Call Out Page 4

Chapter Four

  At first, I wasn’t sure whether I was awake or still dreaming. The soft sounds of someone strumming an acoustic guitar drifted through the room, and someone—presumably not the same someone, but you never know in dreams—was using me for a human teddy bear.

  Reality asserted itself slowly, and I eased out from under London’s arm, trying not to wake him. I gave Brian a little wave as I passed him on the way to the bathroom, where I spent a good few minutes splashing water on my face, trying to wash away my sleepiness.

  I was drying my face when I heard a cell phone ring. It wasn’t my cell; mine plays the Imperial March. This one sounded like the mating call of some kind of robotic alien. Let it be Dylan, I thought as I dashed back into the room.

  But Brian had gone back to picking out notes on his guitar. It was London who had answered his cell. Mumbling into the phone, he fought his way free from the duvet and wandered out into the hall in his pajamas.

  “The girlfriend?” I asked, gesturing toward the door.

  Brian shook his head. “His mum, maybe. He’s between mistakes right now.”

  “Ouch.”

  “It’s just the truth. It’s like he goes out of his way to find girlfriends who won’t stick around.”

  “Some people are like that,” I said, making my way to the desk chair.

  “He wasn’t always. It’s like he’s given up on finding anything real.”

  “That’s kind of awful,” I said. “Is it the whole ‘rock star’ thing?”

  “It’s the whole ‘magic’ thing. He actually told a couple of his exes about it. Girls he was serious about. The first one thought he was mental, wanted him to see a shrink. But Julia was worse.”

  “What’s worse than having your girlfriend think you’re psycho?”

  “She believed him. She wanted him to learn how to control his powers. She said he’d been given a gift and he should use it to help others. She wanted him to be a superhero.”

  “But he just wanted to be himself,” I guessed. “And that wasn’t enough for her. And she broke things off.”

  “Yeah. But even worse, she made him doubt himself. Made him feel guilty for not being the hero she wanted him to be.”

  “What a bitch,” I said. “No one has a right to tell someone else what to do with his life. Who the hell died and made her God?”

  Brian flashed me a smile and went back to playing his guitar. Guess story time was over.

  “It’s too early in the morning for Pink Floyd.”

  “No such thing,” Brian disagreed. “Besides, it’s past noon.”

  I sighed, resigned to listening to him play one of the most depressing—and beautiful—songs in the history of rock music. Leaning back against the wall, I watched Brian for a moment while I gathered my thoughts. I knew I needed to fill him in on what London had learned during his internet search, but I wasn’t sure where to start. I followed the advice I’d given London the night before and opened my mouth to see what came out.

  “Turns out we’re in the wrong state to file a missing persons report,” I said. Tact and I are not friends until I’m fully awake and often not even then. “It has to be filed back in Dallas. In person.” I watched varied emotions flit across Brian’s face before he settled on resignation. “I’m going to have to talk to my brother at some point today and tell him what’s going on. I’ll see if he can work on things from that end,” I added.

  Brian gave me a solemn nod and then turned his attention back to the guitar.

  I grabbed my laptop and went back to bed, propping up on a giant mound of pillows. In the first rush of panic, I hadn’t been thinking clearly. I still wasn’t, but sleep had blown a little of the fog away, and it was time to play P.I.

  Starting with Dylan’s email accounts, I combed through every internet source I could think of, looking for some clue. Email first, then the social networking sites. I took another look at the airline info, even though I trusted London to know his way around a computer. Then I moved on to Dylan’s bank account.

  “Well, Dylan made it to DFW, at least,” I said.

  Brian stopped playing and looked up at me.

  “$3.56 charged to her debit card at Hudson News, DFW. Probably water and a Goodbar for the plane. Nothing after that, though.” I leaned my head back against the headboard, looking up at the ceiling.

  “Means she made it through security there,” Brian said, setting the guitar aside.

  “Yeah. Which means she probably was on that damned plane. Which means she had to have made it to Orlando.”

  “Then where the hell is she?” Brian rubbed his hands over his face.

  I didn’t know what to say. A knock on the door saved me from having to think about it. London had staggered out of the room without a key, and I didn’t even get the chance to give him a hard time about it.

  “We gotta go,” he said before the door even closed behind him.

  “Go where?”

  “No time. I’ll explain in the car. Just get dressed,” he told me, digging through his suitcase. He started dragging off his PJs right then and there, not the least bit shy about it. Not that he had any reason to be.

  I grabbed my suitcase and hid in the bathroom to change. I pulled on real clothes, ran a brush through my hair, and then stopped. Why the hell was I jumping to do what London said without any explanation? I was getting pretty damned tired of all the mystery and lack of communication.

  “Where exactly are we going?” I asked as I stepped out of the bathroom.

  “Catching a flight to Key West,” London answered, shoving what looked like a passport into his back pocket.

  “We’re doing what?” Brian asked. I was glad he’d spoken first. My own question wouldn’t have been nearly so polite.

  “Shelley found someone who can help us, but he lives in Key West. And he refuses to come to the mainland, so we’re going to him.”

  I flopped down in the desk chair and reached for my shoes. “And we’re all going why?”

  “We don’t need anyone else going missing,” Brian said. “We stick together.”

  “I knew you were going to say that,” I said with a sigh. I gave my backpack a once over, making sure I had my ID, money, and iPod.

  “Grab Dylan’s dress, too,” London told me.

  I did as I was told, carefully rolling the dress into a cylinder and tucking it into my backpack. Fussing over wrinkles seemed like a silly, girly thing to do right then, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. That done, we trooped out, headed to Key West to see a man about some magic.

  London used his phone to book our flight online while Brian wove his way through Orlando. We still had to deal with the ticket counter to pick up our boarding passes, and that small delay nearly made us miss our plane. My relief at making the flight turned to near-panic as I followed Brian up the jetway, visions of turboprops and seaplanes dancing in my head. Key West is about the size of a postage stamp, and I wasn’t sure the airport could handle jumbo-jets. My panic faded as we stepped onto the plane; we were flying to Key West on the airborne equivalent of a VW Bug, but at least it didn’t have pontoons or propellers.

  The boys had sprung for business class seats, the closest thing the baby jet had to first class. A glance back into economy, and I knew it was a good thing. I’d have felt a little cramped in those seats, but London-the-giant would’ve been riding with his knees against his forehead. Brian took a seat next to a grey-haired man who looked like the CEO of somewhere important. London and I were in the row behind them.

  “You want the window?” London asked.

  If we’d been stuck in steerage, I might have taken the window seat to give him the extra legroom. I’m nice like that. But I figured he’d be okay in these roomier seats, especially since we’d be on the ground in Key West in about an hour.

  “It’s all yours,” I told him, and he didn’t protest.

  The flying Bug began to taxi before I’d even gotten my safety belt fastened. We hit a bump, and I grabbe
d for the armrest. I made myself let go, forced myself to breathe and relax. We were still on the ground, still just driving around the airport toward the runway. There’d be plenty of time to panic after we were cleared for takeoff.

  Logically I knew we probably wouldn’t encounter anything worse than bad turbulence. I don’t know the exact odds of being in a plane crash, but it’s probably about as likely as winning the lottery. With the lotto, you can’t win if you don’t play. I looked at flying the same way: you can’t die in a plane crash if you stay on the ground. Odds against us dying or not, I couldn’t change how I felt. Phobias aren’t about logic. They aren’t about anything really. They just are.

  The attendants finished their safety instruction spiel, and the pilot came over the intercom, telling the crew to get ready for takeoff. That’s always my cue to flip out, though I’m pretty ninja about it. Dylan can always tell that I’m freaked, but the flight crew and other passengers remain blissfully ignorant.

  Sending up a silent prayer for a safe journey, I gripped the armrests again and squeezed my eyes shut. For some reason, I always think I’ll be less aware of leaving the ground if I can’t see it happening. It never really works, but it does help some.

  “Hey,” London said, his voice quiet and calm the way you’d talk to a spooked animal. “You okay?”

  “No.” Not even a little bit.

  London touched my hand, and I jumped. I made the mistake of turning to look at him and saw the runway rushing past outside the window. I closed my eyes again, only to open them a moment later in surprise as London took my hand in his. He smiled at me and gave my hand a little squeeze. Last night, I had offered him this small comfort while he told his story. Now he offered it back to me. I took it.

  Soon enough we were safely in the air. The pilot gave the all-clear, telling us it was safe to move about the cabin and turn on electronic devices, and I shifted down out of panic mode. London let go of my hand, and I felt a pang of disappointment that I wanted to kick myself for. I dug out my iPod and my headphones, just as London was doing. Headphones on and mellow playlist chosen, I settled back against the seat and tried to pretend I was on a bus.

  A moment later, I was back to wanting to kick myself, this time for the little thrill that went through me when London took my hand again. I can be such a girl sometimes.