Air Time

Chapter Twenty-Two

Her purse is on the floor. The bag is still on the conveyor belt. The staff-only door is closed and the skycaps have disappeared.

“Keresey?” I say out loud. Where the hell is she? Why is her purse on the floor? I whirl, looking up to the mezzanine. Over to the exit. Beside the escalator. Where’s Lattimer? Where’s Franklin?

It’s just me.

I race to the conveyor belt and grab Keresey’s purse, slinging it over my shoulder. I’m panicked, my brain on fast forward, trying to understand what’s happened. Nothing makes sense.

“Keresey?” I call out, louder. But I get no answer. And I realize something must be very, very wrong. Where did she go? And why?

The staff-only door. Where the two baggage guys went. I yank on the handle. It’s locked. The only way out is-

I leap onto the conveyor belt, just before the spot where the rubber flaps still flutter, and take one wobbly step until I reach the opening. Grabbing the steel railing above it, I swing my legs through the flaps, and drop down to the other side.

This is where the bags come out. When I got the beeper in Hartford, this is where the mysterious voice came from. I blink, getting my bearings. There’s no one here now.

Two huge-and empty-motorized luggage carts stand on the cement alley that’s the baggage handler’s roadway from the arriving airplanes to baggage claim. There are no walls out here, but a corrugated metal roof runs above me, down the length of the building. It’s a checkerboard of lights-pin spots illuminating some of the path into pools of brightness, other parts left almost impenetrably dark.

What am I supposed to do now? My tote bag with my phone is in Keresey’s trunk. I wasn’t supposed to need it. I struggle to hold down my panic. Should I go back inside and find the police? Where the hell is Lattimer? Every moment that passes, Keresey may be deeper in danger.

I look to my right. Darkness. And a flat expanse that must lead to the tarmac and the runways beyond.

I look to my left. In a patch of light, I see something red. A few quick steps and I’m there. It’s my Hartford bag. Keresey’s gone this way. Or more likely, been taken this way. But why?

I have to find her. We traded places. This is what she would have done for me.

I race down the path, running on tiptoe, hugging the side of the building, my fingers scraping along the bricks. At the end of the covered alleyway is an expanse of asphalt leading to buildings beyond. Two hundred yards ahead, splotchy, eerie light glows from an airplane hangar. Flickering green neon letters spell out General Aviation.

Closer, I see something on the ground. Straining all my senses, I hear nothing. I see no one. I race toward a pool of shadow. It’s a red baseball cap. I look up. And silhouetted in the raw light showing through the opening of the cavernous airplane hangar, I see Keresey’s unmistakable shape. She’s not alone. Two other shapes-who?-are dragging her by the arms across the floor.

Keeping myself in the shadows, holding my breath, I dash across the pavement toward the hangar. It takes just seconds. I flatten myself against a dark outside wall, two stories, no, three stories high. I peer around the corner into the building.

In the center of the hangar, under a huge bank of glaring megawatt spotlights, is a sleek white prop plane, a single-engine Cessna, nose pointed toward the tarmac.

And, crumpled on the cement floor, is Keresey. Limp and motionless. I clutch the door frame for support as my stomach lurches, throwing me off balance. Is she…dead? I watch, paralyzed. Mesmerized. I see her chest rise, then fall. She’s breathing. Struggling for equilibrium, struggling for calm, I plaster myself against the outside wall again. Trying try to figure out what the hell to do.

I need one more look inside. I have to see what they’re doing. And then I’ll go for help.

The muscles in my neck and back tense as I lean forward, infinitesimally, toward the opening, barely daring to move.

Now, in the light, I can clearly see the two men. And I recognize them. The blue-uniformed skycaps from baggage claim. Muttering to each other, they’re ignoring the still-motionless Keresey. Both are focused on the plane, its propeller motionless, its wheels still chocked with yellow blocks.

One of them, shorter, with buzz-cut hair and padded ear protectors around his neck, walks along the fuselage, then examines something under the right wing. The taller one unlatches the cockpit door, grabs a strap, and pulls his rangy body up into the pilot’s seat. I can see their shirts have embroidered patches on the arms-Local 376. Airline workers’ union. James Webber’s rank and file.

I not only recognize these guys, I recognize what they’re doing. This is a preflight check. What if they’re going to take Keresey away? What will happen when they find out she’s not me?

If I leave to get help, they could be gone, airborne, before anyone can get here to stop them.

I lean back against my wall again, staring, unseeing, toward the terminal. I’m baffled. And enraged. And terrified. And bewildered. Lattimer must have seen this go down. Franklin, too. Where on earth are they? This is not how this was supposed to work. I’m alone. And faced with an impossible dilemma.

I can’t go in. They’d overpower me, too.

I can’t leave. They’ll take Keresey away and disappear.

What’s more-it was supposed to have been me picking up that bag. If Keresey hadn’t insisted, it would have been me on the floor. It would have been me in mortal danger.

And suddenly, overwhelmingly, that makes me mad as hell. And I know how I can win. Keresey pretended to be me. So I’ll pretend to be Keresey.

I have her gun. And her radio. And I know how to use them both. The realization hits me so hard my eyes sting with tears. Channeling my new alter ego, I know I have to become as steely and hard as any federal agent. Now. What would Keresey do?

I see both men are focused on the plane. Before I can stop myself, I press my back against the wall and ease around the corner. I’m inside the hangar, keeping myself hidden by the shadows. I wait, assessing. No one notices me.

I crouch down behind a baggage cart, one of a dozen-some full of suitcases, some empty-lined up in front of me along the wall. Slowly, one click at a time, I pull back the zipper on Keresey’s purse, holding one hand over the opening to muffle the noise. It’s so quiet I fear even the clicks of a plastic zipper coil might give me away. After an eternity, the bag is open. And there are my secret weapons. The radio. The gun. Feeling a rush of power and impending triumph, I settle in, making sure I’m concealed behind the hulking baggage cart. I don’t have to make a move yet. And the longer I wait, the more likely Lattimer will finally arrive and end this whole disaster.

Tall Guy climbs out of the cockpit and walks to one of the baggage carts.

“Hey. Nolan,” he calls to Short Guy. His voice echoes through the hangar, alien and hollow. “Let’s get this done.”

Nolan yanks a black suitcase from a cart on the other side of the hangar. It’s huge, almost a trunk. “Jesus Christ, Eddie,” he hisses. “Get over here. I need a hand with this sucker.”

Together, the men drag the trunk across the floor, the scraping of metal on cement reverberating across the room. They reach Keresey. And stop. Nolan clicks two latches on the side. The top flips open and they both look inside. What’s in there? Is that where they’re going to put Keresey?

“Eddie, you done?” Nolan says. “She ready to go? He told us fifteen minutes.”

“Roger that. Preflight checks out. Just need to confirm the fuel shutoff. Check the fuel mix. Start the engine.” Eddie points to the Cessna, and both men head in that direction. “Unchock the wheels, yo. Let’s do this. Then we’re good to go as soon as it’s time.”

It’s clear whatever I’m going to do has got to be done soon. Gun first? Or radio?

I glance into my purse. And instantly my plan disintegrates. Even in the gloom and shadows, I can see my secret weapons are duds. I’ve got a radio, all right. But it’s a dead chunk of metal and plastic. No lights flash, no speaker buzzes. It’s been turned off.

And I have a gun. That’s good. But it’s not loaded. That’s bad. The magazine lies in the bottom of the bag, taunting me.

If I turn on the radio, the static and squawk will instantly telegraph where I am. If I slam the magazine into the Smith & Wesson, the sound will be a dead giveaway. I’m trapped by the silence. Where the hell is Lattimer?

And then I see Keresey move.

She stretches one leg, slowly. She shifts one arm from across her face. I can see her eyes. They’re open. And blinking.

Eddie’s in the cockpit, in the pilot’s seat. Nolan’s by the open passenger door, back to me, looking into the plane. No one is paying attention to Keresey but me. She’s up on one elbow. And she must comprehend what’s happened. And maybe what’s about to happen.

There’s a whine and a rattle, then the propeller begins to whirl into motion. And that’s all the noise I need.

I slam the magazine into place. Ratchet ammo into the chamber, just like Keresey taught me. The clatter of the propeller fills the room, racketing against the metal walls and rattling the metal girders across the ceiling. I spring from behind the luggage cart and roar into the dim light, my adrenaline powering into the red zone. I’m almost screaming.

“Federal agent!” I yell. Both hands are wrapped around the weapon, just as Keresey taught me. The forefinger of my right hand flat against the barrel. My feet wide apart, braced, the gun aimed straight at Tall Guy. I hope. “Freeze! Freeze! Freeze! You’re done! You’re done!”

Nolan turns away from the plane, mouth open, his face twisted in surprise, then rage. He slams the cockpit door closed.

Short Guy cuts the engine, the propellers slacken, then stop. In a split second, Nolan’s reaching behind his back. He takes a step away from the plane, then two.

“Charlie! Shoot! Now! Aim for body mass, like I taught you!” Keresey’s yelling as she tucks her elbows and rolls toward me. She scrabbles to her feet, still yelling. “Now, now, now!”

“FBI! Freeze! And both of you-back off!” Marren Lattimer’s voice bellows through the hangar. “Do it!”

Holding the biggest and loveliest gun I’ve ever seen, Lattimer strides across the floor, leather jacket, running shoes, badge around his neck, brandishing his weapon at Nolan. “I said do it! Back off. Do it! Show me your hands, asshole. Then put both hands on the plane.”

Nolan retreats, hesitating, wary, walking backward, hands outstretched. They’re empty.

I’m in love with Marren Lattimer.

Lattimer gestures with his weapon, hurrying him. Nolan turns, slowly, keeping his eyes focused on Lattimer. Finally he puts his hands, palms flat, on the fuselage. Eddie, still in the cockpit, is twisted in his seat, watching out the window.

Did I say I’m in love with Marren Lattimer? I can’t believe he’s here. My hands are shaking, still clenched on Keresey’s gun. My eyes swim with tears. I don’t have to shoot someone. I wasn’t sure I could and I’m tremblingly grateful I don’t have to find out. I’m only a reporter. I think for a living. And I think I want to get the hell out of here.

Keresey puts her arm across my shoulders, backing me away, as I lower the gun. “It’s over now, Charlie,” she murmurs. “You did great, sister. But why didn’t you radio for help?”

“Your radio was off. The gun wasn’t loaded. Are you okay?” I ask, my voice low. My heart is still racing. Every nerve is on fire. I know she’s right, it’s over, we’re safe, the cavalry has arrived, but tell that to my wobbling knees.

“I’m good.” She gives a weak smile and steadies herself on the pole of the wheeled metal luggage cart beside us. Sinking to the floor of the cart, she sits, stretching her neck and shoulders, one arm still wrapped around the pole. “Really. I’m good.”

Lattimer is approaching, his gun still aimed at Nolan. Lattimer’s smiling, but I figure Keresey’s in deep trouble. If I had done the pickup, as Lattimer ordered, she could have moved right in to nail these slimes. She’d have loaded her gun. And turned the radio on.

“I’ll take that now, Charlie,” Lattimer says. His voice is reassuring, even friendly, as he holds out a hand for the gun. He glances at Keresey, then back at me. His eyes narrow. “We don’t want civilians doing our job.”

“Right,” I say, with as much smile as I can muster. I still have both hands on the gun. And I’m thinking-it’s Keresey’s. Why isn’t she getting it back? Maybe this proves she’s in trouble. Maybe I can still protect her. “But Keresey was only trying to-”

“Now,” Lattimer says. He cocks his head at the Cessna. “This is not the time.”

True. I glance up at the plane. Short guy still plastered to the fuselage. Tall guy in the cockpit, watching through the tiny side window. I guess you don’t try anything when the feds have got you cornered with major artillery.

I feel Keresey move behind me, then she steps between me and Lattimer. “I’ll take my own weapon back, Lattimer,” she says. Her voice is ice. Demanding. She reaches her hand behind her, waggling her fingers. “Let’s have it, Charlie. My purse with the radio, too.”

“Don’t do it, Charlie,” Lattimer says. “Give me that gun. Now. ‘No’ is not an option.”

“Wha-?” I look at Lattimer, then Keresey, then Lattimer. I take a step away from Keresey. My fingers curl around the gun again. Aren’t we all on the same team?

“Charlie. Give. Me. My. Weapon,” Keresey demands. “Listen. Lattimer’s in on this. Why do you think he’s more worried about that gun than about the assholes with the plane? They’re his assholes. That plane is full of bags. I watched them load it. Give me the gun.”

“Bullshit, Stone. This is Keresey’s show, Charlie. She’s in on this. She set you up. She tried to keep you away from the pickup. That was all to lure you out here. She’s clearly not hurt. Her gun wasn’t even loaded. Her radio wasn’t on. Wonder why? Helping you was the last thing she cared about. You were going into that trunk. Give me that gun. I’ll take her-and her moron crew-into federal custody.”

One of these two is a fraud. One of these two is a counterfeit cop. One of them set me up. The other can save me.

“Bullshit, Lattimer,” Keresey sneers back at him. “You turned off the radio and unloaded the gun before you gave them to me. Why do you think he wanted you to do the pickup, Charlie? He wanted you dead. And that’s exactly what was going to happen. If you give him that gun now, we’re both done. He’ll kill us. Leave us here. Like the people he’s already had killed. We’d be victims in another failed raid.”

She holds out her hand, imploring. “The gun, Charlie. Let me use it. And this whole charade will be over.”

How do I tell who’s the real thing? How do I recognize the fake? The gun in my hand is the balance of power.

If I’m wrong, I’m probably dead.

Keresey edges closer to me. Almost pushing me away from Lattimer. “How did you know we were here, Lattimer? In this hangar? Did you get a call from your pal Katie Harkins?” Her voice is sarcastic, sinister, mocking. “Charlie, ever ask yourself why no one has ever seen that woman? No one but Lattimer here. That’s because she doesn’t exist. Lattimer made her up.”

“Listen, hotshot,” Lattimer says. “If you and your hotshot buddies-”

With a flash of memory and a stomach-lurching realization, my brain shifts into overdrive. How would he know the radio was off? The gun was unloaded? And in an instant, I realize that anonymous phone call, threatening me, was from Lattimer. That voice called me “hotshot,” talked about my “hotshot buddy.” The clicks were his infantile Rubik’s Cube.

My turn to fake.

Smiling, I look down at the weapon as if my decision has been made. “I guess I understand what you’re saying now, Lattimer.”

His shoulders relax. He glances at the plane.

I hand the gun to Keresey.

And I dive for the floor. With a blaze of light and a blast that ricochets through the shadowy recesses of the hangar, Keresey fires once, twice, and Lattimer slams to the ground. His gun is still in his hand. He’s silent. Motionless. He’s dead. Or he’s pretending.

Lifting my head, I watch Keresey walk toward him. She’s taking one cautious step at a time. Her arms are still outstretched, the gun braced in front of her. Pointed at her boss.

Suddenly, the whine of the plane’s engine starts again. Nolan grabs the door handle and swings himself into the cockpit. The noise of the prop muffles whatever he’s screaming at the pilot and the wheels of the Cessna slowly begin to move.

“Keresey!” I yell, scrambling to my feet. “They’re going!

“I hear it! Get that radio!” Keresey commands. Her voice is strident. She’s still heading, cautiously, toward Lattimer. He hasn’t moved. But I know that means nothing. He could be faking.

The clatter of the prop revs louder and louder, the whine of the engine speeds to a roar. Keresey’s voice rises, powering over the increasingly ear-splitting clamor. “Call in a mayday! Red button! Whatever freq’s open! We can’t let them get off the ground. Tell them it’s a code double alpha. Double Alpha. Got that?”

The plane’s wheels continue rolling, slowly, deliberately, across the hangar floor, the nose of the plane headed into the vast darkness of the tarmac. The noise is now deafening, the metal walls reverberating. I can see the two blue uniforms in the cockpit, headphones on, adjusting control switches above the windshield.

“Got that!” I flip a silver toggle to ON, and the slim black radio crackles to life with a burst of static and a high-pitched beep, green lights flashing. “Mayday. Mayday!” I push the red button, trying to keep my voice calm. Hoping they can hear me over the engine noise. Hoping I’m actually getting through to someone. “This is a code Double Alpha. General Aviation Hangar!”

There’s a crackle as I release the button, and then more static. The plane is halfway to the door.

“Roger that.” A voice comes back. Calm. “We copy your Mayday. Please specify which Gen Av hangar. Over.”

Dammit. Dammit. I have no idea which hangar. And the plane is still moving. It’s almost too loud to think. All I know is…“Behind Baggage Claim A!” I yell into the radio. “A white Cessna. Headed for takeoff! Code Double Alpha!” Which I hope means-stop the darn plane, there are bad guys on it.

“Lattimer’s clear,” Keresey yells. He’s still on the ground, facedown on the cement, arms behind his back. Keresey’s clicking him into handcuffs-his own? She’s tucked his weapon into the back of her Levi’s.

“Over here,” I call back to her. “Help me with this!”

I race behind one of the wheeled baggage carts, trying to whirl it around. It’s enormous, and cumbersome, thick-gauged chains along each side clanking in protest as I maneuver it across the floor and aim it at the Cessna. One hand on each side of the cart, shoulder high, I try to push the ungainly metal carrier-like a grocery cart on growth hormones-pressing forward, straining, one step at a time. I’m too slow. The cart is too big. I can’t possibly get there in time.

“Keresey!” I call again. “Hurry! This needs both of us!”

Keresey falls in beside me, still holding her gun. She takes the left side, and I take the right. “Now!” I yell. This is our last chance. Whoever I just radioed to help us may not be able to find us in time. The plane will take off. The guys will get away. With the evidence.

“Push it, push it, push it,” I scream. “Into the propeller! This will work! Do it!”

We move forward together, shoulders bent and legs extended, trying to aim our ungainly weapon where it’ll do the most good. Suddenly, we feel the wheels align. The cart picks up speed, seeming to acquire a momentum and will of its own.

“Don’t get too close to the prop!” Keresey screams as we power the cart, faster, toward the moving Cessna. “We have to let it go!”

“On my count!” I yell. Slamming every muscle in my body against the cart, I know this is our final play. I hate airplanes. “Three two one-go!”

Both of us are yelling, something, anything, as together we heave the cart directly into the path of the propeller, both of us stumbling backward as we let go. Keresey trips, and I grab her, catching her, and then, in an instant, we see it’s going to work. Perfectly. The cart is headed straight for its spinning target. We’re both breathing hard, panting, gasping. And then we realize what’s going to happen next.

“Take cover!” Keresey yells. “Now, now, now!” She grabs my arm, dragging me along with her. We run, together, and dive behind another massive baggage cart. My elbow clangs on one of the metal rails and I feel one knee of my jeans rip on the rough cement floor. “Cover your head!” she commands. “Stay low! If it’s a direct hit-”

Whatever she says next is lost in a shriek of splintering metal, a scream of mechanical rage. I lift my head, just enough to peer over the thick wood-and-metal baggage cart we’re using as a shield. The spinning propeller chokes and staggers, twisted into an angry tangle by the lumbering metal missile we launched. The crippled Cessna lurches forward, one wing tipping, scraping along the floor with an ear-shattering metallic screech, red-orange and white-hot sparks spitting ceiling high. The baggage cart is thrown into the air, its chains caught on the prop blades, then it crashes to the ground, wood splitting, chains popping, shards of rubble and wreckage jettisoned across the hangar.

And then in seconds, although it doesn’t seem possible, it’s even noisier. The screaming wail of sirens, one, then another, then another, signals-finally-Keresey and I are no longer in this alone.

I would have thought nothing could ever surprise me again. But sitting in the squad room of the State Police airport headquarters, an institutionally neutral-on-neutral array of battered office furniture and paper-piled metal desks tucked into the rear of Logan Airport terminal C, I can’t take my eyes off FBI Special Agent Keresey Stone. And I’m surprised.

It’s not only because she slammed her own boss into his handcuffs and supervised the grim-faced posse of feds who took him away. It’s not only because, as she’s just explained to an equally grim-faced U.S. Attorney, she got a buddy in the Bureau’s “facial rec” section to do an Internet photo scan and found the photos of the purported Katie Harkins on a Web site of some small-town photographer. That’s when she realized Lattimer had created an imaginary informant-a fictional nonperson he was using to sidetrack law enforcement focus and set FBI raids up for certain defeat.

It’s also because I can’t see her face, which is buried in Detective Christopher Yens’s uniformed chest. And her still-hoodied body is being cradled in his arms. And it does not look like interagency cooperation. It looks like love. Well, lust.

“Sweetheart, you’re sure you’re okay?” Yens asks. He smooths Keresey’s hair, more tenderly than I could have predicted, lifting one strand away from her forehead, then carefully putting it into place.

Whatever Yens was saying is lost in a kiss so passionate I only allow myself to watch the beginning. The big finish, which doesn’t appear to be imminent, I’ll let them handle on their own. And I’ll grill Miss Keresey about this later. Married to Uncle Sam indeed.

Since the police operator has finally connected my phone call, I turn away from this law-enforcement love affair and focus on Franklin. Who apparently hit the video jackpot.

“So, Franko, you got it? All of it?” I ask, rolling a rickety chair up to a paper-littered desk. “You’re the best. What’s the video look like? How’d you know to-”

“Hello, to you, too, Charlotte,” Franklin says. “You’re on speaker phone here. I’m in the newsroom. With Kevin. With Susannah. Toni DuShane just left. And she says, legally, we’re fine.”

“Good to go,” Kevin’s voice interrupts. “Public place. Hidden camera, video only. And wait until you see the-”

“I totally got it all,” Franklin puts in. “First you, I mean Keresey, going for the suitcase. Then the two union goons dragging her through the door. That took about one second. Clearly they’d held the suitcase back, kept it for last, had this all arranged. And then Keresey, I mean you, making that Batgirl move through the conveyor belt entrance. Of course I thought it was Keresey going after you. So I figured you were fine. And she’d call for help.”

“But where were you?” I ask. “I looked for you.”

“Pink shirt, tan cap. Positioned just close enough to the Dunkin’ Donuts kiosk to look like an employee. It was closed, of course, but a guy who looks like a minimum wager standing next to a coffee shop? Invisible.”

Keresey and Yens have untangled themselves from each other, although they’re still holding hands, and are listening to me. She points to an orange button on the phone.

“Good one,” I say to Franklin, giving Keresey a thumbs-up. I hit the button and the squad room is filled with the buzz of the newsroom. “But how about Lattimer?”

“Well, that’s when I knew things were not, shall we say, what they seemed?” Franklin replies through the speaker. “He ran to the luggage claim, grabbed the suitcase, then bolted. But not in your direction. I followed him of course, out the door. He threw the bag onto a curbside check-in rack, then took off. And I lost him. And that’s when I called the cops.”

“And I guess we found him,” Keresey says, leaning toward the phone. “He knew exactly what was supposed to go down.”

“And we found the bag,” Yens puts in. “Full of phony Delleton-Marachelles. Now sealed tight in the evidence room. And a whole battalion of state cops are on their way to 325 Strathmeyer Road.”

“Yoo hoo,” Susannah’s voice trills through the speaker. “Let’s schedule an airtime for this, shall we? I’m off to California for a meeting. But ‘It’s In The Bag’-seems to be in the bag.”