Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (47 page)

My mother could be as cold and hard as the ground before sunrise. But at a time like this, emotions couldn’t trump common sense, could it? When I finished telling her what I told Dad, I heard a car door slam over the phone.

“Kaye, honey, I’m leaving Lyons for Denver right now and I’m gonna fly out there. Look around the apartment again. Is anything else missing, something that might give you a clue to where he’s gone? Passport, keys, weapons.”

I rifled through his desk then his overnight bag. “Passport’s here…keys are gone, along with his wallet…crap, he forgot his meds. I don’t think he has a weapon. Kitchen knives, maybe? No, those are still there.”

I gazed around the living room. It felt off. Slightly different. Then my eyes fixed upon the empty mantle above the fireplace and I knew why.

“Mom,” I whispered, “he took the urn.”

“What?”

“His mother’s urn is gone. And…” I flipped open the cardboard box next to the coffee table, “some of his writing’s gone, too. I know where he’s going. Listen, when you get to Denver, catch the first flight to Boston, okay?”

“Boston!?”

I dashed through the apartment, gathering up my purse and messenger bag, still packed from yesterday at the Standard Hotel. I stuffed Samuel’s medications and a change of clothes for both of us in my things. Then I turned off the lights, slammed the door, and locked it. Subway or cab? Call a cab.

“Phone me when your flight gets in and we’ll find each other. Mom…I’m so sorry.” Because I just needed to tell someone I was sorry.

“You have nothing to be sorry about.” She cleared her throat. “Be safe.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too, Aspen Kaye.”

There were ghosts in Boston and Samuel chased them. I didn’t understand why they still had such a hold on him after all these years, though it was all tangled in the fear he’d end up like his mother. I was petrified his flight was some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy.

In a way, aren’t we all afraid we’ll become our parents? Our parents could be saints or the scum of the earth; most fall somewhere in between. But because they are our parents, we see the flaws. Sometimes we remember the faults more than the good and we swear, up and down, we’ll never do that to our children, spouse, friends. Yet, no matter how much we fight the tide, we see a little more of them in ourselves with the passing of each day…

“Just to be clear,” I said to the woman at the gate check-in for my shuttle flight to Boston, “a person can fly with human ashes, as long as the urn is a carry-on and goes through X-ray? You don’t need some sort of prior dispensation from the airline?”

The woman sighed. “I told you three times, ma’am. We understand how painful losing a loved one is, and we respect anyone traveling with crematory remains. Typically our security screeners will allow an opaque urn through if they can see what’s inside.”

“And you can’t tell me whether my friend was on the previous flight?”

“No, ma’am. If you ask again, I’ll have to call security.”

Damn it, she’d tell me if this was a chick flick, then sob about the rarity of true love.

I dropped into my seat and crossed my arms, glaring at travelers as they wheeled through the concourse. Two whole hours on standby until the next available flight! I should have taken the train, but Justin swore up on down this was the quickest way to get to Boston. Mom’d beat me to Boston, at this rate. Nine o’clock…seven in Colorado. Alonso and Sofia would just be waking up. She’d play her up-an’-at-’em music in the kitchen and he’d read the paper. They’d smile at each other over coffee, both unaware their son had now been missing for eight hours.

I should call them.

My fingers shook as I scrolled to their number. I’d call them. They’d tell me not to panic, that Alonso would meet me in Boston and take care of everything, and wouldn’t it be best if I just went back to Boulder and saw to my lagging TrilbyJones accounts?

I couldn’t do it.

But Samuel is their son. They need to know.

Not yet. Not until I find Samuel.

He gave you power of attorney. They won’t shut you out.

I can’t.

The gate attendant’s voice crackled through the speakers, announcing the first boarding call for my flight. I didn’t have time now, anyway. I chucked my cell phone in my messenger bag and fell into line with other bleary-eyed passengers.

I tried to sleep on the brief flight to Boston. I’d been awake for twenty-eight hours straight. Not just any twenty-eight hours. Press interviews. Celebrities. PR coups. Fisticuffs. Legal documents for birthday presents and missing boyfriends. And a brisk jog through Washington Heights. Mr. Sandman would have knocked any normal person flat on their face. But sleep was as elusive as ever. The waiting was killing me. I willed the plane to go faster, to cut through the next cloud bank and poof!—there’s Boston.

Just as Samuel chased his ghosts, I chased him. I’d always chased Samuel…in age, achievement, friendships, family, secrets. He was my best friend. My lover. My world. And still, he was forever an arm ahead of me. He told me he belonged to me, but I’d never really truly caught him, had I? Was I doomed to repeat this chase over and over until the day I died?

If something happened to Samuel, if he…

A horrible pain in my heart ripped through me, and I bit my clenched fist. I thought…maybe…I might die, too.

“Take me to Fenway Park,” I said to the grizzled cabbie as I slid into the backseat, outside Logan International.

“In town for the game? It’s going to be a zoo, ma’am, just a head’s up. I’ll get you as close as I can.” I noticed he had a tiny plastic Red Sox helmet dangling from his mirror.

“That’s fine,” I sighed. Of course there was a home game this afternoon. “Who’re they playing?” I needed noise or I’d go crazy.

“Second game in the Orioles series. Pedroia’s lookin’ to surpass one hundred RBIs, so it’ll be a good ’un if the Sox can keep their heads out of their asses.”

I nodded, my eyes widening at the foreignness of the choppy Boston Harbor as we sped along the turnpike and into the city. I squinted against the midday sun, glinting against the downtown skyline. Traffic was heavy. All inbound lanes crawled to a stop, crept along, then stopped again. “Some sort of delay,” said the cabbie. “Typical weekday. We’re heading into the Back Bay Fens.” A semi pulled up alongside us, blocking my view of the river. I slid to the other window and watched as the road narrowed and passed into a neighborhood dense with brown brick, trees, and a towering Citgo Oil sign in the distance. I remembered the sign from televised Red Sox games, and I thought we must be close to the ballpark.

I tried to imagine Samuel seeing all of this as a child, from the backseat of his mother’s car. Were we anywhere near the place he used to live? Beacon Hill, he’d told me.

“Where’s Beacon Hill from here?”

“Back east a half mile or so. You got friends in one of those big ol’ mansions?”

“My husband used to live there,” I murmured.

The cabbie whistled. “Some husband.”

“He is.”

I checked my phone. Four missed calls from Jerome. Two from Samuel’s doctor. One each from Lexi, Justin, Indigo, Caroline, Patrick. Nothing from my mother. And nothing from Samuel, obviously. I had his phone in my purse.

I listened to Caroline’s message:

“
I haven’t heard from him since the day you both visited my home. Let me know when you find him…”

Every single voice message from the others was the same, except for Jerome’s.

“
Ms. Trilby, you
must
call me. I need to confer with Mr. Cabral if we’re to manage last night’s unfortunate event effectively and to our advantage…”

Fat chance, Mr. Buitre. Spin was on the back burner and last night seemed so far away.

“Only a few blocks,” said the cabbie. “I don’t think I can get you any closer.”

“Son-of-a-monkey.” I took in the thousands of people buzzing around Fenway Park like red and white bees, a massive swarm of Sox caps, jerseys, and foam fingers. And this was an hour before the game. Fans poured in and out of a dozen sports bars surrounding the compact ballpark, and the entire neighborhood unleashed a strangling claustrophobia. Prospects of finding Samuel in this mess? Bleak.

“Is it always like this?”

“Most game days, unless it’s raining. Even then, there’s always the diehards. I think they’re handing out bobble-heads today, so it’s a good thing you got here early. That’ll be twenty-two dollars.”

I handed him my card. Well, there went my plan. I couldn’t exactly go up to a security guard and ask him if he’d seen a thirty-year-old man in a Red Sox hat and jeans wandering around the ballpark. Hefting my bag onto my shoulder, I set out blind, hunting for some sign that Samuel was here.

I pushed my way through the crowds, standing on tiptoes to see over thunderous people raising their beer cups like toasts and shouting to their buddies. I was jostled by sticky kids on leashes dragging parents laden with strollers and diaper bags, street vendors selling Red Sox gear. The entire place was rife with festive excitement. If Samuel was with me, he’d be blinking up at Fenway’s shabby brick entrance like it was the Gate of Heaven. He would have laid down a fortune on pennants and gear within the first five minutes.

That’s where I started—the street vendors.

I sidled up to a bearded vendor not far from Ted Williams’ bronze immortalization, hocking plastic beer hats.

“I’m looking for a man.” A slow grin spread over his face. I flushed as red as the B on his hat. “No no, a particular man. Red cap, backpack, laptop case. He’s tall and extremely handsome—he may have been wandering around for a while, kind of twitchy? Oh! And he’s carrying a cremation urn.”

The vendor gave me a helpless shrug and said something. I cursed my bad ear in the midst of the ballpark cacophony and asked him to repeat it. “Lady, that could be half of Beantown,” he shouted.

“But an
urn?”

“Like I said.”

Four more vendors and two security guards—no luck. “Is he here for the game?” one of them asked, handing me a hot dog.

“Um, maybe. He didn’t have a ticket.”

“Unless he’s paying big bucks on the street, he won’t get in. Wait around an hour until the crowd thins out. You might spot him.”

Hope blossomed in my chest. “Right. Absolutely right, thank you.” I took a bite from the dog, cringing as repulsive green relish oozed over my fingers.

My phone vibrated. I wiped my hands then whipped it out. My mother.

“Mom?”

“Kaye, I’m at Logan Airport. Now what?”

I wandered north, looking for a landmark. Citgo sign, perfect. “Look for the big Citgo sign in Kenmore Square, and there’s a coffee shop where we can meet. Take a cab and I’ll wait for you there.”

Forty minutes later, my mother strode into the coffee and donut shop, outright exhausted in a faded flannel shirt, her eyes baggy. Even her curls drooped. I flew at her.

“Mom.” She scooped me into a hug as if I were five. I cried into her shoulder, sucking in air and that earthy, Lyons scent that was all Gail. She stroked my hair.

“It’s all right, Aspen Kaye, we’ll find him. Right after I get a coffee.”

We settled into a booth. She blew across a cup of steaming black coffee and I told her what I knew.

“No one’s seen him, huh?”

I shook my head. “I’m beginning to think I was wrong, that maybe he didn’t come here.”

“What made you so sure it was Fenway Park?”

“He dwells on this place. His mother—his birth mother—promised to take him here a long time ago. Right before she killed herself, she was obsessed with spreading her husband’s ashes at Fenway. It was a manic fixation of hers and I thought, well…with the way he’s been eyeing her urn as of late…” Geez, it sounded crazy, even to my ears.

“Are you afraid he’s going to…?” She grimaced and dragged a thumb across her neck.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “Yesterday, I would have said no way. But now? I’m realizing I don’t know how deep this fear of his runs—or anything about this illness, except nothing about it is logical.”