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Weird.
Chapter 17
I got to the Denver International Airport early the next morning to meet Heidi and Patrick. Out of all the airports I’d been to, none of them were quite as unique as DIA. It was a point of pride for a lot of us native to Denver, but there was no denying the place was unapologetically weird. When I found them, Heidi was wearing Mardi Gras beads and sunglasses, even at the airport, but Patrick was in his usual perfect suit and tie.
“Why are you dressed like that?” I asked Heidi.
“Because vacay!” She beamed.
“But it’s Vegas, not New Orle—wait, aren’t you not allowed to go back to New Orleans?”
“I’mallowed. In fact, I think they would prefer it because of the warrant out for my arrest.” She sniffed.
Patrick’s head swiveled in an almost complete circle. “Come again?”
Heidi turned away and mumbled, “I can go back. I just might not be able tocomeback afterward.”
“Does this have something to do with how you got those beads?” I asked.
“These?” She held up the glittering plastic strands around her neck. “I got these at CVS. So, no, smarty-pants, it doesn’t.”
“When are you going to tell us what happened there?” I complained as we made our way to the check-in.
“It’s not a big deal,” she said breezily. “I’m wearing beads to be festive, and maybe I dressed this way to hide from the gargoyles. This airport is so freaking creepy, literally all the ‘artwork’ is staring at me.”
“Hurry up, let’s go,” Patrick said out of the corner of his mouth as I put my luggage on the conveyer belt at the security check.
“What’s your problem?” I asked. I’d only had one cup of coffee so far, and airports always required at least two before I felt awake enough to deal with them, especially DIA. “You’re not scared of the airport, too, are you?”
Heidi pulled down her glasses and rolled her eyes. “He thinks there are monsters that live in the tunnels,” she said, then pushed the glasses back up on her nose.
“Shut up,” he hissed.
“I need way more caffeine before we talk about monsters or pervy gargoyles,” I said. “It’s just an airport.”
“It can’t be just an airport with that atrocity outside,” he said, vaguely gesturing toward the entrance.
“Surely you don’t think Blucifer and the tunnels are connected?” I asked. I saw a Starbucks just past the gate and felt my mouth water. I had to admit, though, Patrick was right about the massive, unnecessarily blue statue of a mustang that Denverites had nicknamed Blucifer. Back in 2008, for unknown reasons, the airport had installed the sculpture outside theentrance to welcome travelers. Or to scare off children. He was creepy as all get-out, not to mention anatomically correct. Since he was over thirty feet tall, you really got an eyeful if you found yourself standing near the hooves. The worst part were the eyes. They were red and glowing, and you could even see them from the highway.
“Well, that horse killed his creator, so tell me whatyouthink,” Patrick said, his gaze shifty.
“That’s just a rumor,” Heidi groaned. “That horse didn’t kill his maker.”
“I hate to burst your bubble, Heidi, but that one’s actually true. I fact-checked it. When the creator was sculpting the horse, it fell on him and severed an artery. Killed him. So everybody just put it back together, installed those dead eyes, and put it on display. As you do.”
“Ewwww,” she squealed.
“See?” Patrick said as we passed through security and got our bags. “Now tell me there’s nothing to be scared of.”
I sighed. “Let’s get some coffee and then get on the plane so we’ll get home faster.”
“C’mon,” Heidi said as she followed me to the coffee counter, “it’s going to be fun! It’s Vegas! Jason will be there! There’s supposed to be a for-real open bar this time! And Cirque du Soleil! And who knows what else!”
“Yaaaaay,” I said weakly. All that sounded expensive. I appreciated her enthusiasm, though. Mandatory work trips tended to suck, but Vegas wasn’t as bad a location as some others I’d had to attend. One time, I’d worked at an office that insisted on having yearly meetings at a water park. Embarrassing and weird and not at all conducive to actual working. But then, neither was Vegas.
Patrick let out a big breath when we finally boarded the plane.
“Happy to be out of the airport?” I asked.
