They cooked dinner together—steaks, grilled brussels sprouts, and pureed cauliflower that, despite Gibson’s skepticism, actually tasted exactly like mashed potatoes. It was intended as a morale booster, but it felt too much like a last meal. They ate in silence, then Gibson did the dishes while Jenn burned their plans in the fireplace.
Afterward, Gibson found Jenn watching the Super Bowl with the volume off. He wasn’t much of a football fan but found it disconcerting that he hadn’t even known the game was on. Another facet of American life from which he felt disconnected. He got the last two beers and dropped onto the couch beside Jenn. They clinked bottle necks to George. Two orphans off to rescue a surrogate father. Gibson couldn’t decide whether it was noble or pathetic.
“When did you move in with your grandmother?”
“Eight or nine?” Jenn said. “I’m not actually sure.”
“It’s weird the way it gets foggy beyond a certain point.”
“You too?”
“Only the things I want to remember. The things I don’t care about are what I remember best.”
Jenn chuckled and raised her beer in agreement.
“Do you remember your mom?” Gibson asked.
“Not real well. Some days, I can only remember the bad things, like you said, but I know there was more to her than that. What about you? Do you remember your dad?”
“I thought I did. Now I think I just make him up as I go along.”
“That’s the beautiful thing about memories—they’re whatever you don’t need them to be.” She finished her beer, slapped Gibson on the knee, and pried herself up off the couch. “I’m for bed.”
Gibson slept a few hours but woke up after two, heart hammering in his chest, afraid he’d been screaming again. He was grateful not to see Jenn staring down at him, bleary-eyed. Only Bear kept vigil tonight, watching from a nearby armchair. She brought her book over and held it out for him to read to her.
“I can’t, Bear,” Gibson said. “I can’t read to you anymore.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why not?”
“Because it’s not good for me.”
Bear stood there looking hurt. It unnerved Gibson, who rolled over and put his back to the ghost. He checked his e-mail again to see if maybe Nicole had written him back. He’d been checking it obsessively for the past few days. His box should have arrived by now, and he kept thinking that he might hear from her. He hadn’t. He put the phone aside and lay staring at the back of the couch. Eventually he slept.
Jenn left shortly after dawn. She had a long drive to an airfield in Ohio, where she’d rented a small two-seat Cessna. Gibson rose before her and made breakfast, the only meal he’d ever mastered. Jenn looked it over appreciatively but wolfed down only a slice of bacon. She said she was too amped up to eat. At the door, she hugged him tightly. It reminded him of when they’d said good-bye at the motel in Atlanta. Even though he’d be seeing her in a matter of hours, it still felt forbidding and final.
She said, “I’ll see you tonight.”
“11:34 p.m.”
“Don’t keep me waiting.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Gibson said with a grin, trying to force himself into a better mood.
“Smart-ass.”
Cools waited for Jenn in the driveway. The first time Gibson had seen him without his partner. Cools helped Jenn load her gear into the trunk. She paused before getting into the passenger seat and gave Gibson an almost imperceptible nod. He returned it and watched them back out of the driveway. When they were out of sight, Gibson shut the door and finished his own preparations.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was a beautiful, clear winter night at Dulles, and Gibson hated it. The light of the waning moon was enough to pick out details in the tree line on the far side of the airport. The forecast had called for flurries, but the temperature hovered stubbornly just above freezing, and Doppler weather radar showed all precipitation missing the airport to the north. Snow didn’t seem too much to ask. A little fog. A swarm of locusts. Anything to provide a little camouflage, but no, the airport was lit up like a ballpark before a night game.
Swonger knelt to tie his boots for the second time in one hundred yards. Gibson shot him a glance.
“And yet you can hot-wire a car.”
“One of my laces broke, dog.” Swonger held up the ends for Gibson to see. “They uneven as shit now.”
Gibson looked away and sighed. No battle plan survived contact with the enemy—he didn’t know who had said that, but they probably hadn’t had Swonger’s shoelaces in mind. Ahead, the iconic main terminal rose up like a cresting wave. If tonight it finally broke, he and Swonger would be washed away.
“You’re a goddamn poet,” Duke said.
Since Jenn left this morning, Duke had been his constant companion, lurking silently in the periphery of Gibson’s vision. He reminded himself that Duke wasn’t real and that he could choose to control it. Easier said than done. The problem with insanity was how incredibly sane it felt. He bit his tongue and said nothing to the smirking ghost of his father.
When commercial passengers approached Dulles, they paid attention only to the main terminal. But to either side stood cargo hangars and the fixed-base operators that supported general aviation. Tyner Aviation was on the left. Jenn would arrive at an FBO on the right side, as far from Tyner as possible. The plan required Gibson to drive around the airport, between the commercial terminals, and pick Jenn up. That was where Swonger came in.
Swonger finished his shoelace surgery, and they strolled across the Tyner Aviation parking lot. Gibson had a spare Tyner Aviation uniform, and from a distance it almost looked like it fit Swonger. They talked loudly and about nothing. Swonger’s first rule of boosting cars: act like you owned it.
“Ain’t nobody gonna stop you stealing your own car,” Swonger said.
They stopped at a panel van with a Tyner Aviation logo along the side. Swonger went to work on the lock, chatting away the entire time. Gibson waited on the passenger side and kept a lookout. When the lock didn’t pop right open, Gibson slapped the window to get Swonger’s attention.
“I’m freezing out here,” he said.
“Fresh air. Good for you.”
“That’s jet fumes, Swonger.”
The lock popped open at last.
“Losing your touch?” Gibson asked.
“I missed you, dog. You my blue sky on a cloudy day.”
“Any time now.”
“These boys need to service their shit,” Swonger groused. “That lock stiffer than my daddy’s knees.”
Inside the van, Swonger set about hot-wiring the ignition by the light of his cell phone. Gibson checked the time: a few minutes before eleven. The last of the overnight international flights to Europe would be taxiing out to the runways. Assuming she was on schedule, Jenn’s Cessna would land in thirty-five minutes. According to Cold Harbor’s flight plan, their C-130 had a two a.m. scheduled departure. That would leave two hours and change to secure Cold Harbor’s enormous cargo aircraft, rescue George, and get the hell out of Dodge.