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LAYNIE WATCHED THE EMTs load Tobin into the ambulance—on a gurney, despite his protests. She climbed in after him, taking her handbag and hoodie with her. The EMTs went about their business, checking Tobin’s vitals, inserting an IV line, asking him about his medical history. They paid little attention to her. When they arrived at the ambulance entrance behind the hospital, the emergency room staff took Tobin one way and steered her another.
“Waiting room’s that way, miss,” a nurse ordered.
“Right. Thanks.”
When Laynie turned the corner, she bypassed the waiting room and headed for the main hospital entrance. She exited there, moved quickly to the street, and scanned up and down, looking for—
There. A plexiglass shelter across the street denoting a city bus stop.
Once she’d confirmed that the street was on a bus route, she walked on, putting distance between herself and the hospital, heading for the next stop on the bus line. A quarter of a mile later, she came to another plexiglass shelter belonging to Moncton’s Codiac Transit Commission. While she waited for the bus, she plotted her next steps.
The airspace of the entire North American continent is on lockdown because of the attacks. Canadian and American border agents will be on high alert, hoping to catch other terrorists who may be plotting further strikes or attempting to escape the US into Canada.
Laynie studied the route map and fare chart on the shelter wall, memorizing the general layout of Moncton’s streets and bus service.
Right now, Marta Forestier is not on anyone’s radar. However, once the authorities start looking for her, and find that one of the “heroes” of Flight 6177 has gone missing, it will be problematic for me to cross over into the States. My best option is to stay in Canada but move west. Go west and keep moving.
When the bus arrived, she swung aboard, handed the driver an American dollar bill, and affected an Aussie accent.
“G’day. Sorry I don’t have the correct fare. Came over from the States and haven’t exchanged m’ money.”
“You know I can’t make change for you?”
“Yeah. No worries, mate.”
Laynie moved to the back of the bus. When the bus arrived downtown, Laynie left through the rear door and faded into the town’s pedestrian traffic.
Unfortunately, Moncton wasn’t large—only around sixty thousand residents. Most everything she did would be noted and remembered by someone, eventually leading those tracking her to this location. She needed to make that trail go cold, right here and right now.
She ducked into a public restroom. As soon as she’d locked herself in a stall, she eased out of her long-sleeved T-shirt, revealing the short-sleeved shirt beneath it. She opened her handbag and removed hairbrush, elastic hair holders, backpack, and billed cap. Then she transferred her hoodie, the long-sleeved shirt, and the contents of her purse to the backpack.
She stuffed her telltale Bottega Veneta handbag into the restroom trash, burying it deep under used paper towels.
“Goodbye, old friend.”
When Laynie left the restroom, she was wearing a different colored shirt, she carried a small backpack on her back, and her long hair was braided and tucked up into her hat.
She boarded another bus, one she knew was headed down Main Street. She got off several blocks before the intersection of Main and Cameron, the closest Codiac bus stop to the Maritime bus station, cut left on Canada Street and walked, unhurried, the rest of the distance to the station. Inside the bustling station, she exchanged all but fifty of the American dollars Tobin had given her for Canadian currency, then bought a cup of coffee, a sandwich, and a ticket to Edmundston.
Two hours later, her bus arrived at the Edmunston station, but Marta had gotten off early at the junction of NB-2 and NB-120 where she flagged down a trucker.
“Where you headed, miss?”
“Toronto, to visit my cousin.”
“I can take you as far as Montmagny, if that suits?”
“It does. Thanks.”
The highway would shortly take them out of New Brunswick and into the province of Québec. Montmagny was on the far outskirts of Québec City but still on the highway. The driver was talkative about the flights that had been diverted to various airports in Canada and more than willing to rehash other horrors of the day, details of the attacks Laynie had not yet heard.
“Wife and I watched the news coverage all day long until I had to run my routes. When that second tower fell, we knew there weren’t gonna be survivors—and the firemen, those brave souls who ran into the buildings to evacuate everyone? Dead when the towers fell.”
He shook his head. “All those emergency people, standing around, waiting for the wounded that would never show up. Saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You say there was another plane as part of the attack? Do the authorities know where it was headed?”
“Yeah, Flight 93, out of Newark. Heard that some of the passengers charged the hijackers—kinda like the two sky marshals did on that American Airlines flight from London—but not with as much success. The hijackers still managed to take control of the cockpit and crash the plane in Pennsylvania. Killed themselves and everyone else on that plane.”
“I wonder where the hijackers had intended to fly the plane when they took control of it.”
“Rumor has it they were headed to Washington, looking to hit either the Capitol Building or the White House.”
“Despicable,” Laynie whispered.
When conversation tapered off, Laynie leaned against the truck’s window and slept until the driver pulled up at the junction of Highways 20 and 283. She woke and saw they were at a truck stop on the outskirts of what she assumed was Montmagny. The clock on the truck’s dash read just past one in the morning.
“Sorry to leave you, but I turn off here, miss.” He pointed. “That’s a nice 24-hour café over there.”
“It’s not a problem,” Laynie assured him. “I’ll wait inside the café until daybreak. With luck, I’ll be at my cousin’s in Toronto before dinner tomorrow. Thanks for the lift.”
Laynie walked away from the highway, down the embankment, and into the bushes rather than waiting the remainder of the night in the café where she would be noticed, remarked upon, and remembered. She pulled out her hoodie, zipped it on, and squatted down in the brush, arms wrapped around herself to spend the rest of the night.
AFTER WITNESSING THE attacks on the twin towers and leaving JFK, Zakhar and his men had been forced to return to the house on Long Island. Where else could they go? Zakhar’s team could not leave Long Island. In fact, they could go nowhere.
Their plane—like all others—was grounded. New York City and its waterways were on lockdown by order of the local and federal governments—every bridge, tunnel, and mode of water transport to or from the city, including Long Island.
The only redeeming information reported by the news was that passengers on flights diverted to Canada were in similar straits. They were required to remain where their planes had landed until US airspace reopened.
Zakhar hoped that meant Linnéa could not leave the town she’d landed in until international air flights resumed. He wished to immediately set out for Canada by automobile and reach the woman before the ban on commercial flight ended. However, even getting started on his way to Canada would be problematic. The only way off Long Island was to hire a private boat, one that was willing to risk being boarded by the Coast Guard.
The caretaker told Zakhar, “I know a captain. He can take you, not tonight or tomorrow night, but the following night.”
“That is too long of a wait!” Zakhar fumed. “Double his price.”
The caretaker shook his head. “No, Dimitri Ilyich. This man, he has other clients, regular customers, whom he cannot refuse. You understand what I say?”
Zakhar nodded.
“So. Do you wish his services in two days’ time or not?”
“Da. I will take his offer.”
Zakhar reported his arrangements to Petroff, who could not seem to grasp the extent of the attack or the tumult that had ensued. Instead, he subjected Zakhar to twice-daily tongue lashings.
“Bring her to me, Zakhar, you idiot! Do not show your face before me again until you have her in your grasp, do you hear me?”
But Petroff’s invectives were no longer Zakhar’s highest motivation. His own desires had burned within him until they outstripped Petroff’s threats.
I would swim across to the mainland, if I were able, Zakhar seethed within himself. I will do whatever I must to capture this woman. Whatever it takes, I will have her.
