Reeve had to work a half day Friday.
When he left the office, Bick said, “But you’ll be back here Monday afternoon, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. You’ll be going to South Carolina for the USC-Clemson game. It’s not much of a drive. You’re going with Josh and Al, they’ve done it before, you’ll learn a lot. Right?”
“Right,” said Reeve, glowing.
It wasn’t until he was parking at the airport—short-term—that he realized he and Janie would fly down here after one night of married life, get in the door of his apartment—and he’d leave.
Lizzie called.
“Lizzie,” he said, racing into the terminal where twelve days ago he had proposed marriage, “no more opinions. Please?”
“This isn’t an opinion. This is a fact.”
“Am I ready for it?”
“We’re all at the hotel in New Jersey. Twenty-three relatives. Eager to get the groom at the airport and welcome the bride into our family.” Lizzie burst into tears.
Reeve made a mental note that he was definitely getting married only once. This wedding stuff was seriously emotional.
He got on the plane, fastened his seat belt, and fell sound asleep.
Friday morning in Boston, Brian Spring finished packing, slung his bag over his shoulder, and set out for the railroad station. He liked everything about trains. He had his e-reader loaded with good stuff, his cell phone, and his summer semester textbook, and was early enough to get a window seat. He never chose the quiet car. He loved the racket and chaos of a dorm, and a packed train was similar.
His phone rang; of course it was his mother. Brian’s guilt over his mother was huge. He had been the attentive son, the domestic son, the reliable easy one. And the moment he set foot on his college campus, he had forgotten his parents completely.
They didn’t forget him, and emailed or texted or phoned all the time, and this was good, because he would answer immediately, whether he was in class or at a meal or wandering around Boston. A great town for wandering. But he never thought of his parents first.
He almost hesitated to return to New Jersey. Would he become the old quiet Brian who shadowed his twin? And now that his twin had collapsed in school, how would they get along? How could Brendan possibly think that he, Brian, was writing a true crime book? “Hi, Mom,” he said cheerfully. “I’m almost at South Station.”
“I’m so glad I caught you. I need you to do a huge wedding favor.”
“Of course.”
“Reeve’s parents were going to pick up Mrs. Johnson and bring her down for the wedding. But they packed so much household stuff to give to Reeve and Janie that they don’t have room for Miranda in the car.”
“Household stuff matters more than Miranda?”
“You and I are not dealing with that issue. We are also not dealing with the fact that Reeve doesn’t know about any of these household hand-me-downs and Janie doesn’t want any and they don’t have a vehicle to drive anything back in anyway, since they’re flying. Our consideration is getting Miranda here. She has a car but she’s afraid to drive in the city. You’ll get off the train in Stamford, take a taxi to the Harbor, and drive Miranda’s car the rest of the way.”
Brian wasn’t keen on New York traffic either, and as a matter of fact had never driven through the city. He was intensely pleased that his mother didn’t realize this or didn’t think it mattered. “What about Mr. Johnson?”
“He’s not well enough, apparently. Janie will be upset,” said his mother. “Now I’ll call Miranda and tell her when your train is arriving.”
“I’ll call,” said Brian. “I like Miranda. She and I always get along. And I still shiver every time I think that Mr. Johnson is ruined. He was totally a good guy.”
“With lapses,” said Brian’s mother tartly.
“If you mean supporting his daughter, I’m not sure that was a lapse, Mom. He went on loving his little girl. Maybe that’s to his credit. I like to think you would go on loving me, no matter what.”
“Yes, but you’re not a deranged vicious amoral kidnapper.”
They laughed. Brian thought, Wow. After all these years, we can laugh about Hannah. “Give me Mrs. Johnson’s phone number,” he said. “We’ll see you this afternoon.”
Janie didn’t feel secure driving alone to that huge airport, managing the traffic, the interstates, the tolls, the exits, finding the cell phone lot, picking Reeve up, and doing it all in reverse. So her New Jersey father drove while she fidgeted in the passenger seat.
She had not seen Reeve since the last airport. They talked on the phone—texted—chatted—posted—but they had not touched. “I’m nervous, Daddy,” she said.
He’d spent his life driving in this kind of traffic and never gave it a thought. He took her hand. His grip was strong and warm. “It’s all coming together,” he said comfortingly. “We’re going to have a great weekend. And then you’re going to start a great life.”
“I don’t know that I want a great life. I want a nice life. A nice ordinary loving life. A life like yours. Without the kidnap.”
They laughed.
Janie thought, Wow. It took a decade and a half. But we can actually laugh about the kidnapping. “I love you, Daddy.”
He squeezed her hand. In the dark, catching the light of oncoming headlights, she saw a tear on his cheek. “Gonna be hard giving you away at the altar,” he said. “I only just got you back.”
Reeve texted. My plane landed.
“Daddy! They landed! Skip the cell phone lot!”
“We weren’t going there anyway,” said her father. “He has a ton of luggage. We’re parking in short-term and meeting him at baggage claim.”
Reeve had a ton of luggage? What was he bringing to New Jersey? All their stuff needed to go the other direction. Not that they had figured out how to transport it. She didn’t own a car and he didn’t have time to drive up.
Reeve texted, Off the plane.
Slow down, she texted back. We’ll be a minute.
The minute lasted forever.
Her father drove up and down car aisles, looking for a good slot. Who cared about a good slot? Just park the car already!
Finally, he parked. She leapt out. He got out in a middle-aged kind of way, locked the car, and ambled along.
At last they were on the right sidewalk, going through the right doors, coming up to the right luggage carousel.
Reeve texted again. I see you.
She turned twice and then she saw him.
Oh, yes.
Reeve did not normally check luggage, because he did not normally bring anything. One change of clothing always seemed like enough, and he was already wearing shoes, and if he brought work, it was on his iPad, and how much room could a toothbrush take?
But Reeve’s mother had had to yield on many points. She was not yielding on clothing. She dictated exactly what he was to have on his body for every meal and event until he and Janie left Sunday evening for Charlotte. She even ordered him to bring shoe polish. Like he owned any. He had to go out and buy shoes that even needed polish so he could fulfill that one. By the time he checked off all her instructions, he had two suitcases.
It was a small price to pay to get his mother on the wedding team.
He saw Janie twirl around, trying to spot him in the heavy crowds.
He watched her twirl a second time. Then he waved both arms.
She ran toward him and he swallowed hard, thinking of every time to come when they would run toward each other and be happy.
He flung his arms around her. Every time he let go, he had to hug her again. Every time he looked at her beautiful face, he had to kiss her again.
I’m getting married tomorrow, he thought. Wise plan.
He shook hands with Mr. Spring. He couldn’t say Jonathan yet. He couldn’t imagine saying Dad, either. That word applied so completely to his own father. How had Janie done it—making two men Dad?
The littl
e siren at the luggage carousel began wailing.
Reeve and Mr. Spring and Janie were quite far away. Other passengers crowded forward, trying to see their bags.
Reeve didn’t care about his bags.
He cared about Janie. She was aware only of Reeve. He liked that in a person.
• • •
Even for Janie, they had hugged enough. She wanted to get the suitcases and go. She released Reeve, straightened up, and fixed her hair. Were they at the wrong carousel or something? Why wasn’t he over there grabbing his suitcases?
A dark crisp uniform inserted itself between her and Reeve. She had to take a step back. Reeve took two steps back.
It was a pilot. Glaring at Reeve. “Excuse me, sir,” said the captain, his voice loud and slightly hostile.
No, thought Janie. Enough has gone wrong in my life. I don’t want a glitch now.
The pilot paid no attention to her. He frowned at Reeve. “There are certain protocols in airports. They must be followed.”
Oh, great. Reeve had made some stupid joke about terrorism or bombs. Not now! We can’t have anything go wrong now! Janie was ready to yell at him, but she caught herself. She didn’t want to be the kind of wife who yelled at her husband in public. The kind of wife who didn’t even ask for her husband’s side of the story first.
“I believe you forgot something, Mr. Shields,” said the pilot sternly.
Her Reeve was a Mr. Shields. She was about to turn into somebody named Mrs. Shields. Well, assuming they didn’t arrest the groom.
And suddenly there was also a flight attendant there, her cute pert features arranged in a cool stare. “We are all disappointed, Mr. Shields.”
How did you disappoint a flight attendant?
“You’re right,” said Reeve. “I left something out.”
He sank to his knees.
Janie looked down at the floor, unable to imagine what Reeve could have dropped.
The captain handed Reeve a small box.
The flight attendant handed Janie a small bouquet.
Reeve opened the box.
A diamond glittered on velvet.
Janie was laughing and crying and down on her knees too, and Reeve took the diamond ring out of the little white box and slipped it on her finger. “I will,” she said. “I will marry you, I will be Mrs. Reeve Shields, I will love you in every airport.”
They kissed, kneeling.
Jonathan Spring filmed it on his camera.
The pilot took Janie’s arm to help her up and the flight attendant said, “We recognized him from the video. Everybody totally loves that video. And we said to Reeve, airport proposals have to have airport engagement rings.”
“You bought me an engagement ring at the newsstand?” said Janie.
“No, I bought the engagement ring at a jeweler in Charlotte. My dad helped me pick it out. I was going to give it to you tonight. But these guys had a better idea.”
“It was a better idea,” said Janie, kissing him again. “Everything about you is a better idea, Reeve.”
• • •
The Harbor was a plain brick building, undistinguished and solid. The taxi pulled into a covered drop-off area. At the far side of the building, a similar drop-off had a larger roof and wider doors. Big letters proclaimed AMBULANCES AND VANS.
Every time you drove in, you knew where you’d leave in the end.
Brian paid the driver (a lot) and went inside, pulling his own two bags on their little wheels. A woman at the desk had him sign a register and told him where the Johnsons’ apartment was. “My name is Grace,” she said. “We just love your sister Janie.”
“Me too,” said Brian. “Thanks, Grace.”
Mrs. Johnson answered the door. She was beautifully dressed, as always. The lace of a white blouse showed at the cuffs of a bright pink suit, and the scarf and pin around her throat were stylish and cheerful. But under her makeup, she looked trembly and exhausted.
Brian hugged her. “Pink is your color!” he said. “I’m so glad to see you! And I love how you’re doing your hair!”
She tried to beam.
The living area of the apartment was so tiny he was shocked. Bland walls held a few of Mrs. Johnson’s fine paintings, but they hung in a stranded sad way. Furniture meant for a larger place crowded the floor. A folded wheelchair sat by the door. Mr. Johnson sat in a recliner of the clinical type that could pop him upward and help him to his feet.
Brian picked up Mr. Johnson’s slack hand and shook it. “Hi, Mr. Johnson,” he said. “It’s me, Brian. Janie’s little brother.”
Mr. Johnson’s hand tightened on Brian’s. The pressure was surprising. Mr. Johnson’s expression was as intense as his grip. He did not let up the pressure but struggled to speak. The sounds were a meaningless jumble. He seemed desperate to talk.
It broke Brian’s heart. “I’m listening,” said Brian, pulling a footstool over and sitting on it. “Take your time. Tell me.”
Mr. Johnson could not utter one clear syllable.
“I had to make a difficult decision,” said Miranda, trying not to cry. “Frank is going to stay here. An aide will sleep in the room for the nights I’m gone.”
“It’s Janie’s wedding!” protested Brian. “He has to come! Don’t worry about the drive. If we need to make stops for men’s rooms, and stuff, I’ll handle it.”
“It’s not that,” said Mrs. Johnson. “It’s that I don’t want him talking in front of everybody the way he is.”
Mr. Johnson was squeezing Brian’s hand on and off, as if sending messages by Morse code.
“I think it’s okay if he mumbles,” said Brian. “Janie wants all her parents at her wedding.”
“No,” said Miranda. “He thinks he’s spoken to Hannah. He thinks she called him on the phone. Over and over again, he keeps calling for Hannah. I can’t let him cry out to Hannah during Janie’s wedding.”
Brian squatted down. Now he was eye level with Mr. Johnson. “Did she call?”
Frank nodded. The grip on Brian’s hand lessened, but the eyes grew more intense.
Frank Johnson was afraid.
Brian raged at Hannah with a ferocity he had thought long gone. Trying not to let it show, he took out his cell phone and opened the photographs within it. He held one up for Mr. Johnson to see. “This is Janie in her wedding gown. Isn’t she beautiful?”
With less difficulty than Brian had expected, Mr. Johnson took the phone in his good hand. “Werring.”
“Right. Wedding. And you’re the father of the bride. Actually, she’s got a pair of fathers, and she wants them both at her wedding.”
“But what if he talks about Janie’s kidnapper during Janie’s wedding?” cried Miranda.
“Nobody will know,” said Brian brutally. “Nobody will understand what he tries to say. The good news is, Frank knows his daughter Janie is getting married to the boy next door. Frank needs to be there. Go pack Frank’s bag.”
Miranda Johnson went into the bedroom and began opening drawers. Brian Spring took his cell phone back. “Everything’s okay, Mr. Johnson,” he said. “I got your message about Hannah.”
Brian went out into the hall, shut the apartment door behind him, and opened the contact list on his phone. All these years, he had kept Agent Mollison’s number. Just in case, his parents used to say.
For all he knew, the man had changed his phone number years ago. Retired. Died, even. Nobody answered. Eventually a machine requested a message.
Brian identified himself. “Frank Johnson believes that his daughter, Hannah, telephoned him and he’s afraid.”
THE FOURTEENTH PIECE OF THE KIDNAPPER’S PUZZLE
People were so stupid and Hannah was so smart.
She headed to the nearest post office branch. Lazy customers ignored the designated parking, parked where they felt like it, blocked everybody else, left their cars running, and slouched in to get their mail.
It was a terrible world when people wouldn’t follow simple basic rules that all
owed everyone to get along in harmony.
Maybe the car she found would have GPS, which she had heard about but never seen. She was panting with excitement. Oh, there were so many cars to choose from! Now, there was a handsome car! A mysterious gray-brown, meant to vanish in a thick fog.
Its driver was fat and slow and deeply concerned with a little package. Letting his engine idle, the man waddled into the post office, face down and frowning. Hannah waited for the big glass doors to close behind him and then she slid into his seat.
The police would not bother to look for this car, because finding one stolen car was hopeless, and because they had better things to do.
Me too, thought Hannah, giggling. I have really good things to do.
She eased into traffic, tuned the radio to a better station, and set out for Interstate 80.
Two thousand miles, more or less. A lot of hours.
But that’s okay, she thought. I’m so excited. I don’t need to stop for sleep or food.
Traffic was heavy but I-80 was straight. Hannah could watch stuff on her cell phone at the same time she drove. She was a very clever person and could always multitask in ways that defeated other people.
She had been driving only an hour when the car started to beep.
She checked her seat belt. Looked around to see if it was some other car beside her, honking. Checked the dashboard for the glow of warning signs.
She was practically out of gas.
The needle shivered below E.
She’d have to take the next exit and find a gas station.
Of course when you needed to get off an interstate, they didn’t have an exit. They conspired against you!
She drove slower and slower, hoping to use less fuel. People honked and gave her the finger. At last she was going down an exit ramp, a stupidly long curve of concrete, leading to yet another highway, but also a whole bunch of gas stations. She made it to the first one and pulled up exactly right, the little flap of the gas tank positioned perfectly by the pump.
She was amused that she had had even the slightest worry. She didn’t make errors and she had not made one this time.
If you paid cash at this gas station, you had to go inside first and give them the cash before they would turn the pump on. Nobody trusted people anymore! It was terrible.