The Last Hostage

by Nance, John J. ;

  He pivoted in front of the glass wall lining the western end of his office and moved back toward the other end, his voice low and controlled as it echoed off the walnut paneling.

  “Good Lord, Steve, do you have any idea what he’s trying to accomplish?”

  Davidson suddenly stopped pacing and stood still, listening to the reply.

  “You say that came from the FBI?”

  He took a step forward and turned, leaning his body against the edge of the desk.

  “Jesus! I didn’t know he’d been screwing up out there. Why didn’t you call me?”

  Davidson turned and pulled a notepad across his desk and fumbled with a ballpoint pen.

  “Give me the fed’s name and number, Steve. Wherever they have their command post. I’m going to need a patch to his cockpit. I need to talk to Wolfe.”

  Aboard AirBridge Flight 90. 2:31 P.M.

  Ken turned toward the right seat.

  “Look at me, Bostich!”

  Rudy turned his head slowly. “What is it?”

  “I want to know something: Do you have children?”

  Rudy looked back to the front of the cockpit and nodded. “A boy and a girl, now both in their twenties.”

  “What’s the girl’s name?”

  “Captain, this isn’t—”

  “WHAT THE HELL IS HER NAME?”

  Rudy swallowed hard and frowned as he shook his head and studied the rudder pedals. “I … all right, if you must know, her name is Annie.”

  “You care about Annie? You love her?”

  Bostich glanced at him. “What kind of question is that? Of course I care about her, just as I know you cared deeply for your daughter.”

  “You know the details of how my Melinda died?” Ken asked through clenched teeth.

  Bostich nodded. “The overall profile, yes.”

  “You know about the six days of rape and torture, the burns on her eleven-year-old body, the …” Ken coughed to cover the struggle he was having, then continued. “The other things that animal Lumin did to her.”

  Bostich was nodding.

  “Have you ever pasted Annie’s face on Melinda’s mutilated body? Mentally, I mean? Have you? What would you do, Bostich, if someone pulled a morgue drawer out and showed you that mangled body with Annie’s face on it, and then said, ‘We know who did it, but he’s going free?’”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes you do! Look in your mind at that body. That’s Annie on that slab.”

  Rudy was shaking his head, trying to expunge the image.

  “I can’t imagine …”

  “Yes, you can! You are seeing it, aren’t you? Annie Bostich. There she is, Rudy! The sweet little girl you’ve loved all her life, battered, ruined, dead, mangled, lying there in front of you. Remember how she looked at eleven?”

  “Captain, stop it!”

  “What’s left of her hair’s matted with things you don’t want to identify. Her face is contorted in a frozen scream.”

  Rudy turned to him, eyes flaring. “STOP IT! Damn you, leave my daughter out of this.”

  “Why, Rudy? There she is before you in your mind now, Annie Bostich, dead, destroyed, used up by an animal, her blue lips frozen in a scream as if she’s asking ‘Why, Daddy? Why didn’t you keep me safe? I’m your daughter. Annie. You were supposed to protect …’”

  “ENOUGH! DAMN YOU, ENOUGH!”

  “What would you do, Rudy?”

  “I’d hope for prosecution—”

  “She’s been raped and murdered, Rudy. That’s your Annie on that slab, and no one will prosecute the murderer. What would you do? WHAT WOULD YOU DO?”

  Rudy snapped his head to the left, his eyes burning coals boring into Ken’s, his voice a constrained roar.

  “All right, goddammit, I’d probably take a gun and go blow his fucking head off, after shooting off a few strategic body parts first! Okay? I’d probably go completely crazy and end up in prison!”

  Rudy turned back toward the forward panel in silence and put his head in his hands, the images Ken had created still swimming through his mind.

  “Exactly,” Ken said quietly. “That’s exactly what the normal father would do. But I couldn’t.”

  Rudy’s face was still in his hands, his reply muffled. “What?”

  “I couldn’t do it,” he repeated. “After you ruined the case, I started stalking Lumin. I thought I could prevent more murders, but I couldn’t be on him every day. I had to earn a living. I was flying, and I had to be away a certain amount. Melinda was coming to me almost every night in my dreams, asking that question. ‘Why, Daddy, why?’ Then two more little girls were killed the same way, as I told you, and the police wouldn’t listen. No one would listen. Lumin hadn’t been found guilty of murder, so there was nothing that could be done, even with a long list of child molestation convictions. Finally I realized I had to finish him off. For Melinda. For all the other little girls that were going to suffer her fate. I bought a gun. I picked the time. I drew a bead on him, but I couldn’t pull the trigger.”

  Rudy Bostich looked up slowly at Ken Wolfe, his eyes reading the anguish on the man’s face as he diverted his attention back to flying.

  “You … you tried to kill him?”

  Ken nodded.

  “And you didn’t?”

  “I couldn’t. I could not pull the trigger.” Ken tried to suppress the tears welling up in his eyes. “I … didn’t care about me. I don’t care about me. As I told you, I’ve already died. But I couldn’t pull the trigger! Can you imagine that? Can you imagine how helpless and impotent and useless that feels? After everything that’s happened, knowing he did it, knowing what he did, and I can’t pull the damned trigger!”

  Rudy took a deep breath and nodded. “But that’s good, don’t you see? You didn’t sink to his level. You’re not a murderer. Even now, regardless of the bomb you say you’ve got below, you’re not a murderer.”

  Rudy tentatively reached out a hand and Ken recoiled instantly.

  “Don’t even think about touching me, Bostich.”

  Rudy withdrew his hand quickly. “I’m sorry. I was just trying …”

  Ken’s eyes were on the terrain as he banked the Boeing to the left toward the Black Canyon of the Gunnison.

  “I wouldn’t have been a murderer. I would have been an executioner. Better yet, I was exterminating a rabid dog that had killed my child. But that’s not the point, you see. The point is, I couldn’t save my daughter, I couldn’t stop you from ruining the case, I couldn’t get Lumin prosecuted, I couldn’t stop Lumin from killing again, and then I couldn’t even muster the courage to kill him.” Ken looked over at him again. “Until God arranged for you to walk on my aircraft this morning, Mr. Prosecutor, I had been totally helpless. But that ends here, you see. You’re going to confess and give that judge back in Connecticut the grounds he needs to reverse that ruling and reinstate the evidence, or you and I are going to die together.”

  “Captain—”

  “AND I’d consider killing you the moral equivalent of putting down a mad dog.”

  Aboard Gulfstream N5LL. 2:36 P.M.

  “Ken, this is Kat Bronsky again. Are you listening?”

  The distant image of the 737 some ten miles ahead maneuvering at less than a thousand feet near the Gunnison River had been difficult to spot, but she had been right. He was running south.

  “I’ve been expecting you, Kat. You don’t give up easily, do you?”

  “No, not when someone stands me up.”

  “Good personalization of the issue, Kat. You’re doing well. It’s just unfortunate you’ve got such a knowledgeable opponent. Are you behind me again and in sight, or is it asking too much to get an honest answer from the FBI?”

  “Yes, Ken, we’re behind you and above you, and we know you’ve got to land somewhere soon for fuel.”

  “True, but this time, I’m not going to be dumb enough to tell you where.”

  “You don’t need to,” she replied.
“Every airport in Colorado suitable for a seven-thirty-seven has already been notified you might be dropping in. Look, Ken, there’s just no point in running like this. Please get her on the ground and let those passengers out. I know you don’t want to hurt them.”

  “They’d be on the ground safe in Grand Junction now, Kat, if you’d kept your word.”

  She sighed loudly and punched the button again. “Ken, I promised no intervention. I didn’t promise there wouldn’t be law enforcement units on the ground. You can expect a small army anywhere you land. But back there in Grand Junction, they weren’t about to violate your orders. You panicked for nothing.”

  “Are you in touch with your headquarters, Kat?”

  She glanced at the Flitephone and thought the answer through carefully.

  “Ah, periodically, yes, but with you running so low to the ground, it’s hard to stay in contact. I’m trying to reestablish contact right now to see if that arrest has been made.”

  There was silence on the channel for nearly a minute.

  “When it has, call me back.”

  Kat had replaced the microphone and was reaching for the Flitephone to report back to Frank when Dane’s voice rang out.

  “What the hell is he doing now?”

  “What?” Kat looked up and over the glareshield, following the captain’s finger.

  “He’s climbing suddenly like a missile, and turning left. He doesn’t seriously think he’s going to lose me back here?”

  The Boeing was still climbing and turning, its left side presented to the oncoming Gulfstream.

  “What’s our altitude, Dane?” Kat asked.

  “Twelve thousand, and he’s got to be coming through eleven right now.”

  “He’s turning back in this direction,” Jeff added from the right seat.

  Kat watched the rising jetliner ahead as she tried to imagine what was going on in Ken Wolfe’s mind. He wanted to land unobserved to discharge the passengers and keep Bostich. What was she missing in that equation?

  “Kat?” Dane’s voice rang out louder than normal, and she jerked her head back up to see the 737, which had leveled its wings at their altitude and was now headed straight for them.

  “What on earth?” she exclaimed.

  “That’s what I was about to ask you. He’s seen us, and now he’s aiming straight for us. Might be a very good time to talk to the boy.”

  Jeff was holding the microphone out to her, his eyes getting larger by the second.

  She grabbed the microphone and punched the button. “Ken, this is Kat Bronsky again. Are you trying to tell us something, or just create a midair collision?”

  No answer.

  “He’s about four miles away,” Dane added. “Our closing velocity is over nine miles per minute.”

  “Ken? Kat Bronsky. I know you can hear me. What on earth is this going to solve?”

  Dane was shaking his head. “I’m going to have to veer off here in just a few seconds!”

  “Ken? Answer me!” Kat knew her voice had grown tense, but the 737 was looming ahead, getting bigger by the second.

  “Okay, that’s enough!” Dane said as he rolled the Gulfstream into a right bank to change headings, and realized the 737 was altering its course in the same direction to maintain the intercept.

  “Ken, please, tell me what you’re trying to accomplish? If we jerk this aircraft the wrong way, it might not be what you planned.”

  Jeff Jayson’s voice reached her ears. “Dane, better break right. He’s serious.”

  The Boeing was less than a mile away, pointed directly at them as Dane rolled the Gulfstream to the right and pulled hard, simultaneously shoving the thrust levers almost full forward. The powerful business jet leaped into a climb as the Boeing closed on them, its five-hundred-mile-per-hour passage marked by a sudden muffled roar as the 737 passed just aft of the Gulfstream’s tail.

  “Jesus Christ!” Dane said through gritted teeth as he pulled the power back and entered a left turn while Jeff Jayson notified Denver Center what was happening.

  “Roger, Five-Lima-Lima, I see the skin paint target that just passed you now behind you and in a left turn. He appears to be coming around to follow you.”

  Dane looked back at Kat in utter amazement. “Now what is he up to?”

  She raised the microphone to her lips and pressed the button.

  “That was too damn close, Ken, and it was unnecessary. Now that you’re on our tail, and since you don’t have guns or missiles aboard, tell me precisely where you’d like us to lead you?”

  His voice came back rapidly, calm and collected. “Turn left to a heading of one-seven-zero degrees, Kat. You’re going to lead me south to Albuquerque.”

  Aboard AirBridge Flight 90. 2:44 P.M.

  The sound of a seatbelt being released startled Wolfe, and he looked to the right with disbelief to see Rudy Bostich climbing out of the copilot’s seat.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going, Bostich?”

  Rudy stopped with his leg half over the center console and looked Ken in the eye. “I’ve had about enough of this. Maybe if I’m back in the cabin, you won’t be pulling any more stupid stunts just to scare me.”

  “Sit down, Bostich!”

  He remained half in, half out of the seat.

  “Or what? You going to explode the jet and kill us all because I climbed out of the seat?”

  Ken transferred the control yoke to his right hand and raised the trigger into view with his left. “That’s exactly right.”

  “I don’t believe you, Captain. I don’t think you’d do it. You know I’m still aboard, I can’t get out, and therefore you still think you can pressure me into a false confession, and who knows, maybe you can. In the final analysis, it wouldn’t be worth anything. If you weren’t aware of it, coerced confessions are worthless.”

  “Don’t forget I’ve got evidence,” Ken said, true alarm beginning to form in the back of his mind.

  Rudy Bostich snorted. “Bullshit! If you had real evidence, which, of course, you couldn’t, you’d have already presented it to that judge, not put yourself on death row by hijacking your own aircraft.”

  Ken was shaking his head, trying not to look as desperate as he felt. In his peripheral vision, the Gulfstream IV remained in the proper place in the forward windscreen as he flew formation on it, staying behind and out of their visual range.

  “I only received the evidence a few days ago. There hasn’t been time. Besides, that evidence you don’t believe I have may ultimately convince the judge, but your confession will reverse his ruling instantly. Of course, it’ll ruin you professionally if you’re exposed, but a confession with some sort of explanation might just get you off the hook in the public arena.”

  Still Rudy remained frozen halfway out of the seat. “I’m touched by your concern for my career, Captain.”

  “I don’t have any damned concern whatsoever for your career, but I have to admit that if you’re going to be exposed—and you are—you’d be a lot smarter to do it yourself and put your own spin on it. I don’t give a rat’s ass as long as that warrant and the evidence are reinstated.”

  Slowly, Rudy’s right foot resumed its arc toward the alcove behind the center console, and once more Ken thrust the trigger into view.

  “Don’t try it, Bostich! I am not kidding, and you can’t take the chance that I am.”

  Once again the leg stopped.

  “You’ve basically told me you didn’t know I was going to be on this plane this morning,” Rudy said, carefully monitoring Ken Wolfe’s reactions. “Unless you always carry a bomb along when you go fly, why should I believe you suddenly found a way to plant one?”

  Ken lowered his left hand into his brain bag on the left side of the captain’s seat and pulled out a small rectangular package, then tossed it to Bostich, who caught it deftly in midair.

  “What’s this?”

  “Look inside, Rudy.”

  Still half out of the seat, Rudy Bostich sup
ported his left shoulder on the seatback and pulled open a portion of what appeared to be a burlap wrapper. Inside was a block of pliable material which resembled an off-white plastic, and was soft to the touch. Somewhere he had seen such a thing before. In fact, it looked a lot like …

  “Be careful with that,” Ken commanded. “It’s fairly stable, but it’s what’s left from the lot I have downstairs in my bag, a big block of it with an electronic detonator.”

  Rudy’s eyes had grown large. “You … you mean to tell me I’m holding plastique?”

  “C-four, actually. I couldn’t get plastique.”

  Rudy Bostich handed the block back as if it were a live cobra and swung himself back in the seat, his eyes locked forward, his breathing rate increased.

  “Good God, man, I didn’t think a pilot would … would …”

  “I’ve been checking the reservations computer daily for a long time, Rudy. Suddenly your named popped up. I knew where to find this stuff, and I know how to use it. I just needed a few hours.”

  Rudy looked at Ken Wolfe with a wild expression. “You got this through security?”

  Ken let out a derisive snort. “Airline pilots have to go through the same screening as everyone else, which is asinine, and useless. The whole block, the detonator, everything, went through security.”

  “Good God! I thought you were bluffing. You really are crazy!”

  Ken nodded. “You said it yourself, didn’t you, Rudy? What would you do? Probably go crazy. I’ve had two years to deteriorate to this, thanks to you.”

  “What do you mean, two years?” he asked in a sullen voice.

  Ken turned and stared with an intensity that froze Rudy’s blood.

  “Two years ago today,” Ken began, “in a forest in northern Connecticut, my beautiful eleven-year-old daughter was killed, and her body dumped. Lumin destroyed a monitored electric fence in a state wildlife preserve when he dumped her, which is the only reason we know the date. Her body was found months later. That’s how I got my daughter back, Mr. Prosecutor.”