What Could Go Wrong? (11 page)

I knew Charlie and Eddie were posted somewhere they could see me, though just before I took my seat I'd looked around and wasn't able to spot them. I imagined Eddie having a hunger attack and sneaking off to buy a bag of potato chips. The boys had agreed to put their bags into a locker, so I knew Eddie didn't have his own food supply handy. Or maybe both of them would go to use the bathroom, leaving me to deal with whatever happened by myself.

I'd never felt more alone.

Maybe Dad had been right about this trip. If either one of us had guessed what might happen, I wouldn't be here now. I'd always liked reading about scary adventures, but this wasn't any fun at all.

A few people were beginning to drift into the
departure area, which had been practically empty when I sat down, and I saw by the TV screen that a flight to New York was due to leave from this gate in fifty-five minutes. At least that meant I wasn't entirely alone, but maybe that would mean The Enemy wouldn't try to steal my bag, either, if people were watching.

I wasn't sure if that made me feel better or worse. I wanted to catch those men and see them punished for what they'd done to a helpless old lady, but my skin crawled at the idea of them coming up behind me. How did I know if they'd settle for taking my bag? If they'd made Mrs. Basker go with them by threatening her with a gun, maybe they'd do the same thing to me, and then where would Charlie's plan end? What if Hawaiian shirt or Mr. Upton held me hostage in order to get away with something really valuable?

Of course I didn't have anything really valuable. Would they be so angry when they found that out that they'd shoot me? To keep me from describing them to the police who would investigate when they found my body lying like Mrs. Basker's in some deserted area,
except that instead of a bruise I'd have a bullet hole in my head?

Someone walked past my chair and brushed a suitcase against my shoulder, and I nearly flew apart. “Sorry,” the man said, and kept on going. He was no one I'd ever seen before. It was several minutes before my heartbeat slowed down to normal.

“Gracie, you have more imagination than is good for you,” Dad said to me sometimes, and I began to think he was right. Usually I enjoyed my imagination. It was fun to make up stories and pretend to be someone I wasn't. But under the present circumstances it only made me more scared to think of things that could go wrong with Charlie's plan.

Please, Aunt Molly, I begged silently, come soon. Come and get us out of here.

But Aunt Molly didn't come. Time dragged. I decided I'd go crazy if I didn't try to find something to occupy my mind besides fantasies of being kidnapped or murdered.

I was still carrying that book I'd brought from home. I'd decided not to empty my own things out of my bag; if anything really
happened, I was sure Dad or Aunt Molly would pay to replace its contents. I reached over for my bag, hoping Charlie wouldn't later say I'd spooked The Enemy just before they reached for it, and took out the book.

I couldn't read, though. On page three I realized I didn't have any idea of what I'd read, so I dropped the book back into the bag. I even repositioned the bag handles to make it easier for someone to grab it, and I took out the folded newspaper instead.

Maybe I could do the crossword puzzle. Grandma said it calmed her nerves to work on crosswords. My nerves sure needed calming.

It felt as if eyes were boring into the back of my head. I couldn't stand it and pretended to drop my pencil; I even kicked it so it rolled away from me. When I got up to retrieve it, I glanced behind me.

There was no sign of either of the men who might have been following us. There was no sign of Charlie or Eddie, either. If I ever find out they've gone away and left me alone, even for a minute, I'll kill them both, I thought grimly.

I sat down again and opened the newspaper, found the puzzle, and refolded the paper into quarters to start working on it.

Someone had already filled in some of the middle part, so I started up at the top. One across: Cracker, e.g., in five letters. I remembered that from one of Grandma's puzzles. W-a-f-e-r, I wrote in.

The P.A. system made an announcement, and I realized I hadn't been paying attention when they came to the part about using one of the white courtesy telephones. My heart leaped. Aunt Molly? Had they said Molly?

The message was repeated. “Will Dennis Malloy go to the nearest white courtesy telephone, please.”

Deflated, I slumped in my seat. If Aunt Molly had any idea what we were going through, I thought, she'd leave her friend in the hands of the doctors and call the police to meet her here at the airport, sirens screaming.

Except, of course, that The Enemy hadn't done anything since we left Portland to be arrested for. So far.

I tried to go back to the puzzle. Twenty-two
across: Stanley Gardner, in four letters. I knew that one, because my dad's a Perry Mason fan, and I read the books sometimes, too. I wrote in E-a-r-l, then erased it and changed it to E-r-l-e.

That meant, I thought, trying to concentrate, that eighteen down, German for mister in four letters, was h-e-r-r.

The next one had me stymied: mispickle, in three letters. Mispickle? What the heck was that? It sounded like somebody made a mistake making a pickle, but I never heard of anything like that.

I decided to skip that one and pick something that tied into the words Hawaiian shirt had already written in. Hirsute, in five letters. Wasn't that h-a-i-r-y? Only it didn't fit, because where I needed an “r” there was an “x.”

I stared at the word the original owner of the paper had penciled in. It was supposed to be “obliterate,” which I was pretty sure meant “erase,” but what Hawaiian shirt had written in didn't make any sense. It was a jumble of meaningless letters and numbers. I never saw numbers in a crossword puzzle before, not unless they were written out.

I supposed I could erase—obliterate—the wrong things that were written in. I turned the pencil upside down and scrubbed out a couple of the numbers, and then felt a surge of fear as I both saw and heard my blue flight bag go skittering across the floor, away from me.

Charlie had told me not to look around if I thought The Enemy was stealing my bag, because the idea was to let him get away with it, but I couldn't help it.

I turned my head in time to see a young man in jeans, athletic shoes, and a yellow T-shirt with blue letters that said
GO SEA HAWKS
on it picking up the bag and bringing it back to me. “Sorry,” he said, and dropped it beside my chair before he hurried away.

With that shirt he had to be from Seattle, I figured. Which could mean he was connected with The Enemy, who had come from there. But he didn't seem to be trying to steal anything. His Nikes were about size thirteens, and the bag was sticking out too far; he just caught his foot in the straps and kicked it before he could stop.

I repositioned the bag, my chest hurting
from the tension. Darn Charlie and his stupid ideas, anyway! I gave up the idea of trying to do a stupid puzzle that someone else had already spoiled. I decided I'd better keep the telephone number Aunt Molly had given me, in case I had to call it again, so I tore off the edge of the newspaper and stuck the scrap with the writing on it in the pocket of my jeans. Then I refolded the newspaper and stuck it back in the outside pocket of the flight bag.

How long was I supposed to sit here like this, with nothing happening except that I was scared out of my wits? I looked around, hoping to spot Charlie and tell him I'd had it, that his plan wasn't working and he'd have to think of something else.

And then something
did
happen.

I saw him coming across the expanse of polished tile, straight at me.

The man in the Hawaiian shirt.

I sucked in a sharp breath, frantically searching for Charlie. Where was he? How far away had he and Eddie gone to make themselves inconspicuous?

Then I spotted Eddie, sitting on the floor
quite a way down the building near another boarding area, his back against a pillar. He was facing straight this way, but the trouble was he didn't see either me or The Enemy, because he was reading a comic book and he didn't look up.

I'd have been angry but I was too scared. There was no doubt about it, the man I was afraid of was coming right to me, and there was no sign of Charlie or any of the security men.

I gulped and tried to think what to do. If I screamed, would the people around me come to my rescue? Or would they pretend it had nothing to do with them and ignore it, even if The Enemy started to drag me away?

I didn't even know if I
could
scream. My mouth felt the way it had the time I was being initiated into one of Charlie's clubs, when I'd been blindfolded and told I was going to have to swallow cod liver oil. I hated cod liver oil, and I braced myself for it and vowed I'd get even later. Instead they'd stuck a spoonful of feathers in my mouth. For a minute I thought I'd choke on them, or suffocate, before I got them all off my tongue.

The Enemy had arrived. He came right up to me, but he didn't try to take my bag. His face was ugly, and he was angry. “I think you took something of mine,” he said to my astonishment. “You stole my newspaper.”

My jaw dropped open. My scream faded into a whimper. Where was Charlie? What was I supposed to do now?

I tried to speak and at first all I could do was squeak. “I—I thought you were through with it!” I finally managed.

“Well, I wasn't. So I'd like it back.” He didn't wait for me to reply; he simply bent over and pulled the folded paper out of the pocket of my flight bag and slapped it against his thigh. For a minute I thought maybe he was going to slap
me
with it.

“Next time,” he said in a menacing manner, “keep your hands off other people's belongings.”

“B-but I thought you'd thrown it away, I d-didn't know you were coming b-back—” I hadn't stuttered since I had speech therapy in the second grade. It didn't matter. He wasn't listening, anyway. He turned around and walked away, leaving me dazed.

He hadn't struck me. He hadn't threatened me with a gun. He hadn't even stolen my flight bag.

Was it all over now? Was this all that was going to happen?

I was shaking. And angry. I still didn't see Charlie, but when I turned Eddie was there.

He was staring at me with his mouth open.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“What did it look like?” I asked, sounding waspy. “He said I stole his paper and he wanted it back, so he took it. What were
you
doing when he came up to me? He could have—have stabbed me or anything!”

“He didn't have a knife,” Eddie protested. “He didn't hurt you.”

“But he could have! Fat lot of good you and Charlie were!” I cried, feeling near tears I struggled to control. As upset as I was, I knew I'd never live it down if I bawled about it.

And then I saw Charlie coming. I guessed he'd been crouched behind a divider at one of the adjoining boarding gates, and he didn't seem in the least perturbed. “You okay, Gracie? What did he say to you?”

I was trying to calm down. “Where were you? Why didn't you come to my rescue, the way you were supposed to?”

Charlie fell into his reasonable voice. “He didn't touch you. Didn't take anything except the newspaper that really was his, after all. I couldn't call a security officer for that. And what good would it have done for me to walk out and confront him? I couldn't very well demand that he let you keep the paper, could I?”

“You could have given me a little m-moral support!” I blurted. “I was scared to death!”

“You did great, Gracie. Didn't she, Eddie? Only we didn't get any evidence that he's done anything wrong.” That seemed to be his main concern.

“I don't care about him anymore. Let's try calling Aunt Molly again, see if she's at her friend's or has gone home or what. I wish I knew which hospital she took her friend to and I'd call her there. I want to get out of here!”

“Yeah, okay, maybe you're right. Let's go back to the phones,” Charlie said, giving in.

“Why did he want the newspaper?” Eddie wondered as we walked toward the bank of
telephones. “I mean, did he fly all the way here from Seattle just to get back a newspaper? He could have bought another paper there a lot cheaper.”

Charlie stopped walking to look at him with admiration. “Eddie, that's a good thought. I mean, I'm sure he had a better reason for flying to San Francisco, but what was so important about the paper? And if he saw you picking it up, Gracie, why didn't he say something at the time?”

“He wasn't anywhere around when I picked it up,” I said. “I looked for him, to be sure.”

“How'd he know you were the one who had it, then?” Charlie chewed speculatively on his lower lip. “If he didn't see you pick it up?”

“She had the top of the paper with the name on it,
Seattle Times,
sticking over the edge of the pocket on the bag,” Eddie offered.

“Sure, but plenty of people on Flight 211 had newspapers, and probably most of them were copies of the
Seattle Times.
And if all he wanted was the news, he could have bought a copy of the
San Francisco Chronicle
right there.” He gestured at a vending rack of papers.

“Who knows?” I dug into my pocket for the scrap of paper that had the telephone number on it. “Maybe he wanted to finish his crossword puzzle. Though he's sure not very good at them.”

And that was when it hit me.

The boys said afterward that I went so pale they thought I was going to faint.

“What?” Charlie asked when I sagged against the side of the phone cubicle. “What's the matter? Are you sick?”

“Maybe,” I said weakly. “I mean—I think I know why he wanted the paper back. Sort of. It
was
because of the crossword puzzle.”