a low whisper to his wife as his eyes shot back and forth.
“Baby, what s going to happen? I'm a wreck here, ya' know?”
“I'm confident it's all gonna' work out.” That was a lie. “I just need another day or so. I miss you guys and I just wanted you to know that I am fine. I have to go Em, I can't sit on the phone.”
Emily Gallo began to sob on the phone. She tried to speak. Her tears and sobs were too much. Aaron hated doing what he had to do next. He hung up the phone, scared to be on the phone for more than a minute. After he hung up the headpiece, he stood there, right hand still clutching the headpiece, staring at the ground. A small Spanish man bumped in to him as he walked past him towards the kitchen, it scared the daylights out of him. He was a different man today then he was seventy-two hours ago. He was always on the defensive. He trusted no one and death meant half to him today than what it meant at the beginning of the week. He headed back to his table.
The drunken couple was now leaning across the table in their booth making out in the bar. Aaron had seen it all in the last few days yet this still made him roll his eyes. They began to talk about their wedding. The groom-to-be was telling her how their trip after the 'fucking wedding' was going to be first class. He was going to take her to Myrtle Beach for a long weekend. His cousin Billy Bob had a nice camper down there on one of the nicest campgrounds near the beach. He would be able to take Friday and Monday off from the plant for their honeymoon. She seemed equally as excited. They kissed some more and then ordered shots of Wild Turkey.
Aaron wanted to suggest that the waitress stop serving them but the last thing he needed was to draw any attention to himself. Pissing off a drunken red neck would have been like hanging a flashing neon light around his neck while standing naked in the Vatican. The red neck would make sure everyone was aware that he was about to punch some guys’ lights out. Aaron decided to keep his mouth shut.
Bubba told his bride to be that he had to go “take a squirt” and that he would be right back. As he lifted up his weary body and swung around towards the bathroom, he tripped over Aaron's left foot. Aaron quickly apologized to the drunken red neck. Bubba stopped, swayed slightly, and shot a look down upon Aaron. He mouthed out the word, “Asshole” and walked on to the bathroom. Aaron bit his bottom lip, clenched his fists under his table and smiled at the onlookers at a near by table. Somehow, some way, he swore revenge on his fellow patron in the bar.
Aaron slowly turned around to pretend he was looking for a clock on the wall. He was dying to get a better look at the bride to be. He noticed her face down on the table. Her eyes were shut. She was officially passed out. It would be funny to watch the big drunken ogre get back to the table to find his one and only true love completely unconscious.
Bubba came swaying around the corner from the bathroom. He stumbled over is own feet. Seemingly, he had not even noticed his true love face down on the table yet. He glared at Aaron as he walked by him again, still unaware of his surprise waiting at the table. Once he sat down Aaron heard the man mutter more expletives under his breath. He kicked his bag out from beside his feet on the floor to get up and shake his girlfriend. A bankroll was jarred loose from the bag when he kicked it. The man never noticed it. Aaron looked around. All eyes were either on the man and his passed out girlfriend, or in a completely different direction. Nobody saw the thick rolled up, rubber band bound money on the floor. Aaron grabbed his own personal bag on the floor, leaned forward, scooped up the money roll and began towards the exit. He found his waitress on the way out. He gave her a twenty-dollar bill from the roll, which far exceeded his total, told her to keep the change and swiftly moved out of the bar.
Aaron walked to the main bathroom in the airport. He was six gates from the bar. He went into a stall and removed the roll of money from his pocket and counted out seven hundred and fifty eight dollars. Aaron was back in business. He felt no remorse. He flushed the toilet to make it sound like he was actually doing something in there, then he exited the bathroom and headed for another bar about five more gates away. He still had about six hours before Grant arrived.
Aaron motioned for the waitress. She was there in less than twenty seconds. She was a tall, slender woman. Her dark brown hair was long and wiry enough to make Aaron worry about it getting tangled with his food and drink as she delivered. Aaron did not particularly care at this point. He ordered the Gamecock Deluxe and another gin and tonic. It was the biggest burger on the menu. It almost reminded him of the one he ordered from the old maid back at his hotel. He only got about three bites off of that one. He would eat the entire sandwich this time.
The waitress took his order and disappeared behind a wall covered in sheet metal with a little hole cut out in the middle to give the kitchen employees their orders. This lanky woman was going back there to fix it herself.
She brought him his cheeseburger with a smile. Aaron lowered his head into the attack position and went to work on the glorious burger. It was almost four inches thick and stacked high with crisp lettuce, bacon, and tomatoes. He ate all of it extremely fast and then he went for the fries. Each fry was better than its predecessor. He ordered another drink to wash it down.
As he slept he dreamed of the First Lady sitting in a small office at her computer talking with Aaron. She kept telling him to “just get this over with.” He would wake up momentarily and tell himself that he was dreaming. He would fall back to sleep and almost immediately jump back into the same dream. She was standing now in front of the computer desk telling him how sweet he was. The dream struck him as odd.
Aaron opened his eyes to the sound of two young children playing a fierce game of cowboys and Indians. The game centered on his row of seats. His first thought was the whereabouts of these children's parents. If these were his children he would have given both of them the silent pointing of the finger from his chair. He would have gritted his teeth once he got their attention. He then would have moved his pointed finger to the spot directly in front of him. His children would have gotten the message almost immediately and ran to their father. He was a good parent. There were no beatings for disobedient children. He treated them fairly, yet they knew the rules. There would be no arguing. These children, obviously, were not trained as well. There was no parent in sight.
Aaron rubbed his eyes and stretched his aching muscles. It felt good to stretch his arms high in the air. He stretched his legs out in front of him as hard as he could, still out of his senses a little. He could easily restore himself with a big cup of coffee with extra sugar and a generous helping of cream. This would snap him out of this fog and begin to prepare him to meet Grant Winchester.
The coffee was exactly what he needed. He burned his mouth because he was too eager to let it cool. The woman across from him in the airport coffee shop was staring at him through the corner of her eyes. Aaron caught her several times. He hoped it was because she thought he was cute and not because she recognized him from some newspaper or newscast. He thought his new disguise was great and did not need to discover otherwise. After about five minutes, as expected, he snapped out of his fog. He had done this every morning for the past ten years and knew the ritual well. Grabbing his coffee and his bag he headed for the bathroom.
He found the bathroom down the hall. Now, not only was he looking over his shoulder for whoever was trying to kill him, but he was also looking for the big angry redneck that had probably figured out by now that Aaron took his money.
The bathroom was busier than usual. It was just past four o’clock and the airport traffic was picking up. Aaron looked in the mirror and immediately noticed why the woman in the coffee shop was staring at him. His hair was sticking straight up near the top center of his head. He looked like a blonde chicken. He just shook his head and patted it back down with some water. He then opened his bag, found his hair gel and lubed it back to position. He washed his face and hands in an attempt to revitalize himself even further.
After a few minutes in the stall where he read the local paper and tended to some other business, Aaron exited the bathroom and headed for a restaurant in the airport. There was a Chick-Fil-A right in the center of the food court. He began to feel his mouth water. Upon arrival he would wolf down some chicken nuggets and a chicken sandwich. By the time he finished up his early dinner he could probably go to the chartered aircraft area and ask about a chartered jet coming in from Washington-Dulles.
He walked through the airport gift shop looking at magazines, sweatshirts, children's toys and other usual gift shop goods. He flipped through a basketball magazine, a Playboy, TIME, and People until bored. Then he headed towards Chick-Fil-A and got ready for another big meal. Putting up with the red neck was paying off.
After dinner he sat there for a minute letting his food settle. He thought about the past days and hoped that he was about to take the first step towards the end of this entire mess. Would he remember this moment, the last moment on his own as a fugitive, an informant, and a rebel about to wreak havoc on the American government? He continued his thinking and then smiled. He was proud of himself. What he had endured the last few days was for the better of his country. He, realistically, could be considered a national hero. He may be asked to do a photo shoot for TIME magazine, or People. He might do an interview on CNN or The Rush Limbaugh show. He smiled for himself.
The old Indian man mopping the floor had a stench that was almost unforgettable. He actually smelled like jar of pickles with the distant odor of whiskey mixed in. He was a pleasant old man though, possibly sixty, thick skin, and long black hair that was decorated with silver streaks every few strands. He was in dire need of a shave. Aaron approached him and asked where he could find an arrival area for chartered flights. He set his mop under his right elbow like a kickstand and pointed. Aaron thanked his Indian tour guide and kept moving. His legs were shaking from anticipation.
He leaned on the desk in the Chartered Flights counter and rang the service bell. He was the only one there. The counter was downstairs in a dark, lightly trafficked area. He would rather it be this way for a while. A brown haired woman with brown eyes, brown eye shadow, and brown lipstick came towards him. She shifted her hair that was neatly tucked into a bun to the center, as it had fallen slightly from the hours at work.
“Good afternoon sir, may I help you?” she said in a monotonous tone.
“Yes ma'am, I'm here to meet a chartered flight from Washington-Dulles Airport. I think it should be arriving by six tonight.”
Her eyes shot up at Aaron, then back down to her desk. “Sir, would you mind waiting right here please?”
“No ma'am.” Aaron's legs resumed their shake. Were they on to him? Was she going to notify the police? He decided to play it cool and wait right there.
“I'll be right back.” She turned and almost ran into the office behind her.
The office had a huge glass window separating it from the front counter. Although Aaron could not hear the conversation, he could tell by the hand gestures being exchanged between the counter lady and the tall, slender black haired man that there was some kind of a problem. The man looked at Aaron through the window, rubbed his long pointed nose with his index finger, and stood up. He came out to Aaron and put his hand out for a shake. The woman was standing by his side staring at Aaron, studying him. This could not be good, he thought.
“Sir, that flight, the one from Washington - Dulles, went down hours ago. They lost power somewhere over North Carolina. Police are still out there trying to figure out what happened. It crashed near Asheville, North Carolina. Right now all we know is the plane was supposed to be carrying the two pilots and that fella from CNN. So far they have found four bodies instead of three and have not identified any of them yet.” He put his right hand on Aaron's left shoulder. “I'm sorry sir.”
Aaron stood there slack jawed. All he could muster up to say, in a faint voice was, “You sure?”
“Yes sir, I'm sorry.”
Aaron stared blankly at the man and woman. “Yeah. Thanks. Were there any survivors? Do you have any idea?”
The tall man looked at the lady. She looked at the floor again, shuffled her feet from left to right and shook her head.
“Honestly sir, they’ve found no survivors but they’re still investigating. There was an old drunken man who told police he saw the plane crashing and that he saw a man jump out with a parachute. But, who knows? The old man in the woods was a drunk. Nobody knows anything at this point. They really don't know enough to comment on an escape especially. That's really all I've heard. Since chartered aircraft have nothing to do with this airport like the major companies, we are usually the last to know.”
Aaron was now deeper in a fog. His days were getting progressively worse rather than progressively better. He just hoped that the old drunken man was right abo
ut the parachute. He just hoped that Grant found the parachute and got out. Why were more people on the plane than expected? He was completely confused but his mission was clear. He had to get to Asheville and find out for himself. If Grant was the unknown parachutist then Aaron had to be the first one to find him.
He was on his way to rent a car when it hit him. He cannot rent a car. He cannot use credit cards. He cannot even use some of his newfound cash. No matter how he paid, his name would be listed on a car with a license plate number. There would be an all points bulletin out on him within twenty-four hours. Either way he would have to leave some kind of identification. That would leave an easily traceable trail. It came to him quickly. He had to steal a car! The only way to steal a car and not be chased after by police within twenty minutes was to steal a car from long-term parking. That might buy him an extra day, maybe two or three.
Aaron made his way out to the long-term parking lot. It was after six o'clock now and the sun was setting. The parking lot was about two acres and it was full. Mac had two different neighbors who had little magnets stuck underneath their fenders to hide a spare key. He thought it was the most ridiculous invention yet and he was about to exploit it. If two guys within seven houses of him had it then surely one out of the three hundred in this lot had it. He dropped to his knees and began feeling each car. He worked slowly and quietly. He had broken enough laws already and would never live with himself if he got sent to prison for something so stupid. He walked in a crouch after his right knee began to bleed. By eight o'clock he was walking from car to car.
As he approached the last row of cars his frustration grew to its pinnacle. He could not take it anymore. There was about twenty cars left and he was positive that he was not going to find keys. He did not know how to “hot-wire” a car. This was his only option.
The Whisper Box Page 17