Silent Smile (Sheila Stone #10)

CHAPTER TWENTY

The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the rows of parked cars at Coldwater Regional Airport. Sheila crouched beside Mick's abandoned vehicle, a battered blue Subaru Outback with a layer of desert dust coating its exterior. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she methodically searched the car's interior, the heat of the day turning the vehicle into an oven.

The parking lot stretched out around her, a vast sea of asphalt punctuated by the occasional island of withered landscaping struggling against the desert heat. The low hum of jet engines thrummed in the air.

"Anything?" Finn called from a few feet away, his phone pressed to his ear. He paced back and forth, his free hand gesticulating as he spoke with airport security.

Sheila shook her head, rifling through the glove compartment. "Nothing yet. Just some old receipts and a manual. What about airport security?"

Finn ended his call and walked over, squinting against the glare reflecting off the cars. "They're on high alert. If Mick tries to board a plane, he'll be arrested on sight. They've got his photo at every checkpoint and gate."

Sheila sat back on her heels, a frown creasing her brow. "What if he's already gone, Finn? He could have used a fake ID, been prepared for this. For all we know, he's halfway to another country by now."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Finn said, but Sheila could hear the doubt in his voice. He sighed. "We don't even know for sure he's even here. The car could be a misdirect."

Sheila nodded, acknowledging the possibility. "Still, it's the best lead we've got right now." She turned back to the car, determined to find something, anything that might point them in the right direction.

As she reached under the driver's seat, her hand brushed against something. She pulled it out—a crumpled brochure, its glossy surface marred by coffee stains and creases.

"Finn," she called, holding up the brochure. "Look at this. It's for Banff National Park."

Finn leaned in, his eyebrows raised. "Banff? That's in Canada, isn't it?"

Sheila nodded, her mind racing. "Alberta, to be specific. It's a long way from here, but..."

She stood, brushing dust from her knees. "At the very least, it suggests he's been thinking about Canada. Let's head inside, see what we can find out about flights heading north."

As they hurried toward the terminal, Finn tapped away at his phone. "I'm pulling up everything we have on Mick Donovan. Background check, known associates, the works."

"Good," Sheila said. "But we can't narrow our focus too much based on a brochure. Like you said, the car could be a misdirection, and the brochure could be as well. If Mick is the killer, he could've planned this whole thing out to get us looking one way while he—"

"Wait a second," Finn said suddenly, stopping in his tracks. "Sheila, it says here he has family in Toronto. An aunt and a couple of cousins."

Sheila quickened her pace, her heart rate picking up. "That settles it. He's headed to Canada. Maybe not Banff, but definitely north of the border."

They pushed through the sliding doors into a chaos of noise and movement. The airport was packed, travelers rushing in every direction, their voices a constant buzz punctuated by announcements over the PA system. The air was thick with the mingled scents of fast food, perfume, and the indefinable odor of travel anxiety.

"What's going on?" Sheila asked a harried-looking security guard who was trying to direct a group of confused elderly tourists.

The guard sighed, wiping sweat from his brow. "Music festival in Las Vegas this weekend. We've got a bunch of charter flights heading out. It's been crazy all day."

Sheila and Finn exchanged a look. The crowds would make their job harder, but they might also have slowed Mick down if he was indeed here.

"Okay," Sheila said, her voice low as she leaned in close to Finn to be heard over the din. "Let's split up. You check the departure boards and info desks for flights to Canada. I'll talk to the airline representatives. Meet back here in ten minutes."

Finn nodded, already moving off toward the banks of monitors displaying flight information. Sheila made her way to the airline counters, flashing her badge to bypass the long queues of waiting passengers.

Ten minutes later, they reconvened, both slightly out of breath from navigating the crowded terminal.

"Anything?" Sheila asked.

Finn nodded, his expression tense. "There's an Air Canada flight to Toronto boarding right now at Gate 12. It's our best shot."

"Let's move," Sheila said, already breaking into a jog.

They hurried toward the gates, weaving through the throngs of travelers. Everywhere Sheila looked, she saw potential hiding spots for Mick—a crowd of chattering teenagers in festival gear, a busy coffee shop with people hunched over laptops, a chaotic family trying to corral excited children and overstuffed luggage.

As they approached Gate 12, Sheila's heart sank. The last passengers were already filing onto the jetway, a harried gate agent checking boarding passes.

"CCSD," Sheila said, flashing her badge at the startled employee. "We need to check the passengers."

The gate agent blinked, clearly flustered. "I... I don't know if I can—"

But Sheila was already pushing past, Finn close on her heels. They rushed onto the plane, the narrow aisle forcing them to move in single file. Sheila's eyes darted from face to face, searching for any sign of Mick Donovan.

"Excuse me." A flight attendant approached, her professional smile strained. "You can't be here. We're about to close the doors for takeoff."

"CCSD," Finn said, showing his badge. "We're looking for a suspect who may be on this flight. We just need a few more minutes."

As the flight attendant reluctantly agreed, Sheila continued her scan of the passengers. But as they reached the back of the plane, her heart sank. There was no sign of Mick Donovan.

Frustrated, they made their way back into the terminal. Sheila's eyes swept the crowd, not ready to give up. The noise of the airport seemed to swell around her—crying babies, arguing couples, the constant drone of announcements overhead.

"Maybe he's already in the air," Finn said. "We can contact Canadian authorities, get them a description of Mick and ask for surveillance on his aunt and uncle. If he makes contact with them—"

But Sheila had stopped listening. She was watching a man with a backpack who was hurrying away from the gate, his head down and shoulders hunched. There was something familiar about his gait, the way he kept glancing around furtively.

"Mick!" she called out on instinct, her voice cutting through the airport clamor.

The man faltered for a moment, his step hitching, before continuing on faster than before.

"That's him," Sheila said to Finn, adrenaline surging through her veins. "Let's go!"

They took off after Mick, weaving through the crowded terminal. Mick glanced back, saw them in pursuit, and broke into a run. He darted around a group of tourists, nearly bowling over a child in his haste.

"CCSD! Stop!" Finn shouted, but Mick only ran faster.

They chased him past souvenir shops and coffee stands, Mick's desperation lending him speed. He knocked over a luggage cart, sending bags spilling across their path. Sheila leapt over the obstacle, her focus solely on their quarry.

Mick veered suddenly, crashing through a "Staff Only" door. Sheila and Finn followed and soon found themselves in a maze of service corridors. Their footsteps echoed off the bare concrete walls as they pursued Mick through the bowels of the airport.

Left, right, another right—Sheila struggled to keep track of their twists and turns. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered, creating a strobe-like effect that added to the surreal nature of the chase.

Finally, Mick burst through another door, emerging onto the sun-drenched tarmac. The roar of jet engines filled the air as he sprinted across the open space, heading for a fence at the perimeter.

"Mick, stop!" Sheila yelled, her lungs burning from the exertion. "There's nowhere to go!"

But Mick kept running, his sneakers pounding on the asphalt. He reached the fence and began to climb, the chain links rattling under his weight.

Sheila put on a burst of speed, closing the distance. Just as Mick was about to clear the top of the fence, she lunged, grabbing his ankle. The rough metal of the fence scraped her arms, but she held on.

Mick kicked out, nearly catching Sheila in the face, but she managed to dodge the blow. Finn arrived a moment later, and together they dragged Mick down from the fence. He struggled fiercely, his elbow catching Sheila in the ribs, but they managed to pin him to the ground.

"Mick O'Donnell," Sheila panted, snapping handcuffs around his wrists, "you're under arrest for the murders of Amanda Weller and Carl Donovan."

"Shit," Mick said, his face pressed against the hot asphalt. "I told Jason this would happen!"