Ghost Radio (25 page)

I paid my check, picked up my suitcase, took a few steps toward the exit, then stopped. I turned and walked back to the counter. I strained to listen to radio over the din of the restaurant. I wanted to hear Alondra's voice once more. To my surprise, though, it was a local morning show. The host, Howard Stern–style, suggested to a young porn actress that she'd “be more comfortable naked.” Guffaws greeted the comment. A red-haired waitress wearing glasses stopped in front of me and asked if I needed anything.

“No; nothing, thanks, I'm leaving. But someone just changed the station. Can you put it back to where it was before?”

“No one's changed that station in years,” she said. “Look.” She pointed at the radio's tuning dial, which was missing.

“But a second ago it was playing
Ghost Radio
!” I cried. “The young lady who waited on me even said she knew the program real well.”

“
Ghost Radio?
That's on at night, very late.”

“Yes, I know, but the other waitress, the dark-haired one, told me…”

I went behind the counter and opened the “Employees Only” door, revealing a tiny pantry.

“Miss!” I called.

A hand firmly grasped my shoulder and pulled me out. It was the redhead, furious.

“Sir, what are you looking for back there? No customers allowed! I'm gonna call security.”

“Sorry,” I said quickly. “I just wanted to ask your coworker something, the young lady who waited on me.”

“There's no one in there—and I don't have any coworker. I'm the only one who could possibly have waited on you, because I'm the only one here. Please get out of there; can't you see I don't have time for this?”

“She was a young woman with dark hair…” I repeated dumbly.

“Just me,” she said, with an aggressive stare, and pushed me toward the exit.

The executives had stopped their telephone conversations, stopped biting into their donuts and bagels, dropped their briefcases and PDAs. They stared at me distastefully, as if I'd embarrassed the entire traveling community by demanding anything other than food from the waitress. I tried to ignore their looks and discreetly remove myself from their field of vision, but I felt their stares following me as I exited the restaurant. The boarding call for my flight came over the loudspeaker. I forced myself to ignore that the voice sounded like Gabriel.

As I took my seat, I had a clear recollection of Colett jumping the station fence in her boots, concentrating on the console, drinking, eating, smiling, and brushing back her hair with the back of her hand.

Joaquin's return trip
was not especially comfortable.

The episode at the airport café had left him too keyed up to sleep. He wondered if he'd every sleep again. If he'd ever think a rational thought again. If he'd ever…oh God, the list was endless. Even the prospect of going home provided no comfort. What would happen when he got there? What day would it be? What week? What month? What year? The thoughts terrified him. As his flight prepared for takeoff, he felt his sanity slipping away.

He fought to maintain it, fought to make sense of things. Maybe he could find a rational, even scientific, explanation for all that had happened to him. But where? How?

He gripped the armrests; he was losing the battle to make sense of this. He was in some kind of a time warp, a temporal crossroads where different stages of his life intersected, future, past, and present all within reach, all mixed together. Quantum physics suggested things like this. Didn't it? No hypothesis seemed any more believable, or even any more real, than the next. He regretted not knowing more about the intellectual labyrinths and logical contradictions involved in time travel and parallel dimensions, but he thought nothing was going to make him feel better at this point.

Never before had he experienced such intense vertigo; as the plane taxied toward the runway he felt like he was entering an operating room, steeling himself for a brutal surgery. But as he heard the routine announcements that no computers or CD players could be used during takeoff, and to switch off cell phones for the remainder of the flight, Joaquin realized
that he was in a kind of isolation capsule, a space free of radio signals. If Gabriel could be believed, radio waves were audible beyond the world of the living, but they couldn't reach this airplane. Up in the sky, he was safe from
Ghost Radio,
safe from his counterpart, safe from the demons in his brain that were demolishing common sense. But he'd have to land eventually, and confront the public and their calls, confront the visions and apparitions. Maybe he should resign from the program. Maybe that would rid him of ghosts, hypothetical time travel, and this endless state of waking somnambulism. Even more important, perhaps it would dispel the pall of confusion that now surrounded the only part of his life he wasn't willing to give up: Alondra.

He repositioned himself in his seat and tried to go to sleep. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Mind letting me through? That's my seat.”

Joaquin jumped, startled; he'd thought the airplane door had already closed. He pulled back his legs, rubbed his eyes, and let the stranger pass. But looking up, he realized it wasn't a stranger. It was Gabriel.

“What a coincidence. This great big plane, and here we are seated right next to each other.”

He grinned from ear to ear, showing Joaquin his boarding pass as he eased into the window seat.

“I didn't think
you
needed one of those to be able to fly,” said Joaquin.

“I didn't want to miss the chance for us to chat again. We have so much to talk about.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Not much, my friend. You don't have a lot to offer anymore. Actually, I'm the one who's giving
you
things, like those souvenirs in your luggage. Happy days, huh?”

He smiled again. Menace gleamed in his eyes.

“Let's not talk, okay? I need some sleep.”

He pulled a magazine from the pocket in front of his seat and casually flipped through the pages.

“I just thought you might have some questions,” he said offhandedly.

I remained silent.

“Like about Alondra.”

“What about Alondra?” I asked, unable to remain silent.

“I said ‘Colett.' You do seem to get those names confused, don't you?”

“You said ‘Alondra.' I heard it clearly.”

“Want me to roll back time, and show you what I said.”

He shook the magazine and the photo of Colett fell out.

He picked it up and considered it.

“Hmm…how did this get here?”

I stared at him, my eyes narrowing with anger.

“Do you want it back?” he said, offering it to me.

I grabbed for it, but he snatched it away. Then he turned it over and looked at the back.

“That's odd, I thought this was a photo of Alondra. Look what it says.”

I looked at the back of the photo; written in black marker was the name Colett.

“It says ‘Colett,'” I said blandly.

“No, it doesn't. Look at it again.”

I looked at the back again, and watched as the letters rearranged themselves, until they spelled a different word. The word:
Toltec
.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I said handing the photo back to him. “Are you trying to tell me Colett is a Toltec?”

“Colett? Who's that?”

He showed me the back of the photograph again. Now it said “Alondra.”

“Do you really want to live this way, blind, always vulnerable to a past you can't even remember—a past still crouching in the shadows, ready to jump out and bite you on the ass?”

“I can take anything you can dish out. Always could.”

“You can be taken. I'll give you that.”

Cute. But Joaquin refused to let it get to him. Then a thought seemed
to cross his mind. A rich, juicy thought. And, for the first time in hours, he smiled.

“Okay, I have some questions for you.”

“Uh-huh,” Gabriel said, his eyes returning to the magazine.

“You said that on the other side, you couldn't hear us, couldn't hear anything, right?”

Gabriel nodded without looking up.

“How are we talking?”

“It says here that Lindsay Lohan is open to nude scenes if it's ‘integral to the plot.' Surprising, huh?”

“Did you hear me?”

“Not surprising that she'd do a nude scene, but that she knows the word ‘integral,'” Gabriel said, chuckling to himself.

“I asked you a question.”

“I know. I heard you.”

“And?”

“Haven't you figured it out yet?”

Joaquin took a deep breath.

“I should never have given it to you?”

“Given me what?”

“Ghost Radio.”

“You didn't give me
Ghost Radio.
I created it. I created it without you.”

“Created it? You don't even know what it is.”

“It's a radio show.”

“No, Joaquin, it's not a radio show. It never was. It's a machine.”

Joaquin woke suddenly.
He looked around. Gabriel was gone.

Joaquin's attention was diverted momentarily by one of the flight attendants passing in the aisle.

“Is this seat occupied?” he said.

“No, sir, everyone is on board and the door is locked. You're in luck—you'll be able to stretch out and rest.”

“Did you see someone here just now?”

“No. Just you.”

“Excuse me,” Joaquin said, and stood up.

“Sir, we're about to take off. You have to remain seated.”

“It's an emergency.”

Joaquin started quickly down the aisle, looking at all the passengers. He knew he wouldn't find Gabriel, but he was alert for anything suspicious, some kind of clue. Part of him still stubbornly refused to rule out the notion that this was all someone's idea of a practical joke. He knew it was impossible for anyone to take a joke this far, but he couldn't, or wouldn't, discard the idea.

The flight attendant followed him nervously.

“Sir, I need you to take your seat.”

Joaquin ignored her and continued his brisk pace, searching the faces of the surprised passengers, some of whom had already seen him humiliated and ejected from the café for his strange behavior; he recognized their scared, yet judgmental expressions. He didn't care. He reached the back of the plane and, one by one, opened the doors to all the bathrooms,
hoping to reveal the impostor masquerading as Gabriel. A second flight attendant joined the chase.

“Sir, if you won't sit down, we're going to have to postpone takeoff,” she said, with deliberate loudness so people would hear her and pressure him as well.

“Sit down already, godammit!” one passenger said.

“Get him off the plane. He's nuts,” added an old man wearing a visor.

Joaquin reached the kitchenette, where two more flight attendants told him in unison to return to his seat. He took a quick look around then went back up the aisle, coming face-to-face with his pursuers.

“I'm going, I'm going,” he said, pushing them out of his way.

However, instead of returning to his seat, he kept walking toward the front of the plane, checking all the passengers. As he reached the first-class curtain, an arm shot around his neck and squeezed, cutting off his breathing. He felt the barrel of a gun pressing into his temple.

“Don't move, you son of a bitch! U.S. marshal!” the man howled in his ear.

Sky marshal, just my luck, Joaquin thought. Another one of those things that only happens in movies.

He heard shouting, then a swelling ocean of voices. He tried to break free, but the chokehold had him completely paralyzed. Every time he tried to breathe, the marshal's arm applied more pressure.

He knew what this was: a sleeper hold. New York cops had abandoned it back in the eighties. Too many people died.

He relaxed, hoping the marshal would loosen his hold. He didn't want to become another statistic.

It didn't work. He still couldn't get enough air. His vision blurred.

The voices of the flight attendants, asking passengers to return to their seats, echoed in his head. The passengers seemed reluctant, voicing concerns. Several times Joaquin distinctly heard the word “bomb.” The pilot's voice came over the intercom, announcing that someone behaving suspiciously had been detained.

“There's no cause for alarm,” he said, “but we're going to have to go back to the gate.”

The passengers weren't calming down. Joaquin heard voices rising, demanding to be allowed off the plane. Several people turned to gape at him. He saw the distrust in their eyes. Did they mistake him for an Arab? It happened with Hispanics sometimes.

“Please, let me go,” he finally choked out. “I'm not a terrorist. I'm just looking for someone.”

“Tell it to the FBI.”

Joaquin heard the door of the plane open. Several agents came down the aisle, handcuffed him, and escorted him off the plane to a small room with a table and two chairs. As soon as they sat him down, he tried to describe what had happened as calmly as possible. But even he realized his explanation sounded totally insane.

“I was just looking for someone who I think might be blackmailing me. He was on board the plane, but I got distracted and he disappeared.”

“Are you sure? What's this person's name? What is your relationship? What are his motives?”

Every explanation sounded more ridiculous than the last, and his fatigue didn't help. It wasn't going to be easy to get out of this. It seemed to be a foregone conclusion that he'd spend the night in jail.

He watched his captors search his suitcase. They examined Gabriel's photos and scrutinized the other souvenirs.

“What is all this?”

“My life…in pictures,” Joaquin said, forcing a grin.

The FBI agents weren't amused.

The fact that this was his only luggage made him look even more suspicious. Joaquin explained that it had all been a mistake, that he was really embarrassed, and that he only wanted to go back home. He swore he wouldn't ever behave like that again. The officials listened like robots, repeating the same questions over and over again.

“Do you have any ties with terrorist organizations? Do you have any intentions to commit criminal acts against U.S. citizens?”

And so on.

One of them got a phone call and left the room to talk in private. Joaquin and the other agent sat quietly until he returned.

“Well, his story checks out. We're going to put him on the next flight. Please. Just relax.”

Joaquin couldn't believe his ears. How could they forgive him for disturbing a flight that way? How could they ignore the fact that he'd behaved like a lunatic and forced a U.S. marshal to reveal his identity? His actions had cost them thousands, tens of thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands of dollars. But he wouldn't contradict the only friendly words he'd heard all day, or during his whole trip, in fact. So he thanked his interrogators as they removed the cuffs.

“If this ever happens again, I'm afraid we're going to have to press charges.”

The agents escorted him to the gate. One of them offered him a Xanax to “take the edge off.” He accepted the pill, just in case, and put it in his shirt pocket. An option if things went pear-shaped again.

Joaquin waited quietly in the departure lounge, the agents on either side of him. In a little over an hour, the flight began boarding. Finally, his head was filled only with silence. One of the agents gave him a cold good-bye and sent him onto the plane with a single, ominous warning.

“If this happens again, I promise you I will
personally
fuck you up.”

“You'll never see me again,” said Joaquin. He hoped it was true.

He found his seat on the new plane. He'd heard lots of stories about people whose unusual behavior on flights had landed them in Kafkaesque situations, held as prisoners for months, years, simply because they'd had a panic attack or acted suspicious. He had behaved like an imbecile, and if they had wanted to, he felt sure they could have sent him all the way to Guantánamo. He plopped down with relief and buckled his belt, feeling surprisingly refreshed, as if he'd taken a shower after a good night's sleep. Then the telephone mounted in the back of the seat in front of him rang. The madness wasn't over.

He pushed the button to dislodge it and held the receiver to his ear.

“I'll just wish you bon voyage this time.”

It sounded like Gabriel.

Joaquin hung up.

He looked around; the airplane was identical to the one before. This was nothing unusual. All 767s look alike. But he recognized the faces of the people from the café, and some from the previous flight. They regarded him coolly, without hostility, without curiosity. They had the weary, anxious look of travelers and nothing more. The flight attendants were equally blasé. One of them stopped next to him and smiled.

Risking even more trouble, he said, “I'd like to apologize.”

“For what, sir?”

“For the way I behaved before.”

“I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about.”

“My mistake. I thought you were someone else,” he said quickly.

The attendant walked off with a puzzled frown on her face and went to see to other passengers who had just boarded. It had been another dream. Joaquin laughed, remembering Gabriel's words:

You really don't understand dreams.

He touched his shirt pocket. The Xanax was still there. He looked at it for a moment, then swallowed it without water.