“You’ll thank us.”
Doogie turned on the radio. Weather report.
“We lucked out. They’re snowed in at Logan…”
At Logan: Agent Ramirez stared up at a screen of flight info, all delayed. He was on the phone. “We’re snowed in. I’ll call when I know more.” He hung up and dialed again.
All around, people made pillows from rolled-up clothes and settled in uncomfortably.
“… So keep looking,” Ramirez told Oswalt, who breathed heavy as he backtracked across campus in the dark. “… Then start from the beginning and check every place again… No, I don’t care how long it takes.” He hung up.
Next to him, Patrick McKenna closed his own phone.
Ramirez turned. “Any luck?”
“Still no answer in his room.”
“Try his cell again?”
Patrick hit numbers. The phone was on speaker mode. Someone answered. “Agent Oswalt here…”
Patrick turned. “You want to talk to him?”
Ramirez rolled his eyes. “You sure he was staying at school over the break?”
“Positive. Said he had a ton of work and needed quiet.” Patrick held up his phone. “I know my son. He would have called if anything changed.”
“… Hello? Anyone there?… Is that you, Ramirez?”
Ramirez snatched the phone and clapped it shut. “Maybe he tried you at home.”
“No, he just calls my mobile number.”
“Worth a shot.” Ramirez handed the phone back.
Patrick dialed again. A disconnected phone in Dorchester rang through to the answering service. He worked a retrieval menu and entered his PIN, then listened.
Ramirez saw the expression. “What is it?”
Patrick closed the phone and scratched his head. “Says he’s going to Florida.”
“Florida?”
Patrick nodded. “Spring break. That’s not like him.”
“Where?”
“Panama City Beach.”
“Did he say which hotel?”
“About to, but the mailbox filled up.”
Ramirez walked over to the terminal’s windows. “This is a nightmare.” He dialed Oswalt again and stared out at snow swirling over runway lights.
Chapter Eighteen
THE NEXT MORNING
Bright sunshine.
A camcorder panned toward a tall wooden wall on he beach, where the U.S. Army had set up their obstacle course. The wall had thick, knotted ropes running down the side.
The filmmaker turned off his camera and approached a recruiter. Three church youth waited in the background.
“Howdy! I’m Serge! Do you have any coffee?”
“Uh, no.”
“It’s okay, I brought my own. Essential for war.” He unhitched a canteen from his waist and chugged. He looked around. “Where’s the line?”
“Line?”
“For the obstacle course. I love obstacle courses! They’re just like life! Perfect metaphors for both obstacles and courses… Ooooooh! Are those trophies over there for the obstacle course? I’d give anything to win a trophy!”
“Don’t you think you’re a little old?”
Serge did stretching exercises. “Maybe in earth years.” He touched his toes. “That’s why I use the outer planets, where I’m still an infant.”
“I mean the obstacle course is meant for people who still meet age requirements for service.”
Serge twisted side to side. “There’s nobody here. The spectacle of my record-shattering technique is bound to fix that and draw an overflow crowd, boosting enlistment. What’s the harm?”
The recruiter shrugged. “Then I guess you’re next.”
“And I want a trophy.” Serge went over to the starting line, crouching and digging his toes into the beach. “You going to time me?”
The recruiter raised a stopwatch.
“Ready when you are,” said Serge.
“On your mark… Get set… Go!”
Serge blasted out of his sprinter’s stance with blazing speed, sand flying behind him. He raced past the tires, metal tubes, wooden ramps, water jump, monkey bars and finally the rope wall.
Recruiters stared in disbelief as Serge launched himself into the air and dove across the finish line. He collapsed, catching his breath. “What’s my time?”
“You didn’t do any of the obstacles. You ran around all of them.”
“Exactly,” said Serge. “They’re obstacles.”
“But you missed every one.”
“Perfect score,” said Serge.
“But you’re supposed to do the obstacles.”
“That’s stupid.” Serge stood and brushed off his arms. “By definition, obstacles are things you avoid. Can’t believe nobody thought of that yet.”
They just stared.
Serge retrieved his canteen from a table. “Which one’s my trophy?”
“You didn’t do any of the obstacles.”
“We already went over that,” said Serge. “I think that’s the problem. You’re enlisted. I’m obviously officer material…”
Farther up the beach, a large group of students circled some kind of attraction. In the middle, Coleman sat on the sand with a tangelo and syringe. He stuck the needle in the fruit and drew back the plunger.
“The key is to extract an identical cubic centimeter volume as the agent you intend to introduce. That’s the most common mistake: Excess alcohol dribbles down your shirt, the authorities smell it and you’re history.” He squirted juice in the sand, then filled the syringe from a bottle of vodka and injected the tangelo. They heard yelling up the beach behind them.
“Let go of me!”
“What’s all that noise about?” asked Coleman, removing the hypodermic.
One of the students stood and shielded his eyes against the sun. “Looks like those army guys are throwing some dude out in the water.”
“Here’s another trick,” said Coleman. “One of the most important turbo-partying tools that everyone overlooks. Only ninety-nine cents.” He reached in his pocket and dramatically held aloft a serrated orange plastic device.
Students took a closer look. “Isn’t that a kid’s citrus sipper from those roadside souvenir stands?”
Coleman carefully twisted the cutting edge into the tangelo. “Most people try to suck the doctored fruit through an unsecured aperture. Mistake number two. Big mess and more heat from the Man.” Coleman stuck the sipper in his mouth and squeezed the tangelo to a flat peel. “Ahhhh! That was refreshing. And not a single valuable drop lost.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
“… Amazing…”
Behind the last row of onlookers, a trophy-less Serge walked by, filming.
“Coleman?” Another direction: “Coleman? Where’d you go?” Shuffling down the shore. “Coleman?”
BOSTON
Bedlam at the airport.
The blizzard was over. At twenty-six inches. Plows worked the runways.
Travelers pitched heated battles with ticket agents. Their win-loss record: zero to infinity. Others stared up in defeat at overhead departure screens. Status columns flashed.
All flights delayed.
Unless they were canceled.
The low-pressure front finally passed, but planes that had already taxied from the terminal were stacked twenty deep at de-icing machines by the foot of each runway.
At every gate, rows of vinyl chairs connected in single racks. All taken. A stress farm. Babies wailed, complainers complained, others phoned relatives to whine in different time zones. Candy bars, laptops, handheld video games. Some tried catching winks on the floor.
In a remote corner of the airside, a rare patch of empty seats, where agents formed an alert perimeter around Patrick McKenna, sitting with a floppy hat pulled down over his face. The sign at the gate’s departure desk: ANCHORAGE.
Ramirez paced with a cell phone to his head. University administration in Durham. On hold.
Another agent walked over. “Any luck?”