In the darkness of the room, men’s faces were lit only by radar screens; at that hour of the morning, traffic was exceptionally light, especially for the busy International Airport of San Francisco. Mr. Warren, a tall thin man, his face impassive, stood staring at one of the screens, a microphone in one hand. His voice was low, impersonal, in the static-filled room.
“Beechcraft 715, come in, please. Beechcraft 715, come in, please.”
He stopped speaking, waiting, staring at the blip on the radar screen slowly moving outward from the center, caught in each sweep of the radar arm. Reardon, out of his element, waited beside the airport manager, nervous with the strain. Warren spoke again, his voice mechanical, the essence of patience.
“Beechcraft 715, come in, please. Beechcraft 715, come in, please.”
There was a sudden sputter from one of the speakers above the radar screen. A voice came on, faded, and then came on again, strong and clear. It seemed to dominate in the room.
“This is Beechcraft 715. What do you want?”
Reardon reached over, taking the microphone. “This is Lieutenant Reardon, Tim. Let me speak with your father.”
“Why?” There was a brief pause. “Consider he’s resigned from the department, Lieutenant...” There was the sound of unintelligible chatter, coupled with static; then Tim was back. “Hold it—” There was another brief pause, again static-filled, and Tom Bennett was on the radio. His tone, distorted as it was, indicated complete calm.
“This is Tom Bennett, Lieutenant. When the man told us you wanted us to wait for you, I figured you finally got smart. What was the tip-off?”
“A whole lot of things, Tom. Come on back and I’ll explain the whole thing to you.”
“I imagine you’d like that, Lieutenant, but I’m afraid not. Not and stand trial for wiping out that bunch. They could get away with anything and I could care less, but when they attacked my own family, that was a bit too much. At first we figured to just kill Sekara, because it was through him that little Tommy went on drugs — but then we figured we wouldn’t be any more guilty killing the bunch, and it would point lots of places away from us.” There was a brief pause; when Tom spoke again he sounded more curious than put out. “I still can’t figure out how you pinned it on us. Or were you just lucky?”
The little blip edged its way southward on the screen. Reardon stood watching it appear each sweep of the arm. From the outer edge of the screen another blip appeared, heading in the same direction. A man in the room picked up a microphone and began speaking into it. Reardon continued with the Beechcraft.
“Tom, don’t be a fool. You might have a chance if you came back and put that confession on paper. After all, you did have a grievance, and they weren’t very good guys...”
There was a harsh bark of laughter.
“Lieutenant, you ought to give up the police and go in for selling! Only you aren’t selling us.”
“Tom!” Reardon sounded impatient. “Don’t be a fool. You know you can’t get away. Every airport within your range is being notified at this moment, including Canadian and Mexican fields. You don’t have a chance; come down and give yourselves up. It’s the only way.”
The blip was halfway to the edge of the screen, moving steadily south. Tom Bennett came back on the line.
“Sorry we can’t accommodate, Lieutenant. And do you really think we planned this thing so well and didn’t figure on a safe landing spot? You’ve got to be kidding! We—”
The sound stopped. The radar arm swept past; the blip stood still.
“Tom, listen to me—”
There was a garbled noise from the speaker, as if many were talking. Then Tom’s voice came through the loudest, barely heard above the others. “Tim, what in hell—?”
The sound disappeared once again. The speaker across the room suddenly came to life. “Tower, this is United 612. A small private plane below us appears out of control, seems to be spinning in. Repeat, this is United 612. A small private plane below us is spinning out of control. You can spot it from our location—”
“We’ve spotted it.”
The radar arm passed the blip; instead of two there was only one, and that one was approaching the field.
“He hit in the water, half-mile from shore.” The words were flat. “I doubt survivors...”
Reardon stared at the green light of the screen a moment and then straightened up. He handed the microphone back to the manager silently and looked at Dondero.
“Let’s go,” he said quietly, and edged past the radarscope toward the door.
Saturday — 3:10 a.m.
The night sky above the ancient Victorian mansion was clear; the stars seemed to hang low, each a reminder of the navigation lights of the small Beechcraft disappearing into the night from the field. Reardon, his jaw clenched tightly, mounted the wooden steps slowly, his face reflecting both his great weariness and a bewilderment at the resolutions of life.
He let himself into the darkened hallway and closed the door behind him, standing in the silence and the darkness a moment, and then began to climb the worn carpeted steps toward his apartment, not bothering to turn on the light, his hand sliding along the smooth railing in fatigue. Seven hours before he had sat at Tom Bennett’s table, a guest, envying the man his life and his family. Seven short hours... He sighed and opened the door to his flat.
Jan was sitting on the couch, dressed in his robe, her legs tucked under her, waiting for him. Her face was sympathetic under the glow of the lamp. He stared down at her, his face expressionless.
“I heard,” she said softly. “It was on the radio. I couldn’t sleep.”
Reardon took a deep breath and dropped into a chair facing her, staring in near exhaustion.
“I know,” Jan said with quick understanding. “I know how you feel about the police department; and I know how you feel about people taking the law into their own hands...”
Reardon came to his feet and walked across the room. He settled himself on the floor at her side, taking comfort from the rug, putting his head against her knees, closing his eyes. In his imagination he could suddenly see the plane, spinning out of control, crashing into the black waters of the sea. He opened his eyes abruptly.
Jan stroked his head. “Poor Gabriella, and poor Tim. And poor Billy.” A sigh came and went. “And poor Tom Bennett, too, I suppose...” She glanced down at Reardon’s bent head and then leaned over, kissing it “You must be exhausted. Let’s go to bed.”
“Yes,” he said, and there was a deep sadness in his voice, but he made no motion to rise, nor did he stop staring almost blindly at the wall across from him.
Poor Tom? Poor Tim? Poor Billy? Poor Gabriella? Who knows...? Four murders and four deaths to pay for them, and was anything gained? There would be replacements for the four hoods in a matter of days; would there be replacements for the Bennett family? Tom Bennett, thirty-two years on the force, four individual citations, wounded in the line of duty twice — a murderer who caused his family to become murderers... To be or not to be a policeman...
“Jim?”
“Yes,” he repeated and reached for her legs, holding them, squeezing them a moment, and then releasing them. “Yes,” he said for a third time, and climbed slowly to his feet.