Keeping Faith Read online

  "Because someone has to drive our car home," she says after a moment. "But you'll come later?"

  Millie glances at Mariah. "You bet." She zips Faith's spare clothes into the knapsack, then pulls the straps over her granddaughter's arms. "Be good," she adds, then kisses Faith on the forehead. She watches Mariah take Faith's hand and lead her out of the bathroom, Faith turning at the last minute to blow a kiss. Then Millie sits down in an empty toilet stall, imagining a thousand things that could go wrong now that Mariah and Faith have run away, imagining a thousand things that could have gone wrong even if they hadn't.

  Malcolm Metz spreads his capable hands on the surface of his highly polished desk. "Let me get this straight, Mr. White. You voluntarily relinquished custody of your daughter ten weeks ago. And now you want her to move in with you and your new wife."

  Colin nods. He tries not to feel daunted by the offices of Walloughby, Krieger and Metz, but they were far less intimidating six months earlier when he retrofitted the entire place with electroluminescent exit signs. Of course, back then he was only taking care of business. This visit is far more personal, and there's much more at stake.

  "That's correct." He assesses Metz slowly, from the man's closecropped salt-and-pepper hair to his Italian loafers. Known for his bulldozing drive to win, Metz is something of a New Hampshire litigating legend.

  The attorney taps the tips of his fingers together. "Why the change of heart?"

  Colin feels the beginnings of a slow burn. "Because my ex-wife is crazy? Because my daughter's been turned against me? Because I'm worried about her welfare? Take your pick."

  Metz has heard it all before. As a matter of fact, he has a court appearance in less than two hours as the divorce attorney for a reputed Mafia wife, and he would much rather be in the executive washroom perfecting his demeanor for the cameras that are sure to be there. A custody case like this--well, he should be able to win it in his sleep.

  "What has your ex-wife done to endanger your daughter?"

  "What have you heard about the little girl who's seeing God?"

  Malcolm stops drumming his fingers on his desk. "That's your kid?"

  "Yeah. No." Colin sighs. "Ah, shit. I don't even know anymore. There are a couple hundred people at the end of the driveway, and they all believe that Faith's turned into some prophet, and her hands are bleeding and...Christ." He looks at the attorney. "This is not the little girl I left."

  Malcolm silently extracts a yellow pad from a drawer of his desk. The potential for media coverage of this case is extraordinary--far beyond the narrow range of New Hampshire. He uncaps a pen and decides to sink his teeth in. "You believe that you would be better able to serve the interests of this child. You believe that living with her mother, as it stands, is adversely affecting your daughter." Colin nods. "Can you tell me why you didn't believe these same things just four months ago?"

  "Look, if I'm going to pay you a twenty-thousand-dollar retainer and five hundred dollars an hour over that, then I don't have to explain anything. I want my daughter. I want her now. I heard that you could help me. Period."

  Malcolm holds his client's gaze for a moment. "You want full custody?"

  "Yes."

  "At all costs?"

  Colin does not have to ask what Metz means. He knows that the surest way to prove himself the better parent is to make Mariah look worse. By the time this is over, Mariah won't lose only Faith. She'll also have lost her self-respect.

  He shifts uncomfortably. It is not what he wants to do, but he doesn't really have a choice. Just as when he made the decision to have Mariah committed, the ends here justify the means. Just as then, he is only concerned for the safety of someone he loves.

  He has a painful flashback of the night Mariah tried to kill herself--the blood everywhere, his name still bubbling on her lips. He forces himself to imagine Faith hiding when he appeared yesterday at the door. "I want my daughter back," Colin repeats firmly, convincing himself. "You do whatever it takes."

  Last Tuesday Ian Fletcher flew out of Manchester, a little airport trying to pretend it was several shades more cosmopolitan than it actually was. It was, in a word, a nightmare. Not only was his flight to Kansas City delayed, but there was no Admiral's Club to lounge in before the flight, meaning that he'd spent the better part of an hour hiding in a bathroom stall to avoid recognition. This week he was flying out of Boston. It meant a longer limo ride to the airport, but a considerably less stressful journey.

  "Sir? What airline are you traveling?"

  At the sound of the chauffeur's voice, Ian leans forward. "American." He gathers his briefcase as the limousine snakes into a spot at the curb, signs the credit-card receipt, and hands the clipboard back to the driver without saying another word. Keeping his head low, he ducks to the right, toward the bank of elevators that he knows will take him to the private first-class passenger club, where he can wait in a secluded room until his flight is called.

  Mariah stands in front of the departures board, skimming the list of destinations. So many places; how is she to pick? It is not as if one destination holds any edge over another--no matter where they wind up, they will be starting from scratch.

  "Mom?" Faith asks, tugging at her arm. "Can we go to Vegas?"

  A smile tugs at Mariah's mouth. "What do you know about Vegas?"

  "Daddy went there once. You can push buttons, and money just comes flying out at you. I saw it on TV."

  "Well, it's not quite like that. You have to be very, very lucky. And anyway, I don't even see a flight to Las Vegas listed here."

  "So where are we going?"

  Good question. Mariah smooths her hand over her purse, considering how much money she has inside. Two thousand dollars in cash--God, she feels like a walking target. But she knows better than to leave a paper trail, and this was as much money as she could get out of a local bank on short notice. If they are frugal, she and Faith should be able to remain undetected for a little while at least. And if they manage to elude the media, maybe the interest in Faith will just die down.

  Without a passport, she's limited to the United States. Hawaii--she's always wanted to go to Hawaii, but the tickets are sure to be phenomenally expensive and eat into their budget. Mariah's eyes run down the columns again. There is a flight to Los Angeles at noon. One to Kansas City, Missouri at eleven-fifteen.

  She leads Faith to the line where they can purchase standby tickets, deciding that their destination, quite simply, is whatever plane leaves this airport first.

  As they board, Mariah finds herself thanking God that the story about Faith has only just gone national, meaning that most people with whom they come in contact--the flight attendant, the nice man who offers to stuff their knapsacks into the overhead compartment--look at them and see a mother and her child, instead of a pair of media fugitives.

  Faith has only been on a plane twice before, once as a baby when her grandfather died and once when they all went to Washington D.C., for a family vacation. She bounces in her seat, craning her neck to get a better peek at the first-class cabin, which they are seated directly behind. "What's in there? How come the seats are a different color?"

  "It's where businessmen and people who have a lot of money sit. They pay more for those seats."

  "Why didn't we pay for them?"

  "Because..." Mariah throws an exasperated look in her daughter's direction. "Just because," she says as the flight attendant unsnaps a blue curtain to shield the cabin from view.

  "Final boarding call for Flight 5456 to Kansas City..."

  Ian strides toward the gate and presents his boarding pass. "Mr. Fletcher," the airline representative says, "I enjoy your show."

  He nods brusquely and hurries toward the plane, handing the flight attendant his coat and settling into his seat. "Good morning, Mr. Fletcher. Can I get you something to drink before takeoff?"

  "Bourbon, straight."

  There are three other passengers in first class, a pain in the ass, but not a tragedy. It