“You won’t have a life, you idiot. You’ll be the story. Why can’t you see that?”
“You’re just trying to scare me. The truth is you don’t trust me. You don’t think I can handle it. That’s where you’re wrong, Pierce.”
“Don’t be a fool, Gasman. I’ve already promised you first shot at whatever happens. At least tell me where so I can keep an eye on you.”
“Forget it, Pierce. Even if I changed my mind, which I’m not, there’s not enough time. The meeting isn’t local,” he said looking at his watch. “My flight is leaving any minute now.”
“Your flight? Where are you meeting him? In the airport?” Gavin was frantic now. “Does he know what flight you’ll be on?”
“Relax, Detective. We’re not talking major airline here. I’ve got a private charter. And if it’ll make you feel any better, I’ve already asked them about the possibility of a bomb and they said the only one who could have possibly planted any explosives on this baby in the last three days would have to be the pilot himself. And I’ve seen him. He doesn’t look at all like our boy Krogan.”
“If it’s not a public flight, how would he know what plane to bomb?”
“Because he arranged the charter. He has a lot more at risk here than I do, you know.”
“Krogan arranged it?” Gavin wanted to go through the phone and wring Gasman’s neck.
“Now there you go again, repeating what I say. Look, Pierce, he’s just being careful. He wants to know what flight I’m on so he can make sure there are no tricks. He has to make sure I’m alone. He needs to know he can trust me. He wants to trust me. If he wants trust, I’ll give him trust. If he wants understanding, I’ll give him understanding. If he wants to be heard, I’ll let him speak.”
“He wants your life.”
“If he wants my life so badly there’re plenty of easier ways he could have taken it. I don’t wear a bulletproof vest or drive with three-inch-thick glass. I spoke to him this morning from a pay phone. I was a perfect target. If he wanted me, he could have had me then.”
“Maybe that wouldn’t have been as much fun for him.”
“Maybe you want the first shot at him. Maybe you’re jealous,” Gasman said.
“Open your eyes, Gasman. This isn’t a contest.”
“Oh, no? Tell me you don’t want Krogan’s face in your gun sights. This guy’s killed your grandfather and your friend and put your partner in the hospital. Tell me you can’t feel his neck in your hands.”
Gavin paused. “Look, I admit I want to take this guy off the planet more than anyone could. And if you quote me on that, we’re through. But you’ve got to believe me when I say that has nothing to do with it. I don’t know much, but I do know ‘understanding’ is not high on his list. Destruction is.”
“Touching, Pierce, but there’s a pretty redhead in a blue suit that wants to escort me to the jet. I’ll call you after the meeting. Wish me luck.”
“Wait!” Gavin yelled, to no avail.
Gasman put his phone away, picked up his attaché, and followed the woman out of the lounge and onto the macadam where the jet awaited him. He now wished he’d never called Pierce. What had it accomplished except make him feel nervous?
The redhead stopped at the bottom of the airplane steps. “Thank you for choosing Executive,” she said with a broad smile. “Rachel, your flight attendant, is on board and Captain Mills and his copilot will be here in a minute.”
Gasman smiled nervously and thanked her as he took his first step up. His feet felt as heavy as lead and his knees felt like rubber. Look what he’s done to me, he thought. I should never have called him. He had almost asked the redhead again about a bomb, but knew her answer would be the same. She had used the word “impossible.” He repeated the word to himself a few times, then managed the rest of the stairway.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Gasman. My name is Rachel,” said a petite blonde, extending her hand. “Is there anything I can get for you? A drink, maybe?”
Before Gasman stepped inside, his gaze quickly darted around the inside of the aircraft’s mid-cabin before finally coming to rest on Rachel’s cheery face. “Yeah, uh, scotch on the rocks,” he said, wondering where he would plant a bomb if he were Krogan. He had never felt claustrophobic before now. But the ceiling was so low he couldn’t even stand upright without the top of his curly hair brushing the ceiling. If a bomb did explode, he would stand as much chance as a spider in a gun barrel.
“Johnny Walker Black all right, sir?” Rachel asked.
“Black? Sure. Forget the cubes and make it a double.”
“No problem. Coming right up, Mr. Gasman. Find the seat of your choice and make yourself comfortable, sir.”
Gasman surveyed the puffy, white-leather seats. Turning toward the cabin, he saw the one he wanted. It was just behind the divider that separated him from the pilot. As he walked toward the seat he nervously twitched a bit lower at each ceiling light. All this luxury and expense and he suddenly decided he would rather be on a 747. Something that had more air in it to breathe.
Before he sat down he peeked into the cabin. The controls looked overwhelmingly complicated and vast. He had never understood how pilots could fiddle with all these dials and lights and still watch where they were going. There was just so much that could go wrong. He peered through the front window. He could see the runway they were going to take off from. To his left was the fuel truck making its way to another plane. He tried to see what the driver looked like, but the angle was wrong. He felt a chill as he imagined the truck colliding with the jet—talk about explosive. He would definitely have to keep watch for that. The rest of the airstrip was clear. To his right, running the length of the airfield’s border, was a chain-link fence. It appeared to be at least ten feet high, judging from the yellow utility truck parked on the other side of it.
“Excuse me, sir,” said a deep voice from behind.
Gasman turned quickly, startled.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Captain Mills and this is my copilot, Bill Nolan,” the owner of the voice said, extending his hand. Gavin shook it and then the copilot’s hand as well. They both appeared very confident and neither of them looked like Krogan.
“We’ll be leaving momentarily. If we could just squeeze by?”
“Oh, sure. I’m sorry,” Gasman said.
“Not at all,” the captain said as Gasman dropped into his seat.
“Your drink, sir,” Rachel said.
“Oh, yes. Thank you,” he said, taking the drink from her hand before she could set it down.
“You’re quite welcome, sir. If you’d like another, just let me know. I’ll be right behind you. And if you would please buckle your seat belt?” she asked sweetly.
Gasman smiled. She sure is pretty, he thought, trying to get his mind off Krogan. He gulped down half of his drink and winced as a shiver went down his spine. As smooth as the twelve-year-old scotch was, the eighty-six-proof alcohol content was hard for his body to ignore. He held the tumbler with both hands to try to keep it from shaking. The tiny ripples on the whiskey’s surface were proof he needed more help, so he drained the glass in hope of steadier nerves. He should never have called Pierce.
The engines started smoothly and hummed quietly without any trace of vibration.
“Okay, Mr. Gasman,” said Captain Mills over the intercom. “We’re about to take off. If you’ve never had the pleasure, you’ll find this little sweetheart is as strong as a lion but as graceful as a swan.”
The engines increased slightly in volume and Gasman suddenly realized they were moving. Looking out his circular side window, he could see the fuel truck was occupied elsewhere. He let out a sigh and settled the back of his neck into the soft white leather of the chair’s headrest, closing his eyes. What news reporter had ever had an exclusive interview with a criminal as sought after as this one? None. He was on his way to the story of his life. He would be the envy of his profession and overnight would become the most reco
gnized man in his field. Maybe it was the change of thoughts, maybe it was the Johnny Walker, but he was starting to feel better.
The jet made a couple of small turns and then stopped at the beginning of the runway. Gasman listened to the radio chat between the pilot and the tower. As soon as he heard them say all was clear for takeoff the engines began to increase their whine as the pilot powered up. Here we go, he thought.
The jet accelerated forward in steady increase of thrust and speed. It was exhilarating. Gasman leaned toward the window and could see the ground racing by. Forget the 747, this was amazing.
“What is that?” Mills yelled.
What is what? Gasman thought. He leaned forward, trying to see into the cabin, but his seat belt stopped him.
“Tower, tower, emergency. We have a vehicle crossing the runway. Acknowledge,” Mills yelled.
Gasman’s eyes almost popped out of his head. He unbuckled his belt, grabbed a chrome bar in front of him, and pulled himself up, struggling against the jet’s acceleration. He ignored Rachel’s plea for him to please sit back down.
“Affirmative, Dan. We see it. Can you throttle down?”
“Negative. Our velocity is too high. What the— It’s heading for us. I repeat, the vehicle has turned and is heading at us. I’ll have to add thrust and lift her up before we hit it,” Mills yelled frantically.
Gasman saw it. The lighting truck from the other side of the fence. Somehow it had gotten past the barrier and was on the runway. His chest suddenly ached in terror. Krogan! “Pull up! Pull up!” he screamed.
“I am. We’re going to make it,” Mills yelled. “Our engines will probably set that truck on fire, but we’ll make it. Sit down!”
Mills’s words resonated loudly through Gasman’s mind. “We’ll make it… we’ll make it… we’ll make it,” he said, hammering the air with his tightly clenched fist in emphasis. He felt suddenly heavier, like he would in an express elevator beginning its assent. He held the chrome bar tightly and bent his knees under the additional force, realizing he needed to sit back down. The instant he began to turn, however, as the nose of the jet rose, he saw through the speeding truck’s windshield a man with blond hair. He hoped Mills was right. He hoped the engines burned the truck to the ground. That it would turn both the truck and Krogan into a smoldering pile of ash. “You stupid fool,” he yelled with a laugh of triumph. “Not this time.”
“Oh, God! The boom is raising, Dan. He’s raising the boom,” the copilot shouted. “Left! Go left!”
“Not enough altitude,” Mills yelled back.
Still, he tried, veering to left what little he could before, in the blink of an eye, the extended bucket passed by the windshield and smashed into the right wing. The force of the impact ripped Gasman’s hand from the chrome bar. He bounced off a seat and slammed face first onto the floor. The collision took his breath away and sent a sharp, searing pain into his abdomen. He tried to scream, but couldn’t. Everything seemed to be moving slower than it should, as his brain rushed to take in all it could. The round side window displayed alternating flashes of ground and sky; the jet was helplessly spinning through the air and would certainly crash any second. Crash and explode in flames, just like every other jet crash he had ever covered. He was going to die. He came off the floor and in the instant before he heard the brain-deafening crunch from his head hitting the ceiling, he saw Rachel’s horrified face. She was still buckled in her seat.
Suddenly, oddly, he no longer felt any pain. He was no longer afraid. In fact, he became more and more detached from the scene until finally he was outside the aircraft, looking in at his own body, strangely twisted and limp, ricocheting about the mid-cabin.
26
Gavin seethed with anger at his own shortsightedness. Krogan had used the same psychology on Gasman that he himself had used regarding the story exclusive. He’d never even considered the possibility. But whose fault was that? Certainly not Gasman’s. Maybe if he had let Katz spend a little more time in Krogan’s past he would have picked up more of his tendencies. So what if they were past lives? Who was he to say that sort of thing didn’t exist? A good detective looked under every stone. He’d screwed up, and someone had died because of it. Oh, sure, he’d warned Gasman that Krogan would try to kill him. But by then it was too late. He should have known telling Gasman to stay away from a story like the one Krogan offered would be futile—like warning a hungry tiger that the helpless goat tied to the stake might be bait set out by the hunter.
Gavin could still hear himself arguing with Gasman as he walked solemnly about the airfield. Fire engines and ambulances and police cars decorated the acreage with a colorful assortment of flashing lights. Helicopters hovered and camera crews hustled about. Both the FBI and the FAA were already here and it wouldn’t be long before they were knocking on his door for whatever information they could scrounge up. He would cooperate, but only because the lieutenant would pull him off the case if he didn’t. He would provide them with file data only, though, and nothing more. As far as he was concerned, the FBI would have to wait their turn.
Crime scenes, especially of this magnitude, had a tendency to suck you in and make you oblivious to the world outside. Gavin, though, felt strangely distant. The chaos before him was eerily reminiscent of the hypnotic episodes Karianne had revealed. The thought of Karianne recalling Krogan’s past atrocities made him wonder if someone would recall this one someday in the future.
FBI agents were everywhere. They could no longer watch from a distance. As far as they were concerned, Krogan was now a bona fide terrorist. He might not have the organized connections other groups had, but five more lives lost in the destruction of a jet was more than they could pass off to the local police.
The crime scene unit was carefully placing a pair of bolt cutters into a large plastic bag. They’d been found on the ground by the chain-link fence and had been used to cut the fence adequately enough for the truck to break through without the risk of being snagged like a fish in a net. Gavin already knew Krogan’s fingerprints would be all over the tool. If anything, Krogan probably wanted the credit for pulling off such a good job—for killing Gasman so utterly and completely… and sensationally.
Off in the distance, on the grass by the end of the runway, the fire department was still working on the blazing Learjet. Gavin doubted the bodies would even be recognizable. He’d never really liked Gasman, but that didn’t stop him from feeling somewhat responsible for his death. Gavin had played him, preying on his weaknesses. The reporter had wanted nothing more than a good story, and Gavin had taken advantage of that foible; he’d exploited Gasman’s tunnel-vision ambition to be famous and it had backfired.
But Gavin had learned one thing new about Krogan from Gasman’s death: he was definitely capable of being motivated. This was 100 percent premeditated and as cold as anything Gavin had ever seen. But the thought persisted: if he had been a little more open-minded and less concerned with when and where Katz was bringing Karianne, maybe he could have prevented this.
A hundred feet away stood Krogan’s weapon, the Lighting Company bucket truck. Gavin was a little surprised Krogan hadn’t driven away with it. Except for the fact the bucket had been torn off the boom, nothing was wrong with it. Another surprise was that there were no beer cans or lobster claws in it. Apparently, Krogan didn’t need to be drunk to be deadly. In fact, he was just as efficient a killer, if not more so, without his trademark borrowed party vehicle.
At the marina crash, Gavin had wondered how Krogan could hit the boat so precisely, especially when drunk. To knock a Learjet from the sky with a bucket truck would require ten times the luck… or skill. Was there something in this past-life stuff about transferred skill and abilities? After seeing this, how could he not at least consider such craziness? Krogan’s timing had been perfect. Near superhuman. He was now at least two for two in highly improbable feats of destruction. Dumb luck? No way. Not this time.
“Hope you haven’t eaten yet,” one of the f
orensic techs said as Gavin approached the bucket. Gavin ignored him and continued. He stopped next to a medical examiner who was writing on a pad a few feet from the bucket. The man looked up from his notes and did a slight double take when he saw Gavin.
“Lucky for him he wasn’t around for all the excitement. Those arrows killed him hours ago,” the man volunteered. “You got a real winner on your hands this time, driving all around Nassau County with a dead man in the bucket. What would he have said if he got pulled over? And then he whacks a Learjet with the guy still in there?” He shook his head in amazement.
Gavin remained silent. He had already instructed the Lighting Company to immediately fax headquarters with a list of the unfortunate employee’s assignments along with a probable driving route. If there had been an assignment printout or clipboard in the truck, there wasn’t one now. He figured Krogan had tossed it. That nobody anywhere in the county had reported what was probably a silent murder drastically reduced the possibility of a witness. But, still, the way Krogan left fingerprints around there was no telling what might show up if he could find the spot the truck was stolen from.
He stared at the mangled mess that had been a man. The fact he wasn’t shocked or horrified at what he saw bothered him; unlike others around him who were registering their disbelief of the broad-head hunting arrows in the man’s shoulder and neck, Gavin wasn’t surprised. If Katz was correct, a man with Krogan’s vast history would have killed with arrows thousands of times. What would surprise Gavin was if the beast had ever done it without pleasure.
He pulled out his cell phone, called the hospital, and had them page Katz.
“Katz here.”
“I want another meeting… session… whatever you freakin’ call it, and I want it tonight.”
“The hospital’s releasing her as we speak,” Katz said. “She’s only been here as long as she has to accommodate us.”
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