At six-forty, the limo pulled up to the Eastern gate. The place was swarming with buses and cars. Several tour groups were departing within an hour of each other. Theirs was scheduled for eight o'clock. Chris tipped the driver, then found a redcap to take the luggage inside. Through the windows Chris watched the limo pull away, making note of the plate number in case it circled back. It didn't. The man was just a hire.
While Wendy went to a coffee shop with Adam, Chris brought the two heaviest cases to the men's room where in a stall he wiped each clean of fingerprints, then checked them in lockers. Each contained unopened sets of dishes for weight.
The ticketing area was a swarm of people. The check-in line was long, and he fell in at the rear, his heart pounding. He didn't think anyone would keep tabs on them here. Still, he kept his sunglasses on and his baseball cap low.
As he moved closer to the counter, he spotted a couple with a little girl among the standby passengers. He then slipped out of line and went to the bank of pay phones on the far wall. He punched a bunch of numbers then grimaced noticeably as if hearing bad news.
When he returned, he called the standby couple aside. Under their parkas, they were dressed for warm weather, including the little girl who had already slipped into shorts.
"Look, I've got a bit of a problem," Chris explained to them. "My wife and son and I were scheduled for this flight, but I just learned that we've had a medical emergency at home. My father's in the hospital," he said, hating using Sam as their excuse.
"I'm sorry to hear that," the man said.
"The point is we can't go to Puerto Rico and have to get out of here fast. So, instead of turning in our tickets, I figured you folks can have them at standby prices. There are three of us and three of you, and I don't know where your names are on the list, but there're maybe twenty others going standby."
Chris would have gladly given them the tickets at no cost, but that would have raised suspicion.
"That's very nice of you," the woman said.
Beside her the little girl pulled at her dad. "Does it mean we can go?" she asked hopefully.
Her father looked leery, though the wife was as anxious as their daughter to be on the plane for a Caribbean vacation.
Chris pulled closer to the man. "Since you don't need passports in Puerto Rico, you can fly under our names and not have to worry about getting seats. Once you're there, you're yourselves again. The charade's over."
The man didn't take long to decide. He pulled out a checkbook. "How much?"
The tickets had sold for $1,050. "Make it for seven hundred."
"Geez, that's quite a bargain."
"That's also a long line, and we've got to get out of here," Chris said.
Chris handed the man the tickets with the names C., W., and A. Bacon.
When the man was certain they were legitimate, he wrote out the check which said Thomas and Karen Foley, from Brockton, Mass. Chris thanked him.
Glowing with gratitude at what a deal he had, Foley pumped Chris's hand. "Thank you, and I hope all works out okay for you and your family."
"Me too." Chris said. God, me too!
They rode in pained silence for a long while.
Chris tried conversation, but Wendy didn't respond. She just glared out the window, occasionally shaking her head in disbelief. He could almost read her mind. On the road were people doing normal, ordinary things-going to work, shopping, driving the kids around. Families off to visit friends or relatives. Not running for their lives. And she was thinking that in three weeks they were supposed to have a publication party for If I Should Die at Kate's Mystery Book Shop in Cambridge. At the cusp of the most wonderful time of Wendy's life-motherhood and the first step of a writing career-they were heading for the frozen backwoods of the Adirondacks. It was grossly unfair. And Chris's heart twisted with guilt. His only hope was that once settled into the cabin they would work out a plan of action-maybe consult lawyers-and she would come around.
In the rearview mirror he peered at Adam in his car seat and innocent blue snowsuit. And behind him two steamer trunks full of eternal youth and death.
What have I gotten you into, little man?
Wendy had no idea what they were transporting. He had told her only that he had removed some personal stuff from the lab, not robbed the place clean.
It wasn't until they stopped outside of Albany for lunch when she asked about the two trunks hidden in the rear. It was then Chris told her the truth.
Wendy exploded. "First we fake an airline trip, now it's grand larceny. We're fugitives from the law, goddamn it. Why did you bring this stuff?"
"So it wouldn't fall into the wrong hands."
"I don't care about that, Chris. I care about us."
"So do I, but I told you what they were planning."
"You have no proof they were going to blackmarket it."
"Betsy's death is proof enough."
"That could have been a random killing-some lunatic. Damn it, Chris, I'm not living this way. I'm not living in hiding. You promise me you'll go to the police, or I'll call them myself."
"Honey, please calm down."
"Don't 'honey' me. Give me your word, or I'll call them, so help me God!"
"Okay. Give me a couple days to think it out. Please."
"Two days, that's it. Then you are going to take us back home and go to the police."
"Okay."
"Swear on it."
And for a split second he heard Iwati. "I swear."
A little before six they arrived at the old hunting lodge. The place sat deep in the woods off a logging road on the shore of Black Eagle Lake. Except for the headlights of their car, there was no sign of life anywhere. Just impenetrable black.
The property was still registered under Wendy's maternal grandmother who had bought it in the 1930s. With the mortgage long paid up, it was not easily traceable to Chris and Wendy should they have to hole up for a while. The nearest winterized house was over a mile away, and the nearest town, Lake Placid, twelve miles. Every summer Wendy's parents brought her and Jenny up from their Albany home. Because of the drive from Boston, Chris and Wendy rarely used the place. Jenny and Ted never did.
Unfortunately, the driveway had not been plowed, so they had to trudge through deep snow to reach the house.
Once inside, Chris turned up the heat and made a blazing fire in the fieldstone hearth. The old television still got good reception from a station in Vermont. They found some wine and canned food, and Wendy settled by the fire under a blanket. Meanwhile, Chris set up a makeshift crib for Adam in a bureau drawer. He changed and fed him and had just put him down when he heard Wendy scream in the other room.
In reflex, he pulled the gun and bolted into the living room, half expecting to see somebody coming through the window. Instead, Wendy was sitting straight up, her hands pressed to her mouth, eyes fixed on the television screen and huge with horror.
"It blew up. Eastern flight 219. It blew up!"
The news anchor was describing the explosion: "…had been on route from Boston to San Juan when it went down about 120 miles off the coast of Savannah, Georgia.
"Although there were no witnesses, the plane disappeared from radar at about 10:20 this morning. Wreckage and bodies had been strewn over a large area, indicating to authorities that the plane had exploded before crashing.
"Initial speculation is that the aircraft was hit by lightning. A large coastal storm continues to hamper search-and-rescue operations. So far, there have been no reports of survivors…"
To the right of the announcer was a map of the mid-Atlantic coast with a star in the water indicating the site of the crash. Suddenly the map shot was replaced by another still photo.
"Those poor people," Wendy said. "If it weren't for us-" Suddenly she gasped.