Chapter 36

 

An overseas flight, first class, was the most luxury Sandy had ever experienced on an airplane and she made sure to thank Penelope for the indulgence. For herself, Pen was glad for the creature comforts but a night-long flight was still a long one and, although she’d been able to stretch out, this was nothing like sleeping in her own bed at home.

“Welcome to Grand Cayman,” the flight attendant said over the PA, “where the local time is six a.m.”

Pen stood and stretched before reaching for her bag in the overhead bin.

“Let me help you with that,” said the senior flight attendant. She easily lifted the wheeled suitcase down. “My, you packed pretty light. You must have more in the hold.”

“It’s a quick trip,” Pen said.

“My kind of traveler,” the woman said. “You wouldn’t believe the passengers I see in the terminal, struggling with three or four huge bags. Goodness, don’t they know a beach resort only requires a couple bathing suits and a cover up or two?”

Gracie and Sandy retrieved equally small suitcases and they stood to wait for the doors to open and a ladder to be wheeled into place.

“Follow the painted yellow lines on the floor inside,” the attendant said. “They’ll take you right into the customs hall.”

The three friends walked side by side through a pathway of red plastic cones on the tarmac. The humid air hit like a wet shroud.

“I feel my hair wilting already,” Sandy said. “Thank goodness I’m not here for a beauty contest.”

“Even the beauty queens aren’t up for a contest at this hour of the morning,” Gracie said.

As the hall narrowed inside the building, Pen fell behind the others. The only thing that kept the corridor from feeling oppressively tight was the fact that the walls were mostly of glass, the tarmac with waiting airplanes outside on her left, and the various airline departure gates on her right. All at once, something caught her eye.

Standing in a line at one of those departure gates was the man she’d known as Richard Stone. No, Frank Morrell—she corrected herself.

“It’s him!” She nudged Sandy’s shoulder. “There he is!”

Sandy and Gracie turned, confused. “Who?”

Impatient shouts came from behind them. “Hey, move it along up there—”

Pen pushed her friends forward, rushing to get out of the passageway. But when they passed through double metal doors, they were not in the same area where she’d spotted Morrell. The immigration hall opened before them, with roped off lanes for returning residents, visitors, and those with certain passports. Pen halted but Gracie pulled her aside, out of the path of brightly clad tourists in foul moods because they were so determined to start having fun.

“It was him—Richard Stone, em, Frank Morrell—back that way, standing in a queue of people about to board a plane. We have to get out there …”

But a customs official was standing at the door through which they’d just come.

“No access this direction,” the woman recited in a bored tone.

“No—I—it’s just—”

“Forget a bag? Do not worry, they will clear the plane and bring it out for you, madam.”

Pen stared longingly. If only she could see which plane he was boarding. But the stout woman in uniform was hearing none of it.

She realized Gracie and Sandy were waiting for her to lead the way. With no other choice they got into one of the long lines to have their passports stamped. By the time they cleared immigration and customs, Pen knew Morrell was surely on his plane and most likely it would have departed. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Pen, it’s not the end of the world. We’re all tired. Let’s find a hotel and get some rest,” Sandy said.

Eyes closed, Pen visualized the scene with Frank Morrell standing in wait for a plane. Gate 14. The sign above his head registered in her brain.

“Before we leave, I need to know,” she said.

She walked to an electronic monitor listing arrivals and departures. At Gate 14, it showed Flight 93 had just departed for London and Zurich. Frank Morrell had skipped yet another country.