Exit Row (10 page)

T
HEY STOPPED FOR
fajitas and beer in a bar on Guadeloupe Street, Cactus Joe's. The long narrow room was packed with a summer crowd, but they managed to find a table against a mural of cowboy rabbits and pink coyotes wearing bandanas. It was also across from the kitchen.

“Jesus, it's brutal in here,” Greg complained, pulling his striped shirt collar away from his neck.

“I know. That's why there were no tables outside.”

Jammed against the wall, Fiona wondered how two large plates would fit on the tiny circle of tile. She was finally hungry and gratefully gulped the beer from a clear plastic cup. Then she looked back down at the list that was taking up the table space. The names had a terrible finality.

Greg stared at the page along with her:

“It's like—” But she could not say it aloud. “All those people who had never met before, who had different reasons for being on the plane. Now they're linked together forever.”

“Hold your horses, Pedro. It's not like they're
dead.
” Greg finished his beer, glanced at Fiona's cup, and waved two fingers at a passing waitress.

“We don't know that. Which one's your friend?”

Greg pointed to the second name.
Alvarez, Dimitri.

“Francis J. O'Malley is probably Maggie's father. I know he's from Santa Fe. It's true, he didn't die . . . ”

Then, amazingly, the reason why presented itself to her. She reached out and grabbed Greg's wrist. “You know what? Maybe the thing that ‘happened' in the note was that terrorists took the plane hostage and no one is supposed to know!” Everything fell into place. “That would explain why Maggie's father was released. He's old and ill. The government is probably negotiating with the terrorists right now! They forced the plane to land somewhere, took some hostages off, then let the plane fly on to Denver. That's why they were late.” She sat back, stunned.

“Terrorists?”

“Day Star can't let anyone know; it's the same as in a kidnapping when they warn people not to call the police.” She looked into his dark brown eyes, willing him to believe.

But he pulled at an eyebrow skeptically. “What do these terrorists want?”

“I don't know—money, safe passage somewhere, the release of political prisoners from jail. What do terrorists usually want?”

“Publicity.” He took a sip of the beer that had appeared on their table and wiped at his mouth, satisfied. “Groups like that always claim responsibility.”

“This one didn't.” She clung to the idea of the passengers being safe somewhere, being released gradually with a cover story. Why hadn't she thought of this in New York? “You know the government does all kinds of covert things.”

“Then we're better off not interfering with negotiations.”

Was he serious? “But everything fits!”

Greg handed her the list as plates of fajitas and sides of guacamole, black beans, and sour cream were crowded onto the table. Fiona refolded the paper in quarters and put it in her bag.

He tore into a fajita without speaking and then said, “Okay. So we give them fifteen billion dollars and the Empire State Building and people will come tumbling back. Not to burst your bubble or anything, but why would terrorists pick a no-name airline that flies in the middle of nowhere and expect to get anything out of it? And pledge them to secrecy instead of just making the federal government pay up?”

She dipped a chunk of chicken in the sour cream. “But that's just it. You couldn't keep it a secret if a 747 disappeared. But these are still American citizens, and the government will quietly save them.”

“I thought we didn't negotiate with terrorists.”

“That's why it has to be a secret.” Fiona's hand brushed her cup and she righted it quickly. “I've got to tell the others!”

“Finish your food.”

“I'm done.”

She stood up, feeling in her bag for her wallet to pay.

Greg stood up too. “Hey, wait a minute. I'm still eating. ” He put his arm around her, squeezing her shoulder blade painfully. “Besides, I thought we were going to howl!”

You think we're coyotes?
But his mouth was already on hers, beery and warm, his hand massaging her back through her T-shirt.

She pulled back. “Greg, stop!”

“This is the reward for all my hard work?” But he moved away from her so quickly that she realized he had been doing what he thought a man in his position would. It was a persona he had adapted, a shorthand for dealing with the world.

She knew about personas.

“I've got to tell Rosa,” she said urgently. “You can keep eating; I'll be back in a minute.”

He sat down, eyeing her half-eaten food.

“You can finish it. I'm done.”

T
HE
I
NN OF
the Kachinas was impressive. Just inside the carved wooden doors stood a cactus taller than Fiona. The largest copper pot she had ever seen was crammed with dried flowers and placed on a coffee table. The kiva fireplace was also oversized, large enough for a couple to dance in. The inn reminded her of a resort she once visited in Brazil.

Fiona moved to the reception desk. “I'm looking for a guest who's staying here. Rosa Cooper?”

“In there, I believe.” The clerk smiled and pointed to the lounge.

“Really? Thanks.”

Rosa was sitting at a tall table, a book open in front of her on the ruby cloth. She was wearing a deep blue dress smocked with an Indian design, a beaded sweatband pinning down her mottled hair. “Hi, there!” She seemed delighted to see Fiona. “Date over already?”

“We've got the list of passengers!” She found herself suddenly as breathless as if she'd run all the way.

“You're a wonder.” She returned Alice Munro to her Guatemalan bag. “They've got piña coladas here to die for. Let me order you one.” She waved to the waiter.

Fiona sat down on the stool across from Rosa. “Lee was
on the plane. So were Susan and Dominick's daughter. Everybody who's missing!”

“Imagine that.” She gave the waiter the order for two more drinks. “And they've got a fabulous piano player. He just went on break.”

“Rosa, are you listening?”

“Of course I'm listening.” She gave Fiona an irritated look. “But how is that different from what we knew?”

“It's tangible proof! We can take it to the police. And it shows that Day Star was lying to me. Why would they lie if nothing happened?” Reaching into her shoulder bag, she pulled out the paper and held it out to Rosa.

Rosa took it and held it far away from her. Then she laid it back on the table. “Why is Susan's name in parenthesis?”

“I don't know. Maybe she was flying standby?”

“Is Maggie's father on this list?”

“He's Francis O'Malley.”

Rosa gave an emphatic and slightly tipsy nod. “We'll see what the police have to say about this.”

“I think I know what happened.” Quickly Fiona explained her theory about the terrorists. “The local police may have been told not to interfere.”

“Terrorists!” Rosa reached over and clasped Fiona's arm. “I like it. That's why none of them could communicate with us.”

She paused as the waiter set down two drinks on the table. Fiona stared at them. Like everything else in the hotel, they were huge.

“But I was thinking that we could call the people on the list—their homes—to see if they'd been released yet. If they were, they could tell us what really happened, what the government is doing.”

“If they haven't been sworn to secrecy.” Rosa was slurring her words.

“Good evening, ladies.” A darkly tanned man in a pale yellow dinner jacket smiled as he passed their table.

“That's him,” Rosa whispered and followed the man greedily with her eyes.

Fiona watched him approach a grand piano on a platform, surrounded by tall, rush-seated stools. Before he was fully on the piano bench, he had launched into “Someone to Watch Over Me.”

Fiona did not recognize the next song, but Rosa closed her eyes and began to sing along, first softly, then gaining volume. To Fiona's surprise she had a beautiful, plaintive voice. “My buddy,” she sang, “my buddy, your buddy misses you.”

Was she thinking about her husband?

It was too much. It struck a match, illuminating all the sad relationships of Fiona's life that no longer existed. She thought of the best moments she and Lee had had together—sharing Chinese food in his apartment, parodying a silly movie, lying curled up in bed doing nothing at all. Would she ever see him again? Pushing up from the table, she fled to the restroom, feeling sick to her stomach. She sat in a stall, hands over her face, and tried to calm herself.

Remember that the terrorists are keeping Lee incommunicado, but safe. Don't think of the way those situations too often end.

R
OSA WAS NO
longer at the table. Fiona wondered if she been more upset than she had shown, or simply gotten tired and gone to bed without saying good night. Then, turning in the direction of the piano, she saw Rosa sitting to the pianist's right. A few other people had joined them, taking the empty stools and balancing their drinks on the piano top. They were singing “On the Sunny Side of the Street.”

Fiona sat back down at the table. She wasn't a singer. She would finish her piña colada and go. Twisting around, she smiled reassuringly at Rosa, though her friend hardly seemed to need cheering up. How many of those coconut confections had she consumed? Fiona turned back to the empty red tablecloth. The list! Where was the list? She had left it in the middle of the table between them and now it was gone. Had the waiter taken it away by mistake? She had run off, Rosa had abandoned the table to wax nostalgic, and perhaps the waiter thought they were finished.

But no. He had left her own half-finished drink; Rosa's woven purse was leaning against one chair leg. Slipping off her stool, Fiona peered down into Rosa's bag. With great relief, she saw a white paper folded in quarters. Thank God!

Her pulsing heart slowed. She picked up the paper and, without unfolding it, stuffed it into her own bag. Then she sat back down, wondering at her flash of panic. Sneaking around Day Star and the shock of seeing the names on the list had pushed her close to the edge. That and the man's voice from the hall confirming that they had been seen.

It was past time to go. She went over to the piano and said good night to Rosa, thanking her for the drink, and made her way dizzily back through the lobby. What she needed was a copy machine, though she could photograph the list with her phone back in her room.

Halfway to her inn she remembered Greg, sitting at the table waiting for her. She had promised to come back. But it was so late already. . . . All she wanted to do was collapse on her bed and sleep.

The bed and breakfast was still floodlit when she made her way unsteadily up the steps. She never drank this much when she was with Lee or traveling by herself, but people had kept buying her drinks.
Poor baby.
Moving down the long hall, Fiona let herself into her room and tossed her bag on her bed. The evening had cooled down nicely, and she unlocked the patio doors, opening them wide for some fresh air. She was too well trained not to wash her face and brush her teeth, so she picked up her travel kit from the dresser and headed for the shared bathroom across the hall.

When she came back, she locked the patio doors firmly and fell into bed.

F
IONA WOKE THE
next morning with an insistent throbbing at the back of her neck. Her first thoughts were of the German couple on the flight list and their two young children. Innocent tourists visiting America, caught up in a terrorist web. Lying under her sheet in the cool mountain air, she thought about the family. Where were they now?

Wondering if the parents were already back at work was an unwelcome reminder that she had to get to her dangerous beauty piece finished. It had been due yesterday. Could she push the deadline up to Monday? That left only today to find out as much as she could here, fly home Saturday, and pull it together Sunday. At least with the list, they could contact the other passengers. And surely Maggie's father would remember more this morning.

Glancing at the digital clock that came with the room, Fiona saw that she had only fifteen minutes before meeting the others for breakfast. If she showered quickly she could make it. Rummaging through her travel bag, she pulled out her jeans and a gold T-shirt. Then, armed with the courtesy bar of soap and a rather threadbare towel, she opened the door.

She could immediately see that the shower was in use, and even the door to the toilet was closed. Rosa was right. The downside of authentic accommodations was their inconvenience. Deciding to give it another five minutes, she moved back into the room. Time to photograph the list. Her purse was still perched on the side of the bed she had not slept in, near the French doors.

Reaching into its leather depths, she came up with her sunglasses. They were smudged and needing a good cleaning, so she left them on the bed. She dipped into the bag again, and this time brought out a crisp square of paper. As she unfolded it, she saw that it was the travel voucher that she had picked up at Day Star. Well, she wouldn't be needing that this morning.

Another dip and she came up with the paper she had taken from Rosa's bag. She unfolded it then stared at it, uncomprehending. Instead of the list, it was Rosa's flight information, which she must have printed out from her computer after making the reservations. Chilled, Fiona dumped the rest of her purse's contents across the white bedspread. Her notebook, a cosmetic bag, wallet, rental car key, phone, five or six pens, tampons, her used boarding pass—and nothing else. Panicked, she put her hand inside her purse and flailed around.

No other papers.

Where was the list? It had to be here. Dropping to her knees, she raised the corner of the spread and looked under the bed, then jumped up and went to her dresser. Except for her deodorant, toothpaste, and a silver hair clip, the polished oak top was bare. She had been groggy last night, but she remembered walking down the hallway of the inn and reaching into her purse to touch the paper again for reassurance.

Except . . . she had been touching the wrong piece of paper.

Don't panic.
Knowing how important it was, Rosa had probably stuffed it down further inside her bag or even taken it with her to the piano.

But Fiona knew she would not be able to eat anything, would not be able to think about anything, until she knew for sure.

Reaching for her phone on the bed, she found Rosa's cell number and punched it in.

“Fiona? Good morning! Want to have breakfast?”

“Thanks, but I'm meeting the guys. Do you have the list of passengers?” She closed her eyes.
Please, please, please.

Rosa seemed to be thinking. “I overdid it a little last night, I was just so happy to be somewhere congenial. But let's see. The last I noticed, it was on the table where you showed it to me. When I didn't see it later, I thought you had taken it with you.”

“No.”

“But it has to be around. Why would anyone take it? I left my purse at the table, and it was fine.”

Fiona could not think of anything to say that didn't sound paranoid. “Could the waiter have picked it up? Can you ask him?”

“I can try. I haven't seen him this morning, but I don't know if I'd know him if I did. I'll ask around, though. I'm coming over; I want to take the Explorer to Susan's.”

“If you find the list, call me!”

Fiona was too upset to shower now. Dressing rapidly, she created another scenario. She had had more to drink than usual; she must have picked up the list from the table automatically and stuffed it in her bag. Perhaps Greg had come into her room last night when she was in the bathroom and taken it to show Dominick. He was like that: personal boundaries meant little. She remembered how he had simply announced that he would share Dominick's room.

It could not have simply disappeared.

When she came into the breakfast room, Greg and Dominick were already at a table, bending over compotes of bananas and vanilla yogurt. A pile of orange-blossom muffins waited in a basket between them.

Fiona pulled out the chair on Greg's right, breathless. “Did you take the list last night?”

“The list? The passenger list? You took it to show Rosa, remember?”

“No, I mean after that. You didn't come in my room last night and take it?”

He looked at her. “You think I'd just barge into your room and take something?”

Dominick chuckled.

“You never came back to the bar either. I was waiting for you!”

She slumped against the yellow ladder-back chair. “I can't find the list anywhere. Rosa doesn't have it, you don't have it.” She recognized the panic in her voice.

“Well, someone has to.” Dominick was using that voice meant to calm a child again. “We'll look for it after breakfast.”

“Where? I've looked everywhere it could be. I'm sure it was in my purse when I went to bed.”

“Do you sleepwalk or anything?” Greg asked.

“What?”

“Maybe you ate it in a dream by mistake.”

She stared at him until he shrugged.

“Good morning!” A young woman Fiona had never seen before set the banana-yogurt cup in front of her with a flourish. “Care for a Mexican omelet this morning?”

“No.”

“Get this girl some black coffee,” Greg said genially. “Set it down on the table and back away slowly.”

“She's upset about something,” Dominick said apologetically.

Stop being my father.

Why weren't they as upset as she was? “You don't understand,” she said slowly. “I either left the list on the table last night when I was with Rosa, or I took it from her purse and brought it to my room, where someone took it. Either way, it's gone. And Will Dunlea knew I was staying here.” She had a sudden memory of leaving the French doors open when she went to wash.

Dominick was shaking his head good-humoredly. “I don't know, Fiona. From a plane disaster the authorities say never happened to people following you and breaking into your room, you've got some imagination. Greg was telling me that you think it could be a hostage situation.”

“I think it could. It's the only thing that fits. Homeland Security could be the ones watching us.” She didn't know if that would make her feel better or worse.

The young blonde woman cautiously set a cup of coffee near her elbow. Fiona muttered, “Thanks.”

Then she thought of something else. Frantically she reached into her purse and brought out a pen and her used boarding pass. “We've got to write down the names and addresses of everyone we can remember!”

“I know Dimitri's.”

God save me from idiots.
“Not the addresses of people we know, the names of people we don't know. There was that professor from the University of Cincinnati, Sealand, or something like that.” She turned the pass over and scribbled the name down.

Greg finally understood. “There was some dude with an African name from Alabama.”

“You don't remember his name?”

“Why should I?”

“That family from Germany, I couldn't even pronounce their name.”

“A couple of guys from the rez.”

“Right!” She gave him an approving look. “I wondered about that. One last name was Black Arrow or something like that.” She wrote it down. “And one of them was a flight attendant; there was an F. A. after his name. The pilot and the copilot had F. O.”

Dominick, who was rubbing his chin as he listened to them, said, “Can't we just get another list?”

Greg pantomimed choking on his muffin.

“Not in this lifetime,” Fiona said. “They'll really be on guard now.”

“Assuming they even know you took it.” Dominick didn't hide his skepticism.

“Oh, they know. They know exactly why we're here. Who else would be following us? They even sent me a text Wednesday night that was supposed to be from Lee. That means they have his phone.”

Both men stared at her.

“Didn't I tell you? After I had dinner with Will Dunlea, I came back and my phone dinged with a text. It said something like, ‘Don't worry about me. Go home and I'll explain everything later.' But I know it wasn't from him.”

“Wait a minute.” Dominick looked ready to shake her. “He sent you a text Wednesday night? From his phone?”

“It was from his phone, but it wasn't from him. I'm sure of that. When I called right back, he didn't pick up and talk to me. And it wasn't . . . personal. He always writes something at the end like ‘Love ya' or some joke that only we would get. Okay, maybe he wouldn't make a joke now. Except”—she thought of something else—“if he was being held hostage, maybe that's all they'd let him write!”

One more piece that fit. “And to think, I was about to go home. Thank God the receptionist gave me that note!”

Dominick shook his head. “You're pinning too much on that note.”

“No, I'm not. As soon as the office opens, I'm going to talk to her.”

“I'll go with you. I want to see if Coral really was on the plane—which I doubt. Then I have to go to Taos and find a way to get in touch with Eve. We'll search your room after breakfast for that list,” he said. “If it's that important, we'll find it.”

Fiona reached for her coffee cup, not bothering to challenge his logic.

The Mexican omelet was filled with ham, jack cheese, onions, and jalapeño peppers. She watched silently as the others ate.

“You ought to get one,” Greg told her. “It's free.”

He was right. Why starve herself to death for being careless? If she ate a big breakfast, she wouldn't have to take time for lunch. She raised her hand and the young woman was there immediately, happy to bring her breakfast after all.

“When you went to the Day Star offices Wednesday, did the people seem upset?” Dominick asked. “Like they were in the middle of a hostage situation?”

Fiona thought about Ginger Lee bursting in with revenue reports and the receptionist joking with Will. “Not really.”

“Don't you think if they were in the middle of an emergency, you'd know it? There'd be officials checking you before you even went into the door.”

“Maybe. We'll see how they act today. I'm going to make some calls now. To Maggie, of course, and this professor, Sealand. I want to go to Taos too, to find the ones from the reservation.”

“I've got things to do in Santa Fe,” Greg said mysteriously, mopping up the last of his omelet with a corner of toast. “I'll see you when I see you.”