Chapter 43

  Rebecca Carter

  Rebecca Carter was drunk. The jet came stocked with a mini-bar containing several of her favorite brands and flavors. Had Riley accounted for the possibility that she would be flying this machine? Or had he simply stocked it with what he knew, that being her own preferences because he himself seldom drank? Rebecca had no time to wonder about such nonsense. She had business to attend to, and it was the business of drowning her pain.

  An hour after their departure from Chicago, Rebecca was regaling Alan with tales of her adventures while Leah Walker slept curled into a ball on a couch.

  “…which reminds me of the first time I ever flew a plane,” she continued, sipping a glass of brandy and enjoying in the sight of the dashing, rugged Alan Sheppard. His worn, lined face, the grey-speckled stubble on his chin, and the worry in his eyes did little to mask that fact that he was a Man of Action. Nothing at all like her ex-husband. Well, to be fair, Riley was little if not a Man of Action. But he was also a Damned Fool.

  “I stole it from poachers. Bi-plane. They had me drugged, you see. Intending to kill me or sell me or some nonsense.” She took a big gulp. “Horrid, really. Killed one. Stole the plane. Flew to the nearest airport.” Something about this confused her. “Why were there so many vehicles on the airstrip? They should’ve been more careful. Careful!” A sudden wave of emotion overwhelmed her. Careful. Airplanes. Why did it always come back to Nick? She sobbed at her drink, disgusted with herself in a detached way for making a little girl of herself in front of Alan but unable to stop. Not wanting to stop, really. Had she ever stopped wanting to cry for Nick? She remembered weeping, holding Kaitlyn…

  Kaitlyn!

  The glass slipped from her fingers and would have hit the lush carpeted floor of the lounge had Alan not already closed his own rough fingers around it.

  “Ms. Carter,” he said.

  “Call me Rebecca,” she sniffed.

  “Rebecca, I–”

  “Call me Becky.”

  “Rebecca. You should slow down.”

  “Make me,” she said, dead-serious, meeting his eyes. “I dare you.” She wanted him to try. She wanted him to seize her. Roughly.

  But he only took her glass back to the mini-bar and set it on the counter. No need to worry about it sliding or falling; the jet would have to do a barrel roll for Riley’s balancing gyroscopes to fail. Damn Riley. Damn him for…for everything!

  “You can’t blame it all on Riley,” said Alan.

  Damn. Had she been speaking out loud?

  “Yes.”

  Damn! What else had she been saying out loud? She cleared her throat and wiped her face with a tissue from the nearby pile. When had that got there?

  “I do not…” she began. “I want you to know that I don’t normally become this emotional when inebriated, Alan.” God, she liked saying his name.

  “It’s fine,” said Alan. “I just…we might need you, Rebecca.” He motioned vaguely at the sleeping child next to him. “At your best.”

  “My aim can be damn fine when I’m drunk, Alan.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Approaching destination,” the disembodied voice of the jet interrupted. “One minute to landing.”

  Alan sighed. He crouched by his duffel bag and rummaged around. Rebecca watched as he armed himself with multiple knives, multiple firearms, various tools. He knew what he was about. He was making himself prepared to the best of his ability, without knowing what lay beyond. Ready to face the unknown dangers. This simple sight aroused her, awakened a long-slumbering desire. That was her kind of man.

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  Now Riley had always been prepared. But he had never even had to try. He’d never had to try for a damn thing in his whole life. Riley, because of who he was, could never know what it felt like to be unready, to be afraid, to be uncertain. The tragic reality of the smartest man in the world: he never got to experience life.

  She lazily drew her ma and flicked the chamber to view the shells. Six shots, all there. Waiting for her. Six great equalizers. Six unfair cheats. Six entire worlds undone in a second.

  The revolver dropped back into its holster as she dragged herself to her feet. She stood beside Alan Sheppard and crammed her leather hat onto her head as the door hissed open. She strode down the gangplank ahead of Alan, for he lacked her confidence that a jet designed by Riley would not allow one to simply walk out if there was any danger in the immediate vicinity.

  They found a barn, and within the barn they found Amber Jane Eddison, her unconscious sister, and two other individuals. One of these others, a woman named Amelia that Rebecca took quite a liking to, nearly cut Rebecca down with giant lasers before Amber Jane stopped her.

  They spoke for a time, but things became fuzzy for Rebecca Carter. Perhaps Alan had been right. No, of course he had been. Even she, Rebecca Carter, had a limit for alcohol, and she had reached it.

  Amber Jane had received a message from Christmas. It told her that they needed to find two men named Michael Whyte and Dwayne Hartman, further instructions presumably forthcoming. Not one of them trusted this Christmas, but Amber Jane was of a mind to track down this Michael regardless. Ah, young love! Rebecca had half a mind to straighten out this young maiden on one or two matters.

  But then AJ revealed the second part of her message from Christmas. It instructed her to tell something to Rebecca. The message consisted of three words: “Kaitlyn is alive.”

  Rebecca Carter, in reaction, staggered to the nearest wall of the barn and threw up a stomachful of scotch.

  Amber Jane was beside her momentarily in an effort to comfort her as Rebecca had once comforted Amber Jane. Alan Sheppard was responding to some strange noise from outside the barn. Amelia was carrying the limp form of Elizabeth, complaining to no one about something. The short fat man named Elmer was trying to comfort the pair of skittish horses they were leaving behind in the barn. Alan unlatched their stalls on his way back to the flying machine.

  Rebecca didn’t want to think, yet, about the possibility that Alan had somehow been mistaken, that her Kaitlyn might yet be alive. No, she didn’t care to lay so much as a grain of teff on such a hope. The world was full of lies.

  But there were other things she could hope for. That Leah remain safe, for one. That the unconscious Elizabeth, her malady unknown, be revived. That Alan Sheppard also remain alive. These things she could more than hope for. These things she could enable, by her own power. That’s what Nick would do, she thought. He loved Kaitlyn even more than I, but he would have done what he could for the people still in need of aid.

  Right. She wiped her lips, straightened up, then doubled back down and dry heaved.

  She at last succeeded in returning to the jet, though far too late to salvage any dignity. She merely nodded at Alan as she passed him and carefully tread the steps up to the cabin. He returned the nod, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

  “If she is alive,” he said softly behind her as she went, “we’ll find her.”

  She stopped, turned to reply. “Your daughter as well.”

  “She’s not my daughter,” he said.

  “Nor Kaitlyn mine.” She swayed and seized the handrail for balance. “But we both know the technicalities are bullshit.” She turned and continued up into Riley’s machine.