I was simply being courteous and trying hard not to embarrass you. Agent Molina—”

“Naomi.”

“Naomi, even when you dial our phone number, it’s like you’re entering

sovereign land, as in sovereign nation, as in the most utilitarian use for your

badge right now is as a Halloween costume, though to be honest, we Native

Americans don’t much like Halloween.”

“See, I hate Halloween, too — my son dressed up as a Thug Life rapper this

year, whatever that is. But I got a potential homicide I need to ask your pal

Cal about.”

“Homicide’s a state crime. You’re a federal employee. Wanna try again?”

“The victim is a guy I partner with — Timothy Balfanz — he’s a friend,”

Naomi explained, hitting the brakes at the crosswalk and carefully watching

the small group of passengers that were now passing in front of her, on their

way to Terminal 2. “So no offense, Chief, but if someone went up to one of

your people — say, that sweet girl with the lisp that I left my message with —

if someone nabbed her on a dark road and chopped her into hors

d’oeuvres . . . I’d like to think, if it was someone you cared about and you

needed my help, I’d do more than tell you off and bad-mouth Halloween.”

Ocala was silent as Naomi noticed a sudden blur in her rearview, where a tall

man in a windbreaker stepped out of the crosswalk and cut behind her car.

“I just wanna know what Cal called about,” Naomi pleaded, glancing over her

shoulder and out the back window. The man was already gone. And being out

here, exposed to every passing airport stranger, she knew she wasn’t being

safe.

“Y’know what the Seminole word for guilt is?” Ocala finally asked. “You.” She

heard a sudden thunk through the phone. Like a file cabinet being opened

and shut. “I got the bullet here that they pulled from his dad last night.”

“His dad?”

“Cal asked me to run it through the ATF folks, who traced it back to

Cleveland and some obscure gun that was used to kill a man named Mitchell

Siegel—”

“Mitchell Siegel,” Naomi said, jotting down the name as she heard a beep

through her earpiece. Caller ID told her it was Scotty. “I’ll run him ASAP.”

“Think what you want, Naomi,” Ocala added, “but I’m telling you right now,

Cal Harper isn’t the demon in this.”

“A dirty badge is a dirty badge — you know that. Besides, if he’s such an

angel, why doesn’t he at least come in and talk with us?”

“Maybe he’s worried that instead of listening to reason, you’ll just spout silly

catchphrases like ‘A dirty badge is a dirty badge.’ ”

“I appreciate your help,” Naomi said to Ocala as she clicked to the other line.

“Nomi, I think I found Cal,” Scotty blurted. “I need to double-check, but on

that airport list of who paid in cash, there were a few tickets bought this

morning — at least three headed to Cleveland.”

Naomi was about to re-enter the loop for departures when a high-pitched

bloop whistled from her GPS device. Ellis’s tracer — the bright crimson

triangle — was back in place and once again moving.

It took a moment to read the streets and orient herself, but as the crimson

triangle turned onto NE 23rd Court . . .

Naomi’s eyes went wide. No. That can’t —

Oh, God.

“Nomi, you okay?”

“He’s there, Scotty.”

“Where? What’re you talking about?”

“Twenty-third Court. Ellis . . . he’s . . . I think Ellis is at my house.”

39

“Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned off the Fasten Seat Belt sign

— you may now move freely about the cabin,” the flight attendant announces

as I stare through the egg-shaped window and watch Florida disappear

beneath the cotton candy clouds.

All around me, seats are empty. Still, all three of us sit separately, just to

keep it safe.

Checking over my shoulder, I peer ten rows back at my dad, who’s fast asleep

with his head sagging forward. After everything we’ve been through, he

needs some rest. So do I. Across from him, I look for Serena, but her seat’s

empty. I glance back at my dad. Don’t tell me she snuck over to—

“Calvin,” a female voice interrupts, “would you mind if I joined you?”

In the aisle, Serena stands over me, her back leaning on the edge of the seat

behind her, as if she’s trying to steer clear of my personal space. I’m tempted

to keep her there, but I can’t risk letting anyone overhear.

She slides into the aisle seat, with the empty middle seat between us, then

crosses her legs Indian style. It’s then that I see she’s barefoot. “I appreciate

the kindness,” she says.

“I didn’t offer any.”

“You were about to, Calvin. Your eyes said so.”

I’m ready to vomit right there. “Listen, Serena — I don’t know you very well,

and I don’t know Lloyd much better. But when I look at his expensive silk

shirts . . . or his unscuffed shoes — I know my dad has a big need to impress.

And as I know from my clients, desperate men are the most easily

mesmerized by new-agey, yoga-filled nonsense — especially when it comes

from younger, sexed-up women who lock pinkies with them in hopes of

getting whatever it is they think those men can get for them. Now I realize

this isn’t a complex analogy, so to stay with that theme: Go flap your lashes

somewhere else.”

She looks at me in silence for what seems like a full minute. “I’m sorry I

made you angry.”

“No, angry’s what you get when someone dings your car. This is the cold

bitter rage that comes when someone kicks around in your personal crisis.”

“Calvin—”

“Cal,” I growl at her.

She’s still unfazed. “Cal, I’m not sleeping with your father.”

“Then what’s with the pinkies and the hand-holding?”

“He was shaking, Cal. In all your anger, did you not see that? I was trying to

calm him — refocus his energy.”

“His energy? Oh, Lord. Listen, even as a stranger, I can tell he’s clearly in

love with you.”

“And I love him, but as I’ve told him, it’s solely as a teacher. When we first

started doing meditation—”

“Whoa ho ho — my father couldn’t meditate if—”

“He’s doing it right now,” she says, calm as ever.

I turn back to my dad, whose head is still down. His eyes are closed. I

thought he was sleeping, but the way he’s swaying forward and back . . .

“The key is breathing through your nose,” Serena adds. “Each breath needs

to reach down to your diaphragm.”

I stare at her across the empty middle seat. She nods and smiles.

“Serena, why’re you really here? And please don’t insult me by saying you

came all the way to the airport and potentially risked your life just to wave

good-bye and teach my dad how to breathe and realign his energy.”

Most people turn away when you ask them a hard question. Serena continues

to look straight at me, and her yellow blue eyes . . . I hate to say it . . .

there’s a real depth to her stare.

“He helped my brother. Andrew,” she finally says.

“Who? My dad?”

“You almost had it right before, Cal. Your dad — he’s Andrew’s sponsor,” she

explains. “And my brother — been in AA for years — always relapsing. A few

months ago, the judge sent him back, and your dad — it wasn’t anything

heroic — but your dad was nice to him. They connected. Really connected.

Whatever they had in common, Andrew was Andrew again.”

“So all this — coming to help my dad — it’s just a thank-you?”

“Oh, no. I’m not just helping your dad. I’m helping myself,” she says as

easily as if she’s telling me her shoe size. Reading my confusion, she adds,

“Two weeks ago, they found Andrew’s body in the sea grapes grove — near

Holiday Park. But it was your dad who helped us locate him — he knew

Andrew’s old hiding spots. He knew my brother. And even though I think you

have a hard time with things like this — being near your dad . . . somehow

I’m still connected with Andrew.”

“Can I offer you a snack?” a flight attendant interrupts, approaching just

behind Serena and holding out a tiny bag of pretzels.

“No peanuts?” Serena asks.

“Sorry, just pretzels,” the attendant says.

“Then I’m meant to have pretzels,” Serena decides, smiling as she pops

open the little bag and turns back to me. “Your dad tried to save my brother,

Cal. And by helping Andrew — with that strength your dad shows, like in the

airport — your father helped me. He’s still helping me. And I’m helping him.

Do you not see that? That’s what being family is — that’s the best part — it’s

not tit for tat or who owes more, it’s simply — when one hurts, so does the

other; when one finds good, you share in that, too. That’s family.” But as

Serena continues to stare my way . . . “This is making you uncomfortable,

isn’t it?” she asks.

I shake my head, trying to convince her she’s wrong.

She goes silent, her stare digging even deeper. She’s not upset. She’s excited.

“I was wrong before. This is why I’m here, isn’t it?” she blurts, not the least

bit concerned that we brought her on this plane to save her life. “Not just for

what your father and I share . . . the lessons are for you, too, for all three of

us. Oh, I didn’t see it before. I mean, until you showed up, I didn’t even think

he had family.”

“He did have family! He just—” I catch myself, clenching the fuse that’s lit in

my chest and digging my feet into the airplane’s thin carpet. “He has a

family,” I say quietly. “He just chose to ignore me.”

“You sure about that?” She tugs on her ankles, tightening her Indian-style

position and reaching for a pretzel.

“What’re you talking about?”

“You were, what, sixteen years old when he was released? Just taking the

SATs, starting to wonder about going to college. You really think having a

convicted murderer enter your life was the best thing for you?”

“You don’t know that. You met him, what, four months ago?”

“Six months,” she says. “How’d you know that, anyway?”

“I was bluffing. But that’s my point: You barely know him. I heard you at the

hospital, asking if he got the shipment. So answer my question, Serena:

Why’d you really come to the airport?”

I wait for her yellow blue eyes to narrow, but they just get wider. She’s not

insulted. She’s hurt. “I came for the same reason you did,” she tells me.

“Let me guarantee right now that’s not true.”

“Do you really think you’re the only one whose life didn’t turn out the way

they dreamed, Cal? When I was eleven years old, my mother remarried a

man who . . . well, shouldn’t’ve been living around eleven-year-old girls. Or

their younger brothers. I still pay for those years. But when I was seventeen

— when I finally told my mom, and she threw me out because she couldn’t

handle that it might actually be true — I remember sitting in this filthy

McDonald’s. It was pouring, one of those thick Florida rains, and I had this

feeling to go outside. When I did, I saw this puddle — shaped like a mitten —

that reminded me of this great puddle we used to jump in back when we

could afford camp. And reliving that moment . . . that was blissful. Real bliss.

All because I listened to that feeling to go outside.”

“Okay — so to find true meaning in life, I need to go stand out in some

sentient downpour. Very Shawshank Redemption.”

“Let me ask you something, Cal: Why’d you come on this trip?”

“I almost got killed this morning.”

“Before that. When you saw your dad lying there in the rain . . . You had

your own feeling, right? You listened to something inside yourself and

suddenly your life was reignited. Like in Don Juan, where he says that

sometimes you need to lace your belt the opposite way.