Spy Mom (57 page)

I never defied Simon Still in the nine years I worked for him. I never purposefully lied to him or misled him or set him up to take the fall. And, believe me, there were times when doing so would have made my life easier. I was loyal even though Simon never treated me as anything more than an inconvenience.

The plane struggled to gain altitude, doing its best imitation of a salmon swimming up a stream of dark molasses. Gravity nipped at our heels, not willing to give up on this one quite yet. Simon read his newspaper. All around me, people slept peacefully. Maybe my sense of impending doom was misplaced? No one on this plane looked interesting enough to die in a dramatic fiery crash.

My head bounced uncomfortably against the small window when suddenly I seemed to rise out of my seat a few inches. My stomach lurched into my throat. Simon looked over the top of his newspaper at the cockpit door.

“Feels a little bit like Space Mountain in here,” he said. The noise and the wind outside grew steadily louder. The plane rolled right and began a rapid descent. One by one, the other passengers woke up to a troubling new reality. As we hit what felt like a speed bump, the cockpit door swung open, revealing the cause of this troubling new reality.

“You may have been on to something about the pilot,” Simon said calmly, while leaping from his seat. Inside the cockpit, the pilot slumped over the yoke, arms dangling at his sides, neck twisted at an unnatural angle, a rag doll abandoned by a child. Moving fast, Simon elbowed his way through the now screaming passengers and into the tiny cockpit. Trying to follow, I was surprised to suddenly find the huge man from across the aisle in my lap, with his arms wrapped around my neck. It took me a second to realize he wasn't trying to suffocate me but instead clinging to me, baby-monkey style.

“We're going to die!” he shrieked in an Australian accent. “There's no one flying the plane.” He was right about that, so I didn't see any point in trying to convince him otherwise. What was Simon doing? I tried to untangle myself from the man around my neck but it was a no go. We continued to plummet together, wrapped in a strange embrace.

“Sally, get up here!” Simon shouted.

“I cheated on her twice,” the Australian sobbed into my neck. “And then I lied about it. I wrecked her car and said I wasn't driving. And it was me in those naked photographs on the Web, even if you can't see my face.”

My companion was starting to remind me of a bad country song. At least if we crashed, I'd get some relief. I tried again to wrestle free but he hung on tighter.

“Sally!” Simon shouted again. “Now would be good!”

“Um, excuse me. I know you're scared but I have to go and help make sure this plane doesn't crash, okay?”

“Don't leave me!” he wailed.

“I'll come back in a minute,” I said, even though we didn't have as much as a minute left before we were all pudding.

“I can't let you go,” he cried. He was a big, strapping Australian with Wolverine-sized hands and he was not letting go. I could have killed him but that seemed harsh, considering the circumstances. It took all of my strength to rotate us around so my feet were now in the aisle.

As Simon pulled back on the yoke, trying to level the plane and bleed off the excess speed, it was as if we'd arrived at the bottom of Space Mountain. I stumbled and landed right on top of the Australian. Our faces were centimeters apart.

“Please don't take this the wrong way,” I said. “But this relationship is not working for me.” With that, I leaned hard with my elbow on the pressure point between his neck and shoulder and watched as his eyes immediately rolled back in his head.

In the cockpit, I found Simon sitting in the copilot's seat, shoulder-to-shoulder with the dead guy. As soon as he saw me, he started to get up.

“Sally, take the controls,” he said. “I need to move the pilot out of the way.”

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” I asked.

“Yes,” Simon said, shoving me into the now vacant copilot's seat. “We need room to work up here.”

I'd been thinking more along the lines of, is it a good idea for me to fly the plane?, but it was too late for discussion because Simon pulled his hands from the yolk and placed mine on it.

“Keep the nose on the artificial horizon,” he said.

I knew next to nothing about how to fly planes and thought “artificial horizon” could just as easily have been the name of a pop band, but I did as I was told and tried to aim the plane right for it.

“So it could be dysentery or poison that got him,” Simon said as he tried to pull the dead pilot from his seat. “My bet is on poison. Do you have an opinion?”

I might have if I hadn't been using my force of will to keep the plane aloft. Simon gave a final heave, pulling the pilot out of his seat and shoving him through the narrow cockpit door. Then he slammed the door shut, muffling the terrified screams of the passengers.

“There,” Simon said. “That should help. Are we level? How many feet?” He slid into the pilot's seat and fastened his harness securely. We were shoulder-to-shoulder in the cramped cockpit. Next to me, Simon was sweating and tapping his foot in an erratic rhythm. The idea that he might be nervous was something I was afraid to even consider. Simon didn't get nervous.

“I think we're level,” I said. “And at around sixteen thousand feet. That's pretty high, right?”

“Well,” he said, “that's from sea level. And what do we know Laos has many of?”

“Mountains,” I said.

“Correct. Try not to hit any.”

“Right. Sure.”

Quickly, I surveyed the horizon and was relieved to find no obvious mountains in our way. I was starting to feel better about my piloting skills, as long as no one asked me to land. Or turn.

“So?” he said.

“Poison,” I said. But we didn't have time to reflect on this for long because just as Simon got comfortable, a red light in the panel of instruments started blinking frantically. Naturally, it was the fuel gauge.

“Look out the window on your side, Sally. Look back toward the engine. What do you see?”

I saw clouds and blue sky and the sun reflected all along the silver wing. I also saw a stream of iridescent fuel flowing out of the plane and into the atmosphere. In the bright light, it was pretty.

“We have a situation,” I said.

“I suspected we might. This is their backup plan, Sally. Just in case the dead pilot didn't get the job done.”

“What do we do?” I asked, letting go of the yoke as Simon took control of the plane. He seemed oblivious to the passengers howling in the cabin behind us.

“We crash,” he said, “as gracefully as possible.”

Interesting. I had never been in a plane crash but for some reason it didn't scare me. Sometimes the odds are so much against you that fear seems an utter waste of time.

Outside, the engine on the right side cut out. I scrambled into my seat harness, pulling the straps as tight as they allowed.

“Well, that's inconvenient,” Simon said, tightening his grip on the yoke. Moments later, the other engine went silent.

“Now what?” I said, trying to keep the panic from my voice. I considered reminding Simon that if we'd taken the bus we would not, right now, have front row seats to an unscheduled plane crash. But I kept my mouth shut. No need to die angry.

“Find a field,” Simon said, without looking at me, “some open space, something without trees or jungle or water. Somewhere we can land.”

Appreciating his optimism, I pressed my face to the side window. The world below rushed by in a green blur. We were losing altitude as Simon struggled to keep the plane level with no working engines. A few miles ahead, I saw a temple surrounded by a few clear-cut acres dotted with statues. Not much, but it would have to do.

“Hard right,” I said. Wrestling the forces of gravity, Simon slowly turned the plane. “There,” I pointed. “The temple.”

Simon nodded thoughtfully. “When we're down and out of the plane,” he said, as if survival was a real possibility, “move. Don't stand around waiting for someone to take a shot at you.”

“But there are people back there in the cabin,” I said.

“And one of them probably has a bullet with your name on it and very little regard for life. Let's not be here to see what that looks like.”

That would be the backup, backup plan. Whoever they were, they were serious.

“Boy, these guys must really hate you,” I said, wanting to close my eyes as the sound of air rushing past the plane grew ever louder.

“Me?” Simon said. “Why do you think they want to kill me?”

In normal circumstances, I'd have wanted to spend a few minutes pondering what Simon said because it seemed important. But that was not going to happen because, before I could manage it, we fell out of the sky like a brick.

It was the middle of the rainy season in Laos and the ground was a thick casserole of mud and grasses and rocks. As the wheels of the plane plowed forward, the straps of my seat belt cut through my skin and knocked the wind out of my lungs. Back in the cabin, the passengers were nothing more than dice being tossed around on a craps table.

Simon held fast to the yoke, trying to keep the plane headed straight but it was a losing battle. The nose swung to the left and the wing went down into the mud, causing the plane to tumble. Sounding like a train barreling through a tunnel, the fuselage broke apart and drowned out what might have been me screaming. I caught a glimpse of an enormous stone temple as my pilot's seat came unmoored and I went flying, still strapped in, out of the collapsed side of the plane. I hit a crop of trees seat-side first and came down sideways in a broken heap. An unnerving silence filled the air as what was left of the plane slowly came to a stop alongside the temple. Monks in orange robes flowed out and down the steps like fiery comets moving every which way, emitting a low chant.

With my right hand, I undid the seat belt and fell directly into the mud. Blood ran freely from a gash in my upper arm.

“Get up,” I heard coming from behind me. I rolled over on my hands and knees and tried to stand up but everything was spinning. I wiped the blood from my eyes to see Simon emerge from the trees. His suit was dirty and torn but his hat was still on.

“How did you not lose your hat?” I asked, still on the ground. “We just crashed a plane.”

“Are you delirious?”

“I'm not sure. Are you wearing a hat?”

Simon put a hand on his head. “Yes, I am. What's wrong with your wrist?”

I looked down to see my left hand twisted at a very odd angle. “Oh, that's not so good.”

Without asking, Simon grabbed my hand and pulled my wrist back into its proper alignment. Bright pain flashed before me.

“I wish you hadn't done that,” I said, my jaw clenched so tight the muscles burned. But Simon was already heading back into the jungle.

I looked again at the wreckage, which was now crawling with monks searching for survivors. Slowly, I pulled myself to my feet, cradling one arm in the other, and took a tentative step forward. It was the first time I'd been in a situation where I felt the hopelessness of our fight, how small and ineffective I was in the face of the big sprawling enemy. But it would not be the last.

For some reason, I am thinking about the Australian's country song confession as we ride the escalator out of the ballpark. I hold Henry in one hand and Theo in the other, in case the escalator decides not to let them go at the bottom. I've heard the urban myth about plastic sandals and being eaten alive by escalators and I'm not taking any chances. Like I said, fear makes you do funny things.

In light of that, what happens next should not be a surprise but somehow it still is. Yoder is afraid. He sees this ending badly for him. The second his feet hit the sidewalk, he makes a run for it. And I'm not in a position to chase after him, exactly.

“Mom, why is your friend running away?” Theo and Henry stare after Yoder sprinting through the crowd as if he's being chased by a swarm of angry bees. “How's he going to get home?”

“Public transportation?” I suggest. “Maybe the bus or the Muni?”

I'm trying to formulate some sort of plan that gets Yoder back and gets Henry home before his mother starts to freak out, when Yoder stops short, frozen in place among the bronze statues of baseball legends surrounding him. Standing about ten feet in front of Yoder, looking like a rock star at a hoedown, is Simon Still. Of course I knew Simon would eventually be coming for Yoder, but I'd banked on him at least waiting until it was dark, thus buying me some time to figure out what to do. Besides, trying to kidnap a hostage who is rightfully mine in broad daylight seems the sort of plan I would come up with and is therefore highly suspect.

Yoder gives an audible yelp and begins backpedaling. He reminds me of a cartoon character and I grin, which is totally inappropriate. This is not funny. This is bad. Simon, moving forward, mirrors each step Yoder takes as if they are hostile dance partners.

“Mom, me and Henry want a baseball hat,” Theo says, pulling on my jacket. “One of those black-and-orange ones.” He's feeling cocky after pulling off the popcorn. I'm lucky he hasn't asked me for a Maserati or the Death Star LEGO set.

“Do you plan on trading it back and forth?” I ask, eyes still focused on Yoder and Simon, moving closer.

“Huh?”

“You asked for a single baseball hat. Don't you each want one?”

“Yeah,” says Theo, rolling his eyes. “We want two. Matching ones.”

“We can wear them to school! We can show Teacher Wendy!” says Henry.

“Teacher Wendy will be so excited to see our hats,” Theo says.

“Okay,” I say. “If you can spell ‘baseball' for me, you can each have one.”

Yoder turns and starts to run toward me. Simon doesn't break his stride. Meanwhile, the boys have a conference about how to spell “baseball.”