38

The pretty girl wasn’t working at the Delta counter when Lind checked in for his flight on Friday morning. The man behind the desk smiled and handed Lind his ticket—“Enjoy your flight, Richard”—and Lind walked away, relieved.

He passed through security and sat in the lounge beside a Japanese family, a father, a mother, and two very young girls. They smiled at Lind when he sat down beside them. Lind smiled stiffly back and then looked away.

The oldest girl must have been three or four. She rolled a little toy truck along the carpet toward Lind. Reached his boot and paused. Looked up at Lind, a mischievous smile on her face. Then she rolled the truck over his boot.

Lind stiffened. He had to stifle every urge in his body to keep from kicking out at the girl. He gripped the armrest beside him. Planted his boots on the floor. The little girl giggled and drove the truck over his foot again.

“Yumi.” The girl’s mother smiled at Lind. “I’m so sorry.”

Lind steadied his breathing and forced another smile. “It’s okay,” he told her. “It’s okay.”

The woman’s smile faded as she studied Lind’s face. She snapped her fingers and said something in Japanese to her daughter, who giggled and ran to her mother, steadying herself on Lind’s knee as she passed. The woman gathered up her daughters and said something fast and sharp to her husband, who glanced at Lind and nodded and reached for his suitcase.

Lind watched the family relocate a couple of rows down. Pretended not to notice the little girl’s parents stealing concerned glances in his direction. The little girl playing happily on the carpet. He stared straight ahead and tried not to think about them, tried to ignore everything around him and relax.

THE FLIGHT TO MIAMI took just over two hours. Lind sat in his seat and drank coffee. The visions had returned last night, just before the phone rang. Showtime again, and Hang Ten, the strangled man and the chained-up young soldier. The visions had been worse than before, visceral, almost real. Lind had fought against them. Fought to wake up. He’d thought he might die if he stayed under any longer.

He woke up sweaty, a scream on his lips. The phone was ringing. It was the man, his seductive words promising relief. Salvation. He had another job for Lind. Another task to accomplish. Just a few more little errands, he said, and then he’d make the visions disappear.

Lind touched down in Miami and rented a little Chevy from the Liberty desk in the rental car terminal. He took a map from the counter and studied it in the parking lot, and then drove east through the city and across the MacArthur Causeway into Miami Beach. He checked in to a Marriott overlooking the ocean, turned on every light in his room, blasted the air-conditioning, and pumped the volume on the TV set. Then he brewed a big pot of coffee and sat on the edge of the bed, watching music videos and reality TV, anything to stave off the fatigue.

Around six in the evening, there was a knock at the door. Lind answered and found a bellman in the hallway. He held a package about the size of a cake box. “You’re Richard O’Brien, right?” he said. “This came for you this morning. Overnight express.”

Lind took the package back into his room and opened it on the bed. There was a picture inside, and a rifle, slick steel, in component parts.

Lind studied the picture until he’d memorized the face. Then he burned the papers in the wastebasket in the bathroom. Sat back on the bed and drank more coffee and watched more TV, assembling and disassembling the rifle and waiting for the hours to pass.