Jeff Abbott - Trust Me

His throat tightened as he looked at the plane. A private jet. Much like the one his father died in. A swirl of painful memories churned in his head; the rainy night in Washington, hugging his father goodbye and breathing in the Old Spice scent of him; finding his mother red-eyed at the breakfast table the next morning, bearing her grief alone because she wanted Luke to sleep through the night; the letters pouring in from the universities where he had been a guest lecturer, Cairo, Bonn, London; the news footage of the salvage ship off the North Carolina coast, hauling the wreckage aboard out of the gray depths a week after the crash. The eulogies about what a wonderful teacher his father had been, listening to them, his mother holding his hand so tight he could feel the skip and beat of her pulse under her skin.

And Henry, introducing himself to Luke at the reception, a plate of chicken and salad in his hand, offering the other cool palm to Luke to shake, saying how much he had admired his father. How much he would miss him. As if anyone could miss him more than Luke and his mom.

He wondered, with a jolt, how life would have been different if he had not run away three days after the service. He had given Henry an easy, sympathetic key to wriggle his way into the family. If he had stayed home, maybe his mother would never have become friends with Henry Shawcross.

They followed Frankie Wu onto the plane. The Learjet was larger than Luke had expected; with a private cabin and cockpit. The cabin seated ten. A small galley was at the front of the aircraft. Aubrey sat down and he sat next to her, his heart thrumming in his chest.

Wu completed his final inspections, walking around the plane. Aubrey and Luke waited in silence. Wu walked, a cell phone pressed to his ear. He said a few words, then listened while he completed the inspection.

‘He’s letting someone know we’ve checked in,’ Aubrey said.

‘Maybe,’ Luke said. He wasn’t sure what he would say if Wu asked for Lindoe’s ID. Say he’d lost it. A bead of sweat trickled past his ear.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘My dad died in the crash of a plane like this. A mechanic named Ace Beere worked for the charter service. He had extremist views he shared at work; he found out he was going to be fired. He sabotaged my dad’s flight. Him and several of his professor friends, they were flying down to Cape Hatteras for a retreat and some fishing. I’d wanted to go; he said no. Beere damaged the plane’s systems so it lost pressure midflight. Everyone on board suffocated, died from hypoxia. The plane kept flying, far past the coast, until it slammed into the Atlantic.’ He glanced around. ‘Yeah, this plane’s real similar.’ His throat tightened.

‘Oh, my God, I’m sorry. Are you going to be all right?’

‘I’m okay.’ He gripped the seat. Suddenly his father was like a physical presence in his chest.

‘You’re pale.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Tell me about your dad. What made him cool.’ She put her hand on his knee.

He savored the strength in her grip. ‘He always listened to me. He always had time for me. He was gone a lot, teaching overseas, and we didn’t always get to travel with him. But when he came home, I felt like the most important person in the world. Like he breathed in every word I said. He took me fishing, shooting – old school stuff that dads don’t do much with their kids any more. He always expected the best from me. That was a kindness, not a cruelty.’ He stopped, embarrassed, closing a hand around the Saint Michael’s medal on his neck, hidden under his shirt. ‘The man that killed him, I always wanted to understand why. How do you just snuff out innocent lives, how do you justify that decision? He committed suicide, so I could never know. But that shaped my life. My career. If I hadn’t been interested in the psychology of violence… I never would have been able to put together the Night Road for Henry. It all comes back to my dad’s death. It’s everything that has made me, shaped me.’

Wu stepped back aboard. He flexed the smile back on. ‘Looks like all the masking tape and glue is in place.’

‘Ha, ha,’ Aubrey said.

‘Did you check the baling wire?’ Luke asked.

‘Sealed it with spit,’ Frankie Wu said. ‘We’ll depart in just a couple of minutes.’ He vanished into the cockpit and shut the door.

Luke leaned into Aubrey’s ear and whispered, ‘He may be able to hear us over an intercom.’

Aubrey nodded. She said, in a clear voice, ‘Eric, hold my hand. Mr Wu might not have checked all the masking tape.’

Luke took her hand. It felt strange and right all at once. He was Eric Lindoe, at least for the next few hours, until he met his kidnapper’s benefactor.

Ten minutes later they arrowed into the sky and blasted toward the east.

She slept and Luke watched her. He wanted to sink into the warmth of sleep but he couldn’t.

New York. Paris.

He looked out the window, past the thin haze of clouds, over the glow of heartland light, as Illinois became Indiana, the diamond towns and the clouded black spreading beyond to Ohio and Kentucky. The low hum of the plane lullabied him.

He went to the cockpit and opened it. Frankie Wu was speaking softly into a radio and stopped, turned with a smile.

Luke asked, ‘Can I use my cell phone on this flight? I didn’t know if the rules were different for private jets.’

‘There’s a phone in the cabin you can use, yes.’

‘But not mine.’

‘No. I’m surprised you’d be wanting to call anyone, Eric.’ Like he knew Eric was running, Eric was in trouble.

Luke said, ‘I need to tell someone goodbye.’

Frankie Wu turned back to the controls without comment. Luke shut the door. He had no intention of using the cabin phone; it could be monitored and he didn’t want Wu overhearing this call. He sat at the back of the cabin and opened the phone he’d taken from Eric, the lifeline to Jane, and dialed Henry’s number.

‘Hello?’ Henry sounded exhausted. The reception was spotty.

For a moment he couldn’t speak. He listened to the sound of Henry’s breathing.

‘Hello?’ Henry repeated. He sounded nervous.

‘You sorry ass excuse for a human being.’

‘Luke. Thank God, thank God, you’re alive.’

‘I am never, ever going to forgive you for what you’ve done to me.’

‘Luke. Listen to me. I can help you. I’m your best hope.’

‘Your sorry bastard. You knew I had been kidnapped, you listened to me beg you for help and you hung up the goddamned phone. I saw you on TV…’

‘My clients – they’re not who I thought they were. They used us both. And they wouldn’t let me do anything but damn you to the public. But meet me, we’ll figure out how we can both get out of this mess.’

‘Mess? This is beyond a mess. You sent Mouser and Snow after me like dogs to hunt me down. They tried to kill me. They’ve killed people trying to kill me.’ His voice broke. ‘Well, I shot one of your dogs and stabbed the other, and I’m going to do the same to you.’

‘Don’t cut me out. Don’t. Tell me where you’re at. I’ll send you money; I’ll send you whatever you need to hide. Mouser was only supposed to find you and bring you to me. So I could make you… understand.’

‘Understand what? That you used me to knit together a terrorist network? Are you kidding me, what do you think I’m supposed to understand?’

‘I can deal with Mouser and Snow, and anyone like them who bothers you. But there is another man who’s hunting you. Drummond. Stay the hell away from him, from anyone connected to him or a group called Quicksilver.’

The breath gelled in Luke’s chest. ‘I… I don’t believe you.’

‘Listen carefully to me. The cabin where you were held, it was paid for by a company called Quicksilver Risk. Stay away from them. I am begging you to listen to me. I know I screwed up but I never wanted you hurt. Ever.’