Designed to Love (18 page)

After what seems like a very long time, I
give up my stakeout post of the house, and drift past the
chain-link fence, floating over and around the airport hangars.
Once again, everything is the same as when I was here last: three
foot snow drifts against the hangar doors, deer tracks in the snow,
and the hoot of a night owl declaring dominance over the area. It
isn't until I am hovering right over the runway that I notice the
exposed asphalt on one of the three runways, indicating that a
snowplow had recently been used at the facility. Even in my
dreamlike state, I am aware that something is amiss with the scene
below me and I feel compelled to find out why. Like a detective, I
skim the surface, looking for clues of recent use, and find not so
much as tire tracks or exhaust stains in the snow bank flanking
either side of the airstrip.

"Ronan, if you can hear
me, know that I love you. Keep looking."
Her voice is as
clear to me as if she was sitting on my lap, whispering in my ear,
and the agony is bittersweet.

"Cat, are you here at the
airport?"

Nothing but
silence

"Cat, are you near an
abandoned town with an airport? Please tell me,"
I beg
her.

Once again, my pleas are met with silence
and I silently curse at the cruel universe for using my pain to
play tricks on me.

When I open my eyes, everyone but Brandon is
staring at me. Claire still has my hand, neatly folded in her lap,
and is gripping two of my fingers tightly. The expression on Alisha
and Burke's face mirrors hers: a look of apprehension and
anticipation.

"Ronan, were you remote traveling just now?"
Alisha asks anxiously.

Her question catches me off guard and it
takes a minute to formulate an answer. My mind is already jumping
ahead wondering what they know that I don't.

"Um, I can't say for sure. It feels like I
am remote traveling within a dream, if that makes sense."

"Can you describe the place?" Burke probes,
leaning towards me as if my answer is of some extreme importance
and he doesn't want to miss any part of it.

"Well, it's an abandoned town with an
airport," I simply say, unsure of how much detail he's really
looking for and not wanting Cat's name to come up in the
discussion. They immediately look at Claire, and she gives a slight
nod of her head. This time they try not to be so obvious when they
jump into their mental chat room and I close my eyes, choosing to
ignore them rather than being annoyed.

CAT

My first cross country solo flight couldn't
have started out more perfect. Blue skies were predicted all the
way to Montana at least for the next 24 hours. I would be home long
before the storm from the southeast moved its way across the
Rockies. Marti Campbell believed I was ready for this moment, and I
believed it too. By the time I was flying over the Canadian border,
I was at complete ease behind the controls of the Cessna 172, in
spite of the slight headwind that would set me behind schedule by
about forty minutes. I was looking forward to landing in Great
Falls, Montana, the little town where my life changed dramatically
the day I met my husband. I contemplated making a surprise call to
Tucker knowing he would kill me if he found out I was here and
didn't. But an image of Marti's disapproving face causes me to
reconsider asking him to meet me for lunch. She discouraged any
sort of distraction while flying as a student pilot, and somehow I
knew she would find out if Tucker were to show up at the airport.
It seemed like she knew just about everyone that worked the small
airports in the Western United States.

My experience with people in the general
aviation circuit is that they are exceptionally nice and helpful,
especially to female pilots flying alone. So I don't think much
about it when the pilot of the Citation CJ4 jet comes to my aid to
help me get my airplane tied down, in the 20 mph winds. He landed
right after me, and I couldn't help but admire his near perfect
steady landing, in spite of the crosswind which picked my plane up
three different times, causing me to bounce down the runway before
keeping it steadily on the ground. Airport staff waits on stand-by
to secure his airplane, a common perk for the wealthy.

"That wasn't a half bad landing," he says
with a pleasant British accent, and a broad, friendly smile.

"You saw my landing?" I cringe, wondering if
he knows Marti Campbell.

"Yeah, I thought you did great. It's not
easy keeping these little guys on the ground when you have a
crosswind like this."

He looks to be less than ten years older
than me, maybe late twenties and I can't help but wonder if he is
the owner of the multimillion dollar jet, or just a commercial
pilot flying it for someone. He answers my unspoken question as if
reading my mind.

"I started out flying a little Cessna 172
just like this when I was about your age. It's a great little
plane. I rarely fly it anymore, now that I own that thing. You get
used to flying across the United States in a few hours and you find
it hard to get anywhere in a little Cessna."

"No doubt," I mumble, glancing enviously
over at the jet.

"By the way, my name is Zane Harrington. I
would be happy to show you the cockpit after lunch if you are
interested," he says casually. He looks like a British model: tall,
muscular, strong angled jaw and a perfect smile. There is nothing
about him that concerns me, but I feel compelled to remove the
glove on my left hand, just to let him know upfront that I am a
married woman.
An extremely happily married
woman
, I think to myself as I shake his hand and
introduce myself as Cat Callahan, eagerly accepting his invitation
to tour his private jet.

***

The grilled cheese sandwich from the airport
café isn't half bad for airport food. I wasn't extremely hungry and
wanted to save my appetite for my husband's gourmet dinner tonight.
I heard Alisha and Elizabeth talk about taking Claire in to town to
do some Christmas shopping and, being a Friday night, Burke and
Brandon were sure to have their own plans. The odds were looking
pretty good that I might have a quiet romantic evening with Ronan,
and just the thought makes me in a hurry to get back.

It's while sitting in the cafeteria that I
catch sight of Zane interacting with airport staff, and I am
stunned by the difference in his demeanor. His jaw is set and he is
glowering at one of the workers who seems to cower under Zane's
chagrin. The boyish grin that made him seem harmless to me earlier
is swapped with a look of scorn, and now he looks menacing. I
quickly look down when he glances in my direction, and for whatever
reason my heart rate quickens. I am relieved when the airport
manager leads him away to a private lounge in the back. I quickly
finish my sandwich, and pack up my flight bag, suddenly anxious to
get home.

***

So much for touring the
big, bad ass jet,
I think to myself as I pre-flight my
own airplane, running my hand over the wing of the Cessna. I was
sure the multimillionaire had all but forgotten the offer and I
wasn't too disappointed. A check of the weather revealed that the
storm to the east was moving in faster than anticipated, and
although I still had plenty of time I wanted to be well ahead of
it, just in case. Besides, by the look of his mood in the café I
was sure he wasn't going to be up for a show-n-tell tour,
especially if somehow his plane got damaged by the airport
staff.

"I'll be offended if you leave without
giving me the chance to show off Nellie," a softly spoken voice
says behind me, making me jump.

"Show off who?" I ask, turning to find Zane
leaning against my plane, arms folded across his chest, watching me
curiously. He breaks out in a wide grin that leaves me questioning
if I had somehow misunderstood the whole situation in the
airport.

"Her name is Nellie," he says, nodding in
the direction of his airplane.

"You named your airplane?"

"You didn't?" he asks, raising an eyebrow in
a judgmental fashion.

"No. Well actually, it's not mine and it
would be presumptuous to name someone else's," I say.

His hearty laughter makes me giggle.

"Come on. It will only take a minute," he
says, taking the clipboard out of my hand and tossing it through
the open window on the passenger's seat.

As I walk with him to the jet, I have
dismissed the whole incident with the worker, and feel completely
at ease climbing up the steps leading to the interior cabin. After
all, how dangerous could a guy be who names his airplane "Nellie"?
The older gentleman with the British accent waiting in the aircraft
doesn't cause me alarm either. He is dressed in a three-piece suit
and is holding a tea cup in one hand.
Probably
his dad,
I think to myself, waiting for Zane to
introduce us. The first wave of panic comes only when he
speaks.

"Hello, Miss McCullough, we've been waiting
for you," he says, nodding to Zane who is standing directly behind
me, blocking the entrance to the stairs that are already retracting
up. The pungent smell of the cloth being held over my nose is the
last thing I remember about Nellie.

***

The first thought I have when I open my eyes
is whether or not I missed the gourmet meal promised by my husband.
After one look around the room, I have a gut wrenching moment of
sheer terror, when I realize I missed a whole lot more than that.
The room is dimly lit with a single lamp on a nightstand next to
the bed. I recognize nothing about my surroundings, except for my
neatly folded jeans and shirt lying on the arm of a shabby club
chair. I slowly peel away the covers and look down at the long
white cotton gown, and know immediately it's not something Ronan
would give me to wear. My head feels heavy and foggy and when I
swing my legs over the side of the bed, they feel like lead. I
recognize the residual effects of strong sedatives from when I was
hospitalized after my ski accident. I know enough not to make
sudden position changes, so I sit on the edge of the bed trying to
figure out where I am and how I got here. I remember leaving Canada
and the flight to Great Falls. I remember eating a grilled cheese
sandwich and French fries, but after that, my mind is completely
blank.
Maybe I crashed and am in a
hospital,
I think, feeling somewhat hopeful. I take a
chance and try to stand up, immediately sitting back down when the
room starts to spin. A few attempts later, I have successfully and
triumphantly made it to the door without falling. My relief is
short lived when I turn the handle and find that it's locked. I
begin banging on the door, screaming at the top of my lungs, unable
to control the rising panic.

By the time someone opens the door to the
room, I am collapsed on the floor, crying uncontrollably in a
complete fit of hysteria. Coming immediately to my aid is a girl
who can't be much older than me.

"I am so sorry, I just went to get fresh
linens, I thought you would be sleeping much longer," she
apologizes profusely. Her eyes are full of concern and possibly
even fear as she attempts to help me back to the bed.

"Who are you, and where am I?" I demand
between hiccups.

"My name is Sophia and I am your attendant
while you are here," she says lowering her eyes in a subservient
gesture.

"Where's here?" I ask more boldly, using the
cotton gown to wipe my nose and eyes on.

"I am not allowed to say," she replies
softly.

I shove her aside. "Fine, I'll find out
myself," I say heading for the door. She doesn't try to stop me and
I wander into a hallway with a door directly across from me and two
more a few feet to the right. One of the doors has an illuminated
exit sign above it and I immediately head straight for it.

"Locked," she confirms as I wiggle the door
knob.

Without saying a word, I try the door next
to it and it easily swings open to another bedroom. Unlike my room,
which is sparse and tidy, this room is clearly occupied.

"My room. I know it's a mess," she says
apologetically.

I ignore her, and precede to the last door,
which opens to a small bathroom. She allows me to freely explore
the rest of the space which ends up being nothing more than a small
living room/kitchen combo at the end of the hallway. When I pull
back the heavy drapes in the living room, and discover an outdoor
mural scene behind it, I hear her chuckle. I run my hand along the
painted walls which even the dingy lit lighting doesn't hide the
fact that they are made of concrete, as are the ceiling and
floor.

"Give me the key," I order, holding out my
hand.

Her brown eyes meet mine and she slowly
shakes her head.

"Cataryn, you can make this easy or hard.
There is nowhere to escape and there are monitors everywhere. The
last person that attacked an attendant, spent almost two weeks
alone in the apartment and trust me, it gets very lonely down
here."

"Are we underground?"

She nods and I feel sick to my stomach.
There was no doubt in my mind that this was about the Designers.
Could Bernie be right? What if our parents
were still...

I stare at her long and hard, contemplating
my next move. I was almost certain I could easily overpower her
with my years of training in martial arts, but then what? For all I
knew, I could be in a foreign country as far from civilization as
possible. The urge to fight slowly dissipates as I consider the
consequences of an unsuccessful escape. Something like a whimper
escapes my throat as I turn and walk back into the bedroom, closing
the door behind me.