“Hey, don’t worry. Of course I’m going, too. I’m going to pretend to be the perfect kidnap victim. When you look up Stockholm syndrome, my face is going to be the definition.”
“Don’t let them take you to their island. I can’t believe they’re driving all over the U.S., not with the kind of money Stewart soaked up from his patrons. They have to be flying, which is great for us. You’ll be safe in the airport. As soon as you get there tell airport security you heard them talking about a bomb. That should do it.”
“Then I’ll take off and call your burner and you’ll know I’m on my way back to our Fortress of Sauvietude,” Tate said.
“Or get away before they do something like drug you so that you can’t tell on them at the airport. That’s even safer,” Foster said.
“Foster, that would be fine, but there’s one more little thing. Well, actually, two more little things.”
“Those water kids.” Foster looked like she’d bitten a lemon.
“Hey, don’t be like that. Right now those two are just like we used to be—clueless and getting ready to have their worlds torn apart on their birthdays, which are tomorrow. When we land.”
“Tate, save your grandpa. Let the water kids worry about themselves. We figured it out. So will they.”
“We figured it out after we lost our parents and got a lot of help from Cora’s Batcave. Not to mention Finn and Sabine. We need to help them, Foster. You know that.”
Foster deflated. “Yeah, I do. I’m just scared it’s going to be them or us.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means either we hang around and save them, or we grab your grandpa, retreat to Sauvie, and save ourselves,” Foster said.
“It’s not going to be like that. Foster, think about this—they’re bonded to water.”
“Uh, yeah. I know.”
He shook his head. “You’re not thinking. We join with them and the four of us are stronger together than the two of us alone. With them we have air and water!”
“If they really are bonded to water, and if they really will join with us.”
“You’re a cynic,” Tate said.
“I am a realist,” Foster countered. Then she yawned.
Tate dug into the flap in the seat in front of him and pulled out a plastic-wrapped pillow. He made a grand show of fluffing it, then he reached across Foster and pressed the button to recline first her seat, then his. He placed the pillow on his shoulder, patted it, and smiled invitingly at her.
“How about you sleep for the next four hours?”
She gave him a grateful look and began to curl up, attempting the closest thing to comfort modern air travel could provide. She had almost settled her head on his shoulder when she looked up at him.
“Aren’t you going to sleep?”
“Oh, probably. But first I’m going to read. I always read before I go to sleep.” He reached into his backpack and brought out a Dean Koontz paperback, Saint Odd. “I found this at that little shop where we got those bottles of water. It’s the last Odd Thomas book. I can’t wait to find out how he ends up with Stormy Llewellyn.”
Foster’s lips turned up just a little. “You’re a strange one, Tate.”
“Thanks, Foster.” He bent, meaning to kiss the top of her head, but she caught his lips with hers, kissing him back before she lifted the armrest barrier between them and snuggled warmly against him.
And at that moment Tate felt as if everything would truly turn out okay.
25
TATE
Tate jolted awake as the plane seemed to fall out from underneath them. He shot upright in his seat as passengers around him gasped and carry-ons that had been semi-shoved under seats spewed into the aisles. His gaze shot to Foster. Unbelievably, she was curled up with the little pillow on top of her backpack, snoring softly.
The intercom beeped and the captain’s voice blasted through the cabin—this time he spoke coherently and quickly—and Tate hated the underlying somberness in his voice.
“This is your captain. We have begun our descent into Houston, and have hit some very rough air. The ‘fasten seat belt’ light will be on for the rest of the flight. Flight attendants, return to your seats immediately and remain there until we have landed.”
The plane was still bouncing around, but not as badly as whatever had happened that woke Tate. He watched the flight attendants rush up the aisle, studying their faces as they strapped themselves into the jump seats. He was just thinking that they didn’t look too worried when the bottom dropped out of the plane again. For the first time in his life, Tate understood why flight attendants constantly harped on wearing seat belts all the time, because his was all that kept him from flying up and cracking his head against the luggage compartment.
The guy in the seat across the aisle from him wasn’t so lucky. He flew out of his seat, slamming against the low ceiling before falling down, half in the aisle, half in his seat. He clutched his head and moaned. Tate saw blood well between his fingers.
“Ohmygod, what’s happening?” Foster was wide awake. Her backpack had landed in the seat in front of them, smacking against a woman who was sobbing loudly.
“Do you still have that pillow?” Tate asked quickly.
“Yeah.” She held it up, looking scared and confused.
“Thanks.” Tate grabbed it and turned to the guy across the aisle. “Hey, sir. Here. Press this against the cut.” He handed him the little pillow. Hands shaking, the guy took it and pressed it against his head just as the plane felt like it suddenly stopped in the air before beginning to shake side-to-side, like they were riding waves on an ocean, and not currents in the air.
“Ohgod. Ohgod. No no no. I don’t want to die like this,” Foster spoke in panicked spurts between chattering teeth.
Tate grabbed her hand. “Look at me! We’re not dying. It’s just turbulence because of the storm. We’re almost in Houston.”
Foster opened her mouth to reply and the plane dropped again like the hand of a god had smacked them from above.