I retrieved my bag and strolled along, shunning the people
mover and admiring a row of live trees that marched down the
center of the wide corridor beyond the conveyor. Hoardings with
cutesy murals of workmen and bemused passengers covered a series
of gaping holes. The murals announced in large letters that the holes
would transmogrify into pubs and fast food emporia when
construction was done. I believed them.
When I reached the assigned gate, I still had fifteen minutes
to kill. As I stood waiting, I flipped the essay collection over. A
benignant middle-aged face twinkled at me. The nose was long, the
mouth curved in a wry smile, the moustache drooped heroically. I
thought I'd recognize my quarry. I opened the book to the first
chapter and began to read.
A 757 taxied up. The flight was announced. I stuffed the
book back in its sack, and the sack in my purse, and watched the
passengers stumble up the carpeted ramp into the waiting area. A
few grandmothers, one younger man with skis, baggy-eyed
salesmen. The bulk of the passengers were business-suited executive
types, male and female. No Hrubek.
I waited. More businessmen, several carrying laptop
computers. The flight had originated in Cincinnati, but Hrubek lived
in Pennsylvania. He had had to make a connecting flight, probably
very early, even allowing for the three hour time difference. Maybe
he'd missed the plane. I waited.
The passengers dispersed, the airline personnel behind the
check-in station shuffled papers and made computer entries. I was
about to walk over and ask whether Hrubek was on the flight list
when I spotted the gnome.
An elderly man with a cane, back curved, stood at the head
of the ramp, blinking through thick spectacles. I went over to him.
"Are you Francis Hrubek?"
He squinted up at me. "Who wants to know?" The voice was
gravelly and humorous. I recognized the eyes even through the
distorting lenses.
I had been assuming that Francis Hrubek didn't drive, like
Hugo, as a matter of principle. Probably he didn't drive because he
couldn't see well enough to pass the driver's exam.
I thrust out my hand, thinking publishers ought to be forced
to update jacket photos. He had shaved off his moustache. "I'm Lark
Dodge. Bianca Fiedler sent me to get you. Welcome to the Pacific
Northwest."
He gave me his claw. "Thanks. Lark?"
"Like the bird. Did you check your luggage?"
We began to move, very slowly, down the corridor. I
wondered if I ought to ask the airline people for a wheelchair.
"Long flight," Hrubek observed. "Feels good to stretch my
legs." We inched along. "I have one suitcase, assuming it didn't get
lost in transit. I checked it through. Didn't want to wrestle it into the
overhead rack."
"No problem."
We used the people mover. As we passed the security
guards stationed by the metal detectors, Hrubek said, "What's this
about an accident at the farm?"
The nearest guard turned and stared.
"I'll tell you all about it," I said with resignation, "but let's
find your bag first."
He seemed amenable to that. We crept through a swirl of
incoming skiers. Off to Aspen, probably, or Alta--Salt Lake City was a
frequent Delta stop. Finally we reached the escalator I had ridden up.
There were two escalators down. The logic of that escaped me. We
had a little hesitation and shuffling but managed to get onto the
center track without falling. Hrubek shifted his cane to his left hand
and grasped the rail. I stood behind him, silent and, alas,
impatient.
A few feet down the escalator I remembered Powell's Books.
I was considering whether to mention the clerk's request for
autographs, when I glanced at the people riding the up escalator.
Two women stood side by side, chatting and blocking the way for a
tall businessman with a briefcase. I noticed him first because he was
grimacing. Then I saw the women's faces. The man said something
and the heavier of the two women turned to him. The slimmer
woman took a step upward, her companion moved in behind her,
and the businessman passed them, briefcase swinging.
"Mr. Hrubek," I croaked. "Please wait for me at the baggage
claim area. It's to your right. I just saw someone I have to speak
to."
He turned round, frowning, and stumbled as we came to the
bottom of the escalator. I caught his elbow and steadied him.
"Really," I said, "I am so sorry. I'll be back within fifteen
minutes."
I pointed him the right way, and he went off grumbling.
Then I wheeled round and began to run up the escalator in hot
pursuit of the women. One of them was Mary Sadat.
Naturally, in the interim, both women had disappeared and
a gaggle of baggage-laden passengers had debouched onto the
escalator ahead of me.
"Pardon me. Sorry. Excuse me. I beg your pardon." I don't
know why people don't stand to the right on an escalator. Near the
top, a woman with frosted hair was spending a week in Reno with
three matched suitcases. The largest, which could have held a
wedding dress, a fur coat, and the
World Book Encyclopedia
,
squatted on the left. When we reached the top, and she began
wrestling with it, I leaned my left hand on the stainless steel barrier
between the escalators and vaulted over the suitcase.
I came close to smashing her face with my elbow. I also
stumbled when I lit, but I scrambled to my feet and ran. I could hear
her squawking as I sped off.
The waiting area under the skylight led to D and E
concourses. I stopped in front of a comfortable-looking chair
upholstered in striped fabric and dithered. Where had they gone? If
they had stopped at the Delta ticketing area, they might still be there,
standing in line behind a dozen skiers. Perhaps I should wait. They
hadn't had suitcases, though.
I was about to sit when I glimpsed them. They had got ahead
of me after all. They were strolling away from the security check
toward the D corridor. The older woman was laughing. Mary slung
her handbag over her shoulder by its long strap. I dashed to the same
gate, flopped my purse on the conveyor belt, and zipped through the
gate ahead of two startled businessmen. Then I grabbed the purse
and ran.
The two women had almost reached the people mover when
I caught up with them.
"Mary!" I was puffing a little, more from excitement than the
exertion. "Please, Mary. I need to talk to you."
Mary Sadat whirled, hands at her mouth. The other woman
had stepped onto the conveyor.
I took a step toward her.
"Oh, no! I can't...Sarah!"
"Please," I said. Mary was going to bolt.
The other woman, Sarah, turned around.
"Excuse us."
I stepped aside and so did Mary as three impatient
passengers strode onto the people mover. Such is conditioning.
Sarah tried to start back. They trapped her. I could see her mouth
working as the conveyor bore her away from us.
I took Mary's arm and drew her over to the adjacent
passenger area, which was blessedly empty. "We have to talk."
Mary said nothing. She looked like a rabbit frozen in a
hunter's sights. The nearest seats faced away from the corridor, so I
walked her around and sat her down with her back to the people
mover. I stood over her. "Do your parents know where you are?" By
all accounts, they had been frantic.
She shook her head.
I stared down at her pallid face. I could not conceive doing
anything that cruel to my family. "Why?"
"She'll kill me, too," Mary whispered.
"Who?"
Her mouth compressed in a line. She shook her head. Her
eyes glittered with tears.
The other woman, Sarah, bustled up panting. She had run
back the length of the people mover. "Who are you? What are you
doing to my sister? Let her go or I'll call the guard."
I turned. "Do that. Mary has been the object of a two-state
search by at least three police departments. Maybe
I
should
call the guard."
We stared at each other, and Sarah's face sagged. "She's in
trouble, isn't she?"
"Not so far, but a lot of people are worried about her,
including her parents." Including my husband.
The older woman's eyes fell. "She begged me not to
tell."
"They'll make me go back." Mary began to sob. "She'll kill
me, too."
I was getting a little tired of Mary's indefinite pronouns.
"Who will make you go back, and who will kill you?"
Mary sobbed.
Sarah moved to her shoulder and patted it. "Now, Mary."
The p.a. system announced the arrival of a Delta flight. "Oh, God, I'm
supposed to meet my husband."
"Where?"
"Gate Twelve."
"Well, stand so you can see the arriving passengers. When
you don't show up, he'll page you or come on down the corridor
looking for you."
She sighed.
I said, "You have to explain, Mrs....?"
"Pierce," she said. "I'm Sarah Pierce."
"I'm Lark Dodge. I met Mary at the farm when we were
searching for Hugo Groth."
I clarified my connection with Bianca and described my trip
to the airport. I was conscious of time ticking away, and of an elderly
man with poor vision waiting for me near a strange baggage
carrel.
"Then you weren't looking for Mary." Unlike her sister,
Sarah Pierce had a faint accent.
"No. Spotting her was pure luck." I didn't specify good or
bad.
Sarah heaved another sigh and gave the sobbing Mary
another absent-minded pat. "Mary's been hiding. She's afraid--"
"So I gathered," I interrupted, "though I don't understand
why, exactly."
Mary said frantically, "No, don't tell her. She works for them.
They'll find me and kill me like they did Mr. Groth."
"Who," I said with as much patience as I could muster, "is or
are going to kill you? I don't understand."
Mary sobbed.
I looked at Sarah.
She shrugged. "I won't force her to go back."
I said, "Mary is a material witness in a murder investigation.
Believe me, the police can force her to go back."
"Sarah?"
Both of us turned. Mary sobbed.
A blond man with a hunter-green carry-on came over to us.
He wore Nikes, jeans, and an anorak over a Ragg sweater. He looked
puzzled. "What's the matter?"
Sarah said, "This is my husband, Jerry." She turned to him.
"I'm sorry we weren't there to meet the plane. Mrs. Dodge spotted
Mary. She knows her." They were a great family for foggy
pronouns.
"Uh-oh." Jerry Pierce set his bag on the carpet.
"She wants Mary to go back to Kayport."
Mary sobbed harder.
I said, "I do not personally care what Mary does. I don't have
the authority to force her to do anything, either. But I saw her, I
know she's alive, and I'm going to let the police know where she is. I
not only want to do that, I have to do that."
Pierce said, "Yes, I can see that."
"What do you do for a living?"
He blinked. "I'm a social worker."
"A public employee? Then you'd better call the police, too. If
you value your job."
That was the wrong approach. His jaw set.
I backtracked. "I'm just trying to explain to you that this
could be a serious matter. If Mary comes forward now, voluntarily, I
don't think there will be any penalties, but she's going to have to tell
the police everything she knows about the killing."
Mary choked out a muddled statement to the effect that she
hadn't seen anything.
"Then why the panic? You didn't witness the killing?"
"No!" she wailed.
I slung my shoulder bag to my other shoulder. "I don't
understand." I looked at Pierce and his wife. "And I don't understand
how you two could let Mary's parents imagine she was dead. That's
what they think. That's what everybody thinks."
Sarah said nothing but her eyes filled with tears.
Great, I thought. It runs in the family.
Pierce said, "Look, Mrs.--"
"Dodge," I said. "Lark Dodge."
"Well, Mrs. Dodge, Mary is with us because she's afraid of
her family."
My eyebrows shot up.
"Not of her parents, exactly," he added. "Of her brothers.
They bully her. Hell, that's a euphemism. They treat her like a caged
animal. And Sarah and I don't owe the Sadats anything. They
opposed our marriage, and when we went on seeing each other,
Sarah's brothers took me out behind the restaurant and beat me to a
pulp. I spent three days in the hospital."
"Oh." I remembered the Dean's reaction to the Sadat
brothers.
"I got myself transferred to Portland as soon as I could, and
when I'd found a place to live I sent for Sarah. We got married two
years ago in Reno, and her parents haven't communicated with her
since. As far as they're concerned, Sarah is dead."
"Not my mother," Sarah said. "I let her know I was all
right."
Pierce scowled, "Yeah. Well, when the boys beat me up, they
beat Sarah, too. If Mary says she's afraid of them, I believe her, and
I'm not sending her back. She's Sarah's sister, and she can stay with
us as long as she wants to."
I said, "Then what do you think we should do? She can hide
from her family, but she can't hide from the police. Not indefinitely.
And I still have to report that I saw her."
Pierce rubbed his forehead. "Gawd, what a mess."
"All right." I was conscious of Francis Hrubek waiting alone
in the baggage area. "Look. I'll leave you to work it out. At the very
least, Mary should call Dale Nelson or Lisa Colman in the Shoalwater
County sheriff's office. What I want is your address and telephone
number. Maybe, when Mary explains the situation, the police will
take her statement here. She'll have to go back eventually to testify.
If she doesn't know anything much--"
Pierce said unhappily, "She knows something. I couldn't get
it out of her."
"She'll kill me, too," Mary wailed.
I drew a breath. "If by 'she,' you mean Bianca Fiedler, I think
you're wrong, but if she is a murderer, then I want her brought to
justice. If you don't give evidence, Mary, Hugo's killer may never be
caught. Please stop blubbering and think a little."