The Stowaway Solution

  A rusted bicycle leaned against a trunk at the edge of the clearing. Not exactly a private jet, but transportation nonetheless. Her feet were killing her. She brushed a spiderweb off the handlebars and swung a leg over the seat.

  Both tires were flat and the frame was bent, making balance difficult. She pedaled for a few shaky yards before giving up. Walking would be faster.

  Town, it turned out, was only half a mile away. The dirt road intersected with a paved one, and a right turn brought her into a small strip of shops, restaurants, and houses.

  Most of the stores were closed. Apparently, they rolled up the sidewalks when tourist season ended on Labor Day. You could have safely fired a cannon down the main drag if not for the volunteer fire department. Dressed in heavy coats and boots, they were scrambling around a ladder truck performing some sort of practice drill. Otherwise, the place was quiet.

  “Son?”

  Meg wheeled around in surprise. An older woman in an Oprah Winfrey sweatshirt was watching her from the doorway of a small luncheonette. “Oh, sorry, I thought you were a boy.”

  “My summer haircut hasn’t grown out yet,” Meg explained smoothly. In fact, looking like a boy had been the whole point. At least, looking like anyone other than the fugitive Margaret Falconer.

  That was when the Oprah fan got a better view of Meg’s scratched and bruised face. “What happened to you?”

  “Bike accident,” she said, thinking of the rusty wreck she’d left back at the cabins. “I zigged when I should have zagged.” She started to walk on.

  The woman rushed over and took her arm. “You come back and get cleaned up. I’ve got a first aid kit behind the counter.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. My folks’ll be here to pick me up any minute.”

  But the Oprah fan was insistent. Meg was afraid that a stronger refusal would arouse suspicion. She allowed herself to be led into the bathroom and fussed over with soap, warm water, and antibiotic cream. It felt good, almost like laying down her burdens for a few minutes.

  Left alone, Meg gave herself a quick sponge bath with paper towels, removing a layer of dried sea-salt. When she emerged, she found a steaming bowl of vegetable soup and a dinner roll waiting for her at the counter.

  She hung back. “I don’t have any money.”

  “You don’t need money,” the woman said kindly. “That’s the last of everything. I don’t stay open for dinner in the off-season.”

  Meg hadn’t felt truly warm since she’d lowered herself into the freshwater tank of the Samantha D. The soup looked like heaven. She accepted it gratefully, burning her tongue and not caring. She slugged it back in record time, using the bread to soak up the very last drop.

  She felt almost human again and sat back on her stool, momentarily content. “That was great. Thanks,” she called into the kitchen.

  “Excuse me?” came the answering voice over the sound of running water.

  And then, from the TV mounted above the cash register, Meg heard two words that juiced an electric current through her body:

  “… Aiden Falconer.”

  Meg turned her head so quickly that her neck made an audible click. There on the screen, medical personnel surrounded a hospital bed, adjusting IVs and plumping pillows. As they stepped away, the patient was revealed.

  Aiden — alive!

  The entire world faded into the background as that single fact went supernova in her brain. Somehow, her brother had beaten the odds. He had made it. Meg wasn’t alone anymore.

  “Aiden Falconer, son of convicted traitors John and Louise Falconer, was brought by Medivac helicopter to Tillamook County Medical Center and treated for hypothermia and severe dehydration. His sister, Margaret, has not yet been located and is feared drowned in the storms that swept the Pacific Northwest on Thursday night.”

  “But you didn’t drown, did you?” The Oprah fan had come out of the kitchen and was regarding Meg intently.

  Meg took a shot at damage control. “Huh? I’m just waiting for a ride. That kid they found has nothing to do with me.”

  The Oprah fan slid a folded newspaper across the counter. It was open to page five, where the headline read FUGITIVE KIDS GO OVERBOARD OFF OREGON COAST.

  There was a picture of the Samantha D, docked in Seattle. Below that were two photographs that had become all too familiar — Aiden’s and Meg’s mug shots from the Department of Juvenile Corrections.

  Meg hesitated. She looked different now — but not different enough. She had been caught.

  She was off the stool, sprinting for the door in a flash.

  “Come back!” pleaded the woman. “Let me help you!”

  But Meg was already pounding down the street. The last thing she needed was “help” from the Oprah fan. Regular people believed that the justice system was on your side and turning yourself in was the sensible thing to do. Regular people didn’t know how the world really worked.

  Meg had thought she was too dispirited and weary to set one foot in front of the other. But the universe had changed. Aiden was alive, and she could fly if she had to.

  * * *

  Aiden had to give J. Edgar Giraffe credit. The agent was persistent. All day he stuck to Aiden like glue, leaving his side only for quick trips to the microwave to heat up a cup of coffee the size of one of the forty-two-gallon barrels the Falconers had stowed away in.

  To be cooped up with Harris was special torture. At first Aiden resolved to utter not one word to the man from the FBI. But lying in a hospital bed was boring in the extreme. As the interminable hours droned on, Aiden realized that his unwelcome companion was planning to sit there forever, slurping coffee and waiting for the patient to let slip something that would help the feds capture Meg.

  “You’re some piece of work,” Aiden accused. “It’s not enough for you to wreck my parents’ lives. You have to hang around to rub it in that I’m going to jail, too.”

  Harris leaned forward in his chair. “Well, let’s take a look at the charges — arson, escaping federal custody, breaking and entering, grand theft auto, resisting arrest, passing counterfeit money — ”

  “I never did that!” Aiden interrupted hotly. “I helped you catch the guy who was doing it!”

  “A Mr. Rodney Bergeron, first mate of the Samantha D, was arrested in Seattle for trying to pass a phony fifty-dollar bill,” Harris informed him. “According to him, it came from you.”

  “Because he stole it.”

  “So you admit that,” said Harris. “That’s quite a rap sheet, Aiden. People with that kind of record belong in custody. Where do you expect us to put you — Disney World?”

  “That’s not right, and you know it!” Aiden snapped. “None of that stuff would have happened if we were home with our parents!”

  “Your parents had a fair trial and were convicted,” the agent reminded him. “You may not like it, but that’s no excuse for breaking the law.”

  Aiden heaved himself up, dislodging the oxygen feed from his nostrils and tugging on the IV tube. “My parents were framed by Frank Lindenauer! And if you hadn’t been so anxious to close the case, you would have found out he was working for a charity that was part of HORUS!” He regarded Harris with loathing. “But no. You needed an arrest to show on Fox News. That’s why my parents are in prison for life. That’s why I’ve got a rap sheet. That’s why Meg — ” He fell silent.

  Harris jumped on the opening. “Where’s Meg? That’s the most important thing here — making sure you two are safe! Don’t you see that we want what’s best for you?”

  Aiden rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. “I don’t think my family can take much more of what you think is best for us,” he muttered acidly.

  The agent shifted in the chair, recrossing his long legs. “What would you say if I told you I can reopen your parents’ case? You give us everything you’ve learned about Lindenauer, and we’ll devote the full resources of the FBI to finding the truth.”

  Aiden couldn’t believe his ears. Was J
. Edgar Giraffe saying he believed them?

  “And Mom and Dad go free?”

  “If we find enough evidence for a new trial, and if your parents are found not guilty, then yes, they go free.”

  The bubble of hope popped just as quickly as it had appeared. He doesn’t want to clear Mom and Dad. He just wants me to cooperate because he thinks I can lead him to Meg.

  How could Aiden let himself believe, even for a second, that the architect of all their troubles might be willing to help them? Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  “Forget it,” he mumbled. “Do me a favor — want what’s best for somebody else next time.”

  “How can I convince you that I’m trying to do the right thing?” Harris asked earnestly.

  Aiden said nothing. In his opinion, J. Edgar Giraffe stood a better chance of sprouting wings and flying to Jupiter.

  He’s alive! He’s alive! He’s alive!

  The thought turbocharged Meg’s engine. She was out of town in the blink of an eye, leaving the luncheonette far behind.

  You’ve got to disappear in case the Oprah fan calls the cops.

  She wheeled off the main road into the cover of the woods, running easily. Everything felt better with hot food in her stomach and the knowledge that her brother was okay. Even the trees and brambles that had tormented her before seemed almost friendly now — a safe hiding place from the prying eyes of the world.

  She slowed to a fast walk, taking stock of her situation. Despite her relief, things were dire. Aiden was in the hospital, possibly hurt, definitely caught. Meg had to get to him, but how? The TV report said he was at Tillamook County Medical Center, but where was that? For that matter, where was she?

  I don’t even know the name of the town I just ran away from.

  First priority: finding the right hospital. It couldn’t be too far away. Aiden might have drifted up or down the coast a ways, but not hundreds of miles. This wasn’t a big city with a dozen different medical centers. There was probably only one for the entire area.

  Second priority: transportation. She had none, and no money for buses or taxis. If she tried to hitch a ride, that would arouse suspicion — especially since she looked like she’d been wrestling a grizzly bear.

  If I ever get to the hospital, I’ll fit right in — into intensive care.

  It was there, chewing on her own bitter joke, that she realized how she might reach her brother.

  She hiked north to the dirt road and followed it to the small community of cabins. The old bike was right where she’d left it, in the weeds at the edge of the clearing.

  She picked it up and got on once again, pedaling in a wobbly circle. The bent frame made riding difficult but not impossible. For her plan to succeed, she didn’t have to go very far, anyway.

  She walked the bike back toward town. Shortly before the paved road, she guided it into the woods. That was tougher going, navigating the ruined tires through underbrush over uneven ground. She struggled along, moving parallel to the main street, just inside the trees. There was the luncheonette, followed by a few other structures. The fire station was a hundred feet ahead. She could hear the shouts and commands of the firefighters as they performed their drills out front.

  Wrestling the bike through the growth, she hauled it over a narrow ditch and leaned it up against the side of a candle and gift shop, now closed for the season.

  Furtively, she peered around the corner of the building. She was watching the firefighters but kept an eye on the luncheonette as well. Had the Oprah fan turned her in? There was no police car parked at the curb, no uniformed officer taking the woman’s statement.

  Maybe she really wanted to help me. Maybe she’d be willing to drive me to Aiden.

  That would be a lot easier than the harebrained scheme Meg had in mind.

  She hesitated. I should ask her….

  She shook her head to clear it. Too risky. Fugitives have no friends. Everyone is a potential enemy.

  One of the firemen stepped out of his boots, tossed his gear into a pile, and started up a blue pickup truck.

  Meg stiffened like a pointer. This is it!

  Crunching gravel, the pickup turned left, heading north. Breathing a silent prayer, Meg rode straight into its path.

  It happened in a split second: The driver stomped on the brakes. The truck’s bed fishtailed. Meg pedaled madly, propelling herself right in front of tons of skidding metal.

  The side of the pickup slammed into the rear of the bike like a swinging bat connecting with a fastball. At the moment of impact, Meg hurled herself off the saddle and hit the pavement, rolling blindly away from the collision.

  The next thing she saw was a wall of blue metal screaming toward her.

  It was the worst kind of miscalculation — a fatal one.

  Aiden will never know how hard I tried —

  All at once, the truck lurched to a halt — six inches in front of her.

  The frantic driver was out of the truck and at her side instantly. “Kid — what happened?” He took in the mangled frame of the bike and assumed her small body was in just as damaged condition.

  Meg moved her arms and legs to make sure she wasn’t as badly hurt as she hoped she seemed. “I didn’t see you,” she said feebly.

  The rest of the crew of firefighters stampeded onto the scene, heavy boots flopping. One look at Meg and the command was passed along the line. “The ambulance!”

  Within sixty seconds, they had Meg strapped to a shutter, with her neck immobilized. An old Cadillac ambulance pulled up, and she was loaded inside.

  The driver of the pickup climbed in with her. “Don’t worry, kid. County is only twenty minutes away.”

  Meg frowned. “County?”

  “Tillamook County Medical — they’ll take good care of you.”

  The firefighter could tell that his patient was relieved. She smiled all the way to the hospital.

  The instant Emmanuel Harris stepped out of the room, Aiden began the count. He’d been doing it all afternoon. On average, it took the FBI agent one hundred eighty seconds to reheat his enormous Styrofoam vats of coffee. By Aiden’s best guess, that meant sixty seconds to the nurse’s pantry, sixty at the microwave, and sixty back again.

  He removed the oxygen feed and pulled out the IV tube, wincing as the needle came out of his arm. He threw on his salt-crusty jeans and T-shirt right over the hospital gown.

  … fifty-five … fifty-six …

  Patience … how’d you like to run into J. Edgar Giraffe in the hall?

  … fifty-nine … sixty!

  He was out the door in a flash, not running, but striding at maximum speed. He had no clue how to find the exit, just a vague recollection of the building on the way in. This was a small facility, not a big hospital. A couple of lucky turns and he should be out of here.

  … ninety-one … ninety-two …

  He pushed through heavy doors to be greeted by a gaggle of idiot-faced relatives cooing through Plexiglas at a nursery full of newborn infants. Whoops — Maternity. He reversed course and tried another corridor, scanning the signs: CARDIOLOGY, PEDIATRICS —

  Where’s Reception?

  … one-nineteen … one-twenty…. Harris would be leaving the pantry now, headed back to Aiden’s room.

  Don’t panic. Keep walking.

  Was that the entrance up ahead? His heart soared. But Harris might walk in on the empty bed any second now.

  He veered around the front desk, praying that no one would notice his disheveled clothes. The exit was twenty feet away. He made for it, his body tensed, ready to break into a run at the sound of Harris’s deep baritone voice.

  It didn’t happen. The glass sliders whooshed open, welcoming him to sweet, dusky freedom. He stepped out onto the roadway and jumped quickly back. An old-fashioned Cadillac ambulance hurtled up the drive toward Emergency, siren blaring.

  The split-second delay was a costly one. An iron grip closed on Aiden’s shoulder, spinning him around. He came face-to-face with a unif
ormed policeman.

  “I’m an uncle!” he babbled, recalling the maternity ward. Meg was the expert at excuses on the fly, but he had to try something. “My sister had her baby — I’m going to buy chocolate cigars — ”

  At that moment, six-foot-seven inches of indignant FBI agent came barreling through the main doors. He relaxed at the sight of Aiden in custody, but his anger did not dissipate.

  “I took it easy on you because you’ve been through a lot. That stops now. Ever been in arm restraints before? Feels like you’ve been nailed to the bed.” To the officer, he added, “I want a cop on every exit straight through till morning. Got it?”

  “I’ll tell the sheriff,” the man assented.

  Harris marched his prisoner back inside.

  Why do they need to guard the doors when I’m in restraints? Aiden wondered. How can I make a run for it if I’m strapped down?

  The answer struck him — Meg. They expected her to come after him. All at once, he understood why Harris had been so anxious to let the TV station do a story on him. It was a trap — a trap for the one Falconer they hadn’t caught yet.

  And I’m the bait.

  * * *

  To Meg’s eyes, Tillamook County Medical Center was a suspended ceiling and fluorescent lighting. She was still immobilized against the fiberglass shutter and could only stare straight up.

  Two volunteer firefighters carried her inside. The driver of the pickup was one of them. “Entering Emergency,” he informed her. “Approaching the admitting desk.”

  This running commentary had begun about thirty feet from the scene of the collision, right over the wailing of the siren. It was obvious the young man felt terrible and held himself responsible for the accident. He had no idea that Meg had orchestrated the whole thing.

  The concerned face of the nurse leaned into Meg’s field of view. “MVA?” the woman asked.

  “Motor vehicle accident,” the driver explained to Meg.

  “It looks worse than it is,” Meg told her. “You don’t have to keep me glued to this surfboard.” More to the point, how was she going to look for Aiden when she was trussed up like a turkey?