82 Desire

toasted cheese sandwiches and television in bed. Then thinking about all the work she still had to get done. And then beginning to fidget.
    She glanced at her watch. Oh, well. He’d only been gone ten minutes.
    People-watching was starting to pall because nearly everyone from her flight and the one at the next carousel had claimed their luggage and left.
    In another ten minutes, she was starting to get mad. How dare he leave her like this? Without even a magazine to read. He’d probably run into some old friend and stopped to chat.
    She got up and went to the ladies’ room—if he had to wait for her, too bad.
    But when she came back, there was still no Russell. She glanced at her watch. Thirty minutes to get a car out of the lot? What was going on?
    And then it dawned on her: He’d probably gotten stuck in airport traffic. She got up and stepped to the glass doors. Actually, it looked pretty clear out there.
    Only then did she feel the first stab of fear. Suppose he doesn’t come back? she thought. And then: Come on. Get rational. He just went to get the car.
    But she didn’t get rational. He could have gotten mugged. An airport parking lot would be a perfect place to wait until you saw someone alone.
    He could be lying unconscious.
    Or maybe he just left—simply walked away, like those husbands who go out for cigarettes and don’t come back.
    Uh-uh. Not Russell. He was pathetically uxorious—women would kill for a guy like Russell.
    But she couldn’t make that one fly, no matter how hard she tried. He hadn’t been, as they say, himself for a long time.
    But still. They’d had a great weekend, which he had suggested.
    On the other hand, people went a little nuts when their parents died, particularly the second parent, no matter how poorly they got along.
    But Russell just walking out? Not a chance. She’d go with mugging over that one.
    What else was there?
    Hit by a car, maybe?
    Some kind of snafu Bebe couldn’t conjure in her mind? Maybe he just forgot me , she thought. Maybe he got the car and drove on home.
    And maybe she was going nuts. That was assuredly it. She was going nuts. She was imagining all this.
    She looked at her watch again—fifty minutes, give or take, had now passed since Russell left.
    With nothing else to do, she called home. And there being no one home, there was no answer.
    Well, she could go look for the car if she had a clue where it was, but Russell had dropped her off and parked it.
    What, then?
    She couldn’t call the airport police and say, “This is Bebe Fortier and I’ve misplaced my husband.” She just couldn’t do that.
    She thought of calling her brother.
    But then she thought how stupid she’d feel if Russell turned up after she made the call.
    Hold on, Bebe. Let’s try again to be rational.
    She sat and tried to think, but her brain simply would not focus; absolutely refused to. Darted about like minnows in a stream.
    In the end, she did call the airport police, who couldn’t have been more sympathetic and who located the car in no time, looking as if nobody’d been near it in three days. Then they gave her a nice cup of coffee while they searched for Russell’s crumpled and bleeding body. And while she was sipping it, she decided things had progressed far enough to lean on her brother.
    She was in full meltdown by the time he came and got her.
    ***
    Skip said, “Where’s the car now?”
    “Still there, I guess. I should send someone for it. We called hospitals”—her voice trembled a little—”but nothing. He just disappeared into thin air. I don’t know … what to think.” She sat up straighter, pulling herself together. “As you can imagine, I’ve been on the phone to anyone I dared call. You know how people gossip in this town. I didn’t want to call the superintendent—I’m sure you understand.”
    They understood perfectly. She wasn’t an ally of the mayor’s, and the superintendent was the mayor’s appointee.
    “Someone finally gave me the name of Lieutenant Cappello.”
    Skip put it together: Cappello must have called McGuire and recommended Skip and Abasolo.
    “Is your husband in good health?”
    “The best. He was in a sailing accident a few years ago and he survived for almost a week with nothing but champagne.” She emitted a nervous titter.
    “Well, I guess I should ask your opinion before we go any farther. What do you think happened?”
    “I really have no idea. Could he have been kidnapped? Can you get kidnapped on