I turned back to the phone book and flipped through the pages with agitation, talking to myself. Come on, come on. Lawrence. Laymon. I ran a finger down the columns. Leason. Leatherman. Leber. Ah. Fifteen listings under Lee, but only one on Bay. Bucyrus Lee. Bucky’s name was Bucyrus? I found a quarter in my blazer pocket, dropped it in the slot, and dialed the number. The receiver was picked up on the second ring. “Hello, Bucky?”
“This is Chester. Who’s this?”
“Kinsey …”
“Shit. You better get over here. All hell’s broken loose.”
“What’s going on?”
“We came home from Rosie’s to find Ray Raw-son crawling down the drive. Face all bloody, hand swoll up the size of a baseball mitt. He’s got two fingers snapped sideways and God knows what else. Somebody busted in again and ripped into the space under the kitchen cabinet …”
Over the intercom system, an announcement was being made about an American Airlines flight. “Hang on a second,” I said. I put my hand across the mouthpiece. I’d missed the specifics, but it had to be the boarding call for the flight to Palm Beach. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the guy pick up the duffel, and together he and the pregnant woman moved out of the terminal, turning left toward the American Airlines departure gate. I could feel my heart pound. I turned my attention back to Chester. “Is Rawson okay?”
“Hey, we got cop cars all over and an ambulance on the way. He don’t look so good. What’s all the racket? I can hardly hear you.”
“That’s why I called. I’m at the airport,” I said. “I saw a guy coming out of the apartment with a duffel. It looks like he and some woman are about to get on a plane. I tailed him this far, but once we lose track of that bag, it’s only my word against his.”
“Hang on. I’ll grab Bucky and head out. Just don’t let go of him until we get there.”
“Chester, the plane’s boarding. Do you know what he took?”
“I have no idea. I can’t even get in until the place clears out. What about airport security? Can’t they give you a hand?”
“What airport security? There’s not an officer in sight. I’m here by myself.”
“Well, for God’s sake, do something.”
I flashed through the possibilities. “Authorize a ticket and I’ll follow him,” I said.
“To where?”
“The plane’s on its way to Palm Beach with a stop in Dallas. Make up your mind because two minutes more and he’s out of here.”
“Do it. We’ll settle later. Call me when you can.”
I banged the receiver down and checked the departures monitor again in passing. Beside the posted departure time for American flight 508, the word boarding was blinking merrily. The terminal had emptied of waiting passengers, who were apparently assembling at the gate. I trotted across the lobby to the American Airlines ticket counter. One of the two agents was busy with a passenger, but the other caught my eye. “I can help you over here.”
I moved to her station. “Are there any seats available on the flight to Palm Beach?” I had no idea if the couple were on their way to Dallas or Palm Beach, but I had to assume the latter if I intended to stick with them.
“Let me see what we have. I know the flight’s not full.” She began to type rapidly on the computer keyboard in front of her, pausing while her eye took in the data appearing on the screen in front of her. “We have seventeen seats … twelve in coach and five in first class.”
“What’s coach fare?”
“Four hundred and eighty-seven dollars.”
That wasn’t bad. “And that’s round trip?”
“One way.”
“Four hundred and eighty-seven dollars one way?” My voice squeaked like I had just that minute reached puberty.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll take it,” I said. “You better leave the return open-ended. I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying.” The truth was, I had no idea where the couple was headed. Their real destination could be Mexico, South America, or just about anywhere. I hadn’t seen any sign of passports changing hands, but I couldn’t rule out the possibility. Since this wasn’t the same agent who’d dealt with the pregnant woman, there wasn’t any point in quizzing her. I pulled out my wallet and took out a credit card, which I placed on the counter. She didn’t seem to question the wisdom of the impulse. Oh, man. Chester had better pay up or I was sunk.
“Would you prefer an aisle seat or window?”
“Aisle. Near the front.” For all I knew the couple would be first off the plane, and I wanted to be ready to cut and run when they did.
She typed another entry, tapping away in a leisurely manner. “You have bags to check?”
“Just carry-on,” I said. I wanted to scream at her to hurry, but there wasn’t any point. The ticket machine began to rattle and hum, generating my ticket, the boarding pass, and the credit card voucher, which I signed where specified. I could feel my eyes cross slightly when I saw what I’d paid. The round-trip coach fare without benefit of upgrade certificates or advance purchase discounts had cost me $974. I did some quick arithmetic. The limit on this credit card was $2,500, and I was still paying off some purchases I’d made over the summer. By my calculations, I had about four hundred bucks left. Oh, well. It wasn’t like I didn’t have money in my savings account. I just couldn’t get to it at this hour of the night.
I took my ticket envelope, thanked the agent, and scurried out the front of the terminal and around to Gate 6, where I placed my handbag on the conveyor moving through the X-ray machine. I removed Johnny’s key from my jeans pocket and tucked it in my handbag. I walked through the metal detector without incident and reclaimed my handbag on the other side. First-class passengers and parents with small children had already passed through the gate and had left the terminal. I could see them straggling across the tarmac toward the waiting plane. General boarding was now under way, and I took my place at the rear of the slow-moving line. The man in the Stetson was clearly visible.
About six passengers ahead of me, the couple stood together, saying little or nothing. She now carried the magazines, and he toted the duffel. Their behavior with each other seemed strained, their faces devoid of animation. I saw no evidence of affection except for the belly, which suggested at least one round of intimacy six or seven months back. Maybe they’d been forced to get married because of the baby. Whatever the explanation, the emotional dynamic between them seemed dead.
When they reached the gate, the guy handed her the duffel and said something. She murmured her response without looking at him. She seemed withdrawn, decidedly chilly in her reaction to him. He put an arm around her shoulder and gave her cheek a kiss. He stepped back then and tucked his hands in his pockets, looking on while she handed her boarding pass to the gate agent and walked out with the duffel in her hand. Uh-oh, now what? He waited by the gate until she’d moved out of sight. I hesitated, considering my options. I could always follow him, but the duffel was the point, at least until I found out what was in it. Once the booty was gone, how was anyone going to trace it back to the source?
The guy turned in my direction, heading for the exit. He caught my eye briefly before I could avert my gaze. I flicked another look at him and snapped a mental photograph of his grizzled face, the scar on his chin, a deeply indented line of white that began with his lower lip and continued down along his neck. He’d either gone through a window or had his face slashed.
The gate agent took my proffered ticket, handing back the torn stub from my boarding pass. If I was going to bail out, now was the time to do it. Ahead of me, across the poorly lighted expanse of asphalt, I saw the pregnant woman reach the top of the portable staircase and pass through the door of the plane. I took a deep breath and walked out onto the tarmac, where I crossed the open space to the stairs. The air was brisk and the perpetual wind that seems to whip along the runway cut through the fabric of my tweed blazer. I climbed the portable stairs, shoes tinking on the metal treads as I ascended.
I was happier once I’d crossed the threshold of the 737 into the lighted warmth of the interior. I glanced at the three first-class passengers, but the pregnant woman wasn’t among them. I checked the seat number on the stub of my boarding pass: 10D, probably over the wing on the left side of the plane. While I waited for the passengers ahead of me to stow carry-on bags and settle in their seats, I managed to skim my gaze across the first few rows of coach. She was sitting eight rows back in a window seat on the right. She’d taken out a compact and was peering into the mirror. She took out a bottle of makeup, opened it, and dotted beige across her cheeks, blending it in.