Noah's Rainy Day (4 page)

We just wanted to go home.

Beulah licked my hand. “Come here and let me give you some loving, Beulah,” I said, realizing I hadn’t given her any praise for the expert way she’d handled the situation.

“You okay?” Michael asked, peering over at me

“I guess.”

After walking in silence and in considerable pain for the next two miles toward the campground, Michael started fidgeting with his cowboy hat.

“Can I ask what the hell you were thinking, trying to outrun a mountain lion?”

I kept walking, ignoring him.

“And where’s your Sig?”

“In the fitted holster you made for me so I’d have no excuse not to have a gun with me at all times,” I answered. “Under the seat of my SUV.”

He grinned.

“What if that cat hadn’t been spooked off by your shot? He’d have bitten through my neck before you had a chance to realize what was happening.”

“Probably,” he said.

We walked the rest of the way without saying a word. Maybe Elizabeth was right. Shit does seem to happen when I’m around.

No wonder she calls me Critical Mass.

“ANSWER THE PHONE,” MELISSA
said as she turned her delicate wrist and noted the time on her watch, her irritation growing with every ring she counted. She stared at her reflection in the shiny gold placards that paneled the columns in the airport baggage claim area. Smoothing her skin-tight dress and primping her long, blond hair, she added, “Come on, Max.”

“Hey, that’s Melissa Williams,” she heard someone holler. “Melissa! Can I take my picture with you?”

Without ending her call or removing her sunglasses, she turned and smiled at the fan rushing up beside her as he shoved his cell phone toward a woman and hurriedly gave instructions on how to take their picture. Melissa’s smile never waned, even when the creep slipped his hand around her waist and let it linger near her butt. How she hated this part of fame. But how she loved the publicity on the social networks. This guy would brag for weeks about groping her, make up all sorts of lies about what they did together, and plaster the picture—this picture—of them all over the Internet.

The more creeps like him, the more buzz for her.

Besides, it was her choice to come in here. Melissa’s driver had offered
to collect little Max at the airport for her, but she missed the little guy, wanted to surprise him. Plus in the process, if the paparazzi happened to catch her in a loving embrace at LAX with her son on Christmas Eve, showcasing her rocking body and her practiced expression of alarm that her private moment had become suddenly public, then her holidays would be complete. She imagined herself flipping through the glossy pages of a tell-all magazine as she basked in the sun on the private beach that stretched for miles at Aldo’s sanctuary.

The result of her plan was nothing more than a lecherous traveler copping a feel as his wife snapped grainy photos on a cell phone. Melissa’s anxiety was rising. No paparazzi were in sight and no little Max.

About to hang up and try another number, she heard her soon-to-be ex-husband’s voice answer, “Hello?”

Typical Max. With all his money he could afford the most current technology to tell him who was calling; probably her exact location; maybe her recent three-pound weight loss off her already-stunning five-eleven, one-hundred-fifteen-pound frame; and possibly even what brand and color of pumps she was wearing, except he didn’t bother to look at the caller ID on the display.

“Where is he? Is this some kind of a power play or something?”

“Missy?” His hesitation concerned her. Normally he was quick with a witty comeback. Even when his mind was muddled by her calls, when they interrupted his latest conquest, he never answered with such hesitation. Experience told her the number of rings it took Max to answer his phone was directly proportional with the number of years younger the tramp between his silk sheets was. And this one was quite young.

“I don’t have time for your games. Aldo and I were planning on leaving for Papeete in the morning.” Melissa watched as the BlueSky employee behind the customer service desk pretended to act busy with other important matters, rather than let her know he recognized her behind those large sunglasses. Who wouldn’t, she thought.

“I didn’t give you permission to take little Max out of the country,” Max said.

She imagined Maximillian Bennett Williams II wrapping a slippery sheet around his thin waist, beads of sweat dripping down his six-pack
abs as he ran his fingers through his dark, wavy locks. And her practiced hatred for him was suddenly overshadowed by her desire to be that conquest tangled in the heap of silk sheets in his Manhattan high-rise apartment.

Only the BlueSky employee’s gaze pulled her from her fantasy back to the situation at hand.

She leaned her hip against the counter and drummed her fingernails on top, realizing that several other people had also recognized her and she would need to mind her manners. She didn’t want to draw the paparazzi’s attention. Not right now. Not while she was so upset with Max. She never looked much like a supermodel when cameras captured anger on her face.

“So that’s what this is about?”

“What are talking about?” Max sighed.

“You didn’t put little Max on the plane because you were pissed that we were taking him to Papeete with us? For Christmas? You’re punishing me?” she whispered, although she managed to inject a hiss and a curse into her hushed tone.

There was another pause. It unsettled her. Normally when they argued, there were no pauses, no lost opportunities for either to deliver a verbal blow. Yet Max was still on the other end.

“Max?”

“Missy, I did put little Max on the plane.” His voice sounded small and unsure, completely unlike his usual self—the megadeveloper millionaire who was never short on confidence.

“Max?” She made no attempt to hide her shock.

The BlueSky employee openly stared at her.

She heard Max reason, “Maybe the plane is just delayed.”

Melissa hated when Max talked to her like she was stupid. But she appreciated that he still cared enough about her to try to calm the fear that was swelling in her gut.

She attempted to steady her shaky voice and said, “I’m standing here at customer service by the baggage claim with a BlueSky employee named Darrel and we’re both watching the Denver flight 1212 passengers getting their bags now. Max isn’t here.”

“What about the escort?”

Melissa tucked the phone against her neck and asked Darrel, “He was an unaccompanied minor. He had an escort. Could you check on that?”

Darrel nodded once, while still typing on the keyboard, and lifted the phone’s handset, asking for crew members, gate employees, or anyone who might have seen the boy or his BlueSky escort.

“What’s he saying?” Max asked.

“Nothing yet. He’s checking on the computer and asking around about Max.”

“How old is he?” Darrel asked.

“Five,” Melissa answered, noting the alarm in his eyes at her answer.

She heard him mumble, “Couldn’t be. He’s only five. Yes, I’ll hold.”

He looked apologetically at her as his fingers flew furiously across the keyboard. Fixing his eyes on the screen, he explained, “This happens from time to time when teens rebel because their parents forced them to have escorts.”

“But little Max is not a teen.”

“What? What?” Max was asking.

“He said this happens from time to time. Teens ditching their escorts.”

Max said nothing. Something inside her stirred.

“He was on that plane, Missy.” His tone had softened.

Melissa glanced up at Darrel, who offered her a smile, but it wasn’t kindness she saw in his eyes. She pointed at the crowd around the carousel. “That’s the flight from Denver? Flight 1212, right?”

He nodded.

With her cell phone jammed against her ear, she stomped off toward the carousel, pushing her way through the straggle of travelers left standing around to retrieve their bags. Then she saw it. The blue bag with a yellow puppy imprinted on the canvas, a dark brown bear wearing a Yankees baseball cap strapped to the handle.

“Missy?”

“Max?” Her knees had grown weak. Her head was spinning and a gray fog began to swirl near the edges of her vision as if the airport was closing in around her.

“Missy, what is it?”

She drew a breath.

“His bag is here.” Her words were barely audible.

She watched the bag draw nearer to her but made no attempt to retrieve it. Something told her to find little Max first, then have him identify his bag. His bear. She watched it round the corner on the belt and saw his name, Maximillian Bennett Williams III, written on the tag in big bold letters. The handwriting was not hers and it was not Max’s. Probably Nanny Judy’s, she thought, realizing it was easier to focus on that small detail rather than the scope of what was happening. She let the tiny blue bag slide past her and beyond the black strips of plastic that kept travelers from seeing what went on in the baggage handler area on the other side of the wall.

Out of sight.

Gone.

She could hear Max barking orders in the background, hollering to people to get BlueSky on the phone, reciting the ticket number and invoice number for the escort he’d paid to accompany little Max from New York City to Los Angeles for the Christmas holidays.

She saw Darrel, the BlueSky customer service employee, turn his back to her, but not before she saw the dread in his eyes.

She looked toward the escalator, hoping with everything she had to see a delayed BlueSky employee escorting little Max down the stairs toward her, yet she saw nothing.

And she stared at the single bag on the carousel as it came around again before the belt was stopped. The bag was taunting her to pick it up, the bear staring at her with judgment in its beady little marble eyes.

“Missy? Missy?”

The burden was too much for her to carry any longer, and she felt her legs buckle, her body crumple to the ground.

Noah

CRITICAL MASS. THAT’S WHAT
my mom and Auntie Elizabeth call Auntie Liv.

Ever since the end of last summer, Auntie Elizabeth and Uncle Michael have been gone for months at a time rebuilding the cabin in Rochford that was destroyed when Auntie Liv tried to protect the Hansons. My mom and dad think I’m too young to know what’s going on. But I’m not. They also don’t know Auntie Liv has been training me to be a spy. She’s the one who told me the secret of the vents. I can hear just about any conversation my parents have through my floor vent, if I manage to roll close enough to listen.

Luckily, I heard the whole story of what happened at the Hanson cabin when my mom told my dad about a call from Auntie Elizabeth last summer. She had asked Mom to keep a special eye on Auntie Liv, who was traveling home from the Black Hills of South Dakota to Fort Collins with a wounded dog named Beulah. I almost blew my spy cover by letting loose a screech, since I’d never been around a dog before and knew Auntie Liv would let me play with her. But I stayed quiet and listened. My mom tried to whisper as she told my dad that Auntie Liv had killed a man and that
not only had the FBI approved of what she’d done, but they also had asked her to become one of them.

Then I did blow it. A squeal raced through my throat before I could catch it. It must have echoed down the vent, because my parents stopped talking. When they opened my door to check on me. I pretended to be laughing at something outside my window, but really I was just so excited that Auntie Liv was going to be an FBI agent.

I’ve dreamed of being a spy, which I know would be a perfect job for me considering my superpowers of being invisible, having bionic ears, owning a bionic eye (as long as I don’t lose my contact lens), and being a human lie detector. That’s what Auntie Liv calls my ability to sense other peoples’ feelings and truths. People, especially grownups, tend to say things to me that they won’t share with others.

Auntie Liv’s not Critical Mass. She’s cool. Auntie Elizabeth says Auntie Liv is the epicenter for everything crazy, which doesn’t sound like Auntie Liv to me. But I don’t know what an epicenter is. I just know she isn’t crazy. She’s funny. And kind and gentle. And real. Most of all, she knows about my secret life as a spy. And we solve mysteries together.

She said she had something to talk with me about, but Mom made her and Auntie Elizabeth do last-minute grocery shopping before the stores close. They’re trying to get Christmas Eve dinner ready. Dad’s downstairs talking to Uncle Michael and I’m struggling to hear Uncle Michael’s story about what happened today over the constant blowing of hot air through the vents. It’s so snowy and cold today that Emma’s afraid Santa won’t come. I told her he will. He always does. No matter how cold it gets.

Uncle Michael asked where I was and Dad said I was upstairs napping. Then he asked my dad about Emma. Dad said she was downstairs playing Barbies. But I really wasn’t paying attention until Uncle Michael told my dad not to tell my mom. So I had to find out what it was that he wanted to keep secret. He said Auntie Liv got injured today when they were up in the woods west of town working with Beulah on trailing in the Rocky Mountains. And apparently stuff had happened. Like always.

I strained to hear every word through the heater working overtime. Beulah, the big red bloodhound, lay next to me in the sunlight streaming through my window, fast asleep, snoring away, which made it even harder
to hear. Whatever Uncle Michael was telling Dad had affected Auntie Liv a lot more than it had Beulah.

For a moment, the hot air stopped blowing and Beulah’s snoring settled into a breathing pattern of deep sleep. I heard my mom’s voice, dashing all hopes that I would hear what happened. Bodies moved about and chitchat began as groceries were unloaded and the holiday cooking began.

I heard Auntie Liv’s muffled voice as she approached my door. “Just a minute. Frances asked me to check on Noah and then I’ll tell you what happened. I’ve got to find somewhere quiet where I can talk. I’ll call you right back.”