He’d already spoken to Shep several times. Annabel’s transfer had squeaked through. When Shep had last seen her, she’d been stable, though her improvement seemed to have stalled out. Shep had made clear that being in contact with the doctors at her new location could put her or Mike – and, by extension, Kat – in harm’s way. It was a needless risk, and though it felt like swallowing barbed wire, Mike had acceded.
The upshot was that Shep was turned loose, finally, to run down Kiki Dupleshney. But none of that was what had Mike’s gut in an uproar.
It was the two boarding passes in Kat’s name, folded and rumpled from his pocket, sitting beside him on the bed. One for the 5:30 P.M. flight, one for 11:45.
The beside clock showed 5:01.
Hands sweating, he dialed, routing through the prepaid card’s calling center.
‘American Airlines, LAX.’
‘Will you please put me through to the gate for Flight 768?’ he asked. ‘I have an extremely urgent message for a passenger.’
His response was hold music. Daniel Powter was better than the usual, but Mike didn’t need the reminder that he’d had a bad day. The blue sky haaaw-liday was cut short by a singsongy male voice.
Mike said, ‘I have an important message for a ticketed passenger, Katherine Wingate.’
A pause. ‘Okay. Yes.’ Some rustling as the phone receiver was covered, and then, ‘There is someone here who can help you with that. Let me hand you off.’
A cool feminine voice. ‘Hello?’
Smart – they’d posted a female cop.
‘Hello,’ Mike said cautiously.
‘I’m with Katherine Wingate,’ the woman said. ‘I was told you have a message for her?’
Mike hung up. He bowed his head. If they were checking Annabel’s PayPal account and looking for flights under Kat’s name, that meant they’d be monitoring trains and borders and extended-family members. Which meant that he had no idea, beyond the four walls of this shit-ass motel, where to take his daughter that was safe.
Kat splashed away in the tub, the water’s reflection wavering off the open door. She was singing softly, the same off-key tenderness that infused Annabel’s voice when Mike listened to it through the baby monitor.
‘Lulla-by and good-night, with ro-ses bedight – Dad? What’s bedight? Dad?’
His voice was husky. ‘To decorate.’
‘Oh. Be-di-ight. Lullaby and good night-’
He ripped the boarding pass for the 5:30 flight in half, then kept tearing and tearing, the hundred tiny pieces fluttering like snow to the carpet. The lump in his throat was making it hard to breathe.
‘Lullaby and good night, thy mu-ther’s delight. Mother’s delight?’
‘You, honey,’ he managed. ‘That’s you.’
He tore up the boarding pass for the 11:45 flight that he was actually going to put her on if the first run had been clear, then stared down at the scraps.
What now? ‘
Bright angels beside my dar-ling abide. They will guard thee at rest.’
Mike tilted his head back, cleared his throat, wiped his nose. Kat was out of the bath now, drying off, her pink body stretched thin, elbows and kneecaps poking into sight at the towel’s edges. Absorbed water had bubbled the cheap particleboard counter; rust ringed the faucets. He thought, This is no place for her.
He remembered the plea Annabel had made as dark blood drooled from the gash between her ribs. For him to get Kat away from all this. For him to keep her safe.
And he considered the hard reality of what he might have to do to fulfill that promise.
He scooped up the confetti from the carpet, dumped it in the trash, and went to Kat. The towel, draped over her shoulders like a boxer’s robe, parted around the slight pout of her tummy. She’d dried her hair too exuberantly, the curls all ratted up. Of course no detangler spray, which Annabel would have thought to buy. He brushed patiently from the bottom up, working an inch at a time, the needling pain wearing Kat down until she was whimpering.
‘Stay still, honey, I have to-’
‘Ow. Ow.’ She pushed away. He caught her hands, lowered them, started over. He got half the job done and did his best to fight a ponytail through a hair band. Her eyes were watering from the pain, and he was growing more frustrated, trying to force it, trying to make it right. ‘Ow. Not like that, Dad.’ She finally pulled away and put her back to the counter, like a combatant. She was digging at her scalp with her nails now, scratching hard enough to raise welts at the hairline.
A calm dread descended over him. ‘Let me look.’
‘I don’t have lice.’
‘Let me look.’
‘No.’
‘Kat.’ He took her by a skinny arm, turned her, and tilted her head.
Tiny white dots at her nape.
Eggs.
She read his face in the mirror and fought out of his grasp. ‘No. Not again. No more mayonnaise on my head. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t. I can’t.’
‘We don’t have a choice!’ he yelled.
She flinched, her back to the counter, leaning away from him.
‘We’re out of choices. And the mayo doesn’t even work.’ His teeth were clenched. ‘Gentle isn’t effective, Kat. To fix this we have to consider harsher options. The chemical wash might sting and it might seem like it’s not good for you, but sometimes that’s what… what’s required… if we’re gonna keep you safe from…’
He realized, with horror, that he was about to cry.
Kat had gone as white as the towel, which had fallen to her feet. Her mouth was ajar, lips trembling. Arms half up in front of her.
He pressed a hand to the wall, leaned over a little, tried to catch his breath. Clenched, she waited. He reached for her, and she drew back violently.
‘I’m sorry. I miss your mom, too. She’s so much better at-’ His voice broke, hard. ‘I miss her, too.’
Kat unfroze, shoulders lowering first, then the arms coming loose. She crouched, picked up the towel, and wrapped it tightly around herself. Her head was down, and tears were dotting the worn-thin linoleum. He reached for her unsurely, but she didn’t push away, and then he drew her in and hugged her as she grasped his arm.
They watched bad TV for a while and ate a late dinner – ‘Oh, swell, Dad! Peanut butter and fruit juice! Mm-mmm.’ He did his best to smile, to keep things light, but his face felt wooden, the passing minutes a countdown to some terminal event. He took a long shower and dragged a disposable razor across his face. The last time I shaved, it was in my own bathroom, thinking I needed to pick up more razor blades. Annabel was in bed, flipping through a magazine and humming out of key to Nina Simone.
He shoveled cold water over his face to clear the residue, then returned to watch the end of The Simpsons. Finally he zipped Kat into the powder blue sleeping bag, checked the baby monitor’s batteries, and tucked it between her and Snowball II. He and Kat both pretended not to notice her scratching her head.
The curtains barely touched in the middle, so he slid a chair over to trap them closed. When he turned, Kat’s stare was focused and intense, and he realized that when his shirt had pulled up a moment ago, it had revealed the gun at the small of his back.
‘I’m scared,’ she said. ‘Of dying.’
He crossed, sat beside her, and ran a knuckle gently down the slope of her nose. ‘Everyone is.’