by Glenn Roug
have remembered if there was something worthy of remembering."
"Did you get into a conversation with any of the other passengers?"
"I never do."
"Do you remember any of their names?"
"No."
"No of course not." She handed me the passenger list. "But try to see if any of these rings a bell, anyway."
I went over the list but could not recognize any of the names except my own. Sixty six strangers. I shook my head. On the wall behind her was a picture of a reindeer. I thought I'd see J Edger Hoover hanging there, or wanted posters. A reindeer made the room look informal and friendly, as if it were a real estate agency.
She knew I was at a loss to recognize any of the names, but persisted in trying to get something out of me anyway. "Do you think some of the other passengers had anything in common? Did they form groups for example?"
"Not that I can recall. Can't you see that in your database, whether or not they had anything in common?"
She shook her head with some fatigue. "We checked. Nothing in common except they were all on this flight. From what we can tell, most of them were also flying on business, like you. A weekday flight. There were just three couples on vacation. One of them had two children."
I'm sure my eyes were bulging out of their sockets at that moment. "They killed the children, too?"
"Oh, yes. An entire family was murdered by an intruder. Whoever did this made it look like a robbery gone wrong, but that family had nothing of value. The people we are dealing with here are no boy scouts, Al. They set out to kill everyone who was on that flight, and they're doing just that, regardless of age, gender, or physical condition. They shot a frail ninety year old lady, too, three months ago, and her eighty nine year old husband."
I stood up. "What the hell was there on that flight?"
She got up, too, and went over to a small fridge I did not notice before hidden among the cabinets. She took out a bottle of water and offered it to me. I declined. She sat down again. "I'd sell my own grandma to find out. If I still had one. Why do you think we were so eager to talk to you?"
I dropped back into the chair. "I wish I could help, but I have nothing. There was nothing special on that flight I tell you. Nothing. No interesting conversation, no accidents, no fistfights. I don't even think we had turbulence. I hate turbulence; I'd have remembered that."
"And yet there was something. Something the passengers — at least some of them — saw or heard or did. Or maybe it was the flight crew. They eliminated them as well."
Now I felt the cold grip of fear on my heart. "What will happen to me?" My voice was trembling a little, which I tried to conceal by coughing in mid sentence.
"You'll be safe if we have anything to do with it. But you can never go back home. Not until we crack this. We'll find you a safe place to stay."
"What about my kid, Aaron? He's thirteen."
"They won’t touch him or his mother. They've never killed any family members. Only the people who were physically on the flight."
"They didn't need to until now. If they can't find me, don't you think they'd use him to get to me? Kidnap him to get me to come looking for him?"
She nodded slowly, acknowledging my concerns. I hated that she was about to agree with me on this. It was one of those instances when you want people to strongly disagree with you and give you some assurances that you worry for nothing. It is the very reason we worry out loud — so that someone would tell us not to. "They never needed to until now, I'll grant you that," she said. "We'll work on moving your family to a safe house. Until then, don't make any contact with them without going through us first, understand? Someone might track your phone."
"Good God. What do they want from me? I know nothing. I saw nothing. It's not like I'd be taking any secrets with me to my grave. Neither did the other passengers, I'm sure of that. If they had seen something I'd have seen it, too."
She pushed the flight manifest into my hand. "Here, you can hold on to this. Maybe it'll jog your memory. Go now and get some sleep. You need it. We'll talk some more tomorrow. We'll take you to a hypnotist, too, if you don't mind. Maybe he'll get you to remember."
"I don't mind. But where am I supposed to go now?"
"Agent Peterson will take you to a hotel room. Just for a few days until we can find a more permanent hideout. He'll be staying with you just in case."
"Do you snore?" I asked Peterson — that was the short guy with the Brooklyn accent — when he escorted me back to the car.
"Yes."
"Then I'll have to buy earplugs. I can't stand snoring, not even my ex wife's." And on the way to the hotel the only thing I could think of was, I don't have my things. I hate not having my things with me when I spend the night away from home. I know this is the stupidest thing to think about when your life is in danger, but that is just the way I am. My mind runs away on me. And on that occasion, it had lots of reasons to.
II.
The hotel room was large. It had two separate queen beds, standing five feet apart. This was good news for someone about to share the room with a stranger, let alone an FBI agent. The carpet was tan colored, cushy but not too thick. It had some stains. I was hoping it was not semen. I peeked under the bed to see if there was anything disgusting lurking there. I hate going to sleep not knowing what lies under my bed. There was nothing. A heavily perfumed aroma permeated the room, as if management were trying to conceal something. They said it was a non-smoker room, but since when? Last week? I didn't like it.
The windows were closed, and the drapes drawn shut. It was the fourth — and highest — floor in the hotel. Peterson chose it so that no one could look in from the adjacent two-story house. He took off his shoes for a moment. His ankle holster was showing. He seemed oblivious to it, as if he was born with it. His socks gave off a foul odor. He was probably aware of this, as he quickly changed them and then put his shoes back on.
"Can we get something to eat?" I said after a while. "I didn’t get a bite since lunch, when I had a job interview, and that was an egg-salad sandwich I got from the caff before I left there, and I hate egg-salad sandwiches."
"Alright, quit yer bitching and complaining. I'll go get you something. Just don't leave this room."
"Can't we go to the restaurant at the lobby? There's no way the killers would know I'm here."
"Can't take a chance. If they get you I'm fired. D'you want to see me unemployed? I, too, have a kid and an ex wife to support."
So he knew about my family situation. Each and every one of those agents knew everything about me there was to know. What else did they find out? Did they know about the scandal when I was caught cheating on that exam twenty years ago? Did they care? I sat down on the bed waiting for Peterson to come back with some grub. Finally I had the time to stress out. A professional organization was on its way to eliminate me for reasons I could not imagine. People sophisticated enough to obtain the flight manifest, then track each and every one of the passengers and crew, learn about their habits and schedules, and send a never-fail hit squad to dispatch them. I wondered how many of those they employed and how much a hit man — or was it woman? — like that made. If you run a giant operation of this scale you cannot afford for any of them to get caught. They must be at the top of their profession, and that costs a lot of money. What did that mean? Fifty thousand a head? A hundred? Whoever was behind this had deep pockets. Why spend this kind of money to kill little ol' me? Because of what I know? I know what I know and I know that I don't know anything. I'm a danger to no one. Why not leave me alone to die of old age and crippling diseases like the rest of humanity? It won't cost them a penny and they could watch and enjoy my suffering as I struggle to find the money to pay for child support and still put something aside for old age.
Peterson came back with a ham sandwich and snapped me out of these thoughts. "That better than egg salad?"
; I nodded. "Much. You even got me extra mayo, and for that, sir, I'm sure you'll get into heaven." I sank my teeth into it. I was not as hungry as I had expected. It must have been the stress.
"We better get some sleep," Peterson said. "Tomorrow we need to drive you out of state."
"Where will they stick me?"
He shrugged. "Not my department. As far away from here as possible I'd assume. Not sure how much good this'll do to be honest. These guys' tentacles reach anywhere on the globe."
"Can I ask for a specific country or state?"
"Don't be an idiot. We're not made of money."
He went to the bathroom and came out ten minutes later, and then it was my turn, and not a moment too soon. The stress had given me the runs. It was not the last time that evening, either. Two hours later, when I was already fast asleep, I needed to go again. Peterson was already snoring. I was careful not to turn on the light in the bathroom until the door was closed so as not to wake him.
Two minutes later I heard a noise from outside the bathroom. It sounded as if someone was moving the furniture around, and then there was a bang as if another person hit the wall with a sledgehammer. I startled. Now, for the first time, I was afraid, not just alarmed. I moved softly and stood by the bathroom door so I could surprise whoever might come in. There was nothing, and the room was quiet again. I let out a sigh of relief. Peterson probably dropped something. I called out, "Hey, Peterson, is everything okay?" and knocked gently