She stood then, reaching behind her for the plastic handcuffs she had fished out of the aircraft's flight kit earlier without Ken's knowledge.
"Rudolph Bostich, I am placing you under arrest for felony perjury, and for suspicion of the murder of Melinda Wolfe."
"You're wrong!" he croaked, his voice barely recognizable.
Ken was holding the PA. microphone as Kat entered the cockpit and slid into the right seat. As she held up the signed confession, he nodded and pressed the button.
"Folks, this is Ken Wolfe speaking for the last time. I'm going to land us in Phoenix, which, of course, is where you should have been this morning. You've been through hell, and I am eternally sorry for all you've endured. I'm not sure what I've accomplished today, other than the unmasking of Rudolph Bostich, who has now confessed to lying in a court of law under oath. Bradley Lumin has been arrested, but a new discovery appears to show that Bradley Lumin may not be my daughter's killer after all. I don't know who is, but I trust the investigation will continue, and the murderer will be caught and tried."
Ken replaced the PA. microphone and turned to face Kat's startled expression.
"Ken, what exactly are you planning to do?"
"I said we'd land in Phoenix, and I mean it."
"And you'll let the people off there?"
He nodded. "There will be no one stopping them."
"Meaning?"
He looked over at her. "Kat, I think you're trying to hide the fact that you're trained as a pilot. You know too much. You're too comfortable up here."
She tried not to look startled and waved her right hand at the panel.
"I've sat in simulators, Ken, but that's a long way from being a Boeing pilot."
He was pointing to the forward glareshield at two paddle-like switches.
"This is the autopilot, Kat. Either switch in the full up position engages it, like you see it now. There are two independent autopilot systems, but for precision landings, we use both at the same time." "Why are you telling me this, Ken?"
"Because you're going to monitor the aircraft while it lands itself."
"And where are you planning to be?" She tensed for his answer.
"I'll be... only God knows where, Kat. I pray with Melinda... and her mother. My body will be in the forward restroom."
She shook her head violently. "Are you crazy, Ken? You know you can't shoot a gun in a pressurized jetliner without-without terrible consequences."
He shook his head. "Not necessarily true, Kat. That's a perpetual misconception. Unloose an assault weapon, and, yeah, you'll create havoc. But a single bullet may not even penetrate the outer skin of the aircraft, and even if it does, there won't be a rapid decompression.
Merely a small hole. Just be sure you keep everyone out of that rest- room until the pathology team arrives."
"This is ridiculous! I can't fly this aircraft! If you're not here, we're dead."
"Not true. Now listen up, because there are some things you're going to have to do, like put down the landing gear and flaps at the right time."
"Ken, CUT IT OUT! This isn't some stupid movie script where the ditzy blonde lands the plane. I CAN'T DO IT! You're going to have to get us on the ground."
"I don't want to ever touch the ground again. I've done all I can do.
I'm leaving."
"And killing us is a reasonable result?"
"This Boeing can land itself, Kat, as long as you put the wheels down once this light goes on." He pointed to a light on the panel.
"The autothrottles are engaged, I've already got us on an extended final approach to Phoenix Skyharbor, and the only other thing I need to do is show you how, and when, to lower the flaps."
"So what if the autopilot clicks off?"
"Turn it back on."
"What if it won't come back on?"
He sighed. "Then the solution is simple. Here." He clicked a button on the control yoke twice, disconnecting the autopilot. "Put your hands on the yoke, Kat."
"No. I'm not going to participate."
"DAMMIT, DO IT!"
She complied reluctantly.
"Okay. Flying a seven-thirty-seven is simple. I'm going to let go, and just let you get a feel for--"
Kat rolled the yoke to the left sharply, then reversed the roll just as sharply to the right, rolling the 737 almost inverted as she pulled hard, pushing them both down in their seats.
"Whoa! I've got it!" Ken said, resuming control and rolling the jet back to wings level as he arrested the sudden climb.
"I told you, Ken, I can't do it! I'll kill us all! You'll kill us all!"
"No, not true. Not as long as I can get you set up for an automatic landing."
She turned to him. "So we're still debating that?"
"No," Ken shook his head. "I'm convinced you can't fly, so what I'm going to do is set you up on final with the gear down and the flaps set, and make sure everything's working right. I'll head into the rest-room just before touchdown. All you have to do when the wheels touch is pull back the throttles, pull up these reverser levers, and when the aircraft has slowed under fifty, step on the brakes. The autobrakes will do all the rest to that point. When you're stopped, pull these start levers out and down to cut off the engines."
"This is stupid, Ken."
"I told you, Kat. I don't want to touch the ground again."
"How selfish can you get?" she snapped. "I can almost understand you doing what you've done today in order to catch a killer, but to imperil all these people just so you can kill yourself a few seconds early is nonsense! It's stupid. And it's selfishness in the extreme."
His hand moved around the forward panel, adjusting various settings for the autopilot and dialing in the instrument landing approach frequency.
Bill North called as Ken was lifting the P.A. microphone, and Kat answered.
"I'm here."
"Roger Matson is calling again. I'll patch you through."
Ken punched the P.A. button.
"There's one more thing I want to tell you, folks. Despite what I said for effect earlier, I did not know when I came aboard this morning that Rudolph Bostich would be on this, or any other, AirBridge flight. I did not plan this."
"Kat? Roger Matson here. Where are you?"
"Getting ready to land in Phoenix, Roger, and trying to keep this suicidal pilot from killing himself before we touch down. What have you got?"
"Last night was the second anniversary of my daughter's death. I decided that the law was never going to get Lumin off the streets, and I had to do it myself. So, I took a high-powered rifle up to Ft. Collins to kill him, because the law wouldn't uncover Bostich's lie and re-arrest Lumin, and because I was convinced Lumin had killed twice more since Melinda's death."
"Do you still have a cellular phone within reach?"
"Yes. Why?"
"You have my number?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Call me on it. Now!" The line went dead.
"But something strange happened. I found I couldn't make myself pull the trigger and shoot Lumin."
Kat hurriedly opened the cell phone and punched in Roger's number, relieved that the signal from the ground seemed strong. He answered it immediately.
"I could hear you fine, Roger. Why the--"
"Bill North was listening on that satellite phone, Kat."
"I couldn't figure out why, but now I understand God was holding me back from killing the wrong man."
"So what? He's heard everything else."
"Not this, Kat. The fingerprint doesn't belong to Bostich. They had a real problem finding a match, but they finally came up with a petty criminal in Chicago."
"This morning, when I suddenly discovered Bostich on my flight, it was like God giving me a final chance, and even though I knew what I was about to do was criminal, I took that last chance. My life has been over since Melinda's death, but I had to make sure that her killer couldn't kill again."
"What are you saying, Roger?"
"His name
is Jose Taurus. He doesn't have much of a criminal record, but he works for a shadowy operation that produces pornographic tapes and magazines, and has been under investigation by Interpol for suspicion of dealing in snuff films. You know, the ones where women who think they're doing a porno film are murdered on-camera."
"I know. The whole subject is nauseating."
"Taurus isn't the murderer, but he's the functionary who sent in the monthly cash for the unlisted e-mail address, SHRDLU2, which our murderer may have been using."
"Look, folks, it's important to me that you know one more thing. Even though he's been threatening you all day long to make sure no one stopped me, there is no bomb on this airplane. I would never.., could never.., take the chance of hurting my passengers. I'm sorry I had to convince you otherwise."
Kat shifted the phone to her other ear. "Go on, Roger!"
"I had a buddy on the Chicago force find Taurus and squeeze him hard in the last twenty minutes. The guy was terrified, but he apparently knows nothing else. He says he was told by his boss to do it, and we can't find the boss. In the meantime, I had another friend checking the background of this company, and you won't believe what popped up."
"What?"
"I know I've scared all of you half to death, but you were never in any real danger. The flight was controlled at all times, including my psuedo- acrobatics.
Even the takeoff from Telluride was carefully calculated and never in doubt, although I didn't know I was going to have to go that soon."
"Taurus's sleazy corporation is a subsidiary of a Swiss company that publishes skin magazines in various languages for the European market, and it, in turn, is wholly owned by a private multibillion-dollar publishing empire headquartered in Salt Lake City."
Kat felt suddenly off balance. How many major publishing empires were headquartered in Salt Lake? "What's the name, Roger?"
"NorthLight Publications. And guess who owns NorthLight?"
"Bill North?"
"Bingo."
Aboard AirBridge Flight 90. 5:11 P.M.
Kat gripped the cell phone and closed her eyes, concentrating hard.
The idea that Bill North could own a company that was even indirectly involved in distributing sleaze was disturbing, let alone the sudden connection with the SHRDLU2 mailbox. The fact that his offer of help in Salt Lake might have been less than altruistic was also throwing her substantially off balance. She had assumed he was just a concerned citizen before discovering he partially owned AirBridge and was taking care of an investment, but now this?
"Roger, do we have any indication who in North's outfit might be involved? Surely Bill knows nothing about this."
"I don't have a clue, Kat, and without the time to talk to Taurus's boss, the trail goes cold. His company in Chicago is determined not to cooperate, of course."
"Which means we need North's help. Roger, I know nothing about North's operations other than he said he made his money in publishing.
What do you know about him?"
There was a long, telling pause on the other end, and she heard him clear his throat before speaking.
"Kat, I was startled when you said he was helping you. North's holdings include a wild variety of questionable publications overseas. For instance, NorthLight Publications has been under investigation in the Philippines for years for controlling the underground production of hardcore porn of all types, and publishing some really disgusting rags.
He also owns three of Europe's and Britain's shabbiest tabloids, the type that keep the paparazzi in business hounding the famous to death--literally, in the case of Princess Di. He's got legitimate interests, too, but a lot of the guy's money stinks."
"I didn't know any of this, Roger."
"No reason you should, unless you'd been researching the international sleaze merchants like I have. Where's Ken? Is he listening?"
"He's giving a PA. right now, so I don't think so. Should he be?"
"No. Kat, there's one more thing you should know. There's something no one else but me knows about Melinda's final hours. I've held it back, because other than us, only the murderer knows these details, and I always assumed that was Lumin. Look, I'm... not entirely sure why I feel so strongly I should tell you this, but I do. Now that Lumin looks innocent, it's critical information. Don't repeat this to anyone unless you're using it to confirm, understood?"
"Go ahead."
"It'll make you ill, Kat."
"I'm already ill."
"So, folks, please relax if you can. This will all be over in less than twenty minutes. And please know that even though I can never make amends, or ask your forgiveness, I am sorry for what I've put you through."
Ken finished the PA. as Roger Matson finished speaking. Kat closed the cellular phone with deliberate care, trying not to betray the feeling of revulsion that had swept over her as he'd predicted. She thought for a second, the anger rising within, and reached for Rudy Bostich's computer once again, determined to find the key. The reflected hand she had spotted in the picture of Melinda Wolfe was a start. It demanded closer examination.
Something had been bothering her about the hand ever since she'd discovered it, and she ran her eyes now over every part of the image, cataloguing the fact that the hand was Caucasian, obviously male, and somehow distinctive.
She made the picture larger, boosting the size until the hand was an undecipherable jumble of square pixels on the screen before her.
There was a sophisticated photo manipulation program on Bostich's computer, and she used it to enhance the image, slowly watching as the picture coalesced, the computer's tiny silicon brain filling in the blanks with its best guess as to what color and shade each empty pixel should be.
Suddenly the hand filled the entire screen with a startling degree of clarity, showing a distinctive sideways crook in the knuckle of the little finger.
Ken was lowering himself back into the left seat and she glanced at him briefly before returning her attention to the enhanced photo.
One thing for sure: It's definitely not Bradley Lumin, and for that matter, it's not Rudy Bostich.
"What did Matson have to say?" Ken asked. His eyes were on the instruments, unaware of the startled look on her face.
She turned and studied him carefully before replying, aware that he was leveling the 737 at six thousand feet as he aimed for Phoenix.
She repeated the essence of the conversation, along with the fact that the parent corporation of the Chicago sleaze merchant was owned by the man sitting in a Gulfstream several hundred yards to their left.
He looked at her in confusion. "What do you mean?"
She took a deep breath. "Bill North owns the company, Ken, and we need help finding who in his organization ordered those payments for the SHRDLU2 mailbox. Remember, whoever owns that e-mail address is probably the killer, or can lead us to the killer. Of course, I didn't expect this to lead to a company."
The sound of the cellular phone ringing caused her to jump. She swept it open, relieved to hear Frank's voice on the other end.
"Kat, I wanted to update you. The search of Lumin's place in Ft. Collins has been very interesting. They found a cache of porno videotapes, all of them featuring underage girls, all of them meant for commercial underground distribution, and none of them involving any kids currently listed as missing or dead, as far as can be determined.
In fact, one little girl is a known runaway who sells herself for such things over and over again."
"He was producing those things?"
"Producing is too formal a word, but that's the idea. They found a ledger indicating Lumin would lure them in, pay them, tape them in some remote place, sometimes involving group sex, then market the results."
"So there's no evidence he kills them or tortures them?"
"No. Some of them, and maybe all of them, were probably tricked or coerced, but other than the sexual exploitation, he didn't appear to be killing or torturing them. We do believe he was forcing drugs down their throat
s. They found cocaine in the trailer. But Kat, one of the girls was videotaped in a cabin that looks very similar to the picture Matson described to me."
"You mean the same place Melinda..." she glanced at Ken, who was listening through the headset connection. He motioned for her to continue. "It looks like the place where Melinda was held?"
John J Nance - The Last Hostage Page 40