Page 19 of A Week Away
I walked back to Cass and tapped his foot with mine. When he stirred, I said, “Come on, it’s time to go.” He followed me over to the security check like a zombie. I’d forgotten how deeply teenagers slept.
He put his backpack onto the conveyor belt and it went through the box. One after the other, we went through the walk-through scanner. I was second. Not surprisingly it went off just as it had at LAX.
“Stand over there on the X,” he said.
As I did that, Cass went to pick up his backpack.
The guard said, “Hold on.” Then went over and opened the backpack and rifled through it. I had no idea what was in there. I had a few nervous moments, but then I remembered the kid had gotten through LAX security just fine and he’d barely been out of my sight.
The security guy zipped the bag up. He was frowning, he’d probably have been happier if he’d found something. He reached under the conveyer and took out the metal-detecting wand. He came over to me and began waving it around me.
“I have screws and a plate in my shoulder blade.”
He looked at me skeptically, found the spot with his wand, the reached out and poked around the spot with two fingers. That hurt like hell, but I kept quiet. I tried to blame all this on his being an old white guy trying to wield his tiny bit of power, but then I remembered we’d been there for hours, had a couple of intense conversations that might have looked like arguments, not to mention we barely had any luggage and weren’t dressed for the weather—or at least I wasn’t. We were probably lucky he wasn’t strip-searching us. He finally let us pass and we went up an escalator to the gates.
When we reached the top, I said to Cass, “And that is why you don’t buy a gun in Reno and try to bring it back to Detroit.”
CHAPTERSIX
September 14, 1996
Saturday morning
The ticket agent was right. The flight was barely half full. The window seat next to us was empty. As soon as they closed the door, Cass moved over to that seat and promptly fell asleep as the stewardess explained how to buckle our seat belts. Then I drifted off for a bit myself.
I woke up in the middle of a scary dream about high-jackers going through the plane asking everyone to empty their pockets. So when the stewardess came by and asked if I wanted coffee, I said, “Absolutely,” and lowered my tray.
Cass didn’t wake up for coffee. I wondered if I should wake him and start asking him questions, but then we had almost six hours before we got to Detroit so it didn’t matter much. Or at least I thought it was six hours. I wasn’t sure how long we’d been in the air.
I sipped the thin, warmish coffee and thought about my life. A decision I’d made nearly ten years ago had come back to haunt me. Other decisions haunted me from that period but they were the ones I’d expected to haunt me. When I left Chicago the police really wanted to chat with me; I wondered if they still did. Detective Monroe White was probably retired. Was there anyone left who remembered me? And if they did, did they care? Deanna Hansen remembered me. I was sure of that. In her mind, I owed her a lot of money and she wanted a pound of flesh for it. But maybe it didn’t matter anymore. Her grandfather had left her in charge of his illegal enterprises, but she’d said she wanted to take the family business legit. Maybe she had. Claiming a debt without paper and threats of violence… that wasn’t legit. So maybe she’d leave me alone. Not likely, but maybe. And then there was Rita Lundquist: crazy, psychotic and possibly not even alive. People in her line of crime don’t always live long.
It was entirely possible that becoming Dom Reilly was the last decision that would ever haunt me. When I figured a way out of this, I might be done. I might be free and clear. That was a lovely thought.
The breakfast cart began making its way down the aisle. There weren’t that many people so it would get to us fast. I woke Cass up. “Breakfast will be here in a minute. You should eat.” He shifted in his seat then put his tray down.
Two of the stewardess’ stopped the cart next to us. They were both young and pretty. One was barely older than Cass, with blond hair cut into a pixie. I glanced at him and noticed he was brushing his hair out of his eyes and watching her, intently but also shyly. The kid was obviously straight.
“Breakfast?”
“Yes, please.”
We were each handed a plastic tray with a few bits of food on it. There were two coaster-sized pancakes, a single scrambled egg (not a combination I would have chosen), two desiccated sausages, a cup with bits of fruit and a four-ounce container of orange juice. The orange juice was the only item that tasted like real food.
I asked for more coffee. I wasn’t going to let the fact that it wasn’t very good stop me. I waited until we were both finished with our breakfasts before asking, “What do you remember about the time with your dad?”
“Not much.”
“Do you know where you lived?”
“We lived in apartments. Clinton Township. Then my mom bought her house in Village Oaks.”
“She bought the house after your father left?”
“Yeah. Couple years later I guess. I was seven, I think. I don’t remember living in apartments very well. I mean, I know we did but I can’t really remember.”
I had no idea what kind of neighborhood Village Oaks was and wasn’t sure I’d get a straight answer if I asked.
“You said your dad’s mother and father are gone. What about siblings? Do you have aunts and uncles?”
