Killertrust (24 page)

Although Rhetta had awakened with
a headache, she felt nearly human again by the time the Bootheel Area Rapid
Transportation shuttle came around to pick them up at ten fifteen. Randolph had
offered to heft the suitcases into the luggage area in the back, but the driver
insisted on doing it, hustling Randolph and Rhetta towards the open sliding
door. Although the driver, a slightly built man with a thick white mustache and
matching hair springing out from his BART cap looked frail enough to need help,
he easily tossed the bags into the rear compartment.

Randolph had decided to take
the shuttle instead of driving to Saint Louis to the airport. They could have
used the Cape airport to fly and connect in Saint Louis, but the flights didn’t
work well with the international flights. With only two flights per day, it
meant either a thirteen-hour wait or barely an hour. Counting on arriving with
less than one hour was cutting it too close, so he opted for the shuttle.

Randolph slid in next to
Rhetta while the driver made sure the luggage was stacked properly. Rhetta and
Randolph claimed the entire third row seat in the luxury van when the driver
told them they were his last pick up. In the second row, a handsome man Rhetta
thought to be in his early forties, dressed in a snappy business suit and
topcoat sat next to a teenaged girl who was a younger female version of the
man. Undoubtedly his daughter. The girl wore ear buds under her red wool hat, a
trendy scarf and a blue jean jacket over a long white sweater that topped black
leggings. Her hands flew across the keypad of her smartphone.

A grey-haired woman in a
green wool coat sat in the front, in the passenger seat. Her fingers worked in
precision teamwork as she crocheted a scarf.

“I’m so glad I’m feeling
almost human again,” Rhetta said as she laid her head against Randolph’s
shoulder.

“Me, too. And that we got a
ride on this shuttle.” He patted her arm and buckled them in. “Close your eyes.
Maybe you can nap on the way up.”

Mrs. Koblyk waved at them as
the van turned carefully onto the gravel road. The crochet lady in the front
seat joined Rhetta and Randolph in waving. The girl didn’t glance up from
texting, while her father’s eyes were glued to his iPad. Neither of them even
noticed Mrs. Koblyk.

Rhetta had tucked her purse
inside her carry-on tote, along with their passports, printed tickets, iPad,
her medications, and all the documentation she thought she’d need at the bank.
She had received two certified death certificates for her father two days
earlier. She put one in the bank box for storage and tucked the other one in
with her passport. She had memorized the car’s VIN, and additionally, she’d
made a file and had it stored on the Cloud backup, which she could access from
her iPhone or iPad. She didn’t bring the car title with her. It and the car’s
VIN tag were locked away in the safe deposit box at the bank. She had arranged
with her cell phone provider so that she would have cell phone service in
Europe. She patted her tote reassuringly and clutched it close to her.

Ricky had called last night
to wish her a safe trip and to assure her that her father’s Camaro was resting
peacefully. No one had been around bothering her or the garage. Woody and Billy
Dan called shortly after. She promised Billy Dan that they would all get
together for a fishing trip and barbeque at his place first thing this spring.
Woody promised to take care of everything at the office.

Bumping down the gravel road
jostled her head, nearly persuading the headache to re-bloom, but finally the
ride smoothed out on the paved state highway. They glided up the ramp onto
Interstate 55 northbound to Saint Louis.

Rhetta bolted up. A dark blue
truck matched their speed in the adjacent lane. It wasn’t Philip Corini. But
was it Stanton Worthington? She leaned around Randolph to stare at the truck.

“Sweets, I swear that’s
Stanton Worthington. Look over there at the driver of that truck.”

By the time Randolph did, the
truck pulled over into the right lane and headed down the next exit ramp.

Rhetta leaned back. “Oh, God.
Now I’m seeing Stanton Worthington everywhere. I really need to get hold of
myself.”

Randolph stared after the
truck a moment longer.

“Hmm. I didn’t see him.”

Just then, another blue truck
passed the van in the outside lane. A man who looked to be in his twenties was
driving. Randolph pointed at it. “There must be a million trucks like that.
Maybe we’re both seeing bad guys.”

The van began discharging its
passengers by first stopping at the Southwest terminal for the father-daughter
team. Southwest Airlines had its own fancy new terminal just north of Lambert
Saint Louis International airport. Then, BART took to the highway for the
half-mile circular ride to Lambert, where the crochet lady was discharged at
the Delta terminal. “I’m going to visit my daughter for two weeks,” she said,
grinning, as the driver unloaded her two suitcases. A porter appeared and
trucked the bags on his handy two-wheeler.

A half-block farther down,
the van stopped at the American Airlines terminal. The driver bounded out and
around to the van door and slid it open for Randolph, who climbed out first and
turned to help Rhetta. Somehow, she managed to exit backward with her rear end
emerging first. “How the heck did I get in so easily, but now I practically
have to fall out?” she grumbled as Randolph cleared his throat. She knew he was
swallowing his comment. And probably a chuckle.

As quickly as the driver
stacked their suitcases on the sidewalk, a porter materialized and, after
determining their destination, led the way to the international concourse. He
stopped at a counter. Next to it was a cart as big as a pool table piled high
with look-alike bags.

“Here you are,” the porter,
spiffy in a dark blue uniform said, beaming at them. “Enjoy your vacation. This
young man will get your ticket information and check your bags through to
customs.” He tilted his head towards a harried-looking youth that Rhetta
guessed was about twelve, who manned the busy counter by himself. On the wall
above his head, a banner proclaimed, “SECURITY” in foot-high letters.

Randolph tipped the porter,
who in turn tipped his hat, flashed a huge smile and deftly pocketed the bill.

Rhetta and Randolph stood in
a short line and waited their turn for the young man to check their tickets and
mark their bags.

“You’ll need to meet your
bags at Security Area 2, over there,” he pointed across the room, “after
they’re scanned into the system.”

Rhetta understood immediately
that “scanned into the system” probably meant, “scanned for explosives,” but
didn’t comment.

The young man tapped a
keyboard, then asked them the usual questions about packing their bags and what
they contained. When they’d apparently answered satisfactorily, the clerk
printed out a card, tore part of it off and handed it to them, and began
attaching the other end to one of the bags.

“Why aren’t there four cards,
since we have four bags?” Rhetta asked.

“One card per unit. Both of
you constitute a unit,” he answered, finishing and turning back. “You get to
identify your bags over there.” He pointed again. “Then you check your bags
in.”

“Ah. I see,” Rhetta said. She
didn’t see, but she’d co-operate. She didn’t want to lose their suitcases
before they left the airport.

Following instructions, they
proceeded to Security Area 2, answered a million more questions, identified
their bags, then waited while a TSA lady opened one suitcase and rummaged
through it. A second agent, a short, square man stood watch nearby. When both
agents were satisfied, which Rhetta ascertained by their head nodding, they
followed more instructions and trundled their bags over to the ticket counter
and waited to check in.

“Why did that very large TSA
woman have to open the bag that had all my undies in it?” Rhetta lamented.

“Better than opening the one
with my undies in it,” Randolph said, then grinned.

“Did she have to hold them up
in her giant latex-gloved hands and wave them around? Sheesh.” Rhetta stopped
and bent down to double check her suitcases and make sure none of those undies
were hanging out of the sides.

“Just part of the new and
improved security system the government has provided for us post nine-eleven.”
Randolph lifted their bags onto the scales by the check-in clerk. Rhetta kept
her word. Neither of her bags was overweight. However, one of Randolph’s
exceeded the weight limit, but not by a whole pound, so the clerk let it slide
through. The pretty brunette smiled and tagged their bags.

“Must be that book I tossed
in there at the last minute,” he told the American Airlines agent.

“I already feel so much safer
watching Henrietta the Hun waving my panties in front of everyone at the
airport. That probably scared off at least a dozen terrorists. And no, it
wasn’t your book, because I have it in my carry on.” Rhetta patted the tote.

The agent verified their
computer tickets and matched them to their passports, issued boarding passes
for their flight, number 998, and tucked the passes into a neat folder. Smiling
broadly, she wished them a wonderful flight and handed the folders to Randolph.
Who handed them to his wife, who tucked them into her tote.

Rhetta stared at their
luggage as the suitcases bounced along the conveyor belt, sidled through the
split rubber curtain and disappeared. She prayed she’d reunite with the bags in
Barcelona, as the agent had promised. She’d heard how international bags often
got lost or waylaid. She hoped fervently that she wouldn’t lose the luggage
lottery today.

After dropping out of a
gloriously blue Mediterranean sky, the Boeing 757 touched down flawlessly on
the Barcelona runway. Rhetta had stared out the window as the plane dipped over
crystal blue-green water bordered by gently swaying palm trees. Although
initially dreading the trip, her heart now fluttered with anticipation. They
were in Spain! And the winter weather was apparently gorgeous.

While Barcelona was a popular
international destination, the weekend must have been a favorable time to land.
Once on the ground, the jet glided effortlessly to the gate, and deplaning was
quick and simple. The passengers were orderly and the process went smoothly.
Only a couple of babies cried, and one elderly gentleman couldn’t locate his
wheelchair. Rhetta thought she overheard the flight attendant wonder if it made
the journey.
Guess
he lost the luggage lottery today
.

Their own bags turned up on
the carousel as promised, and clearing customs went smoothly. When asked the
purpose of their visit, they looked at the man straight in the eye and lied
effortlessly. “Vacation,” Rhetta said and smiled. No large agents ruffled
through her bags and waved her undies around. That treatment was only necessary
by the homeland team.

At the curb outside the
terminal, Rhetta inhaled deeply. “It’s beautiful, Sweets. I never imagined
Barcelona would look like this.” She tucked her arm into her husband’s while
waiting for the hotel van to pick them up. “Hey, I just thought of something.
Wouldn’t it be wild if we run into Jeff and his wife? LuEllen said they’re
vacationing here.”

“Hmm. I guess. But it’s a
pretty big country. I don’t know about you, but I could use a shower. Then we
could eat lunch and get our bodies used to the local time.” Randolph leaned
over and kissed her cheek. “I know this isn’t exactly a pleasure trip, but at
least the weather is good.”

“I’m grateful our luggage
made the same trip we did.” Rhetta’s head swiveled, taking in all the sights.
Except for the palm trees, and rows and rows of lusciously blooming flowers of
every color and fragrance, the airport looked like most airports she’d been to
in the US—lots of concrete floors and plenty of cars and taxis. She spotted a
car rental booth nearby.

“Sweets, why don’t we rent a
car? That way we wouldn’t have to rely on the hotel van or a taxi to get us to
the train. We could drive ourselves to Cadaqués to catch the ferry to Vera
Mardola. We’d have a car with us.

“Is the ferry a car ferry or
just a people ferry?” Randolph began pulling out the handles of the suitcases.

“Both. I read all about it. I
have the booklet.” She patted her tote bag. “It leaves every forty-five minutes
for Vera Mardola, from seven in the morning going over, to the last trip back
to Cadaqués at nine o’clock at night. Daily except Sundays. It only runs Sunday
afternoons.” She rattled the schedule off like a seasoned tour guide.

“What about the bank? Is it
open today? Or are we going to have to wait until Monday?”

“I checked online, and
they’re open all day Saturday, until eight PM, but not open on Sunday. That’s
different than our banks at home, that’s for sure.”

They began tugging their
wheeled luggage toward the car rental kiosk. “According to the map, Cadaqués is
about a two hours’ drive, and the ferry ride is only an hour. I’d like to go
today and get this over with.” She checked her phone for the time. The little
iPhone genie had changed the time to local Spanish time. “We can definitely
make it today. Even with lunch, we can make it before the bank closes.”

Randolph scooped her up in
his arms. “I’m with you, Rhetta. Let’s have lunch and a shower and we’ll drive
to Cadaqués.”

A little over an hour later, most of which time was spent
stuffing their four suitcases into the baby buggy that passed for a car, they
zipped their way along the
Avenue
Onze de Setembre
to the
Hotel
Iberia Ruiz del Prat
.
 

Randolph quickly mastered the
shifting pattern of the little car and drove it handily. It wasn’t equipped
with air conditioning, but the mild day was definitely an improvement over the
weather they’d left behind in Missouri, so none was needed. The temperature
displayed on a nearby sign read 22 degrees. Assuming, since they weren’t
freezing, that the display was in Celsius, Rhetta figured it was probably
somewhere between seventy and seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit.

“Why are we the only country
in the world too stubborn to convert to metric?” Rhetta asked after completing
the quick calculation to determine whether 22 meant cold or warm.

Randolph nodded. “There are
only three countries in the world that don’t use the metric system so that’s a
really good question. I always thought we were a tad arrogant to think that the
rest of the world would prefer our complicated way of measuring, especially
when, along with the Canadians, we were the leaders in using metric in our
money, many years ago. The Canadians changed to metric for everything sometime
in the seventies and left us in the dust. Our military uses metric. The change
should be an easy one. Shame on us for being late to the party.”

“So which countries are left
in the dust? Besides us.” Rhetta pulled down the visor and was shocked at the
reflection she saw looking back from the tiny, lighted mirror. She thought all
her suitcases were in the baggage area, but apparently a few had traveled with
her under her eyes. She flipped the mirror closed.

“Just Burma, or Myanmar as
it’s called, and Liberia.” Randolph stopped for a red light.

Rhetta grumbled, “The Spanish
may use metric, but we have better cars. I bet I wouldn’t have had as much
trouble fitting our suitcases into Cami as what we went through trying to stuff
them into this glorified baby buggy. Or should I say
pram
, since we’re in Europe?”

For a panicked moment when
they’d begun packing their stuff into the car, Rhetta thought they might have
to unpack a couple of suitcases in order to get their stuff inside. Because
they hadn’t reserved a car, no full sized one was available. They had to settle
for a Peugeot 207, which by Rhetta’s calculations, was barely large enough for
her and Randolph and her carry on, plus one suitcase. The attendant, however,
was convinced they and their suitcases would all fit, even though the sign
above the car showed an outline of a person with a number “2,” and one of a
suitcase with the number “3.” To Rhetta, that meant three suitcases and both of
them. Good thing they weren’t big people. That was probably why Adolfo, the
animated attendant was sure he could fit them all in.

They found their hotel
easily, a mere four kilometers west at the very end of the
Avenue Onze de
Setembre
.
The Avenue didn’t go any farther or they’d have
landed in the Mediterranean Sea, which lapped the coast several hundred feet
below. The three-story rock main building covered with flowering vines and
secured by a tall wrought iron fence reminded Rhetta of Mediterranean castles
she’d seen in pictures.

A handsome twenty-something greeter
materialized by Randolph’s door as soon as he stopped the car under the hotel
portico. Jorge, according to the nametag he wore on his left shirt pocket. “I
will take care of your luggages,” he said, and beamed at them, “and also park
the car for you.” He motioned toward the double glass doors. “Please, I will
meet you at the desk inside.” Did he just wink at her? Rhetta also noticed his
clothes fit him to perfection.

“No. we’ll take our own
luggages
with us.” Rhetta leaned toward Randolph and whispered,
“I’m not letting our
luggages
out of my sight.”

As they crossed the tile
floor of the wide entry, a heavenly aroma of spices and noodles wafted their
way from the indoor-outdoor restaurant that opened from the lobby. “I’m
starved,” Rhetta said.

“Lunch will begin serving at
eleven o’clock,” the perky desk clerk answered with a broad smile. Her golden
hair was snugged into a bun at the nape of her neck, leaving two nearly white
tendrils cascading down ivory cheeks. While definitely not American, her accent
wasn’t Spanish.

“Where are you from?” Rhetta
asked as Randolph completed the registration process.

“Amsterdam,” she said. “I
speak six languages,” she added. “That’s why I am the day manager here. I can
speak fluently to almost all of our guests in their own language.”

By then, the gorgeous parking
creature had returned with a luggage cart, and led them to the elevator.

“Your room is number 307, on
the top floor, overlooking the gardens,” Jorge said, pressing the call button.
“There is also near you, the pool. It’s on the roof.” Again a megawatt smile.

Rhetta nudged her husband.
“Did you hear that? The pool is on the roof.”

The glass elevator glided
swiftly to the third floor. Rhetta noted that all the interior room doors
overlooked the spacious lobby below. The gardens must be the outside view.

Rhetta stopped and peered
over the wrought-iron balcony railing to the lobby below. The entryway was
filled with colorful pots filled with plants and trees, while flowers trailed
from hanging containers. She glanced down the hallway and spotted the glass
doors leading to the pool.

“Here we are,” said Jorge,
sliding the card key into the slot, then propping open the door. He pushed the
luggage trolley in ahead of them.

Just as she started to follow
Jorge and Randolph into the room, a man standing at the check-in counter caught
her attention. She took a step to the railing and peered over. It was hard to
tell from the top, looking down, but something about him was familiar.
Where have I
seen him before?
He turned left toward the dining area and disappeared
from view, so she turned her attention back to their room. She didn’t know
anyone in Spain. Did she?