Informed Consent by Melissa F Miller Page B

alone on a recorded message that could theoretically be discoverable evidence some day.
    Stevey’s message continued:
    “Oh. A friend of mine who works for the airlines gave me a head’s up. Leonard Connelly booked a ticket on a flight to Portland. Actually, he booked two tickets. Anyway, it looks like he’s headed your way. I hope it works out for you, old friend.”
    Doug’s emotions cycled through excitement that his son was coming; irritation that Stevey had overstepped—he hadn’t asked the man to monitor flights; anxiety about the fact that his son was apparently not coming alone; and, strangest of all, comfort from the genuine concern he detected in Stevey’s voice. The news that Leonard was bringing someone with him resonated most strongly. Doug knew that his son had, at one time, been employed by the U.S. Marshal’s Service. Although records showed him to be retired, Doug believed the maxim ‘once law enforcement, always law enforcement.’ A cold finger of uneasiness trailed along his lungs.
    He considered calling Stevey to get more details about his son’s traveling companion but decided against it. He didn’t want to involve Stevey any more than necessary in his personal business. If the meeting with his son went poorly, the less Stevey knew, the better. No, the prudent course would be to prepare for his visit as completely as he could in the next three days. Two days, he corrected himself. Tomorrow would be taken up entirely by the long trip to the oncologist’s office.
    He gulped down the remainder of his soup, grimacing at the taste of the now-cold liquid. But he needed nourishment to keep his strength up. There was much to do before Leonard arrived. Much to do.
    He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and pushed himself to standing. He was tough, he reminded himself. And unafraid—he added mentally—rolling up the sleeve of his pajama top and gazing for a moment at his faded tattoo.

14
    S asha appraised the diminutive woman who struggled down the aisle, wrestling with her suitcase as she bumped against the seats that edge the narrow pathway. She was smaller than Sasha—which was rare in itself—but looked friendly, if harried. Late middle-aged, maybe older. So even if she didn’t have children of her own, surely she’d been exposed to them in some capacity—as an aunt, a godmother, a neighbor? Please let her have the seat across the aisle, she willed silently.
    Better her than the sour-looking businessman who interrupted his haranguing cell phone call long enough to roll his eyes at her as she juggled both babies while Connelly engaged in whatever top-secret machinations allowed him to conceal carry his weapon on a commercial flight. And definitely better her than the gaggle of bridesmaids and already tipsy bride-to-be who’d stumbled past on their way to the back, tiaras and sashes crookedly in place. Maine in late October seemed like an odd destination for a bachelorette party, but she wasn’t one to judge.
    She simply wanted to survive the plane trip with a minimum of nasty looks and muttered comments. It seemed that merely appearing in public with infant twins was enough to ruin some adults’ days.
    The woman stopped, checked her ticket, and scooted into the seat across the aisle from Sasha. Yes, Sasha celebrated silently. The woman tried in vain to hoist her suitcase above her shoulders to jam it into the overhead compartment. She rested it on the seat and then tried again. Another miss. Ah, the travails of the petite.
    The woman’s seat mate, a thin man in his twenties with a soul patch and a sketchbook lolled his head against the window, sleeping. He wasn’t going to come to her aid. Sasha sensed the opportunity to buy some good will.
    “Excuse me, ma’am?” she said.
    The frazzled woman turned. “Yes?” Her eyes were enormous, magnified behind her glasses.
    “If you’ll hold my babies for a moment, I can get that up there for you.” She nodded toward the