Finding Fraser(120)

He raised a hand to the guard and there was a gentle sizzling sound for a moment before Hamish slid to the ground.

“Strap him up, too, Sammy,” said the police officer, holstering his Taser as Hamish groaned and tried to sit up. “We’re gonna need two gurneys for this lot.” He looked up at the crowd, still standing in silence. “Now’t to see here, folks. Move along to your flights, now—move along, tha’s right.”

“Holy smoke,” I said, and took a great gulp of air.

I realized I’d been holding my breath through the entire ordeal. Susan—I couldn’t bring myself to call her Sunshine—and Hamish. Maybe there was trouble in paradise, after all.

“Hey, wasn’t that…?” began Jack, staring after the police, but I pretended not to hear and hurried down the long airport hallway.

At the gate, a couple of airport employees were dismantling a Visit Scotland display. Several large posters—including the one for the Nairn Games—lay partially furled on the ground beside a large plastic claymore and a collection of gray Styrofoam stones. The workers stood together beside the largest of the standing stones, having a heated argument over which screwdriver they needed to finish the job.

Just then a group of perhaps eleven or twelve dark-haired young women came milling through the door from the Customs area. They giggled at the sight of the stone circle, and in the end, one of the workmen took pictures for them as they all flashed a peace sign.

Every woman clutched a copy of OUTLANDER in her hand.

Jack skirted the largest of the stones, dropped his computer bag onto a chair, and turned to me, his expression puzzled.

“About that fella…” he began, when his mobile phone rang, deep inside a coat pocket.

“Odd,” he said, fishing around for it. “Who’s callin’ me at this hour?”

“Is it the police again?” I asked, feeling a moment’s irrational panic.

“Nae, my guess is they’re busy enough with that blonde woman for the moment,” he muttered, grabbing the phone at last.

It stopped ringing just as he pulled it out of his pocket.

“Unknown number,” he read. “Damn—I hope it’s not one of those ‘You have just won a free cruise’ calls.”

He smiled at me apologetically and pushed the button. “I’ll just check if they left a message …”

After a few seconds listening, all the natural color drained out of his face. Ear pressed to the receiver, he reached with his free hand for the arm of the chair and sank down. A moment or two later, he pulled the phone away from his ear and touched the screen.

The airport demolition crew packed up their tools, and gave up, leaving the tumbled circle of stones standing by the airline gate. As they drove off, a Thank you for Visiting Scotland banner blew out of the bin on the back of their gently-beeping golf-cart and lay crumpled on the floor beside the archway.

“Are you okay, Jack?” I asked, sitting beside him. “Is it bad news?”

Wordlessly, he hit the replay button and held it up to me. The message began to run again before I could get the phone to my ear.

“…el Gibson, calling. I’ve just read yer book, mate, and I want the rights. They’re to go to no one else, got that? I’ve a script treatment in mind already—it’s clear as day in m’head; clear as day. I need this book, Findlay. It’ll mean my redemption, man. I’ve taken so much shit over the years—it’s time for me to atone. The Braveheart shall rise again, as God is my witness! Call me, babe.”

I stared at Jack, open-mouthed. He took the phone from my limp hand, and brushed his lips against my cheek. “Fancy a trip to California?” he murmured. “I might need to talk to a fella.”

There was nothing I could think of to say.

They called our flight, and as we walked toward the gate that marked the way to our airplane, he took my icy fingers in his warm hands.

And I swear on my tattered, worn and well-loved copy of OUTLANDER, as we stepped hand-in-hand through that stone circle, I felt the air begin to hum.