The Passenger Read Free

But I didn’t want to turn thirty before my time.
    â€œYou can’t get identities served to order,” Mr. Oliver said.
    â€œDo your best.”
    â€œHow can I reach you?”
    â€œI’ll reach you. Oh, and if you wouldn’t mind, I’m going to need some cash too. A couple grand should do it.”
    â€œYou’re not going to become a problem now, are you, Ms. Pitts?”
    He used my name like a weapon, knowing it would feel like a stab in the gut.
    â€œMake it five grand,” I said.
    I knew I could get more, but I had gone years without asking Mr. Oliver for a dime, and I found a point of pride in that.
    â€œWhere are you?” he said.
    â€œI’ll be in touch.”
    â€œWait,” he said. “How have you been?”
    I could have sworn the question was sincere, like it mattered to him. But I knew otherwise.
    â€œGood-bye, Mr. Oliver.”

Chapter 2
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    T HE next day I took 81 South to I-35 South, bisecting Oklahoma. I stopped in a town called Norman just after three thirty and checked into the Swan Lake Inn. I didn’t see a single swan or lake during my two-night stay. I gave Mr. Oliver exactly forty-eight hours before I made my second call.
    â€œDo you have it?” I said.
    â€œYes, I have what you requested,” he said.
    â€œI don’t want to wait. Tell me now. What is my name?”
    â€œAmelia Keen.”
    â€œAm-me-li-a Ke-en.” I sounded it out slowly. Then I said it again, trying to decide whether it suited me. I thought it did. “That’s a good name.”
    â€œI’m so happy you’re pleased,” Mr. Oliver said in the tone of an automaton.
    â€œWho was she?”
    â€œJust a girl who died a year ago in a house fire. No one is collecting death benefits. She wasn’t married and didn’t have any children. She was twenty-seven when she passed, which makes you twenty-eight now.”
    â€œYou got the age right. Form of ID?”
    â€œSocial security and a passport without a photo. Do you have an address for me?”
    â€œOvernight the documents care of Jane Green to the Swan Lake Inn on Clyde Avenue in Norman, Oklahoma. Then wire five grand to Amelia Keen at the Western Union office on Clyde Avenue. I’m going to ditch my phone after this call, so everything better be in order.”
    â€œYou—Ms. Keen,” he said. “I suppose you should start getting used to it.”
    â€œI suppose so.”
    â€œMs. Keen, be careful out there. If you get caught, you’re on your own.”
    â€œWasn’t I always?”
    â€œYou’ll have what you need tomorrow. I don’t expect we’ll need to speak again.”
    â€œI have one more favor I need to ask of you.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œDon’t try to kill me.”
    A MELIA K EEN . Amelia Keen. It was a name you could make something of. Maybe Amelia Keen had some ambition. Maybe she would go to college, learn another language. Amelia Keen could become a teacher, a businesswoman. Maybe she could fly airplanes, maybe become a doctor. Well, that was probably a stretch. But Amelia Keen could be educated. She could take up tennis or skiing; she could mingle with folks who did more than play pool at a bar every Saturday night. She could marry a man for more than his pretty last name.
    I walked down to the lobby of the Swan Lake Inn. I almost wanted to meet the misguided soul who’d named it, just to ask if he or probably she had bigger plans that had fallen through the cracks. It tried harder than the last fleabag motel, which made it somehow seem even more forsaken.
    I spoke to the desk clerk. She couldn’t have been older than nineteen. This didn’t look like a stop along the way—she was doing hard time at Swan Lake. You could tell from the way she clamped her mouth tight over her teeth that whatever dose of ambition she was dealt as a child she’d already squandered on booze and meth. She had