He’s about to confirm that my name is on a watch list.
Will looked back and saw the men in black caps outside security. Looking at passengers. He turned away. The guard leaned over the computer, his face turned ghostly white by the flickering screen.
Will focused his eyes on a single spot in the middle of the guard’s scraggly unibrow. Will’s pulse slowed. He “saw” his target. Felt a wave of heat shoot up his spine, flow around his throat, and rush up to create the image he wanted to push:
A picture of the computer screen with Will West erased.
It landed. The guard scrunched his eyes and blinked a few times. Will pushed another image at him, adding a name where his had been: Jonathan Levin.
The guard leaned in, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Then, for the first time ever, Will tried to push words: That’s right. The guy who just cleared the checkpoint.
The redneck’s head jerked above the partitions, his neck swiveling like a prairie dog sentry. His eyes shot past Will to the businessman, dragging his carry-on toward the gates. The guard spoke to his supervisor. She lifted a walkie-talkie and issued orders. The redneck and other guards started after the businessman. Will held out his hand. The redneck gave back Will’s boarding pass as he hurried past. Behind Will, police officers stepped in to close off the line to the metal detector.
Will put on his shoes and slipped his laptop into the bag. He glanced back. The Black Caps were gone. Maybe they hadn’t even seen him. Will picked up his bag and walked away. Twenty steps later, he passed the petrified businessman being manhandled back to the checkpoint by the TSA posse, the side-burned redneck leading the way.
Will rounded a corner. Exhaustion buckled his knees. His vision faded to spots and dots. The room spun like he was about to black out. He stumbled into the men’s room, dropped his bag, and grabbed a sink, holding on with both hands. He splashed water on his face and neck, which were hot to the touch.
So the mind pictures still work—stronger than ever—but using them kicks my ass. It took him five minutes to recover. Unsteady on his feet, he walked back into the terminal and bought two sandwiches from a snack stand. His flight had already begun boarding; a line formed at the Jetway.
He stepped onto the plane and found his seat two-thirds of the way back: window, right side, looking over the wing. He unzipped his carry-on and took out his iPod and earbuds. He considered checking his iPhone for messages, then remembered Nando’s warning and thought better of it.
Boarding didn’t take long; the flight was less than half full. Olds mostly, business drones in dull suits, zombied out and preoccupied. Will leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to turn off the loop running through his head: Who are these men, and what do they want with me and my family?
OceanofPDF.com
#49: WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS, JUST BREATHE.
He turned on the iPod and clicked a mash-up Mom had given him to use for studying or meditation. Ocean surf and soothing nature sounds were mixed into low ambient musical phrases with pan flute, acoustic guitar, and light percussion.
The music helped. Will’s hands relaxed their death grip on the arms of his seat. He needed to let go of the entire nightmarish day. Needed a quiet, uneventful flight to restore something like sanity so he could face tomorrow.
He barely noticed the voice at first, a deep baritone humming in tune to the music. It grew steadily louder but blended so seamlessly with the melody, he assumed it had always been in the mix and he’d never noticed it before.
Until it spoke to him. “Just breathe, nice and slow. Oldest trick in the book. That’s the ticket, Will.”
Low, gravelly, that same piquant accent. But the guy was in a decidedly better humor than earlier that evening, when he’d dropped Will off behind the house. “Stay in your seat, mate. Eyes closed. Don’t give the game away.”
Will’s eyes flew open. The seat next to him was empty. So were the two across the aisle. He leaned over and looked up the aisle. Ten rows ahead, from an aisle seat, a man’s hand signaled a thumbs-up. He wore a weathered leather flight jacket. A heavy black boot, laced with faded red flames, rested in the aisle.
Will shot back into his seat. So much for an uneventful flight.
“Steady on, now,” said the voice. “Keep your cool and we’ll be aces.”
“Who are you?” whispered Will. “Why are you following me?”
“Can’t hear you, mate. Doesn’t work that way. Sit tight. Be back in a tick.”
Will looked down the aisle again. The Prowler Man’s seat was empty. What was the deal with this whack job?
One last passenger, a grotesquely overweight woman, wobbled down the aisle. She was bulging out of purple velour warm-ups and dragging a small floral-print carry-on. Thin greasy hair fell sloppily around a full-moon face that made her features look tiny. Darting, beady eyes located her seat, four rows in front of Will, across the aisle. She plopped down, panting with exertion.
A flight attendant’s voice came over the speakers, saying they were ready for departure and that all electronic devices should be turned off.
Will yanked out his earbuds and switched off his iPod. The plane rocked back from the gate and cabin lights dimmed as they rolled away. Will looked again; Prowler dude still hadn’t returned to his seat.
Maybe he’s not real. I’m just imagining him. Some kind of holographic side effect of creeping insanity.
Will closed his eyes and pictured what he’d glimpsed earlier on the back of the man’s jacket. A few images shifted in front of his eyes. One of them was the silhouette of an animal, but he couldn’t nail it down.
The plane lurched forward, accelerating for takeoff, shoving Will back against his seat. The flaps pivoted down and the plane lifted sharply into the air. The city of Santa Barbara quickly receded, the coastline a necklace of lights. The plane banked out over the ocean, then turned back to the east. He wondered if their flight path would take them over Ojai.
Welcome but unexpected relief flooded through him. He’d escaped his pursuers, whoever they were, for the moment. He tried to quiet his mind and ride the euphoric high for as long as it lasted.
The plane leveled. A bell tone sounded. The attendant came back on the PA, saying it was safe to use electronics. Will popped the buds in and played the same song again. No voice this time. He raised the iPod to his mouth.
“Are you still there? Hellooo?”
“You look a bit daft talking into your iPod, mate. Folks’ll think you’ve got loose kangaroos in the top paddock.” Will still heard the man in his earbuds.
“Do you have any idea what I’ve been through today?” Will asked out loud.
“A good deal more than you know.”
“I am this close—this close—to a complete, totally justified meltdown.”
“Don’t chuck a wobbly, mate. Slide your seat back. All the way—that’s it, nice and easy.”
Will eased back into his reclined seat. The man leaned forward; he was sitting one seat to the left behind him. Will saw his rugged profile less than two feet away, draped in shadow. His eyes were shielded by his aviator shades but the scars were there, a raised and livid road map crisscrossing the left side of his face.
“You’re from Australia, right?” Will said.
“No, mate, I’m a Kiwi. New Zealand. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”
“Of course I’ve heard of it.”
“Bully for you. If you’ve shaken them, maybe this will be an ‘uneventful’ flight. There’s some crooked weather ahead. Could give us a few bumps.”
“So you do weather reports, too.”