96 Hours (2 page)

Immediately wondering how she was possibly going to make her connecting flight if they were late getting to New York, Erica felt her earlier joy at the idea of her own bed slipping farther and farther away, fading into invisibility like a ghost. “God damn it.”

She looked around her as the flight attendants scurried down the aisles like worker bees, pulling seats to the upright positions and collecting garbage. Every one of them seemed serious, concentrating, any expressions of good humor gone. Here and there, one would exchange an anxious glance with another.

“What’s going on?” Erica heard somebody behind her ask. “Is there something wrong with the plane?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, ma’am.” Erica craned her neck to see the flight attendant who’d been chatting with Pollyanna in the airport smile at an elderly woman a couple rows back. “You heard the captain.” As soon as he had turned away from the woman, the smile fell from his face and his Adam’s apple bobbed in a hard swallow.

Another flight attendant clicked on the intercom and told the passengers to buckle up. Nervous faces glanced around at one another and the murmur of puzzled and nervous conversation continued, a steady hum permeating the cabin. Erica saw Pollyanna reach across the aisle and pat the hand of the person sitting there, somebody Erica couldn’t see. Whoever it was, they gripped the armrest of their seat so tightly, their knuckles had gone white.

“Don’t worry,” Pollyanna reassured them. “It’ll be fine. The pilot knows what he’s doing.”

Really? How can you be so sure?

“Is your seat belt buckled, hon?” The flight attendant was looking down at her. His expression was kind, but his eyes still held apprehension.

“Oh.” Erica clicked the belt. “It is now.”

“Thanks. Great jacket, by the way.” He touched her shoulder and moved on to the next row.

Snoring Man stretched his arms over his head and yawned like Rip Van Winkle. “What’s going on?” he asked her.

Erica opened her mouth to answer when she felt the plane banking to the right. It really wasn’t any less smooth than any other time the plane had made a turn, but because of the unease creeping through her body, it felt ominous. Her stomach did a flip-flop, reminding her that only minutes ago she was worried she might toss her cookies.

“Are you okay?” Snoring Man asked, touching her forearm. “You’re really pale.”

“I think so.”
I hope so.
Erica swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat.
Yep. Definitely the worst trip ever.

“Flight crew, prepare for landing,” the pilot ordered crisply.

The flight attendants adjourned to their jump seats, so Erica could no longer see their faces, see if they still looked apprehensive, which was exactly how the rest of the passengers looked.

“What the
fuck?”
Snoring Man’s voice was almost a whisper as he looked out the window. Erica followed his gaze, where she could see at least three other planes—in the distance, but much closer than she expected. “What the hell is going on?”

Erica wasn’t the kind of person to get nervous easily. She was grace under pressure, a good man in a storm, all those stupid clichés, but this rattled her. Why were so many planes so close? In plain view? Were they getting some kind of escort in case they crashed? Good lord, were they going to crash? Was there something wrong with the plane and the crew just weren’t telling the passengers to prevent all-out panic? Judging from the expressions on faces around her, others were following a similar train of thought. She could read them just as easily as if they were speaking aloud.
They say that the odds of being in a plane crash are long ones, but could this be it? Is my number up? Am I about to buy the farm? Kick the bucket? Bite the dust?

Jesus, Ryan, get a grip!
She tried to shake off the anxiety and settle her stomach, tried to steady her breathing and pick something to calm her nerves, an object on which to focus. She needed to calm the hell down.

Her gaze landed two rows up and across the aisle.

She couldn’t see Pollyanna’s face, she could see only the lower part of her jean-clad left leg and her left forearm and hand as it gripped her armrest just as tightly as everybody else did theirs. She wore a wide silver ring on her middle finger, and something about it held Erica’s concentration. Pollyanna’s fingers were slender, and Erica could make out the delicate blue lines of veins on the back of her hand, visible through the China-doll white of the skin. She forced herself to stare, to press all of her attention, all of her worry, onto that silver ring. As she did, her heart rate began to ease, her breathing began to steady, and the churning in her belly receded a bit. Long moments went by and she concentrated on the hum of the engine, listening for any noise that sounded suspect, but hearing none.

“Where the hell are we landing?” Snoring Man asked as their altitude continued to slowly fall. “It sure isn’t JFK.”

She looked past him and out the window, where the ocean was gone and she could see nothing but trees, trees, and more trees. “Jesus, is there even an airport?” she said quietly, more to herself than to her neighbor.

“I was wondering the same thing.”

The landing gear came down, the loud noise jolting Erica, setting her heart to racing. She took a deep breath and returned her gaze to that silver ring, kept her eyes glued there, thankful Pollyanna was still holding tightly to her armrest. Erica’s jaw was clenched and she consciously relaxed it.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of nothing but forest, the never-ending expanse of green fell open and there was asphalt.
Blessed asphalt!
Hot, black, bathed in sunshine. There really was an airport after all.

“Oh, thank god,” Erica muttered aloud as the plane touched down, hard, roughly. Only then did she wonder if the pilot had been as nervous as his passengers. If there was a problem, he knew about it and still had to fly the plane. But at least they were on the ground. They couldn’t plunge thousands of feet to their deaths if they were already on the ground. Erica finally pulled her gaze from Pollyanna’s ring, rested her head back against the headrest, and blew out a huge breath as many of the passengers applauded. The nausea seemed to give up, deciding to pack it in and try another day. “Oh, thank god,” she said again.

The mood in the cabin went from quiet fear to jubilation in a matter of seconds, people all around smiling and playfully wiping their brows. Erica took it all in, watching Pollyanna as she finally released her armrest and smiled at the person across the aisle from her. The PA clicked on and the captain spoke.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain again. I apologize for the rough landing, but we were told to land quickly. We’ve been advised that there is a national emergency in the United States and that American airspace has been closed. We’ll give you more information as we get it. At this time, please remain seated. We’re going to be taxiing for a bit.”

He clicked off and the passengers were stunned. Erica and Snoring Man exchanged glances.

“National emergency?” she said after a moment of trying to absorb the pilot’s words.

“We don’t close American airspace,” he replied with a shake of his balding head. “Ever.”

As she looked beyond him and out the window, a completely different question took over her attention as she saw the block letters on top of the building they rolled past: GANDER.

“Okay, so where exactly is Gander?”

Chapter 2

“Ladies and gentleman, this is the pilot.” Grumbles of annoyance rolled through the cabin; it had been hours since the pilot had given them anything but more bad news. “We’ve just been informed that we’re next in line for processing, so it shouldn’t be much longer.” The grumbles changed to hesitant cheers. Nobody wanted to get too excited, just in case. “We appreciate your patience. Hang in there, okay?”

The PA clicked off and Abby Hayes drained the last of her third Diet Coke, not as smart a choice for her body since she didn’t really need the caffeine, especially on a stomach that held only a small bag of chocolate chip cookies and some potato chips. She’d always been good at remaining calm, cool, and collected in any given situation; she was the one people turned to for reassurance in a crisis. But after being stuck on the plane—no, held hostage was closer to what it felt like—for more than five hours while they sat on the tarmac, went nowhere, and did nothing, she was just as antsy and claustrophobic as everybody else.

“A terrorist act in New York City.” That was the only information they’d been given for why they’d been forced to land in Canada. Newfoundland.
Newfoundland,
for Christ’s sake. She wasn’t even sure where that was. Well, at least she could mark it off as a place she’d never visited before, add it to her list of travels.

“A terrorist act in New York City.” She was sure a large percentage of the people on board kept coming back to those words. Abby did. She was worried about her mother. She was probably fine; New York is a huge city and the chances of the Metropolitan Museum being the place affected by a terrorist act were pretty slim. Still, she’d like to just call and hear her mom’s voice, but nobody’s cell could get a signal and the sky phones on the plane were useless as well.

Glancing out the window, she was amazed yet again by the sheer number of planes—and had the feeling there were more that she couldn’t see. The airport was a virtual parking lot for jets. Every airline she could think of was represented. God, she wished she had more information, knew what the hell had happened. Counting nine planes just in her direct line of sight, she thought it had to be bad. Had to be.

The Bakers, the nice couple sitting behind her, also looked worried. Their kids all lived in New York and, like any parent, they just wanted to make sure everybody was okay. They had no way of knowing.

Abby stood up to stretch for the nine-hundredth time. The very broken-in jeans that had seemed like such a good decision for flying this morning now felt uncomfortable and constricting. Her feet were hot and tired of being stuffed into hiking shoes, her socks were too heavy, her ponytail was making her head itch, and she hadn’t showered since the previous morning. She was not feeling her best and she was pretty certain she looked even worse. She fingered the peace sign pendant around her neck, sliding it back and forth on its brown leather thong as she scanned the crowd of tired, cranky passengers.

Most of those around her looked just as lost, anxious, and worn out as she imagined she did. The woman across the aisle who’d been so frightened during the landing had grown quiet, staring out the window over the lap of the younger woman beside her, whose nose was buried in a Stephen King novel. Mrs. Baker was knitting a pair of booties for her daughter, who was expecting next month. Mr. Baker’s eyes were closed, but Abby suspected his thoughts were wide awake and on his children. Even the flight attendants were beginning to look haggard and exhausted, their attempts at servicing the passengers getting slower and more cumbersome. Jeffrey, the handsome FA she’d had such fun with since the airport, had lost the glimmer in his brown eyes. He’d seen the Gay Pride button she had on her backpack, had pointed to it and winked at her, then mentioned that he hadn’t seen his partner in more than a week and was excited to get back home to New York.

Her gaze stopped at the gorgeous redhead two rows back across the aisle. Abby had seen her in the airport, and had trouble keeping her eyes off the woman. Her charcoal gray suit looked expensive and it fit her perfectly, the jacket caressing her shoulders, tapering in at her waist and following the lines of her body like a lover. The skirt was almost modest in length, hitting just above her knees, and the nylon-clad calves that led to black designer pumps were firm and smooth. Ivory silk was now fully visible, as the jacket was completely unbuttoned, which surprised Abby. Her hair wasn’t exactly red—Abby didn’t have the right word to describe it: sort of a cross between the brassiness of a copper penny and the deep cherry of an ocean sunset. Everybody else on the plane was rumpled and wrinkled, but not this woman. Every hair was still in place in the French twist (Abby wondered how long it actually was) and aside from the unbuttoning of the jacket, she looked like she’d just gotten dressed.

The only flaw in the design was the way she continually rubbed at her temple, her eyes shut—were they blue?—her manicured fingers working gently, rhythmically as she balanced her elbow on the armrest. They were signs Abby had seen in her mother ever since she could remember and she didn’t stop to think, just reached into the overhead compartment and fished in the outside pocket of her backpack. She grabbed the water bottle from the seat pocket and took four steps, stopping to squat next to seat 33B.

“Hey, you look like you could use this.” Abby handed over the water. The woman opened her eyes. Yup, blue. Icy and cold and blue. “And these.” She dropped three orange pills into the woman’s hand. “It’s just Motrin, but maybe it’ll take the edge off.” At the lift of the woman’s perfectly tweezed eyebrows, Abby smiled. “My mom gets migraines three or four times a month. Drink the water. It’ll help.” With that, she returned to her seat.

The redhead didn’t like her, she knew that. Abby had caught her twice in the airport looking at her with thinly veiled annoyance. (Why? What had Abby ever done to her?) Then again on the plane, when Abby’d been talking to the Bakers, that same look. Abby had winked at her just to freak her out a little bit.

Something else: the redhead had pinged her gaydar in a big way. She wasn’t sure exactly what it was—something about the way she carried herself. She looked fabulous in the suit, but it wasn’t her usual attire, that much was obvious. She had an air of confidence, yet at the same time, she was uncomfortable, and that made Abby speculate on what her favorite surroundings were, where she was the most at ease. She wondered if the redhead knew Abby had pegged her and how much more apparent her dislike would become if she did.