Around three-thirty, Rachel boarded the plane. She had booked a window seat because she liked the view of Boston, especially when the plane took the northwest corridor, which gave her a full shot of Cape Ann and Big Kettle Harbor just under Hawthorne. But with the low cloudbank, there would be no view today.
Because of a last-minute change of schedule, Bethany had been operated on that morning. According to her brother, the surgery went well, and her mother was on a respirator in the ICU recovery with a new biological valve made from pig tissue. Amazing what they could do in modern medicine, Rachel thought.
Inside her seat pocket was a copy of
But it was the story on page 9 that caught her eye.
“Searchers Abandon Hope of Finding Okeechobee Boy.”
The story went on to describe the all-out efforts of police, sheriff’s deputies, scuba divers, neighbors, and other volunteers to find six-year-old Travis Valentine who was last seen nearly two weeks ago in his backyard near Little Wiggins Canal. All that was found of the boy was a shoe and his butterfly net at the water’s edge. Divers had scoured the canal for over a mile, while hundreds of volunteers had searched the woods and canal banks all the way to the next town. “‘I hate to say it but my best guess is a gator got him,’” claimed the local sheriff. According to the article, there had been more than a dozen alligator attacks of children over the last eight years. “‘They hover below the surface out of sight. A dog or a child comes by, and whamo! They can shoot out of the water like a rocket.’
“Several large alligators have been killed over the last two weeks, but none containing the remains of the child.”
“Just last month young Travis was among five county children who had passed a qualifying test from the University of Florida that would guarantee him a full four-year UF scholarship should he graduate high school. The program is part of the SchoolSmart campaign to encourage children to stay in school …”
50
Oliver banked over Casco Bay and headed straight eastward on a course that would take them to the northern end of the Gulf of Maine. Until recently, he had vectored a southerly route toward Wilkinson Basin, about eighty kilometers off the coast—a quick ride out. While Jordan Basin in the gulf was farther by fifty kilometers, the floor fell down to more than two hundred and fifty meters, twice the depth—and where storm surges couldn’t reach and the currents were northeasterly toward Nova Scotia, not the other way. It was a longer flight, but less risky. And great foraging ground for bottom feeders and sharks.
The cloud ceiling was eight thousand feet, and visibility five miles. Rain was in the forecast for tomorrow, but they would have no trouble tonight. And a good thing it wasn’t Sunday, or he’d miss the quiz show.
When they were about an hour out, Oliver cut the engine speed.
Below the ocean was a vast black void. Not a ship light in sight. Nor any other planes. At a hundred feet, Phillip unlocked the door. They had rigged a chute from an old plastic playground slide and fit it across the rear seats. They also had devised a crank mechanism to open the door at high speeds.
“Approaching the mark,” Oliver said into his speakerphone.
Phillip finished his beer and got into position.
“Okay.”
Phillip began to crank open the door. The sound of the sucking air filled the cabin. Oliver could feel the cool rush. When it was partway open, Phillip tossed out the beer can.
Oliver steadied the plane against the turbulence, keeping his eyes on the dials.
Usually they would put them to sleep, but Phillip had forgotten the phenobarbital. It made no difference anyway. She didn’t have a clue.
Lilly lay groaning under a sheet. She was naked except for the polyvinyl chord around her arms and legs and fastened to a cinder block. Her head was a scabby mess, and she struggled feebly against the ropes. Her eyes were open, but they looked dead.
“Mark,” Oliver said, checking his instruments.
At one hundred feet, he would bank fifteen degrees to the right and let gravity do the trick. The sheet would stay because that was traceable. The rope they got in Florida, and wouldn’t connect in a million years.
“Now!”
And Lilly slid out feet first.
51
“But how come they have to kill them?” Dylan asked.
Martin and Dylan were watching an animal show about elephants and ivory poachers when the telephone rang.
He had expected to hear Rachel’s voice, telling him how her mother was finally out of ICU and had been moved to her own room. Yesterday when she called, Bethany was still recovering and barely alert, but the doctors said that she would soon be off the respirator and moved to her own room.
“For money,” Martin said, and grabbed the portable phone.
It was Lucius Malenko.
He had called to express condolences about Vanessa Watts and Julian just as he had to Rachel yesterday. The sentiment struck Martin as a little strange since they barely knew the family. Yet it was very considerate of him.
Malenko also happened to mention that he had a friend who had graduated from MIT the same year Martin had. He didn’t recognize the name. Before they said good-bye, Malenko reminded him of the time element. “This is not like having a tonsillectomy. There are considerable preparations to attend.”
“I’m aware of that,” Martin said.
“Even more critical are the time constraints. I’m leaving the country in a couple weeks and won’t be back for a month, which means that it may be another ten weeks before we can set up another time. And, frankly, Mr. Whitman, we’re running out of time.”
“I understand, believe me.”
“I’m not sure exactly why,” Malenko added, “but your wife seems to have reservations.”
“Yes, she has.”
He didn’t say it, of course, but Rachel had a tendency to let irrational concerns grow to paralyzing proportions. It was habitual: She’d worry things to death and end up getting nothing done. When Dylan was three, a New York textbook publisher with a Lexington office called her to say they were looking for an English editor with her experience and track record. They had hoped to woo her out of retirement with a handsome salary. For days she agonized over whether to pursue the opportunity or stay home with Dylan. Martin had pushed her to go for it. It would have been good for her; she was good at it. And they could have gotten great day care for Dylan. Not to mention how they could have used the extra salary. But no! She couldn’t let go. Dylan needed her—which was a lot of bullshit guilt. So somebody else got the job, and she remained your basic hausfrau.
