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AT DAWN, LAYNIE WOKE. She was stiff and cold. The mid-September temps had dropped into the high forties overnight, and she had slept sitting up, the hood of her light jacket pulled up over her head and neck, her knees tucked up against her chest, her arms around them. Shivering, she got up and shook out her arms and legs to warm them. She brushed off bits of dried weeds and dirt, then drew out her hairbrush, pulled back the hoodie, and redid her hair, again tucking it up under her hat.
She walked out the kinks on her way up the embankment and across the highway to the truck stop. The place was already busy. Truckers who had spent the night in their cab’s sleeper berth were up, filling their tanks with diesel, checking their tires and loads, and getting a hot meal before hitting the road.
Laynie was hungry, too. When she entered the café, the breakfast rush was on.
“Sit anywhere you like,” the waitress told her. “This time of day, we share tables.” She had four plates balanced in her hands.
“I’d like to clean up first.”
“Through that door, hon.”
Laynie used the facilities, washed up, then sat at the counter and ordered coffee and the full breakfast special. She kept her ears attuned to the conversations around her, listening to the truckers talk among themselves.
She ordered a coffee to go, paid in US dollars and received Canadian as change, then hung around outside in the warming sun until a fifty-something trucker wearing overalls sauntered out the café door. He paused not far away to light up a cigarette.
“Hey,” Laynie said.
He turned, ran his eyes over her. “Hey, yourself.”
“You running into Ottawa today?” Ottawa was west of Montreal.
He drew on his cigarette. “Might be.”
“I’m looking for a ride.”
He continued to inspect her. “Might be able to accommodate you. What’s your name?”
“Beverly. Yours?”
“Colin.”
“Well, Colin, I’m interested in the ride. Nothing else.”
He shrugged. “I can take you as far as Montreal. From there, I head south. I’m crossing over into the States and running into New York today.” He eyed her again.
“Montreal is fine.”
She estimated her ride with this particular trucker would end around three hours or one attitude adjustment down the road.
She was right. Midway to Montreal, Colin pulled into a rest area with overnight parking for trucks and RVs. He set the brake, letting the engine idle, then slid his hand onto her thigh.
“I have a comfy bed back there. Why don’t we climb up and have some fun?”
Laynie smiled. “I wondered when you were going to ask, Colin.”
He grinned and reached higher on her thigh. Faster than his eyes could follow, Laynie bent his index finger over the back of his hand, twisting it along the way. She heard a pop and a crack before his scream deafened her and he jerked his hand away.
“You *blanking blank*! You broke my finger!”
“Didn’t your mother teach you not to put your hands on a woman without her permission? Oh, wait—I’ll bet she did, am I right?”
“Get out! Get outta my truck!”
Laynie grabbed her backpack. She opened the door and climbed down to the rest area’s asphalt parking lot.
“See you, Colin.”
A string of obscenities followed her, cut off when Laynie slammed the passenger door on them.
She walked over to the women’s restroom. After she’d done her business, she went back outside and sat on a bench against the wall of the restroom to wait. The wall had soaked up the morning sun, so she closed her eyes and reveled in its warmth. She stayed that way for more than an hour—long after Colin had driven away—waiting for the right ride came along.
She was alone in the rest area when an older couple with Ontario plates pulled into a parking slot in front of the facilities. A grandmotherly woman got out. Before she did anything else, she attached a leash to a little Scottish terrier and let him out onto the sidewalk. She pulled a bowl from the car with her other hand, poured water into the bowl, and set it down on the walkway for the dog to lap.
“What a beautiful little Scottie. What’s his name?”
She was cautious. “Thank you. His name is Bernie.”
Bernie, pulling at the leash, pranced over to Laynie, sniffed her hand, and let her pet him.
“He’s precious. Would you like me to hold Bernie’s leash while you go inside?” Laynie asked. She knew the woman would refuse.
“No . . . but thank you for offering.”
“Not a problem. He reminds me of my brother’s dog, poor thing.”
“Oh?”
Laynie stared away into the distance. “My brother died in a car crash some years back, and we were heartbroken. But then his little Scottie, Angus, the joy of my brother’s life, passed away not long after. You know, we all believe Angus died of grief. Your Bernie reminded me of Angus . . . and my brother.”
“I’m so sorry, dear.”
“You’re very kind. Thank you.”
The woman went into the restroom, taking Bernie with her. When she came out, she led the dog into the adjoining field to do his business. Out of her peripheral vision, Laynie watched the woman’s husband join her. They talked, and Laynie saw the woman’s hand flutter in her direction once.
She leaned against the restroom’s sun-warmed block wall, closed her eyes, and waited.
“Excuse me, miss?”
Laynie sat up, glanced around, fixed on the elderly gent. “I’m sorry—are you speaking to me?”
“Yes. We, my wife and I, don’t see any other cars here. So, we were wondering if you needed a ride somewhere?”
“Well, the truth is, the man I was riding with made advances toward me. I sort of had to get out of his truck in a hurry—if you catch my meaning.” Laynie sighed. “I’m just glad he didn’t pull over in the middle of nowhere.”
“What? Oh, my. Yes, I take your point.” The grandfatherly man appeared suitably shocked. “Uh, where are you headed, miss?”
“Toronto.”
“If you like, we can take you as far as Montreal.”
“But I’m a stranger,” Laynie pointed out.
“My wife is a pretty good judge of character. Come on. I’m Don. My wife is Midge. You can ride with us.”
“Thank you, Don. I’m Beverly, by the way.”
Laynie sat in back with Bernie’s head on her lap answering the couple’s questions, telling them she’d been staying with friends in northern Québec for the past month.
“I have friends in Toronto, too, so I’m heading there. I was supposed to have flown, but after those terrible attacks . . .” She let her words hang.
She had won over the couple, and they were eager to aid her.
“Such a shock! Don’t know how long US and Canadian planes will be grounded,” Don said over his shoulder. “Some folks who are stuck here can’t find a place to stay. Hotels are filled up.”
“And we don’t usually pick up hitchhikers,” Midge confided, “but it does seem as though the Lord brought us along at just the right time to help you on your way—even if we can’t take you all the way into Toronto.
“We live in Saint-Alexandre, you know, southeast of Montreal. Been to visit our son and his family.” She ended with the proud declaration, “We have three grandchildren. Such a blessing.”
Since most hotels were filled because of the grounding of all air travel, Don and Midge insisted on dropping Laynie on the outskirts of the city at a little motel with a flashing vacancy sign. When they continued on their way and were out of sight, Laynie walked up the street looking for a bus stop. When she’d found one and had studied the route map, she waited for the next bus that would take her across the river into downtown Montreal.
As she dropped her coins into the fare box, she asked the driver, “How close to an HSBC bank does this route run?”
The driver tipped his chin at the seat closest the door. “Sit there an’ I’ll point one out t’ you. We stop a block farther on from it.”
“Thanks.”
Laynie watched the bustling city go by until the driver said, “Look down that street. See the bank?”
Laynie did. “Yes. Thanks.”
When he let her out at the next stop, she backtracked to the bank, then began her quest for a hotel within walking distance of the bank, one that promoted what was being called “a business center.” A business center or business hub was a room containing computers, printers, office supplies, and broadband service for hotel guests.
Laynie found several hotels that fit the bill. She chose the Westmount, about a mile from the bank, deciding that the distance was an added security measure in her favor.
She ate lunch in a small restaurant first, then used their restroom to tidy up. While locked in the restroom stall, she switched out her French ID for her American passport and its matching driver’s license and credit card.
Leaving the restaurant, Laynie found a busy department store. She quickly purchased two suitable pants outfits, undergarments, a light jacket, and a pair of slip-on pumps and stockings. She also chose an unremarkable handbag and wallet and another carry-on suitcase with wheels. Her last purchase was a simple watch. She used her credit card for all of her purchases.
Before she left the department store, she transferred everything into her new suitcase and handbag. She loaded her shopping bags and the backpack into the rolling case and returned to the hotel.
She was not as presentable as she would have wished to be, but she’d soon remedy that. The larger issue was whether or not the Westmount had rooms available.
She approached the check-in counter. “Good afternoon. Have you any vacancies?”
“We didn’t last night after the airport closure, but we have a few today. How many nights?”
“Two, perhaps three.”
“ID and credit card, please.”
Laynie handed over her passport and credit card.
“Thank you, Miss Granger. You’re in room 5018, fifth floor. The elevator is just there, across the lobby. Please let us know if you intend to stay longer than two nights.”
“I will. Thank you. And—”
Laynie caught sight of the stack of newspapers on the check-in counter and the headline—HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN? Marta Forestier’s image, although grainy, stared back at her.
“Yes? You had a question?”
“Oh, I was just wondering where I might find your business center?”
“Down that hall, beyond our guest shop.”
“Thank you.”
Laynie took the elevator to the fifth floor, closed her room’s door behind her, and put on the security latch. She went into the bathroom and stared at her face in the mirror. Pulled the hat off her head and revealed Marta Forestier’s brown hair.
What if I hadn’t kept my hair up? What if I’d ditched the hat earlier? Would the desk clerk have recognized me from the photo in the newspaper?
Was it another “divine coincidence”—like the strange anxiety symptoms that had driven her to abandon her Paris to New York flight?
Laynie shook herself.
I can’t rely on coincidence, random good fortune, or emotions. Besides, being driven by fear is deadly. She stared at her face. It was noticeably thinner than when she’d left Madame Krupina’s Spa.
Madame Krupina’s Spa? How much time had passed since that day? Less than two weeks?
Ten days or two weeks? It felt like a lifetime.
She shook herself again and thought about the photograph in the paper.
I must radically alter my appearance before I go to the bank tomorrow.
She showered, washed and dried her hair, and changed into a new outfit. Then she used the hotel telephone to call the same department store she’d shopped in.
“How may I direct your call?”
“Salon, please.”
“Bonjour. How may I serve you?”
“Good afternoon, do you have any appointments today for a color and cut?”
“I think not, but one moment. Let me check. Ah! How surprising. You are in luck. We have had a cancelation. Will three o’clock suit?”
Laynie frowned. Luck. Again.
“Yes, that will be fine.”
“And your name, please?”
“Elaine. Elaine Granger.”
It was the first time Laynie had said the name aloud.
My birth name. What my birth parents, Michael and Bethany Granger, named me.
Few people in the world knew that name or the long, tangled history behind it.
Kari does, though, and she shared it with me. That day on Puget Sound.
Although the name Elaine Granger lacked the comforting familiarity of Helena or Laynie Portland, Laynie felt she had reconnected herself with her sister, as though she had taken a step, a necessary one, toward her true self.
Toward going home.
“Very good. We’ll see you at three, Miss Granger.”
IT WAS EARLY AFTERNOON, the day after the attacks. Tobin was propped up in his hospital bed, a bag hanging from an IV tree feeding him fluids and pain meds, when the FBI arrived to question him. Lieutenant Moreau accompanied the two agents.
Under the agents’ questioning, Tobin recounted the attempted hijacking from start to finish. They asked him to repeat his account, which he did. Then, they demanded he go over it again.
Tobin sighed and started over. “I was the sky marshal assigned to Flight 6177. Prior to boarding the flight in London, I surveilled the gate, watching passengers board, as is my SOP when assigned as sky marshal on a flight.”
One of the FBI agents, Peters, asked, “Since you were observing the passengers board, how is it that you failed to identify the hijackers and have them removed before the flight left London?”
Here we go, Tobin thought. Gotta find a scapegoat, someone to blame—even if that person succeeded in preventing a terrorist attack.
“The hijackers boarded the plane at the last minute—after the gate had officially closed, after I had taken my seat and identified myself to the flight crew. In addition, the hijackers boarded in two groups. I observed two men of Middle-Eastern or Arabic extraction enter the plane and take seats in business class. I did not see the other three. And I cannot, you know, remove passengers from a flight simply for their ethnicity. I did, however, make it my business to keep tabs on the two men in business class during the flight.”
“What did you observe to make you suspect them?”
“As I’ve said—three times now—about two hours after we left London, one of the two passengers I was watching left business class and entered economy class. He would have no reason to do that unless he were acquainted with a passenger in economy seating. So, I got up and observed him from behind the curtain of the opposite aisle.
“He first spoke to two men on the starboard side of economy plus. Then he approached a third man in an aisle seat on the port side of the same cabin—two, three yards from the curtain I was peeking through.
“It was then that I realized that I had five Middle-Eastern men on my flight—men who had arrived at the gate together and boarded late but separately and whose seats were spread strategically throughout the first two cabins. At that point, my suspicions became concerns.”
“And you then informed Marshal Forestier of your suspicions and formed a plan?”
Lieutenant Moreau, for his part in the questioning, had stood well back, listening to the exchange. Tobin was aware of how his account was about to differ from Lieutenant Moreau’s understanding of the event—and differ from the understanding of the passengers aboard the flight, for that matter.
Yup. Here we go.
Tobin repeated, “Marshal Forestier?”
“Yes, the other marshal aboard the flight.”
“I think there’s some misunderstanding here. I continued to observe the suspects during the seven-hour flight until we were within range of land—about an hour out from JFK. Again, the same man left business class to speak to the three men in economy plus. When I also observed his aggressive behavior toward a female flight attendant, my concerns hardened.
“It was then, when I believed that we did indeed have a hijacking in the works, that I sought assistance from among the passengers. I was, if you will consider the situation, outmanned five-to-one and possibly outgunned, if the hijackers possessed weapons. I required help and found it in Miss Forestier.
“You see, prior to boarding the flight, I had observed Miss Forestier behaving much the same as I was, surveilling the gate and the passengers as they boarded. Miss Forestier’s caution and conduct led me to believe she had either law enforcement or military training. When I approached her, identified myself, and apprised her of the situation, she agreed to assist me.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Tobin saw Lieutenant Moreau’s frown deepen.
The other FBI agent, Donaldson, pressed him. “Marshal Tobin, are you saying this woman,” the agent glanced at his notes, “this Marta Forestier, is not a US Marshal? That you simply walked up to a complete stranger during the flight and asked her to help you take down five potential hijackers?”
Tobin shook his head. “Hold on. I never said she was a marshal—I don’t know how that misunderstanding started. I did, however, use my authority under the law to enlist and deputize a willing civilian. She was both willing and able, so I deputized her.”
“But every single member of the flight crew understood her to be a marshal. Even Lieutenant Moreau—” the agent gestured behind him, “believed her to be a US Marshal.”
“Well, she was duly deputized, but I never referred to her as a marshal . . .” Tobin assumed a thoughtful air. “Wait a sec. Her name’s Marta Forestier. Could people have heard Marta Forestier and misconstrued it as Marshal Forestier?”
Lieutenant Moreau’s hard scowl turned to rock.
Tobin shrugged. “And, certainly, because she was working under my direction, people could have easily assumed she was also a marshal.”
“People could have made a wrong assumption? Marshal Tobin, the woman was carrying a gun on a commercial flight. Why would she have brought a gun on a plane?”
Tobin’s lips thinned. “I didn’t exactly have time to verify references, Special Agent Peters. It is my understanding from what Miss Forestier told me that she was carrying a weapon because she was a law enforcement officer working undercover. I deputized her and was grateful for the assist.”
“You deputized her. A stranger.”
“Look, I’ve already gone over that with you three times. I possess the lawful authority to deputize any person I deem necessary—and the bottom line is that if I hadn’t enlisted her help, the hijackers would have taken that plane. They would have driven it into the Empire State Building or a hospital full of innocent people, and every person aboard, including myself—not to mention hundreds or thousands on the ground where the plane hit—would presently be circling Manhattan as so much ash on the wind. And, by the way? If you are so all-fired concerned about Miss Forestier’s background and qualifications, rather than the fact that we stopped the hijackers, why aren’t you questioning her yourself?”
Lieutenant Moreau answered him. “Marshal Tobin, NAV CANADA directed a total of ten flights into Moncton today. The passengers and crew from all ten flights were transported to the Moncton Coliseum, some 2,200 persons in all. We located and questioned Miss Forestier’s seatmates, whom Miss Forestier apparently asked to remove her bag from the overhead when they deplaned, saying she would find them and pick it up later. Miss Forestier, as you know, accompanied you in the ambulance to this hospital.”
“Yes, I asked her to. So what?”
Moreau fixed him with a gaze before responding. “The ‘so what’ is that we can’t find her. She’s disappeared.”
Tobin looked from the FBI agents to Moreau. “I didn’t know. I’ve been a bit preoccupied.”
Peters addressed Tobin again. “Well, then, can you give us any explanation for her disappearance, Marshal? Any sense of where she may have gone?”
“No. As I said earlier, I’d never seen her before boarding the plane in London.”
But I do recognize when someone is running for their life.
“Then it’s a good thing several passengers used their mobile phones to take pictures of her. They aren’t great images, but they’re good enough. We gave the best one to the press along with a request to the public to call the FBI if they spot her.”
Peters dumped a folded newspaper in Tobin’s lap. “This ran this morning.”
There she was—not the greatest image, but good enough—with a bold, all-cap headline.
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN?
What had she said? “I can’t be questioned by Canadian law enforcement, Tobin, or any law enforcement agency. Do you follow? I’ve been deep undercover for years in a country whose name I cannot mention. If, when we land, someone were to photograph me and that photo made the news? Not good.”
In his mind’s eye, Tobin saw Marta shaking her head. He saw the pinched face behind her stalwart expression. The fear she kept under control. Barely.
“If I want to stay alive, I need to circumvent any publicity or questions. I need to vanish—and I mean the minute our wheels hit the ground.”
Tobin glared at the feds. “Why would you treat her like a wanted criminal?”
Peters got in Tobin’s face. “Who said she’s a criminal? What's wrong with the public reporting her whereabouts, eh, Marshal?”
At that moment, three persons entered the room, interrupting them. When Tobin saw who it was, he tried to climb from his bed and stand.
“Stay where you are, Deputy Marshal Tobin.”
The man carried his authority well. His presence filled up the room, and his two-person security detail arranged themselves behind him. He acknowledged Peters and Donaldson, then Moreau, with the barest of nods.
“Gentlemen, I’m Gordon Niles, Deputy Director of the US Marshals Service, come to check on my wounded marshal. I didn’t hear you giving my man a hard time just now, did I?”
“Only doing our job, sir,” Peters replied.
“Well, considering that this man prevented the fifth plane in yesterday’s attacks from becoming a weapon of mass destruction, I’d say he is a hero, not a suspect.”
“We don’t dispute that, Director. However, the woman Marshal Tobin deputized to help him thwart the hijackers has gone missing. No one has seen her since the ambulance carrying her and Marshal Tobin arrived here yesterday, midday. In light of the grave security situation, her disappearance is concerning.”
Tobin disagreed. “Marta Forestier is every bit as responsible for thwarting the attack as I am. She followed my orders and did nothing wrong—certainly nothing to warrant your attention or concern.”
Niles held up a hand and addressed the feds. “Gentlemen, I think you’re done here. I’d like to spend a minute with my marshal in private, if you please. Oh, and you need to check in with your superiors. I believe you’ll find revised orders waiting for you. Please close the door on your way out.”
Peters and Donaldson looked at each other, wondering what had just happened but knowing they had no choice but to follow Niles’ instructions. They and Moreau nodded to Niles and stalked out of the room. Moreau closed the door behind them.
Niles motioned his men to follow them out and stand in front of the closed door.
Niles addressed Tobin. “Now, Marshal, I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here?”
“It had crossed my mind, sir.” But I’ll bet you dollars to donuts, it’s about Marta Forestier.
“You would not believe the calls I received this morning, Marshal. Calls from people so far over my head that I doubt I could breathe the air where they live.”
“I think I believe you, sir.”
“I’ve been deep undercover for years in a country whose name I cannot mention.”
“Well, then, let me pull up a chair. We need to discuss what must happen—what will happen should you ever again see or speak to Marta Forestier.”
Tobin nodded, but his mind was focused elsewhere.
Lord, please help this woman, whoever she really is and wherever she may be, to escape those who are after her. Lead her, Lord, in paths of righteousness for your name’s sake. And please forgive me for being less than entirely candid with the FBI and, in the next minutes, with my own superiors.
WHEN THE STYLIST FINISHED Laynie’s hair, the clock on the salon wall read a quarter past five. The bank had closed for the day, so Laynie would return to the Westmount. Her new color was closer to her normal dark blonde but brighter by the artful highlights her stylist had woven throughout.
Back in her room, Laynie turned her head to the mirror. She liked how the skillfully cut sides framed her face. To the casual observer, she no longer bore resemblance to the photograph in the newspaper.
Much better. Now . . .
Laynie wadded up the dirty clothes she’d arrived in, keeping only the billed hat, pulled the plastic liner from the bathroom waste can, and put the dirty clothing inside. Next, she slipped her keycard into her new handbag next to Marta Forestier’s French passport. Carrying her room’s “trash,” she took the elevator downstairs. She found the business center unoccupied and took inventory of its equipment.
She was alone in the room, so she pulled a chair up to the document shredder. Page by page, she tore up the French passport and fed it into the shredder’s cross-cutting head, until all that remained was the cover. This, too, she fed into the machine. She opened the trash sack containing her clothes, dumped the shredded paper into the sack, and tied it closed.
She headed for the hotel’s laundry room—not to use the laundry machines, but to find the exit nearest the hotel dumpsters. She passed the laundry room, then the Facility Manager’s office, and exited the hotel. The dumpsters, as she’d supposed, were at the back of the building. She lifted the heavy lid on one and tossed the bag containing her old clothes and passport remains into it.
Relieved to have finished her chore, she wandered into the Westmount’s guest store where she purchased toothbrush, toothpaste, and an inexpensive set of headphones. She took the items to her room, put them away, and opened the sliding door to her balcony. Stepping outside, she breathed deeply.
Miles away toward the west, clouds had gathered. She caught a faint flash of lightning on the dark horizon and felt the breeze freshen against her face. Rain was coming.
Stockholm time being six hours ahead of Montreal, she couldn’t use the business center until morning when Christor would be in the office.
I’ll get up early. At 5:00 a.m. here, it will be 11:00 a.m. there.
It dawned on her that Montreal was only an hour ahead of Nebraska time.
I could call Kari. She was tempted but shook her head. No. If they track me to this hotel, they’ll ask for a printout of my calls.
Her stomach rumbled. The last weeks of eating on the run had taken their toll. Suddenly, the thought of a nice dinner had great appeal. The hotel had a restaurant, but room service was safer. The fewer hotel staff who saw her, the better.
Laynie opened the room service menu and stared at the selections before her—including that favorite of American tourists, a hamburger and fries. She had not had a hamburger and fries in more than seven years. Her mouth watered.
“Hello, room service?”
