“Why, only you and Tate. That’s all.”
“Don’t come here!” Bowen shouted as he began to stand up.
“Shut him up,” Eve snapped. Matthew and Luke knocked the old man off his feet again and dragged him into the kitchen.
“Eve! Let Tate’s grandpa go, and Tate and I will meet you wherever you want.”
“No. That’s not how we’re playing this. Mark, Matthew, Luke, and I are going to stay here—at Tate’s grandpa’s home—and keep an eye on him. So sad he’s way out here by himself on this lonely peninsula, isn’t it? It’s simply not safe. So, we’ll be here. Alone with the old man. Until you and Tate arrive. Oh, and the sooner the better. I get the idea Mr. Bowen doesn’t like visitors. Good-bye, Foster. See you soon.”
Eve hung up.
24
TATE
“Don’t worry!” Sabine hugged Tate and then Foster. “Finn and I will take care of everything while you’re gone. Just get on that plane and save Tate’s g-pa.”
“Remember our plan B,” Foster spoke low and quickly as she and Tate backed toward the security line at PDX airport. “If you don’t hear from us by this time next week—”
“Take the stuff from the Batcave to the FBI and tell them everything we’ve figured out. We know—we know,” Finn said.
“No, it’s not going to come to that,” Sabine said sternly. “You’ll be back to our Fortress of Sauvietude soon. With G-pa. Don’t get all dark and twisted and negative on me. Again.”
“We’ll be back. With my g-pa. I believe it, and so does Foster,” Tate said. But he didn’t take Foster’s hand. Actually, he hadn’t said much to her or touched her since he’d told her about G-pa. Then they’d all rushed to the pay phone, and …
Tate shuddered, remembering Eve’s hard, cold voice and G-pa’s panicked shouts. And after Foster had let loose a stream of curses that had even impressed Finn, whose father was a Marine, she’d hardly spoken to him.
They moved quickly through the security line with their pristine fake IDs, and hurried to their gate. Tate and Foster paused to check the flight on the monitor: Southwest Airlines red-eye flight 255 to Houston’s George Bush International was departing on time at 12:10 a.m.—arriving at 6:20 a.m. Texas time—and it was now boarding.
“This is going to be perfect,” Tate talked at Foster as if they were actually conversing. “We’ll get a rental and be on the highway by seven. It takes about an hour and a half to get to G-pa’s place on the Bolivar Peninsula. G-pa is practically free already.”
Foster didn’t speak. Instead she picked up the pace and they almost jogged to the gate. Tate was silently thanking the elusive airline gods for still having seats on this late-night flight. When they arrived at the gate, the Southwest agent was announcing that the flight was open seating and open boarding, and they shuffled onto the plane with the rest of the half-asleep sheep.
“No.” Foster spoke suddenly as Tate continued to move toward the back of the plane.
He looked over his shoulder at her. “Sorry? Did you say something?”
“I said no. I won’t sit in the back of a plane. Right here is fine.” She slid into the window seat she’d stopped beside, which was four rows back from the front of the plane, and the only seat that had the companion on the aisle open.
“Oh, okay. No problem.” He took the seat beside her, happy that she’d at least made room for him.
To Tate it seemed like only a few minutes had passed—the plane was definitely not full—when the flight attendant was making the announcement that the cabin door was closed and all electronic devices needed to be powered off.
“We have a lot of room on this flight, I mean, imagine that! Only us crazies want to fly toward a hurricane warning in the middle of the night. So odd,” the attendant said sarcastically to a smattering of nervous laughter in the cabin. “Once we’re in the air and the captain has turned off the ‘fasten seat belt’ light, feel free to spread out and move around. Make yourselves comfortable and get some sleep. Although when we get close to Houston prepare for a very bumpy descent!”
The plane began taxiing and Foster sighed. She was staring at the boring in-flight magazine and picking her fingernails.
“Hey, are you okay?” he asked.
She didn’t look at him. “No. I hate flying. Actually, hate isn’t a strong enough word. I loathe it. Despise it. I would rather try to corral those giant evil monster dinosaur horses and get stomped to death than fly.”
“You think our horses are evil monsters?”
She did look at him then and he saw a world of misery in her emerald eyes. “They’re a lot smarter than we think. Do you realize how much they talk? Clearly, they’re planning something. Maybe a Percheron revolt.”
“But you’d rather deal with that than fly?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s why you won’t sit in the back of the plane?”
“That’s something Cora taught me. She used to tell me that it’s impossible to crash if you fly first class.” Foster shrugged. “I know it’s not logical, but it stuck. Southwest doesn’t have a first class, but still.”
“Front of the plane?” he said.
“Front of the plane,” she agreed.
The captain said something incomprehensible through the loudspeaker, and within a few minutes they were accelerating down the runway. Tate watched Foster. She’d stopped picking her fingernails, but her hands were gripping the armrests so hard her knuckles turned white. She was breathing in short little pants, staring at the back of the seat in front of them.
Tate decided a distraction was in order. He turned his body to face her, and said, “Can we please talk?”
He was relieved when she gave him an annoyed look. “No.”
“I said please.”
“And I said no.”
“Okay, I’ll talk and you listen. I’m sorry.”