No baggage.
Jets thundered overhead. Cars sped along the road, which snaked through the airport like a freeway.
Gwen walked to an intersection. A red light stopped her before she could cross the street to the terminal. Travis twisted his head, moved his mouth, and rolled his eyes. Gwen looked around nervously. I hung back and kept my head down.
She wore an expensive-looking white linen dress and white flats. A string of pearls glimmered around her neck. Her short dark hair shone, but even at this distance her eyes were old.
Short hair. Somber look. The grumpy baby-sitter Ken remembered?
Abandoning her post, then returning to discover Lucy gone?
Going to look for her and finding her sleepwalking?
Seeing and hearing what Lucy had would have been grounds for a payoff.
The light turned green and she entered the terminal’s big, bright, green-glassed atrium. A dozen airlines flew out of here. She headed for the Aeromexico desk. Waiting in the First Class line, she moved up quickly to the clerk. He smiled at her, then listened to what she had to say. Travis was twisting and turning in the chair. People stared. The terminal was crowded. Phony nuns panhandled. I picked up an abandoned newspaper and pretended to read it, looking, instead, at a TV screen filled with flight information.
Aeromexico 546, leaving in one hour for Mexico City.
The clerk was shaking his head.
Gwen looked at her watch, then turned and pointed at Travis.
The clerk got on the phone, spoke, got off, shook his head again.
Gwen leaned toward him, standing taller, her calf muscles swelling.
The clerk kept shaking his head. Then he called another man over. The second man listened to Gwen, got on the phone. Shook his head. Half a dozen people had lined up behind her. The second clerk pointed to them. Gwen turned around. Her face blazed with anger and her hands were clenched.
No one in the queue said anything or moved, but some of the travelers were staring at Travis.
Gwen took hold of the chair’s handlebars and wheeled him away.
I followed as she pushed her way through the crowd to a row of phone booths. All were occupied and she waited, twisting her hair and tapping a handlebar. When a booth opened, she dashed in and stayed on the phone for fifteen minutes, feeding coins and punching numbers. When she emerged, she looked crushed and even jumpier, rubbing her fingers together very fast, biting her lip, eyes darting up and down the terminal.
I stuck with her, back to the parking lot. Running up the three flights and timing my exit from the lot to hers was tricky, but I managed to get two vehicles behind her as she paid at the kiosk. I stayed with her out of the airport and onto the 405 North. She took it to the 10 West, got off at Route 1.
Back to Malibu.
But instead of pulling over at La Costa, she continued on another few miles.
Shopping center across from the pier.
The parking lot was nearly empty. The only business still open was a submarine sandwich store, bright and yellow. I put the Seville in a dark corner and stayed in the car as Gwen got Travis out of the van.
She pushed him up the ramp to the surf shop, then stopped. Opening her purse, she took out her wallet and pulled out a gold credit card. Staring at it blankly, she replaced it and knitted her fingers some more. Travis moved constantly. Gwen took out a key. She was opening the shop’s front door when I stepped up and said, “Hi.”
She threw up her hands defensively, letting go of the chair. It started to slide back and I held it in place. The boy had to weigh a hundred and twenty pounds.
Gwen’s eyes were huge and the hand that held the keys was drawn back, ready to strike.
“Get the hell out of here or I’ll scream!”
“Scream away.”
Travis had positioned his head at an impossible angle, trying to get a look at me. His smile was innocent and empty.
“I mean it,” she said.