G. Moffat - Blindside

Armstrong took the card from her. ‘I’ll do that. I’m pretty sure I won’t get attacked in their swanky office.’

Irvine narrowed her eyes at him, drummed her fingers on the desk.

‘It would give me a chance to pick up Connor early from the childminder’s, I suppose,’ she said.

‘Connor’s your son.’

She nodded, though he hadn’t asked it as a question.

‘So go. Do it. Take a couple of hours off and swallow some painkillers.’

At home, Irvine made Connor his favourite dinner of spaghetti with cheese sauce and gave him a bath after watching a Scooby Doo DVD. He loved Scooby Doo. Maybe as much as she did.

She let him splash around in the bath with his toys before taking him to his room and reading him a few pages of Winnie-the-Pooh. He listened rapt as she told him about Pooh’s and Piglet’s not-so-brilliant plan to kidnap Roo. She found herself vaguely disturbed — thinking that it was a little too much like a child abduction plot. Then Kanga gave Piglet a cold bath for his troubles. Order restored to the Hundred Acre Wood.

Crime and punishment.

If only it was that easy in reality.

After Connor was settled in bed, Irvine checked her mobile, hoping that Logan had called. He had not.

‘Probably still in the air,’ she told herself.

She ran a bath and looked in the mirror at the ever-expanding mass of black and purple bruising that seemed to be spreading across her face.

Undressing in the bathroom and leaving her clothes in a heap on the floor, she slipped into the hot water and dipped her head, soaking her hair and pushing it back. After that she doused a facecloth with cold water from the tap, put it over her face and lay back, trying hard not to remember the fear she felt back in Suzie Murray’s building as the man who might have killed Joanna Lewski came at her.

Descending into Denver International Airport, Logan stared out of the window of the 747 jet at the vast expanse of the Great Plains. He knew that the city sat in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains and was surprised at how flat the land was.

Cahill was still dozing in the seat next to him. In fact, he’d slept for almost half of the flight while Logan tossed and turned for an hour before giving up on sleep and watching two movies and some episodes of Seinfeld.

The terminal building was visible on the left as they cruised in to land: a series of white peaks looking like snow-covered mountains. It was a unique design for an airport. Logan remembered Cahill telling him a while back that the roof had partially collapsed under the weight of snow one year.

The big plane touched down and the pilot engaged reverse thrust. Logan felt himself slide forward on the leather of his seat. Cahill stirred and opened his eyes, blinking away the residual sleep.

‘We there yet?’ he asked, smiling.

Logan tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. He rubbed at his own eyes and felt the early morning start beginning to wear him down. His watch was still on UK time and it showed just after ten at night, totally at odds with the bright sunshine outside.

‘What’s the time difference?’ Logan asked Cahill.

‘Seven hours.’

Logan fiddled with his watch until he got it to three. He stretched and yawned as the plane slowed and turned towards the terminal.

‘Best way to beat the jet lag is to try to get acclimatised now. Stay awake as long as you can.’

Logan nodded, knew he was right. He also knew that he was going to struggle to make it much past dinner.

‘Trouble with this place,’ Cahill went on, ‘is you’ve got the altitude to adjust to as well. You’ll probably feel nauseous for a day or two till your body gets used to the thin air.’

‘Great.’

Cahill clapped a hand on his shoulder and unbuckled his seatbelt. The plane was still moving. Logan had a thing about keeping his belt fastened till the light went off. Cahill was not so much one for the rules. He stood and opened the overhead luggage space, drawing a look from one of the female stewards at the front of the cabin. He smiled at her sheepishly, a look Logan guessed he’d perfected over many years. The woman shook her head and smiled. The benefits of looking a bit like Bob Redford.

All his friends call him Bob.

They trooped off the plane and walked with the other passengers through a series of long corridors. Logan noticed a lot of Native American images on the walls and heard chanted music. He asked Cahill what it was about.

‘American guilt. Like all this makes up for everything that was done to the native population. You’ll see when we get into town that a lot of the streets are named after tribes as well. Champa, Arapahoe and the like.’

The arrivals hall was like any other place: everyone was tired and desperate to get to their end destination. Logan was glad that they had packed carry-on luggage only as they walked towards the immigration lines.

‘This is where we find out’, Cahill said, ‘if we are persons of interest.’ He made quotation marks in the air with his fingers.

‘Nice euphemism,’ Logan said.

‘You ready to be locked away in a room for several hours?’

‘Not really. Unless there’s a couch I can crash on.’

‘There will be a floor. Beyond that, who can say.’

‘Look forward to it.’

There were separate queues for US citizens and foreign nationals so Logan and Cahill split up and waited in line. Logan looked across at Cahill and saw that he would be at the desk before Cahill.

He stood nervously behind the white line, watching as a German family in front of him went through the process: the parents having their fingerprints scanned and recorded digitally. The young man behind the desk wore a navy blue uniform with Department of Homeland Security insignia and a sidearm in a belt holster. His shirt was tight on his muscular frame.

When the family was done, the officer waved Logan forward. Logan glanced quickly over at the US queue and saw that Cahill was third in line.

‘Afternoon, sir,’ the officer said as Logan handed over his passport.

The name badge pinned to his shirt read ‘Whitaker’.

He looked at the passport and up at Logan. ‘What brings you to Denver, sir?’

Unfailingly polite.

‘I’m here with a friend. He’s over here to see some family.’

Whitaker looked at the line of people behind Logan.

‘He’s an American citizen,’ Logan said. ‘He’s in that line.’

Whitaker nodded and tapped something on the keyboard in front of him. He looked at a monitor screen hidden from Logan’s view under the desk. After a moment he asked Logan to register his fingerprints on the digital scanner. Logan did what he was asked, noticing that the officer had kept hold of his passport. He tapped some more on the keyboard while Logan went through the fingerprint process.

When he was done, Logan looked over again at Cahill and saw that he was now at the immigration desk as well.

Whitaker handed Logan his passport.

‘Welcome to Denver, sir. Have a nice stay.’

Logan smiled and said thanks, his heart beating hard enough to bruise itself against his ribcage.

He walked past the desk and over towards the US citizens desk to wait for Cahill. When he got there, Cahill looked over and winked. Logan was amazed that he looked so calm.

Logan went to the far wall and leaned against it, propping his bag up and closing his eyes. He felt exhausted, but knew Cahill was right about beating the jet lag. He couldn’t afford to go to sleep now — or in the next few hours.

When he opened his eyes, Cahill was at the immigration desk. The officer was speaking into a radio mike attached to his shirt. Logan came off the wall and felt his pulse start to accelerate again. What if they took Cahill and left him? He didn’t know much about US law — had visions of Cahill being transported to Guantanamo Bay in an orange jumpsuit and made to sit on the ground outside all day with a bag over his head.