Fear

FIFTY-FIVE

The next morning, the second flight from LAX to Austin soared into the crisp blue sky and Miles saw, across the row where an elderly gentleman scanned a Sunday newspaper, the headline that read FEDERAL OFFICER MISSING and below that a picture of DeShawn Pitts.

He couldn’t read the article from where he sat and the gentleman read slowly, every word, never scanning an article. Groote dozed in the seat next to him. Five rows ahead of him sat David Singhal, dressed in a suit, reading the Wall Street Journal.

Finally the man folded the paper, tucked it into his seat pocket.

‘Sir?’ Miles leaned over and spoke in a whisper. ‘Excuse me. Might I see your paper if you’re done?’

‘Sure.’ The gentleman handed him the pages.

Miles read the article with chills touching his skin. DeShawn Pitts, a federal marshal – the story left out that he worked for Witness Protection – had gone missing two days ago, while on unspecified duty. The FBI was asking anyone who had information to call them.

Hurley died on Thursday. DeShawn was at the hospital that day – Miles heard him on Groote’s call to Hurley – and he went missing on Friday. The day after Groote had talked to him.

Or maybe DeShawn didn’t give up, kept questioning, kept looking for Miles – he would, if ordered, if WITSEC accepted DeShawn’s argument that Miles wasn’t capable of making a cogent decision given his disability – and he ran into Groote again. Groote was hunting Miles; so was DeShawn. Imagine they intersected. At a bad time.

Be okay, DeShawn, please be okay.

Miles scanned the rest of the article. No mention of him – WITSEC still wouldn’t compromise his new name. But a mention, at the end, of it having been a difficult week for Santa Fe police: a woman had been killed in an explosion at her office (Allison); a celebrity had vanished from her home (Celeste); four high-school kids critically injured in a car crash outside town; a doctor and a tourist had also gone missing. The hospital had reported Hurley missing. Would that news – or DeShawn’s sheer persistence – have brought DeShawn back to Sangriaville, closing in on a connection? Back to Groote?

Miles suddenly wanted to be off the plane, very badly.

He folded the paper, handed it back to its owner with a thank-you, got up, went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, tried to collect his thoughts, weighed the inferences. He returned to his seat. Groote was awake.

‘Airsick?’ Groote said in a low voice. ‘You’re pale.’

‘No,’ Miles said, ‘I’m okay.’

‘Don’t go mental,’ Groote said.

‘I said I’m fine.’

‘Good. Because we’re almost home free.’

If you killed DeShawn – I will kill you, Miles thought. ‘Yes. I hope we are.’