Liquid Smoke

SEVEN

We spent the night at my place, and I was awake at four in the morning, staring at the ceiling, knowing I was going to the airport.

I didn’t pack a bag. I wasn’t planning on staying longer than the afternoon.

I woke Liz after I showered and told her I’d call her later on. She hugged me, maybe a moment or two longer than usual, then kissed me goodbye without saying a word.

The drive to Lindbergh took twenty minutes on the empty freeway, and I was ticketed and through security by seven thirty. I didn’t feel like talking with Darcy until I had to, so I bought a paper and sat down with it in the coffee shop to have some breakfast.

Neither the paper nor the greasy eggs were able to keep my mind off what I was venturing into. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to balance what Darcy wanted me to find out and what I needed to know for myself. I didn’t think that Simington would have given her my information just so he could tell me the entire truth about his crime. I had a feeling it had more to do with making amends before his death.

I watched people walk to their gates and questions kept popping into my head. Did I really look like his son? How would he introduce himself? What was it like inside San Quentin? Would he have excuses for his actions or would he take pride in what he’d done?

I wasn’t sure I wanted answers to any of those questions, but I knew I was getting on that plane.

The first boarding call went out over the loudspeaker, and my stomach tightened.

At eight fifteen, I figured I couldn’t postpone the inevitable as they made the last call for passengers to San Francisco.

I walked through the Jetway, my stomach already churning. I was carrying self-doubt and second guesses like pennies in my pocket.

The cabin was three-quarters full. Business travelers in suits. Some college-aged kids. A mother with a small child strapped to her body in the first row. She smiled at me as I went by, and I returned her smile.

My ticket said 10C.

I worked my way up the aisle and reached row ten. D, E, and F were occupied by two teenagers and a guy reading the Wall Street Journal. A guy reading the New York Times was in A, next to the window.

B was empty.

Darcy Gill was nowhere to be found.

I slid into my seat and glanced around. I didn’t see her. I wondered if she’d taken a flight the previous night, our conversation on the beach convincing her I wouldn’t be joining her. Or maybe she was running late.

The doors to the plane closed, we pushed back from the gate, and the attendants began their run-through of the safety procedures.

Darcy didn’t strike me as someone who ever ran late.

I was annoyed that I’d gotten up in the dark and boarded a plane at her request and Darcy was a no-show. I wondered momentarily if she was playing some game.

But just as she didn’t strike me as someone who showed up tardy, I didn’t think Darcy was a game player either.

I glanced at the empty seat next to me.

As the flight attendants took their seats and the plane taxied down the runway for takeoff, the anxious burning that had taken up residence in my gut since Darcy had accosted me in the water gained new life.