"Because someone has to drive our car home," she says after a moment. "But you'll come later?"
Millie glances at Mariah. "You bet." She zips Faith's spare clothes into the knapsack, then pulls the straps over her granddaughter's arms. "Be good," she adds, then kisses Faith on the forehead. She watches Mariah take Faith's hand and lead her out of the bathroom, Faith turning at the last minute to blow a kiss. Then Millie sits down in an empty toilet stall, imagining a thousand things that could go wrong now that Mariah and Faith have run away, imagining a thousand things that could have gone wrong even if they hadn't.
Malcolm Metz spreads his capable hands on the surface of his highly polished desk. "Let me get this straight, Mr. White. You voluntarily relinquished custody of your daughter ten weeks ago. And now you want her to move in with you and your new wife."
Colin nods. He tries not to feel daunted by the offices of Walloughby, Krieger and Metz, but they were far less intimidating six months earlier when he retrofitted the entire place with electroluminescent exit signs. Of course, back then he was only taking care of business. This visit is far more personal, and there's much more at stake.
"That's correct." He assesses Metz slowly, from the man's closecropped salt-and-pepper hair to his Italian loafers. Known for his bulldozing drive to win, Metz is something of a New Hampshire litigating legend.
The attorney taps the tips of his fingers together. "Why the change of heart?"
Colin feels the beginnings of a slow burn. "Because my ex-wife is crazy? Because my daughter's been turned against me? Because I'm worried about her welfare? Take your pick."
Metz has heard it all before. As a matter of fact, he has a court appearance in less than two hours as the divorce attorney for a reputed Mafia wife, and he would much rather be in the executive washroom perfecting his demeanor for the cameras that are sure to be there. A custody case like this--well, he should be able to win it in his sleep.
"What has your ex-wife done to endanger your daughter?"
"What have you heard about the little girl who's seeing God?"
Malcolm stops drumming his fingers on his desk. "That's your kid?"
"Yeah. No." Colin sighs. "Ah, shit. I don't even know anymore. There are a couple hundred people at the end of the driveway, and they all believe that Faith's turned into some prophet, and her hands are bleeding and...Christ." He looks at the attorney. "This is not the little girl I left."
Malcolm silently extracts a yellow pad from a drawer of his desk. The potential for media coverage of this case is extraordinary--far beyond the narrow range of New Hampshire. He uncaps a pen and decides to sink his teeth in. "You believe that you would be better able to serve the interests of this child. You believe that living with her mother, as it stands, is adversely affecting your daughter." Colin nods. "Can you tell me why you didn't believe these same things just four months ago?"
"Look, if I'm going to pay you a twenty-thousand-dollar retainer and five hundred dollars an hour over that, then I don't have to explain anything. I want my daughter. I want her now. I heard that you could help me. Period."
Malcolm holds his client's gaze for a moment. "You want full custody?"
"Yes."
"At all costs?"
Colin does not have to ask what Metz means. He knows that the surest way to prove himself the better parent is to make Mariah look worse. By the time this is over, Mariah won't lose only Faith. She'll also have lost her self-respect.
He shifts uncomfortably. It is not what he wants to do, but he doesn't really have a choice. Just as when he made the decision to have Mariah committed, the ends here justify the means. Just as then, he is only concerned for the safety of someone he loves.
He has a painful flashback of the night Mariah tried to kill herself--the blood everywhere, his name still bubbling on her lips. He forces himself to imagine Faith hiding when he appeared yesterday at the door. "I want my daughter back," Colin repeats firmly, convincing himself. "You do whatever it takes."
Last Tuesday Ian Fletcher flew out of Manchester, a little airport trying to pretend it was several shades more cosmopolitan than it actually was. It was, in a word, a nightmare. Not only was his flight to Kansas City delayed, but there was no Admiral's Club to lounge in before the flight, meaning that he'd spent the better part of an hour hiding in a bathroom stall to avoid recognition. This week he was flying out of Boston. It meant a longer limo ride to the airport, but a considerably less stressful journey.
"Sir? What airline are you traveling?"
At the sound of the chauffeur's voice, Ian leans forward. "American." He gathers his briefcase as the limousine snakes into a spot at the curb, signs the credit-card receipt, and hands the clipboard back to the driver without saying another word. Keeping his head low, he ducks to the right, toward the bank of elevators that he knows will take him to the private first-class passenger club, where he can wait in a secluded room until his flight is called.
Mariah stands in front of the departures board, skimming the list of destinations. So many places; how is she to pick? It is not as if one destination holds any edge over another--no matter where they wind up, they will be starting from scratch.
"Mom?" Faith asks, tugging at her arm. "Can we go to Vegas?"
A smile tugs at Mariah's mouth. "What do you know about Vegas?"
"Daddy went there once. You can push buttons, and money just comes flying out at you. I saw it on TV."
"Well, it's not quite like that. You have to be very, very lucky. And anyway, I don't even see a flight to Las Vegas listed here."
"So where are we going?"
Good question. Mariah smooths her hand over her purse, considering how much money she has inside. Two thousand dollars in cash--God, she feels like a walking target. But she knows better than to leave a paper trail, and this was as much money as she could get out of a local bank on short notice. If they are frugal, she and Faith should be able to remain undetected for a little while at least. And if they manage to elude the media, maybe the interest in Faith will just die down.
Without a passport, she's limited to the United States. Hawaii--she's always wanted to go to Hawaii, but the tickets are sure to be phenomenally expensive and eat into their budget. Mariah's eyes run down the columns again. There is a flight to Los Angeles at noon. One to Kansas City, Missouri at eleven-fifteen.
She leads Faith to the line where they can purchase standby tickets, deciding that their destination, quite simply, is whatever plane leaves this airport first.
As they board, Mariah finds herself thanking God that the story about Faith has only just gone national, meaning that most people with whom they come in contact--the flight attendant, the nice man who offers to stuff their knapsacks into the overhead compartment--look at them and see a mother and her child, instead of a pair of media fugitives.
Faith has only been on a plane twice before, once as a baby when her grandfather died and once when they all went to Washington D.C., for a family vacation. She bounces in her seat, craning her neck to get a better peek at the first-class cabin, which they are seated directly behind. "What's in there? How come the seats are a different color?"
"It's where businessmen and people who have a lot of money sit. They pay more for those seats."
"Why didn't we pay for them?"
"Because..." Mariah throws an exasperated look in her daughter's direction. "Just because," she says as the flight attendant unsnaps a blue curtain to shield the cabin from view.
"Final boarding call for Flight 5456 to Kansas City..."
Ian strides toward the gate and presents his boarding pass. "Mr. Fletcher," the airline representative says, "I enjoy your show."
He nods brusquely and hurries toward the plane, handing the flight attendant his coat and settling into his seat. "Good morning, Mr. Fletcher. Can I get you something to drink before takeoff?"
"Bourbon, straight."
There are three other passengers in first class, a pain in the ass, but not a tragedy. It
would have been worse if one of them had been seated beside him. The flight attendant returns with his liquor. This weekly flight, like everything else about his visits to Michael, is a routine. He sets down the glass and closes his eyes, drifting into a dream in which cards fall red and then black, red and then black, in endless succession.
"I have to pee," Faith announces.
Mariah sighs. The drink cart is directly behind them, blocking the route to the lavatories in the rear; there's no way Faith will be able to hold it in until the flight attendants finish the beverage service. She eyes the blue curtain that leads to the first-class cabin. "Come here."
She leads Faith through the short aisle strip quickly, hoping that she can get her into the little bathroom before a flight attendant busts them for trespassing. "Here," she says, nearly hauling Faith into the cubicle. "Don't forget to lock the door so the lights come on." Then she leans against the humming wall of the plane, glances around first class.
And finds herself staring at Ian Fletcher.
Oh, God. There is nowhere to go on a plane. Mariah takes the coward's way out, hustling Faith back to their seats after she comes out of the lavatory and thoroughly avoiding Ian Fletcher's gaze the entire way. She closes her eyes in disgust. There must have been--what, fifty flights?--leaving Logan Airport this hour, and she managed to blindly choose the one with Fletcher on it. The person who had the most to gain from giving up her and Faith's whereabouts.
Then it strikes her: This was no chance meeting. Somehow Ian Fletcher managed to follow them to the airport. She doesn't know why he doesn't get it over with, just stomp back here to steerage and tell her he's got her number. Maybe he's using one of those little AirPhones even now to arrange for a producer and a camera crew to meet them in Kansas City.
She feels tears constricting her throat. Her grand plan is over before it's even started.
For a full minute after Mariah White flees like a frightened rabbit into the back of the plane, Ian entertains the thought of calling James Wilton and directing the hounds to the fox; he even goes so far as to take a credit card out and read the AirPhone instructions, but then remembers why he cannot. The very last thing he wants to do is bring the media crashing down within a hundred miles of Michael.
Mariah White doesn't know it, but she has just as much of an edge on Ian as he has on her.
Ian finishes his bourbon and signals the flight attendant for another. The easiest way out of this is to go along with what Mariah is no doubt thinking: that he tailed them from New Canaan to the Boston airport. Otherwise she'll wonder why he's on a plane bound for Kansas City. It is one thing for him to learn all her secrets, another thing entirely for her to learn his. His entire trip will have to be changed now.
A thought takes root in Ian's mind. What if he can watch Faith put on her private healing show at close range? What if he handpicks the target of her so-called miracle, so that she can't help but fail? The grandmother and the woman with the AIDS baby, they could have been in on the action somehow. But Michael--well, no one knows better than Ian himself that Michael isn't part of their charade and that Michael can't be cured.
All he has to do is whittle away at their sympathies, so that they agree to try to fix Michael as a personal favor to Ian. And while Faith White is attempting to pull off her hoax, he gets an up-close, personal look at how it's being done. Even Michael's anonymity is preserved; Mariah White's not about to go blabbing if it means revealing her location.
The ludicrous image of Faith laying hands on Michael in some charlatan revue that's been choreographed by her mother gives way in Ian's head to the image he's tucked so far away that it aches to bring it to the surface: Michael looking him in the eye, Michael reaching for him of his own volition, Michael clapping him on the back in an embrace.
Ha--more likely he'd see Mariah White scrambling to explain that the moon is out of alignment or some other crap like that to excuse the fact that her miraculous daughter couldn't heal an autistic man.
If Ian were a man who believed in destiny, he'd think it was fate that brought the Whites to this particular plane. Instead he considers it an opportunity that's dropped into his lap, one that could potentially become the story of a lifetime. He only has to charm Faith and her mother into thinking that a cynic like him might not be the enemy after all, might actually pin his hopes on a child with the alleged power to heal, might stand by and act devastated when Faith ultimately fails.
But would that really be an act?
Mariah isn't surprised when she steps off the plane to find Ian Fletcher waiting for her, nor is she surprised to have him ignore her--entirely--for Faith. "Hey, there," he drawls, getting down to her level. "Did y'all come out on this plane, too?"
Faith's eyes widen. "Mr. Fletcher!"
"The one and only." He stands up and nods. "Ma'am."
Mariah squeezes Faith's hand, a warning. "We're here for a wedding. My cousin's wedding. Tonight." Her voice is too high, staccato, and the moment she volunteers information Fletcher didn't even solicit, she feels as if she could kick herself.
"That so? Don't believe I ever heard of a wedding that took place on a Tuesday night."
Mariah's chin lifts a notch. "It's...part of their religion."
"Seems there's a lot of that goin' around." He smiles at Faith. "On account of us running into each other, what do you say we get an ice cream?"
Faith, clearly excited by the idea, turns to Mariah. "We don't have time," Mariah says.
"But we don't have any--"
"Faith!" Mariah interrupts, then sighs. "All right. We can get an ice cream."
Ian leads them to an airport cafeteria. He orders a cone for Faith and Cokes for himself and Mariah. "Faith, your mama and I want to have a talk. How about eating your ice cream over there at that table?"
As Faith runs off, Mariah tries to call her back, but is stopped by Ian's hand on her arm. For a moment she cannot breathe, cannot move, until he takes it away. "Let her go. You've got a clear view, and you're fifteen hundred miles away from the people who want to get to her."
Mariah defiantly turns. "We could just walk away from you. You can't stop us."
"You gonna call the police? I doubt it. First of all, that'd leave a paper trail. And something tells me you don't want to leave one of those." He smiles sadly. "Would you believe me if I said I was here for any reason other than you and Faith? I didn't think so. The hell of it is, Miz White, that I admire you for this. And I'd like to offer you some advice."
"Said the fox to the gingerbread man," Mariah mutters.
"What was that?"
"Nothing."
"Huh. Well, what I was about to say was that you can't be too careful. Have you given any thought as to where you and Faith will be staying?"
Refusing to let him in on their plans, Mariah tightens her mouth.
"A motel, I'll bet," Ian continues breezily. "But sooner or later it'll cross your mind that a lady staying with a little girl for some time in a dingy motel will stick out like a sore thumb. On the other hand, moving from motel to motel is going to be awful hard on a child. So that'll leave you at the mercy of a local friend--of which I'm willing to bet you don't have too many--or leasing some cheap apartment. Thing is, Miz White, any landlord worth his salt is gonna want some references. And they're hard to come by when you're anonymous. Plus, that doesn't even address the problem of how to rent yourself a car, when your driver's license and credit card are surely items you don't want recorded for posterity."
Having had about enough of this, Mariah starts to move away. The hell with Ian Fletcher. The hell with Kansas City. There are at least a hundred connecting flights leaving this afternoon; all she has to do is manage to slip past him once more. She turns toward Faith, but he grabs her wrist, holds her. "I will find you," he whispers, reading her mind. "You know that."
Still, her eyes flicker toward the corridor, the bathrooms, all the possible exits. "You said you were going to give me some advice."
"That's rig
ht. I think you ought to look up an acquaintance while you're in town."
Mariah chokes on a laugh. "Wait. Let me think of all the sorority sisters I have in Kansas City."
"I meant me," Ian says softly. "I think you should stay with me."
For a long moment Mariah only stares at him. "Are you crazy?"
His eyes are as blue as a pool, as inviting to fall into. "I just may be, Miz White," he admits. "Because if I wasn't, I surely would have told my producer about your little girl's hands last week. I would have had a bunch of cameras waiting to meet you when you got off that plane, instead of just me. I would have spent that flight thinking I was out to expose you to the world, instead of thinking that maybe, this one time, I could do the right thing and help hide you away." He glances at Faith. "It's the ultimate cover. The very last place anyone would ever expect you'd go underground...is with me."
"Unless you told them so yourself." Mariah's gaze is unflinching. It is impossible for her to trust this man, whom she never even would have met if not for his interest in Faith as a juicy story. But then again, she cannot fault his claims. As blustery and vindictive as the public image of Ian Fletcher is, in private, he has often been sympathetic. And yet to run away from the eyes of the press and into Fletcher's residence seems like a direct and suicidal jump from the frying pan into the fire.
He has not released her wrist, and his thumb grazes the skin along the ridge of her scar. "You have my word that I won't give away your hiding place. And you will have your privacy." Then he smiles. "What's worse, Mariah? The devil you don't know...or the devil you do?"
They're buying it. Ian is nearly giddy with relief as Mariah walks toward Faith and speaks to her daughter about the change in plans. She's still wary, but that's all right. Let her think he has a hidden agenda. After all, he does. It's just not what Mariah White thinks. Getting Faith to the point where she willingly comes to meet Michael--and getting her mother to the point where she allows this--will take the bulk of Ian's thespian skills.
As she walks back with her daughter in tow, Ian is struck again by her features. It's the contradictions that draw him: the stunning green eyes, puffy and tired; the soft mouth bracketed by lines that have been carved by pain. "So," she says hesitantly, "you have a home here?"