“Rick, this is Doug.”
Jennings heaved a massive sigh of relief. He stepped aside to let others behind him go through the security checkpoint. “Doug, Christ, I’m so glad to hear your voice. Where are you?”
“Tampa, just getting ready to board my flight for home.”
“Why didn’t you call me sooner? I’ve been worried sick about you.” Jennings stepped away from the line and began pacing the waiting area.
“It wasn’t possible, Rick. Listen, a lot has happened.”
“I know they tried to kill you.”
“Yeah,” Doug said. “And they may not be done trying. De Roché wants me out of the way.”
“Shit! You think it was him?”
“Who else?”
“So you’re not safe.”
“I don’t know.”
“Listen, Doug, the feds are looking for you. You might have a better chance if you just turn yourself in.”
“No way! There’s some sort of sick conspiracy or something going on. I know that sounds paranoid, but I’m not kidding and I’m not taking any chances. It’s bigger than anything you can imagine. I think it involves people inside our own government.”
“You could be right,” Jennings said. “I’m pretty sure the government is interested in you.”
“They never really gave up on me did they?”
“No,” Jennings said. “And they seem more interested now than ever. I think they want to use you.”
“Bastards!” Doug said.
“Doug. Listen, I’m wondering if it’s safe for you to get on a plane.”
“I don’t know what else to do. If De Roché is going to kill me, I can’t imagine he’d try it with all those people . . . .” His voice trailed off as an odd thought struck him. He remembered looking for his airline ticket this morning and finding it in the opposite pocket from the one he remembered it being in. He was certain that De Roché knew about the artifact. That’s why he’d hidden it in the woods outside the estate’s grounds. And he would not have been surprised if someone had gone through his pockets looking for it while he slept. If so, then they knew his flight number.
“Doug?”
“I’m here, Rick. Listen, I think I’ll be safe, at least until I get to Boston. Tell me something. If the feds want to nab me, why haven’t they done it before now?”
“Good question. Something doesn’t feel right.”
“You sense it too, huh?”
“It’s more than a sense. Doug, there’s something I need to tell you, but not on the phone.”
“It happened again, didn’t it, Rick?”
Silence on the other end of the line.
“Rick?”
“Yeah, Doug, and the feds are heavily involved.”
“A little girl named Ariel has been calling out to me. If I don’t find her I think I might go crazy.”
“Listen to me, Doug. You’ve been through this before and there’s nothing you can do. Right now your biggest job is to stay alive.”
“Yeah, but this one’s different.”
“How so?”
Doug was silent for a long moment in thought. Finally he said, “I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s like I know her or something.”
“She’s from a family in New Hampshire,” Jennings said. “Their name is Callaghan. Do you know a Callaghan family from Exeter new Hampshire?”
“No.”
“Then try not to let it distract you. You have enough to think about.”
“Where are you now, Rick?”
“Funny you should ask. I’m at the airport about to board a flight for Tampa. I had planned on coming to Florida to bring you back by force if I had to.”
Doug sighed. “Don’t go near that place, Rick. It’s evil. That man is evil.”
“Is Annie okay?”
“She stayed with her father. I didn’t want her to, but it wasn’t my decision. I think her father is exercising some sort of control over her.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t know. She’s acting weird. Listen, there’s a lot you don’t know about De Roché. Stuff I’ve never talked about.”
“Like what?”
“He’s very clever. He’s got some sort of gift. But there’s more.”
“More?”
“I have this thing . . . this artifact. It was given to me by the man who shot De Roché.”
“Jesus, Doug, an artifact? What sort of artifact?”
“I’m not actually sure, but I think it has something to do with all the shit that’s going on. And there are others who want it.”
“What’s it look like?”
“The broken off tip of an ancient weapon.”
A cold chill lanced into Jennings’ heart. He remembered what the Collector had drawn on the wall of the house in New Hampshire.
“This is going to sound crazy,” Doug said, “but I think it has some kind of power. I think it might lead me to the little girl, and maybe the others.”
“Christ, Doug, those other kids are gone. It’s been years. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t, but it’s why I need to get as far away from De Roché as possible. He’s been searching for the artifact and I think he knows I have it. In any event I’m fairly certain Annie will be okay for a while. She’s pregnant and De Roché is very interested in the baby.” Doug’s voice faltered again as the dying old priest’s words came back to him: Do not take your wife. She is stronger than you know. She will take care of her own.
“Doug, are you there?”
“Yeah, Rick, when I’m sure it’s safe I’ll go and get her. That’s all I can say right now.”
“Listen, Doug, is your flight coming into Boston?”
“Yep. Three hours, give or take.”
“My flight is scheduled to land in Boston in about forty-five minutes,” Jennings said. “How about I take it and hang out until you get in. I’ll meet you there and we’ll rent a car and drive up to Maine together. It’ll give us a chance to talk things over.”
“I’d like that.”
“Doug, I’m sorry about everything.”
“Don’t be. None of it was your fault.”
“Yeah, I know. I just want this nightmare to be over.”
“Me too, Rick. You don’t know how much.”
After giving Jennings his flight number and hanging up the phone, Doug pulled the heavy scrap of fabric from his pocket, opened it and stared at the object for a long moment. It seemed neutral now, inert. Other than the fact that it was old, there was nothing unusual about it, just a small hunk of ancient metal in an exceedingly classic form, worn smooth from centuries of time. What are you? He wondered. Why are you in my possession? He gave a quick and guarded look around him, considered pulling the chain around his neck and wearing the artifact, but at the last minute decided against it. Instead he wrapped it up and dropped it back in his jacket pocket. He glanced around once again before heading for the gate, wary of anything unusual; suspicious body language, strange expressions. He decided he was no good at detective work. Everybody and everything looked maddeningly normal.
In Portland Jennings rushed back to the boarding gate and made it to security.
The place was empty. “You’re a little late, sir,” the attendant said with a frown. “They’ve already boarded, and they’re pulling the gate back.”
Jennings pulled out his badge and ID, showed it to the attendant. “This is police business,” he said. “I need to be on that flight.”
The attendant picked up the phone and made a call. “Okay,” he said and hung up. “No problem, they’re putting the gate back. Right this way, sir.” The attendant rushed him through. Jennings lumbered into the tunnel toward the waiting aircraft.
As he was settling into his seat he felt edgy and his mind was heavy with thought. Something was wrong. He felt it in his bones. He could not in a million years have guessed just how right his instincts were. If he’d known what would happen o
ver the course of the next several hours he might have lost his mind.
Chapter 40
At quarter past nine Doug was settling into seat 22A of Delta Flight 942 with a scheduled stop in Boston, continuing on to Portland. Doug leaned back, closed his eyes and tried not to think about Annie. But it wasn’t possible. She was all he could think about. His heart ached with her absence.
He opened his eyes and watched his fellow passengers board: a tall dark man with a briefcase; a big blond woman in Bermuda shorts verbally abusing a short bald man wearing a flowery Hawaiian shirt; two children escorted by a flight attendant; a young, pretty brunette in a beige skirt and white blouse who smiled at him before settling into the seat directly across the aisle.
Two men in uniform came on board and ducked into the forward cabin. Doug identified them as crew. He checked his watch. It was nine twenty-eight. Only two minutes to go before the door would be sealed shut. Then takeoff. Then . . . what? Was he doing the right thing?
He suddenly began to perspire. He had never experienced such agonizing indecision. He looked at his watch again. It was twenty-nine after the hour.
A fat businessman smelling strongly of sweat brushed past him and plunked himself—all out of breath—down in the seat nearest the window. Doug looked over at the man with disdain.
The cabin attendants were busy slamming overhead compartments, and the noise suddenly seemed heightened, distorted somehow, threatening to drive him mad. The door to the outside was closed with a dull thud that caused the sensation of pressure in his ears. Doug wondered again what the hell he was doing, leaving Annie here. Nothing felt right. His whole life seemed suddenly wrong.
Doug’s body convulsed as a brilliant flash of white light exploded behind his eyes, and the Collector was suddenly there inside his head.
Go away, Doug said. I don’t want you in my head.
But you must see what I need to show you.
I don’t want anything from you. You’re a monster. You murder people. You steal children.
You misunderstand me, Doug. I only want what’s best for you. I allow you to see things others cannot.
I don’t want to see your atrocities!
For your own good you must see this. And you must leave this aircraft at once.
Doug’s head nearly burst with sudden and intense pain. In the vision he was inside the plane’s cockpit. There was a shimmering bubble of terrible energy building inside the cockpit, or inside Doug’s head. He wasn’t sure which, and it didn’t matter. What did matter was what he suddenly knew, what the Collector wanted him to see. Both crew members were simultaneously struggling to bring an out-of-control aircraft back under their control, to no avail. The captain was barking into his headset microphone as sweat poured down his face, and although the communication was eerily silent, Doug knew what he was saying: Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! Through the windshield the ground was approaching with insane speed. The vision ended in a blur of dazzling white light and a final burst of intense pain.
Doug came awake with a strong jolt, feeling wetness on his upper lip and tasting blood in his mouth.
“Are you all right?” someone asked. It was the young woman across the aisle from him. Doug could not reply. He closed his eyes and groaned, nearly puking. His head thrummed vividly.
You must leave this aircraft at once.
“Hey, mister, what’s the matter?” A kid had turned around in his seat and was staring down at Doug. “You were talking loud and screaming and you’ve got a bloody nose.”
“Shush,” the child’s mother said, pulling the kid back into his seat. “You leave that man alone.”
“He’s right,” the young woman across the aisle said. “You were talking in your sleep, and you do have a bloody nose. Here.” She handed him a Kleenex. Doug wiped his nose on it.
“It was a dream,” Doug said. “I have bad dreams all the time.”
The woman frowned. “Listen, you sure you’re all right?”
Oh, Christ, Doug thought, suddenly remembering the dream. This plane is in trouble. I can’t let it leave the ground.
He left his seat and moved swiftly down the aisle. The flight attendants were immediately on guard. They’d heard the commotion coming from seat 22A and were watchful. When the guy with wild eyes and blood on his chin bolted for the flight deck they were ready for him. A male and a female approached from forward and a muscular-looking man closed in from behind. They intercepted him halfway down the aisle.
“Sir,” one of the men said politely. “You must take your seat.”
Doug’s hands were pressed to the sides of his head. Slowly he removed them. “No,” he said. “Please? You can’t let this plane take off.”
“Sir, the plane is preparing to move out onto the taxiway.”
“Then you’d better stop it.”
“You’re bleeding from the nose, sir,” another attendant, this one a tall, thin young woman, said. “Here.” She handed him a wad of tissues. “Wipe it off and please take your seat.”
Doug shook his head in utter disbelief. “You can’t let this plane take off,” he said again.
“And why is that?” asked the muscular man who was inching his way closer to Doug from behind. He opened his coat, showing Doug a sidearm. He produced a badge. “I’m an air marshal, sir, and my advice to you is return to your seat.”
Doug hesitated. Was he really going to stand here and tell these people who were eyeing him warily—eyeing him as if he might be a lunatic, or worse, a terrorist—that he’d seen a vision of some terrible catastrophe? The plane was going to crash because he was on it, damn it. If he left the plane perhaps it wouldn’t happen. But that wasn’t necessarily so, he knew from experience. Could he take that chance with all of these innocent lives on board? His mind was spinning with contingencies and he knew that he had only a split second to make his decision before it would be too late. What should he do? Jesus, what should he do? The headache was receding now in cold, radiating waves.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said, hoping he wasn’t making a terrible error.
“Changed your mind about what?” asked the confused-looking air marshal.
“I’ve changed my mind about this plane leaving the ground. It’s okay. I’ll go back to my seat. Sorry if I caused a disturbance.” A slight jolt and the feeling of motion told him that the plane had started to taxi. His heart rate accelerated. All three attendants were staring confusedly at him now, and some of the passengers were glaring at him in alarm.
“I don’t think you should let this plane leave the ground,” one of the passengers said; she was an older woman with a curled nimbus of blue hair and she looked terrified. “I heard what he was saying. He was talking about murder. What if there’s a bomb on board?”
“A bomb?” another passenger screamed which elicited more shouts from passengers.
“I don’t like the look in that man’s eyes,” someone else said.
Doug exhaled his pent-up breath in relief.
Several of the passengers had taken off their seatbelts and were now standing, staring at Doug and the attendants. The attendant closest to the flight deck, the young woman who’d handed Doug the tissues, wore a worried frown. She turned and knocked on the cockpit door. It opened and she went inside. The plane abruptly halted and presently the captain appeared in the doorway. He had the manifest in his hand.
“Everyone just sit down and stay calm,” he said. He motioned for the attendants to let Doug pass. In the distance, even above the sound of the idling engines, Doug heard sirens. The authorities had been alerted. Doug felt a strange mix of dread and relief.
Again the pilot glanced at the manifest. “Now,” he said in a mildly condescending voice. “Mr. McArthur, is it? What seems to be the problem?”
“May I talk to you in private?” Doug said. He could see that the plane’s door was in the process of being opened and he pretty much figured there’d be a small army of trigger-happy federal agents on the other side itching to take so
meone down.
“And what is it that you wish to talk about?” asked the condescending pilot.
Doug leaned forward and whispered, “Not here. I don’t want to alarm the passengers.”
The pilot frowned. “Mr. McArthur, you have caused a disturbance. I’m quite sure that you will be removed from this aircraft and taken for questioning.”
“Then what?” Doug said.
“Then what?” the captain repeated, obviously stymied.
“The plane,” Doug said. “Will it be grounded?”
The captain raised an eyebrow. “Should it be grounded, Mr. McArthur?”
Doug knew he was digging a hole for himself that he might never be able to crawl out of, but there was no way he could allow this plane to leave the ground after what he’d seen. “Sometimes I sense things,” he said in a voice low enough that he hoped the passengers couldn’t hear.
The captain smiled tentatively. “Sense things?” he echoed.
The door opened with a whoosh of compressed air and two security types in plain clothes stepped inside. “Yes,” Doug said. “Sometimes I sense things. Bad things. And I sense bad things about this flight.”
The security guys had made their way up the aisle and were now standing behind the captain. The air marshal continued to hold his position behind Doug. “Is this the man?” one of the new guys asked.
“Yes,” the pilot said, stepping aside. “He claims he . . . senses things.” The pilot was totally incapable of concealing the condescension in his voice.
The two plainclothesmen stepped up to Doug and each took hold of one of his arms. “Now we’re going to escort you off the plane, sir. Please don’t resist or make a scene.”
“I don’t intend to make a scene,” Doug said. “I just don’t think it’s wise for this plane to take off.”
“And why is that?” the security guy said. “Because you . . . sense things?” They were moving down the aisle now toward the exit. Doug was hardly walking of his own accord. The security guys were practically dragging him. “We’ve dealt with these kinds of threats before and you know what usually happens?”
“This isn’t a threat.”
Soul Thief (Blue Light Series) Page 24