JIMMY WAS HORRIFIED BY Con’s face. Her mouth drooped as if she’d had a stroke. Her eyes were way too wide, as if her skin were splitting.
“I was on the phone,” said Con, pointing, as if Jimmy and Mohammed had forgotten what phones were. “I was nervous, and I just felt like checking. Laura isn’t home. Laura’s told her parents that she’s on this trip.”
Jimmy’s blood turned to glue. He felt himself slow down inside. That explained the plane tickets. What a horrible thing for Laura to do to her poor parents! Lying about something as huge as this, disappearing, when her mother and father had just had their only son disappear forever.
“I didn’t tell. I just hung up,” said Con. “I didn’t know how to handle it.”
Jimmy did not quite trust Mohammed and he didn’t quite trust Con and he didn’t quite trust his own judgment.
But together, the three of them, classmates of Laura’s, he trusted them as a group. “Listen to me. I’ve been so worried about Laura that when she was behaving exceptionally screwy last week, I followed her. She went to this sleazy travel agency and bought two round-trip flights to New York, in her name and Billy’s. The plane leaves in an hour from Heathrow. She’s lost her mind. She’s planning to fly to New York with Billy’s ghost.”
Con and Mohammed stared at Jimmy. Con’s face was coming back together, skin tightening along with her thoughts.
“I’m worried about her sanity,” said Jimmy.
“Laura is not so crazy with grief,” said Mohammed slowly, “that she believes Billy can fly to New York with her. She’s bought that ticket for somebody else.”
Jimmy had never thought of that. It was a hard thing to think of. What somebody else? How could there be a somebody else?
“Somebody else?” said Con. “But Mohammed, you have to travel with a passport that matches the name on the plane ticket.”
“Yeah, Mohammed,” said Jimmy, “you go through at least two—sometimes three or four—passport inspections.”
“Then the person flying on Billy’s passport looks like Billy,” said Mohammed.
Jimmy could hardly follow this explanation. “You mean Laura has lost her mind so completely, she’s found a substitute for Billy? Some little kid she’s taking to New York?” Jimmy felt his way toward some sort of understanding, but he didn’t reach any.
Con shivered. “That’s grotesque, Mohammed. You mean you think Laura is—like—adopting some little boy? Some little middle school kid to be Billy for her? But—but why? Who?”
“I don’t think Laura’s been in the middle school much,” said Jimmy doubtfully, “where she could find a kid to substitute for Billy. She’s been busy with her new friendship with—” Jimmy broke off. His image of Jehran, elegant in silk, faded to Jehran in her gym suit: skinny, boyish … Billy-ish.
“With Jehran,” said Con.
Jimmy’s mind was glue now. Each thought stuck to the next without making sense.
“I wonder,” said Mohammed, “if Laura has managed to follow Billy’s footsteps.”
“You mean she really did figure out who Billy’s killer is?” said Jimmy. “And this is some insane scheme to capture the killer by herself?”
“No,” said Mohammed. “I am not fearful that Laura has found Billy’s killer. I am fearful that Billy’s killer has found Laura.”
Airports were about lines.
About terrorists.
About fear.
Now came the second set of metal detectors, passengers walking through one, carry-on luggage going separately through another, and then they would be able to approach the gates.
Laura thought of the doomed Lockerbie flight, also a Christmas flight. It had been blown up over Scotland, throwing wreckage across eight hundred square miles. Every passenger on Pan Am Flight 103 and every carry-on had gone through metal detectors, but the bomb had been in baggage. Terrorists had checked a suitcase that contained a plastic explosive: semtex.
Ahead of them, person after person was setting off the alarm. In America, they used a handheld wand to run up and down your body in order to locate the keys or belt buckle or whatever had set off the detectors.
In England, they patted you down. They were serious about it. They frisked every inch, armpit to ankles.
Laura went through the detector first, and did not set off an alarm. Jehran followed, and did not set off an alarm.
Laura was so relieved, her legs were weak, as if she’d run for miles.
Their two bags moved slowly toward them on the conveyor belt for carry-ons. Jehran took back her leather bag, stroking its bulging sides, reassuring herself. Laura was also reassured. If there had been anything wrong, the man watching the X ray of each bag would have stopped them.
Jehran looked gender-free. Strangers would try to guess: pretty boy or crudely dressed girl?
Jehran was not looking at Laura. She was looking through the crowd: nervous parents keeping track of exhausted children; terrified foreigners with no idea what to do next; frequent flyers faded with boredom; flight attendants with their sharp high heels stabbing the floor as they strode to their gates, dragging their little suitcases on wheels like pets on leashes.
Jehran was not looking to see if anybody was following her. Jehran was not scanning the crowd for a hidden threat. She was neither afraid nor relieved.
Jehran was amused.
What is funny about people caught in exhaustion and worry? thought Laura. Why am I more afraid than she is? She should be terrified, because what if her brother parked his car and went into St. Pancras and checked with Mr. Hollober, what if even now he and his men are guessing where Jehran is? Talking their way past the inspectors?
Jehran caught the bill of Billy’s Red Sox cap and pulled it down over her brow to hide her expression.
Americans might laugh over nothing. They got silly easily, and in public, too. But Jehran was completely not American. She wouldn’t laugh over nothing. So she was laughing over something.
Like what? thought Laura. We aren’t through the worst yet. We haven’t gone through Passport Control.
They entered the upstairs limbo: duty-free shopping. A floor on which to kill time. The world kill filled Laura’s brain. She swept it out. “Burger King,” she said, pointing to a welcome sign. “We’ll get Whoppers. No telling how long we’ll be airborne before they get around to serving a meal.”
Jehran was scornful. “I don’t eat hamburgers.”
“Billy, you adore hamburgers. You’re an American. Burger, fries, and shake is your motto.”
Jehran shook her head, insulted.
She’s not refusing hamburgers, thought Laura. She’s refusing to be an American.
It was such a shock to understand, Laura was physically jolted; thrown backward. I was right the first time, she thought. Jehran is completely not American. In fact, Jehran is anti-American. She’s always been anti-American. So why does she want to go to New York? Where did she get ten thousand dollars in cash? Dollars, not pounds. What kind of family would have that much cash lying around in foreign currency? Money a teenager could pick up and take, without being noticed? Why would a younger sister inherit anything at all, when there’s an older brother alive to inherit?
Why did Daddy think he was talking to Jehran’s father, when Jehran’s father is dead?
Why is Jehran in school if her family doesn’t care whether a girl gets an education? If they hate Americans, why a school where fifty percent of the students are American? Why did they let her have a slumber party and invite Western girls?
Laura was seeing spots. Flashes like distant cameras broke in her eyes.
Jehran wrapped herself around Laura in a very feminine way, not at all like a little brother. “I’m so sorry, Laura. I’m scared. Please forgive me for being rude.”
The apology was fake. Laura was a long-term expert on somebody—namely, the real Billy—apologizing without meaning it.
“I have never been anyplace in my life without an escort,” said Jehran. “I have never done one single thing alone. All by myself I must learn America, from the moment you leave me in Kennedy Airport. I am so terrified.”
But she was not terrified. Jehran was calmer than Laura, and at the back of her eyes, amusement remained. “I promise to learn to like hamburgers, Laura,” she said.
On an international flight, you had to fill out a landing card: you had to write in your name, address, and occupation. Laura’s father had a theory that nobody ever checked these, and he enjoyed giving himself unusual occupations. Pickle Taster. Global-Warming Manufacturer. No angry immigration official had ever arrested him for illegal filling-out-of-forms, so apparently he was right. Nobody checked.
What would Jehran’s occupation be?
Laura fought with a word whose cruel letters wedged into her mind.
Terrorist?
Laura’s head puffed. If she were to look in a mirror she would see a big white beach ball in place of her usual head.
Bombs and weapons could be made of plastic, not metal. Detectors depended on metal, but terrorists could not be depended on to use metal.
“Time to go to the gate,” said Jehran. “Oh Laura, Heathrow is so frightening. I am so very, very grateful that you will be with me at Kennedy. How would I navigate without you?”
Up a wide, purple-carpeted ramp they went. A large sign read, Passengers Only. Laura’s worry-thritis was now attacking her hips and knees and ankles. At this rate, she’d have to crawl on the plane.
In front of them was Passport Control.
Uniformed men and women practically lined the walls.
What would I say to them, thought Laura, if I said something? I know I am wrong. I must be wrong. I want to be wrong.
Laura looked longingly at those uniforms. She wanted them to stop her; she wanted them to make this decision. She would look foolish if she were wrong, and it would hurt Jehran’s feelings, and everything would be ruined—they’d be caught—Laura would have to admit to her parents the depth and breadth of her lies—Jehran would be returned to her brother—
Jehran pressed against Laura as if she really were a little brother, afraid of getting separated. Billy had never worried about getting separated; the rest of the family had had to work to hang on to him.
We failed, thought Laura. We didn’t hang on to Billy.
Who am I failing now?
Jehran?
My parents?
Or my fellow travelers?
“So what have we decided here?” said Con. Her brain was swerving like a test car among orange cones.
“We agree there is a resemblance between Billy and Jehran,” said Mohammed, “and we have felt for weeks that Jehran is using Laura.”
“But we don’t know that there’s anything actually dangerous or wrong,” said Con.
“Why would Jehran want to get on an international flight without using her real name,” said Mohammed, “unless she’s going to do something she doesn’t want discovered.”
“Like what? What are you thinking of, Mohammed?” cried Con. “My thoughts aren’t going wherever yours are going.”
“Bombs,” said Mohammed, “have been close to Laura before, have they not?”
Yes, of course. Bombs had killed her brother. But—
“So bombs come to mind,” said Mohammed.
Bombs.
On a plane going home after Christmas.
Con was horror-struck. She actually felt slapped. Her face hurt. But she could not tolerate Mohammed’s suggestion. “Come on. You’re leaping from nothing to everything, Mohammed. Laura flips out, and you decide Jehran is—is—” Con could not say the sentence out loud: Jehran is putting a bomb on a plane? No.
“It doesn’t feel logical,” Con argued. Her voice felt strangled. Her throat hurt.” It isn’t enough.”
Mohammed shrugged. “Why should it be enough? Why should it be logical? Was there logic in your own Oklahoma, when a man bombed a day-care center?”
When Jimmy spoke, his voice had a gasping quality, like somebody choking on food. “Are you implying that Jehran killed Billy, Mohammed? I can’t believe that! Why would she do that?”
“Perhaps she wanted this passport I think she is using.”
“A passport,” said Con, “is a piece of paper!” She tried to throw away Mohammed’s silly talk. “Jehran wouldn’t kill a little kid just for a piece of paper, would she? Jehran knew Billy. She couldn’t pick out a kid she knew, could she? That’s evil!”
Mohammed said patiently, “Terrorists are evil. Terrorism is evil. Evil is what Laura has been hunting for, and that, I believe, is what she has found.”
What had Mohammed’s life been, that he could come to such a conclusion?
Mr. Hollober came up behind them. “I have everybody aboard except you three,” he said fussily. “Now get on the train.”
Nobody even looked at him.
“Jehran despises Americans,” said Mohammed. Mohammed often thought the worst of people because in his experience, the worst happened. “Her genealogy is based on hating Americans. Her country, which she loves, even though it will not have her, considers America to be Satan. So why is Jehran suddenly best friends with the very American Laura Williams? Laura Williams, the most naive of the naive.”
“Why would Laura let Jehran use her, though?” As much as Con wanted explanations, she did not want Jehran to be the explanation. Strangers could be evil, but a girl who invited you to her slumber party, whose food you ate, whose books you borrowed, whose pencil you used—this person could not be evil.
“Maybe it’s that Wild West image you cherish. Jehran spins a tale, and Laura wants to believe. Americans are easy targets.”
“You don’t have to be anti-American about it, Mohammed.”
“I’m not, Con,” he protested. “I love that about Americans. It’s touching to go to school with Americans who really believe that deep down, everybody is good.”
Con Vikary had become best friends with Laura on the first field trip of the school year. They’d gone to the medieval city of York, which was surrounded by a moat. The guide had explained that the moat had never been filled with water. It was a flaming moat. You filled the ditch with dry branches from the forest and set them afire to keep attackers from getting in.
“How would that work?” Laura had said, being difficult. Americans were always being difficult, and the Williams children were better at it than most.” I mean, what if it rained and the twigs got wet? And it’s England, so it would rain. The bad guys would stroll into the city while the locals were still trying to light a fire.”
Con could hardly wait to be best friends. She had invited Laura to sleep over, and they’d stayed up giggling and talking about boys, and now they could both face the school year eagerly: they had a best friend.
Billy was dead.
He would never again be difficult, or happy, or anybody’s best friend, or talk about girls.
Sorrow filled Con’s entire body: grief so huge, it did not fit.
Deep down, not everybody was good. Was Laura going to run out of time to learn that? Could Mohammed possibly be correct? Was a bomb, once more, close to Laura?
Mr. Hollober was not interrupting. Not contributing. Just standing there, gaping at them.
Con Vikary was shaking. Not trembling. Shaking. Her teeth had begun to chatter. If Mohammed was right, the plane must be stopped. But Mohammed couldn’t be right, could he? They didn’t even know that Jehran was with Laura! This was all a string of bizarre guesses. I went to a slumber party at Jehran’s house! thought Con. She can’t be a—Con still could not use the word “terrorist.” What if we act on this? she thought. What if we’re wrong? What if we go and do something that shuts down the airport for London, England, and we’re wrong?
Laura will be so mad at me! My father will go crazy! The whole country will be so mad at me!
But what if Mohammed is right?
There was no time to gather actual facts. The plane was probably boarding.
Con’s shakes vanished.
“I have Mr. Evans’s phone number,” she said, and ran back to the rank of telephone booths.
The Passport Control man was exhausted and bored. Definitely not in love with his job or his fellow man. “Traveling alone?” he snapped at Laura.
Laura nodded.
“You and your brother?” said the man.
Laura nodded.
How quickly the man flipped pages. How easily he waved them through and beckoned to the next person in line.
And that was that.
They would show their passports and tickets to get into the actual gate waiting room, but it wouldn’t be a serious check. Just procedure.
They were home free.
Laura had an American dream: kids on the block back home playing hide-and-seek, kids under her maple tree, kids making it safely to base, shouting, Home free!
A thought blazed through Laura like a fire in the fireplace: welcome and sparkling. I’ll turn around here. I won’t go to New York, I’ll go home.
Yet another long, wide, carpeted hall lay before them. Fellow passengers hiked on to the gate, dragging carry-ons, children, garment bags, briefcases, and computers. Laura Williams stopped walking.
The risk of terrifying her mother and father, of having them find out she was not in Edinburgh, was too great. She couldn’t do it to them. And she didn’t have to.
Jehran had not set off any metal detectors, so the horrible thought that had blindsided Laura could be set aside. “Jehran, she said softly, “I’m turning around here.”
“What?” The huge soft eyes narrowed and hardened.
“You don’t need me. You can manage the rest yourself.”
“I do need you! If you don’t make the flight, they won’t let me on.”
Laura shook her head. “Nobody cares if a passenger doesn’t make the flight. That’s their problem. But my problem is, my parents would be scared to death. It was necessary for me to give you the passport, but it’s not necessary for me to come.”
“No!” said Jehran, in a whisper that screamed. “Laura, you have to come! I didn’t go through all these weeks of planning so that you could back out now!”
The racket and chaos of the airport filled Laura’s brain and heart. They had not been planning this escape for weeks. The thing that had happened weeks ago, the thing that would have required planning, was Billy’s death.
“Weeks of planning?” said Laura slowly.
Nobody had found a reason for Billy to die.
So many people had puzzled over that: why choose Billy?
If there were weeks of planning … then Jehran had not thought of using Billy’s passport after Billy’s death. Had she thought of using Billy’s passport before Billy died?
“Oh Jehran!” whispered Laura. It was not a whisper for keeping a secret, but a whisper because her lungs had leaked, like yesterday’s balloon.
Laura remembered what she had wanted to do to Billy’s killer: good ways to die.
The single thing Laura Williams wanted was to take Billy’s Red Sox cap back and walk away.
She could not stand next to, or think about, or touch, a person who would take a child’s life in exchange for a piece of paper.
“You didn’t kill him yourself, did you?” said Laura dully. “You had it done. Those men in your house—maybe even the man you pretend is your brother—they did it, didn’t they?”
Jehran did not agree—but she did not disagree.
A normal, nice person would be shocked, horrified, to be accused of murder.
Jehran was not, therefore, a normal, nice person.
I went looking for Billy’s killer, thought Laura, and I found her.
If Jehran was responsible for Billy’s death, then she had figured out how to escape using Billy as well. For what had Laura agreed to do? She had agreed to smuggle Jehran out of the country. No wonder Jehran was amused. Laura was not catching her brother’s killer: she was rescuing her brother’s killer.
Jehran touched the zipper of the elegant swollen leather satchel of which she had been so protective. She traced its tiny railroad tracks with the pad of her finger. She smiled her hot secret smile. “Now, Laura,” said Jehran, “I need you, and you don’t want to die the way Billy did.”