Air Time

Chapter Thirteen

“Why do we have to get here so early? It’s still yesterday, as far as I’m concerned. Six in the morning? Our plane isn’t till eight,” I say, wheeling my new black canvas suitcase down the sidewalk and through the doors to Terminal B. Grumbling. They still haven’t found my old one. “I wish I didn’t have to let them take another of my suitcases. At least till they give me back the one they swiped. Lost.”

“Charlotte, nix on the complaining,” Franklin replies, following me inside. “I told you to bring a carry-on instead. Besides, the TSA rules say get to the airport early. What if there are lines? What if there’s some security backup? Better to be safe.”

“Coffee,” I say. “That’s the only thing that’ll make this work.”

We drag our luggage through the semideserted airport terminal, stopping briefly at the multiple screens of the destination monitors, confirming our flight to Atlanta is on time. We hand over our bags to the way-too-perky agent at the ticket counter. “Ninety minutes till takeoff,” I say, pocketing my claim check. “Great. Maybe we should catch a movie.”

“Let’s just get ourselves through security,” Franklin says. He gestures as we approach the checkpoint. “See? No lines. No waiting. We’ll get to the gate, then we’ll get lattes. You can read. You can relax. You know you’re cranky because you hate to fly. Why don’t you just take a Valium like everyone else does?”

“You don’t take them,” I retort as we send our stuff through security. “Plus, if the plane crashes, I don’t want to be too doped up to get us out alive.”

Down the long corridor, we see Gate 32 is deserted. Apparently it’s even too early for the agents to be at their desks. A motorized golf cart, piloted by a woman in a navy uniform, beeps its way past us, empty. The waiting area looks more like a hotel. Two college-aged bodies, arms wrapped around each other, sleep head against head in a corner by the window, bulging backpacks as footstools under their feet. Three sleeping soldiers, in full camouflage except for their Red Sox caps, drape themselves stolidly across two seats each.

“And no waiting for caffeine.” Franklin gestures toward Dunkin’ Donuts, then points me to a row of empty chairs. “Stake out those seats. You take my suitcase, and I’ll go get newspapers and coffee.”

“Sounds good to me,” I say. As Franklin heads off, I think about the cell phone that’s inside my purse. And whether it’s too early to call Josh and say goodbye again. He’d been asleep, peaceful, when the cab picked me up. We’d stayed up too late. Analyzed too much. Hedged the “dating other people” issue. Decided to talk when I get home. Decided not to do anything drastic. Unless you count what happened between two and three in the morning. Which did not include talking or sleeping.

I’m hoping to catch a quick recovery nap on the plane. Or maybe I could sleep a bit now. While I’m waiting for Franklin.

I close my eyes, just for a moment, I promise myself. Then I feel a shadow in front of me. Blinking, with a start, I sit up straight. Something’s wrong. I can tell by Franklin’s face.

He’s standing in front of me, wordlessly holding out a newspaper. I can see from the size and typeface that it’s not either of the Boston papers.

“Franko? What?” I take the paper from him. And follow his finger to an article on the front page. Damn. I give the paper back.

“Need my glasses,” I say. I burrow through my tote bag. There should be three cases of reading glasses in here. I can’t find even one.

“Just tell me what’s in the paper,” I say, still rummaging. “What paper is it, anyway? What’s it say?”

I freeze, midsearch. A tragic thought has occurred to me. I look up, both hands still in my bag. “Do not tell me someone’s done a story about counterfeit bags. I mean, do not tell me that.”

“Nope.” Franklin sits in the chair beside me and folds the newspaper in half with a crinkling snap. “The Barrington Eagle-Tribune. I found it in Dunkin’ Donuts. Story on page 1. Headline. House fire destroys vacant house, threatens neighbors.”

“Barrington?”

“Firefighters responded to 59 Glendower Street in Great Barrington late Friday afternoon after residents reported seeing smoke from a basement window,” Franklin reads out loud. “By the time all units arrived at the address, the house, which according to a posted yard sign is for sale, was fully engulfed. Firefighters blame the unseasonably gusty wind conditions for causing the flames to spread to nearby homes. Some sustained what firefighters termed ‘major’ damage. ‘It went up like a bonfire,’ said a neighbor who refused to give his name. ‘The place was empty. Renters just moved out.’

“Officials said the adjacent home at 57 Glendower was also uninhabited at the time of the fire, although neighbors told this reporter it was recently rented. Neighbors report a large gathering at the home the day before. Police will not comment on whether that is relevant to their investigation. Much of the contents of that house were destroyed, although investigators also refused to discuss the extent of the damages or loss. The tenant was not immediately available.”

I flip open my glasses and grab the paper for myself. I read it, scanning.

“Holy-”

“Shit,” Franklin finishes. “Just say it for once. It’s the house next to the party house? Right?”

“Well, yeah, from reading this, sure. Seems to be.” I put my glasses on top of my head, and squint at the annoyingly unrevealing black-and-white photo beside the story. “Can’t really tell, but the address is right. So the ‘tenant’ of 57 has got to be just-call-me-Sally, don’t you think? And as for the fire, and the ‘contents’ of that house being destroyed. You think, coincidence?”

“Well, burning down a house to send a message about selling fake purses is somewhat heavy-handed,” Franklin says. “But I suppose if you could make a warning appear to be collateral damage in a separate house fire, that might be pretty effective.”

“A warning-meaning someone could have been sending a message to just-call-me-Sally. Remember she told me she was-how did she put it-branching out on her own?”

“Of course.”

“And maybe someone’s making it clear that’s a bad idea. Which is more than disturbing. The key now would be to find her. Make sure she’s okay. Although I suppose the police are already looking. And it’s not like she wouldn’t already know her house caught fire.”

“True.”

“So now that’s maybe two people missing. Sally. And Katie Harkins. And as far as we can tell, from looking at the video at least, that is actually two people. Not one.” I take a sip of latte. “Maybe the D-M execs will be able to tell us something about Katie. Who knows.”

We’re both silent for a moment. Calculating.

“Think it’s conspiracy, kidnapping, arson, extortion and grand larceny counterfeiting? Or a coincidence?” I ask. “Or maybe, some of each?”

“Who knows,” Franklin says.

I have a fleeting glimmer of fear about my little apartment. Botox, on her own. Tolerating Amy the cat sitter, trusting I’ll come home. How frightened my sweet kitty would be if some bad guy broke into our apartment. Set it on fire.

Josh and Penny. A potential reality descends with an ugly thud. Are they vulnerable? Could-whoever it is-find out who they are? Do they already know?

News is what happens to someone else. But now my world includes someone else. Josh. And Penny. And that’s a different story.

I think of little Penny, sitting on the stairs, worrying. Anxious. Josh, silently arriving to reassure her. To reassure us.

Am I putting people I love in danger? People who love me?

I shake my head to erase the thought, as if there’s some evil kaleidoscope in my head making creepy designs. I watch too much television. I’m nervous because of my imminent plane flight. Nothing is going to happen.

The flight attendants look like Kabuki dancers, lined up in the aisle of our 737, making synchronized pointing gestures as if we couldn’t find the two forward and one rear exits for ourselves. They pretend the oxygen masks are falling from the overhead compartments. I’m pretending I’m not terrified. Franklin is pretending he doesn’t know I’m pretending.

“Three annoying things,” I say, adjusting my seat belt again. “One. It’s the crack of dawn on a Saturday and we’re on a plane so no way we can call the Great Barrington PD to get more info about the fire. Two, no way I can call Sally at that number she gave me.”

Franklin has one earbud in, clicking through the flight’s selection of music. He’s listening to me through the other ear. “And number three?”

I bonk my head against my fully upright seat back, and stare at the nubby blue-on-blue upholstery of the fully upright and knee-threateningly close seat back in front of me. “Yeah. Number three is a doozy. We’re doomed on so many levels. Think about our undercover video.”

Franklin takes out the earbud and slowly winds the headphone cord around one hand. And then unwinds it.

There’s a squawk from the public address system. Which makes my heart leap before I can stop it. The plane hasn’t even moved yet and I’m already awaiting the announcement of approaching disaster.

“Flight attendants, prepare for crosscheck,” a voice demands. The blue uniforms stride down the aisle, seeking out delinquent seat backs and tray tables. I kick my tote bag farther under the seat in front of me.

“The police. Kevin. Arson. Evidence.” Franklin’s voice is hushed.

“You got it, bro,” I say. “A doozy. Kevin gave us the okay to go undercover. But that happened after the fire. So as far as he’s concerned, we would not have video of the party house. Remember, I shot pictures of the houses on both sides, too, just to get some context. So we have exteriors, and interiors, of places where there may have been arson. And yet, if I say I was there, so much for our undercover operation. And so much for our story. And, potentially, so much for our jobs. Since as far as permission from management to shoot undercover goes, we didn’t have it.”

Our plane creeps backward and I can see the jump-suited tarmac crew waving those orange flashlight signals to make sure the pilot knows where he’s supposed to go. Preflight jitters are not the only thing that’s making me nervous.

“Wait, Charlotte,” Franklin says. “Don’t freak.”

“Too late,” I reply.

“Listen. I agree that in the worst possible scenario, we’re in a bit of a bind. But let’s think about a best-case scenario.”

“Best-case scenario in a situation where one house burned to the ground, another is ruined, and one person is missing? And where we lied to our news director?”

“House fires happen all the time, Charlotte. You know that. In addition, the house at 59 was vacant. I saw the video. Decrepit. Maybe some slimeball absentee landlord decided to torch it and get the insurance money. Maybe something happened with the gas. Maybe someone was burning leaves and a spark hit the house. You’re making it a melodrama. And it probably isn’t.”

My hands clutch the armrests as the plane lifts with a roar from solid ground into the mystical land of aerodynamics. I watch the wings to make sure the flaps are operating properly, in case someone in the cockpit forgets. I listen for the landing gear to retract. I wonder how I wound up in such a complicated journalism situation. Again. I was just trying to get a great story.

“Here’s a plan,” I say. “Nothing we can do now. We go to Atlanta. See what we can find. We’ll be back at the station Monday morning. Avoid Kevin. We can both drive to Great Barrington and scout. Talk to neighbors. And the police. We can pretend we’re just working on the fire story. See if we can gauge whether it’s an accident. See if Sally shows up. And see if buying a counterfeit purse has made me a possible witness in an arson case.”

Franklin tucks a pillow behind his head, then turns to look at me. “Nice going, Charlotte. Talk about accessory to a crime.”