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in Buffalo by morning.” And if we’re not, we’ll still be standing in the breakdown lane with our thumbs out when that green car comes rolling up.
    â€œIf you think it’s okay,” Charlie said doubtfully.
    â€œCome on,” he said, “help me.”
    Gigantic bolt of pain as he got to his feet He swayed a little, closed his eyes, then opened them again. People looked surreal. Colors seemed too bright. A woman walked by on high heels, and every click on the airport tiles was the sound of a vault door being slammed.
    â€œDaddy, are you sure you can?” Her voice was small and very scared.
    Charlie. Only Charlie looked right.
    â€œI think I can,” he said. “Come on.”
    They left by a different door from the one they had entered, and the skycap who had noticed them getting out of the cab was busy unloading suitcases from the trunk of a car. He didn’t see them go out.
    â€œWhich way, Daddy?” Charlie asked.
    He looked both ways and saw the Northway, curving away below and to the right of the terminal building. How to get there, that was the question. There were roads everywhere—overpasses, underpasses, NO RIGHT TURN, STOP ON SIGNAL,KEEP LEFT, NO PARKING ANYTIME . Traffic signals flashing in the early-morning blackness like uneasy spirits.
    â€œThis way, I think,” he said, and they walked the length of the terminal beside the feeder road that was lined with LOADING AND UNLOADING ONLY signs. The sidewalk ended at the end of the terminal. A large silver Mercedes swept by them indifferently, and the reflected glow of the overhead sodium arcs on its surface made him wince.
    Charlie was looking at him questioningly.
    Andy nodded. “Just keep as far over to the side as you can. Are you cold?”
    â€œNo, Daddy.”
    â€œThank goodness it’s a warm night. Your mother would—”
    His mouth snapped shut over that.
    The two of them walked off into darkness, the big man with the broad shoulders and the little girl in the red pants and the green blouse, holding his hand, almost seeming to lead him.
8
    The green car showed up about fifteen minutes later and parked at the yellow curb. Two men got out, the same two who had chased Andy and Charlie to the cab back in Manhattan. The driver sat behind the wheel.
    An airport cop strolled up. “You can’t park here, sir,” he said. “If you’ll just pull up to—”
    â€œSure I can,” the driver said. He showed the cop his ID. The airport cop looked at it, looked at the driver, looked back at the picture on the ID.
    â€œOh,” he said. “I’m sorry, sir. Is it something we should know about?”
    â€œNothing that affects airport security,” the driver said, “but maybe you can help. Have you seen either of these two people tonight?” He handed the airport cop a picture of Andy, and then a fuzzy picture of Charlie. Her hair had been longer then. In the snap, it was braided into pigtails. Her mother had been alive then. “The girl’s a year or so older now,” the driver said. “Her hair’s a bit shorter. About to her shoulders.”
    The cop examined the pictures carefully, shuffling them back and forth. “You know, I believe I did see this littlegirl,” he said. “Towhead, isn’t she? Picture makes it a little hard to tell.”
    â€œTowhead, right.”
    â€œThe man her father?”
    â€œAsk me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.”
    The airport cop felt a wave of dislike for the blank-faced young man behind the wheel of the nondescript green car. He had had peripheral doings with the FBI, the CIA, and the outfit they called the Shop before. Their agents were all the same, blankly arrogant and patronizing. They regarded anyone in a bluesuit as a kiddy cop. But when they’d had the hijacking here five years ago, it had been the kiddy cops who got the guy, loaded down with grenades, off the