Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

leather-wrapped wheel. Beltway 8 came up quickly, and I took it east like she’d said. Within minutes, I saw signs for the airport. At the first red light, I leaned over the seat, opened the glove box, and removed an envelope. Inside was a ticket to New Orleans
and my driver’s license
. Trish’s pervasive ways of doing business chilled me. I grew more worried with each new, meticulous detail.
    I set the envelope on the seat and called Jeannie.
    “Don’t go in,” she said. “Wait for help.”
    “If I take too long, she’ll know something’s up.”
    “It’s a bad idea.”
    “Tell Richard to make sure the FBI knows what’s going on. The airport’s packed. I don’t think she’d hurt me in front of all these people.”
    “She’s capable of anything. You should wait for the FBI.”
    I followed overhead signs for Terminal C and tried to stay out of the way of parking lot shuttle busses.
    “I won’t risk botching this trade. Tell them where I am. I’m sure they can move fast when they want to.”
    My lane veered to the left and took me under a set of bridges meant for planes, not cars. At the terminal, a long series of identical airplanes waited at the gates, parked in neat rows. I followed signs for short-term parking and drove up a spiral ramp into the garage.
    “I’m here,” I said. “I’ll call you when I get through security.”
    I parked in the first parking space I saw, marked for compact cars only, and popped the trunk. Inside, a sweater and a flesh-colored pillow in the shape of a half-oval were neatly arranged in a plastic grocery store sack. The pillow had an elastic band that looked like a belt, and when I lifted it and realized what it was, I felt queasy. The tag inside the sweater confirmed my fear: GapMaternity.
    I’d worn a similar faux-belly once—maternity stores keep them in dressing rooms so expectant moms can see how the clothes will fit later. What troubled me about Trish’s model was the careful stitching and added zipper that concealed a hollowed-out cavity. Grime along the lining and frayed edges near the clasp told me I wasn’t the first to wear it.
    I returned to the driver’s seat, stuffed the cash bundles into the pillow, and zipped it. Satisfied that no one was looking, I pulled off my cardigan and buckled the fake belly over the camisole I was wearing. Then I pulled the maternity sweater over my head, making sure to smooth it over my new baby bump. I locked the car and took the elevator to ground level. Even from a distance, jet fuel and exhaust fumes were unmistakable.
    Skycaps at the terminal entrance ignored me because I didn’t have a bag to check. I walked straight past customer check-in lines, computerized self-check kiosks, and bag check-in stations and stepped into the security line with a backpack containing two phones and a cardigan. A young mother in front of me collapsed a stroller with one swift stomp on its frame.
    “Guess this’ll be you soon,” she said, bending to lift it. “How much longer?”
    “Two months.”
    She gave a tired smile. “Prepare to haul a lot of stuff.”
    Behind her, a TSA officer patted down a Muslim passenger at the metal detector. I got nervous watching the officer’s blue latex gloves feel the back of a woman’s head through her hijab. Then the passenger raised her arms to the side and the gloved hands smoothed over each sleeve one at a time before running down the sides of her body. The gravity of what I was about to do overwhelmed me and it was an effort just to breathe. I acted like I was adjusting my waist band and discreetly moved the strap of my belly-pillow down so that it would overlay on the waistline of my Capris.
    At the x-ray machine, I put my shoes into a gray plastic bin and set them on the conveyer belt next to my bag. Then I took a slow, deep breath—careful to be subtle about it—looked straight ahead, and waited to be waved through the metal detector.
    The officer on the other side motioned me forward and nothing beeped.
    “Raise your arms to the sides, please.”
    I did what she said and willed myself not to sweat. She ran her hands along each of my arms as she’d done to the passengers before me. Then she ran them straight down my back and over my hips. She felt my ankles. Wordlessly, she nodded me through.
    I stepped to the side, put my shoes on, and headed toward my gate with the bag slung over one shoulder. To my right, an enormous longhorn steer head was mounted over the entrance to