He watched out the window, the familiar landscape gliding by. And then he saw the landmark — and red barn whose slanting roof bore white letters advertising MIRACLE CAVERNS — and he got up. He clipped the C.B. onto his belt, tucked the attaché case under his arm.
Now was the time.
He walked down the aisle, toward the ramp at the rear of the plane; the opening beckoned him, a gateway to freedom, to a new start for Carol and him. And as he walked by the rest rooms, a hand reached out and clamped onto him by the wrist, shook the calculator from his hand. Then a fist crashed into his jaw, damn near breaking it, knocking him back on his butt.
His mind reeled: someone sneaked on the plane at Moline, he thought, damned FBI sneaked someone aboard!
Then he looked up and saw who it was.
That hard-faced S. O. B. with the mustache.
Who was now on the floor, in the aisle, scrambling after the calculator, which had flipped between some seats. The guy had a look of pain on that scowling face of his, from the mingled wind-noise and jet-screech coming from the open ramp door, a harsh, grating sound that was working on the guy’s eardrums.
The skyjacker was used to the sound, as the ramp door had been open some time now; but the guy with the mustache had been hidden away in the rest room, apparently, where the sound had been muffled. Which meant the guy was somewhat incapacitated, but the skyjacker was still hesitant about retaliation: the guy was big, and looked mean as hell, and was probably armed.
He knew he was close enough to that door to make a successful jump, no problem; he had the money. Why not go for it?
But the guy with the mustache had seen him, sans wig, sans sunglasses, sans any disguise; and would be able to report exactly where he’d jumped. Which meant one thing: the skyjacker would be caught.
He’d never considered the possibility of capture, really; he’d always thought it was either/or, heaven or hell — a bundle of money and make a new life, or no life at all. Now, with capture, he’d have prison to face; life imprisonment, perhaps, and the same for Carol...
In the three seconds it had taken the skyjacker to make these realizations, the guy with the mustache had retrieved the calculator from between the seats, though he was still on his hands and knees. He looked up with an expression of annoyance; he was a mean-looking S. O. B., all right, like an Indian with a grudge.
The skyjacker swung his attaché case and caught the guy on the chin, throwing him back, on his back, apparently unconscious. The skyjacker went to retrieve the calculator from the man’s hand — best not leave that behind...
But the guy reached out a big hand and grabbed him by the ankle, and yanked, and he fell on his ass in the aisle, hard, and the attaché case of money went skittering out of his hands, landing a few feet away from the open ramp door. With that suction effect, the case would get pulled outside in a second if he didn’t reach it first, and on his hands and knees he crawled after it, like a grossly oversize infant. He got his hands on the case, the suction of the open door tugging at the skin on his face, the wind slapping him, and he felt something come down hard on his back.
A foot.
And then the guy said something; he had to yell, scream it really, to get his voice above the jet roar and wind. He said, “If I let you up, will you behave?”
Now it was the skyjacker’s turn to yell. “Yes!”
“I shouldn’t,” the guy said, still screaming, “I should kick your goddamn ass out of this plane.”
But the pressure subsided; the foot went away.
He got to his feet and looked at the guy. He had expected the guy to be fuming, but he still seemed more annoyed than enraged. And another surprise: he had no gun, at least not in sight.
And that gave the skyjacker a burst of courage.
He knew he was close enough to that door to make a successful jump, no problem. He had the attaché case in his hands. Why turn the money over to this guy when there wasn’t even a gun pointed at him? Why give up now, after working so hard and coming so close?
He lurched forward, shoved a hand into the guy’s chest, pushing into him, knocking him off balance.
But it wasn’t enough.
The guy with the mustache lashed out with a fist as big as a softball, and the skyjacker tumbled back, head spinning, knocking against the edge of the open ramp door; then the suction got hold of him and he was gone, unconscious or damn near but somehow instinctively clutching the attaché case to him, falling down those steps into the gray sky.
Four
16
Someone dropped something in the kitchen and woke Jon.
He sat up in bed, startled by the sound, and found the room around him dark, which startled him too. When he lay down late this afternoon, it was still light outside — or as light as an overcast day can be — but now it was pitch black. He’d fallen asleep and now, as he checked his watch, he found he’d slept well into the night.
Damn, he thought. He’d only meant to rest for a moment, just lie down and relax a while, really. Not fall asleep. He hadn’t even had a chance to call Karen yet, to tell her he was back in Iowa City. Too late for that now. Damn. How could he fall asleep, with Nolan literally up in the air like that? What the hell was wrong with him?
Another sound.
Someone was moving around out in the kitchen.
Breen, Jon thought. Just Breen, up having a post-midnight snack.
They had left Breen at the antique shop while they went to Detroit for the Comfort heist; Breen hadn’t felt like traveling right away, with his wound and all, and besides, his car windshield was shot out, so they’d left him to mind the store.
When Jon got back late this afternoon, Breen had been full of questions.
And complaints.
“You might’ve called,” Breen had said, “and let me know how the goddamn thing came out. I had a stake in it, too, you know.”
And Jon had said, “Well, you know Nolan. He couldn’t see wasting a long-distance call when we were coming right back, anyway.”
Breen had mumbled something about what a cheap-ass Nolan was, and then went on to ask, well, what the hell happened at the Comforts, anyway? What Jon told him sounded like a good news/bad news joke. First the good news: they had successfully stolen over $200,000 — even the part about the Comforts dying was good news to Breen, who was glad to see them go. Then came the bad news: the skyjacking.
And Breen had started to moan and groan — such a terrible thing, losing all that money. Jon was in no mood to listen to him bitch, and went upstairs and fixed himself a ham and cheese sandwich. Breen came up and ate half of Jon’s sandwich and asked Jon if he could recommend some place to get a new windshield put in his car. Jon told him where he could get that done, then went into his uncle Planner’s bedroom and lay down for a short rest.
So now it was the middle of the night and he was awake, finally, and someone was moving around out there, in the kitchen. Probably Breen, but Jon wasn’t sure; he was nervous, not having heard from Nolan yet, and he wondered if it could be an intruder of some sort out there. He pulled open the nightstand drawer by the bed and got out one of his uncle’s .32 automatics.
He stalked through the pine paneled living room and slowly edged toward the archway that led into the kitchen. The lights were on in there, bright and white. Breen, probably; but he kept the .32 leveled out in front of him, just the same.