Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

some kind of ranch-themed gift shop. A phone rang, muffled in the backpack.
    “That was good,” Trish said. “Now turn around and go back the way you came. Go downstairs to baggage claim.”
    I looked up and down the wide corridor and didn’t see her anywhere. Above me, an overhead walkway extended from the elevators and escalators toward the parking garage I’d come from. A glass half-wall ran the length of the banister, and I could see she wasn’t up there either, but a wide concrete pillar spanning both levels near the elevator bank worried me. Anyone could be hiding behind it.
    “How much longer?”
    “Go to baggage claim. If you do what you’re told, you’ll have the kids within the hour.”
    The phone’s line went silent.
Within the hour
repeated in my mind. I imagined Annette in my arms and stepped onto the escalator, thankful to not have to limp down the steps.
    When the baggage claim area came into view, I counted eleven carousels. Unsure where to go, I dropped into a seat near the Visitor Information desk and watched a kid with light-up shoes chase his sister. A woman next to me complained to her friend that Newark was always a mess. She was chewing some potent spearmint gum. Trish called again.
    “See the ladies room in the corner behind Carousel 10?”
    I looked around and found it about ten yards ahead on the left.
    “Yes.”
    “See the pay phones?”
    Four telephones were directly in front of the restroom next to a stainless steel table built into the floor. None were in use.
    “Yes.”
    “When I hang up, go into the ladies room and leave both of your cell phones in the trashcan in the third stall. I’ll know if you call someone, so don’t blow it. Go to the pay phones and pick up the one that rings.”
    “Both of…what’d you say?” How could she
possibly
know about the disposable back-up phone in my bag?
    “Both phones. Yours and Kurt’s.”
    “I don’t have my phone,” I said. “Jeannie does.”
    “Sure, honey. Leave two phones or the deal’s off.”
    “Call her if you don’t believe me. The number’s—”
    “I have the number.” She hung up.
    Unsure what to do, I stayed in my seat. Six minutes later Trish called back.
    “Your friend’s a trash talker.” She paused. “Go to the restroom like I said and leave Kurt’s phone in the third stall.”
    The line went silent, and for a moment I felt paralyzed even though I was already hustling. In the restroom, several stalls, including the third, were occupied. When it was vacant, I went inside, chucked the phone into the trash, and backtracked toward the pay phones. I waited nearby until the phone nearest the table rang.
    “Stand by,” Trish said. “I’m waiting to hear about the phone.”
    “I did what you said.”
    She didn’t answer.
    I watched the ladies room only a few paces away. A mother came out with a little girl in red cowboy boots, towing a miniature bag on wheels. Two women in saris and scarves emerged. A middle-aged woman came out backward, pulling an elderly woman in her wheelchair. Who among them was checking the trash for Kurt’s phone?
    “Good,” Trish said finally. “An envelope is taped to the bottom of the table next to you.”
    I crouched and looked up at its base. “Got it.”
    “There’s another car key.”
    I opened the envelope as she spoke.
    “This one’s a silver Volvo. Take the inter-terminal train to Terminal A and go to its garage. The parking spot’s marked on the keychain.”
    I turned the key over.
    “There’s also a set of directions. That’s where we’ll make the exchange.”
    I closed my eyes. It was really going to happen.
    “Finally,” she said, “You’re being watched at the airport. And after you leave, you should know there’s a transponder on the car. No pit stops. Otherwise, deal’s off.”

Chapter Thirty-seven
    I didn’t dare stop driving. I imagined Trish at our meeting place, watching a circular blip, my car, creep across a computer screen. Beside her, maybe Casey was chewing on a teething toy or pulling himself up on furniture. I wondered if she’d feed him or change him if he cried.
    Annette would be terrified, and I felt responsible. She’d been torn from a second home, and this time she’d remember. How had Trish gotten her, and what had she told her, if anything? The line of thought stopped me. Maybe she’d been taken violently. What if her new parents, like Jack, were murdered during the abduction? I swallowed. Maybe Annette had been