Takeoff

by Reid, Joseph

  “No, I—”

  “But it didn’t work, did it? You showed it to her and realized Max was already gone. That’s why, when you got back, you ran to Petén, hoping she’d do your dirty work again, just like she had with Cooper.”

  Drew stood with his shoulders perpendicular to me and the camera. “I’m telling you, killing Max was Petén’s idea. Not mine. Was I angry at Max? Sure. Was I sad? Absolutely. But I’d never hurt—”

  “See,” I said, shaking my head, “again, maybe Petén suggested it. Maybe she realized how fragile you were and decided you just needed the tiniest little push to tumble over the edge. But Petén didn’t actually want Max dead—she wanted her alive. Alive and willing to help the Second Guerrillas. The best way to do that was to be the open arms Max would run into to get away from you.”

  Drew set his jaw. “Baloney. Petén’s been the one shooting at Max all this time, not me. If I’d wanted Max dead, I wouldn’t have hired Brad Civins as her personal bodyguard.”

  “One man? You knew one man wasn’t going to stop the Second Guerrillas. Civins was cover.”

  “But it wasn’t just him. I brought Max to the FBI.”

  “That’s right, the FBI,” I said. “You contacted them in April.” I started inching back toward the table, where I’d left the manila folder.

  “Exactly. After I had to fire that thief Civins in March, I knew Max was vulnerable.”

  Picking up the folder, I extracted the single page of paper inside. “So then why did you file this paperwork with the Texas Secretary of State in December?”

  Drew’s face contorted. “What are you talking about?”

  “Remember that lawyer friend I told you about? He’s a really smart guy, and he explained a couple of things to me. Like how Texas is one of the few states where you can assign the rights to a celebrity’s likeness after they die.”

  Drew’s eyes widened just a bit.

  “They call it the Buddy Holly Bill. The protection lasts fifty years—that’s why no one could use Buddy Holly’s picture until 2009 without getting permission: his family owned all the rights.”

  He swallowed hard.

  I held the paper up toward the camera. “So before you ever thought Max was in danger, you just happened to file papers to ensure you’d own her image after she died. What a coincidence.”

  His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  “In fact,” I said, pulling the paper down and double-checking the date, “you filed this on December 20. You and Max returned from the Caribbean on the eighteenth, isn’t that right?”

  He continued to stammer.

  I walked over and got right in Drew’s face. “You knew. After Saint Lucia, you knew everything you’d tried to control Max had failed. And so it was just a matter of time till she left you.” I paused a beat. “Just like your wife did.”

  Drew’s cheek was almost vibrating now, and I could see his temples flexing.

  “When you brought Max to the FBI in April, it wasn’t because you thought Petén was going to kill Max. After four months, you’d finally figured out she wasn’t going to kill Max. Petén had double-crossed you—and if Petén wanted Max alive, that meant she didn’t need you. Going to the FBI was you trying to save you.”

  Leaving my eyes locked on Drew’s, I called toward the mirror. “You get all that, Chava?”

  Peña’s voice sounded over a loudspeaker. “Clear as a bell.”

  I leaned forward onto the balls of my feet, and Drew shrank in response. Then I turned and stalked out of the room.

  When I reentered the control room, my eyes went immediately to Max. She was almost prone in her chair, crying. But when she saw me, she exploded from it. As she collided with me, arms wrapping around my chest, her momentum almost knocked me over.

  “It’s okay,” I said, rubbing her back. “It’s all okay now.” Over her shoulder, I looked at Peña, who was grinning.

  “Nice work, chief,” he said.

  “That’ll stick, right?”

  He nodded emphatically. “Oh yeah. Guy talks a good game, but you nailed him. Nobody’s going to lose any sleep about taking him off the streets.”

  I took a deep breath. Finally, maybe, it was over.

  Peña held up the memory stick between two fingers. “I gotta ask. Is there really—”

  I nodded. “Don’t go plugging that into your work computer.”

  Peña’s lips pushed up toward his nose, and he nodded. “You’re a bad motherfucker, Walker. Remind me never, ever to cross you.”

  I looked down at Max. “C’mon. Let’s get you back to the hospital.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Saturday, August 22

  Max—no, Emma . . . I needed to keep reminding myself of that—had her fingers at her mouth. I could hear each click as her teeth bit through the nails.

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” I said. Although traffic on 30 was light, at this rate she wouldn’t have any enamel left by the time we reached Fort Worth.

  “I can’t help it.”

  “It’s just for the afternoon. And they’re going to love you, trust me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  Twenty minutes later, I pulled us up to the curb, and Emma took in the small house at the top of the flagstone walkway.

  “Hey,” I said, and she spun back toward me. “It’s gonna be fine. Michael is nine, and Rachael is five. They both listen to you on the radio. They love your songs. And I can guarantee you’re the first pop star that’s ever stopped by their house.”

  Emma smiled back, but barely. “I just . . . I hope I’m . . .”

  “You’re ready,” I said. “Four weeks cooped up is plenty. The Center must’ve thought some fresh air would help, otherwise they wouldn’t have given you the pass.”

  She closed her eyes and nodded.

  I followed Emma up the walk. She wore the pink Chuck Taylors and denim shorts again, although this pair extended to midthigh. A tank top matching the sneakers revealed the freckles on the tops of her shoulders, but not much else. She kept her arms straight as she walked, hands balled into tight fists pulled up toward the outside of her arms. Despite all the nerves, she seemed bouncier. More energetic. Her long hair, highlights brightened by the summer sun, hung in a thick rope of a braid that danced between her shoulder blades.

  At the screen door, I stepped around her and rang the bell, a deep two-note chime: ding-dong.

  “Stay behind me,” I said.

  The sound of feet scrambling against wood was audible inside, as if a pack of dogs were charging the door. But then the locks clicked free, and two smiling faces appeared against the screen.

  “Uncle Seth! Uncle Seth!”

  Michael stood nearly up to my elbow now—he seemed to grow inches between my visits. He had long, scruffy brown hair that had doubtlessly been combed that morning, not that you could tell, and his mom’s big green eyes. He’d gotten glasses before my last visit, and he wore them now, wire frames supporting rectangular lenses. Rachael was much shorter, obviously, with hair so curly it tended to frizz. A smear of freckles dotted her nose, and her two front teeth showed a sizable gap. Braces probably weren’t that far away, I realized.

  “Uncle Seth,” Michael said, “Mom told us last night you were coming, and Rachael didn’t sleep at all!”

  “Did, too! Uncle Seth, wait till you see the painting I did for you at school.”

  The two continued talking over each other, even as a taller silhouette approached slowly from inside. “Kids, why don’t you let the poor man inside the house?” Shirley’s face appeared, eyes sparkling. She’d always been thin—not so much you worried for her health, just enough you thought she was lucky, or wondered how she found the time to exercise. “I think he may have a surprise for you.”

  “A surprise? Whatisit, whatisit?” Their eyes darted back and forth between Shirley and me.

  “Come on outside,” I said. “I brought someone with me.”

 
The screen door creaked open, and as the kids emerged onto the walk, I stepped to the side.

  “This is my friend Emma. That’s her real name, at least. You two probably know her better as Max Magic . . .”

  Before I could even finish the sentence, Michael’s jaw had dropped, and Rachael was squealing.

  “Uh, hey, guys.” Emma gave them a meek little wave.

  Rachael charged her, throwing her tiny arms around Emma’s leg. Emma giggled. “Hey there,” she said, looking down. Then she glanced up at Michael. “Are you more the shaking-hands type? ’Cause you can give me a hug, too.”

  His mouth remained wide open but turned up into a wide smile as he stepped forward and she wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

  “Do you two like to play?” she asked.

  Two hours later, I rocked in a chair on the back porch of the house. The kids were still going, although they’d moved to the pool to cool off. That’s when Shirley and I had retreated to the shade.

  “Thanks again,” I said, “for letting me bring her out here.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s not every day the kids get to meet one of their idols from the radio.”

  “Yeah, but after everything that happened, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t want her around them. I think it’s really good for her, though. The doctors say the more she can readjust to being a normal teenager, the better the rehab’ll take.”

  “How much longer does she have?”

  “She’s officially halfway. The real trick will come when the program’s over.”

  “Will she just live on her own?”

  “No,” I said. “I found an in-home caretaker she can use until she turns eighteen. Hopefully by then she’ll be ready to figure out what she wants to do with the rest of her life.”

  Off in the water, Emma swept her arm in a wide circle, showering Michael and Rachael with spray. Their giggles carried across the yard easily despite the thick afternoon heat.

  “Seems like they’re digging the pool,” I said.

  “They’re in the water every day. You can see how good Rachael’s gotten, and Michael’s been asking about joining a swim team, if you can believe it.” Shirley paused. “They won’t remember to say thank you, so I’ll do it for them.”

  I just shook my head. Back when their father, my mentor, Clarence, had first bought this house, he’d talked about putting a pool in the yard once they were old enough to enjoy it.

  The kids switched to Marco Polo. Emma had her eyes closed, trying to catch up to the little ones as they splashed away from her.

  “Looks like she’s doing pretty well to me,” Shirley said. “I read about that facility you said she’s at. Best in the state?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And let me guess who’s footing the bill?”

  “Her assets are all frozen over the trouble with her dad. When she gets straightened out, if she can pay me back, great. Otherwise . . .”

  I could see Shirley smiling from the corner of my eye. “How are you doing with all of this?”

  Although the words sounded light and airy, they dripped with curiosity. And while I knew Shirley was probably just trying to mother me, hearing those kinds of questions from her always made my skin crawl. It wouldn’t take much for her to steer the topic to Clarence, and once we were there, how long would it take for her to ask about the subject I’d dodged all these years? Without looking at her, I said, “Me? I’m fine.”

  I rotated my shoulder a bit. Enjeti’s work on it had left it feeling strong and sturdy. At least that was something you could repair.

  A light, grazing touch tickled my forearm, and I glanced down to find Shirley’s fingernails trailing back and forth over the SA tattoo.

  “This one’s new,” she said. “A heart, huh? That have something to do with that woman you were seeing over in Dallas?”

  Knowing the lump in my throat would cause my voice to crack, I nodded.

  “You were coming down here quite a bit there for a while—we enjoyed seeing you so much. When you stopped, though, I didn’t want to pry. I guess it . . . didn’t work out?”

  I swallowed hard, forcing the lump as far down as I could. “No. It didn’t work out.”

  Shirley clucked her tongue. “I’m sorry, hon. She must’ve been pretty special to make the Arm of Fame.”

  Even I had to chuckle at that.

  “Are you sure it’s over?”

  Pursing my lips, I nodded.

  “Well, then, there’ll be another one. You’re too good a man for there not to be.”

  As always, Shirley knew exactly what to say to make me feel like I’d been stabbed in the heart.

  The afternoon slowly evaporated like the puddles that had spilled from the pool onto the concrete deck surrounding it. Shirley insisted we stay for dinner—“Emma looks like she could use a home-cooked meal”—and the kids had her read their bedtime stories. She even sang each of them a lullaby, the first and second time I’d ever heard her sing in person.

  We made our way out to the car then, so the kids would have some hope of going to sleep. Evening had taken hold, and in the distance you could see fireflies flashing.

  “Thank you so much for today, ma’am,” Emma said. “I had a lot of fun.”

  “You are most welcome. You come back anytime you like. The children absolutely adored you. And you, Mister”—Shirley turned and poked me in the chest—“when will we be graced by your presence again?”

  “Soon, I hope. But we’ll see what the Service has in mind for my next assignment.”

  Shirley put her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek. “Take care of yourself.” As she pulled away, she patted my chest. “I mean that.”

  On the ride back to Dallas, Emma was quiet. Darkness had fallen enough that I could only catch glimpses of her face when oncoming headlights flashed over it for a moment.

  “Whatcha thinking?” I asked.

  “That today was just about perfect. Thank you.”

  “No problem. A few more weeks, you can start having days like that every day.”

  “I’m gonna have to get back to real life, though, too.” We passed a semi, and I saw her head turn toward the window.

  “You scared?”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “That’s good. You’d be crazy if you weren’t.”

  “Will you . . .”

  “Of course. And I’ll help any way I can. You know that.”

  “Thanks, I . . . you’re . . . well. You know.” Then she turned to face me. “You do know, right?”

  “Yes, I do. And I feel the exact same way.”

  After I got Emma checked back into the Center, I headed to the hotel. My flight wasn’t until ten the next morning, so I flopped onto the bed and switched on the television. I flipped through the channels with the remote twice, but found nothing to watch.

  Turning it off, though, I had an idea.

  I’d stayed at so many hotels like this one. Each one received a different set of channels, though, and even when some channels were the same, they were always in a different place on the dial, assigned a different number. There seemed to be no way to avoid having to spin through all of them at least once.

  Unless.

  What if you had a remote control you brought from home? One that knew the channels you liked, or which television shows. One that could interface with a TV anywhere, and guide you directly to the channels or shows you wanted?

  I got up off the bed and went to the desk. I’d fished a mechanical pencil from my bag before remembering I didn’t have any paper with me.

  Returning to the bed, I found a small notepad on the nightstand. Manila-colored stationery, barely bigger than a postcard, bearing the hotel’s insignia. It’d have to do. I clicked out some lead and started drawing.

  By the time it was done, the schematic stretched across nine of the little pages. I smiled at it, even as I had to mark the corners to remember which way they fit together. Shen wouldn’t want to re
ceive a mess like this, but I could redraft it once I got home.

  He’d need the drawing to start a new file for me.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  While writing a novel can be an incredibly individual enterprise at times, it also requires guidance and assistance from countless people. In addition to the unwavering support of my family, I could not have written this book without input from: Tom Millikan on all things technical; real-life pilots including my father, Shelly Irvine, and Mike Voie; and various Texas friends including Alan Albright, Conor Civins, and Bradley Coburn. Beta readers—all wonderful writers in their own right—including Jennifer Sarja, Rachael Martin, Anjali Enjeti, Jaime Olin, Taline Manassian, and Michele Cavin provided feedback on various drafts and lent a sympathetic ear whenever one was needed.

  As hard as writing a novel is, publishing one is even harder, so I am forever indebted to those who helped Takeoff along the way. The entire team at Thomas & Mercer supported this project in countless ways, particularly my editor, Liz Pearsons, who pushed the book to be better at every turn. My agent, Cynthia Manson, believed in the manuscript (and me!) when no one else did, and showed incredible determination to perfect and sell it. And Ed Stackler, a fantastic editor and even better friend, was the Sherpa without whom I would still be out lost on the mountain.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2017 Makela Reid

  The son of a navy helicopter pilot, Joseph Reid chased great white sharks as a marine biologist before becoming a patent lawyer who litigates multimillion-dollar cases for high-tech companies. He has flown millions of miles on commercial aircraft and has spent countless hours in airports around the world. Although published in both his academic disciplines, Takeoff is his debut novel. A graduate of Duke University and the University of Notre Dame, he lives in San Diego with his wife and children.