“Just last month young Travis was among five county children who had passed a qualifying test from the University of Florida that would guarantee him a full four-year UF scholarship should he graduate high school. The program is part of the SchoolSmart campaign to encourage children to stay in school …”
Eaten by an alligator, Rachel thought. God! How far removed their lives were from such horrors.
50
Oliver banked over Casco Bay and headed straight eastward on a course that would take them to the northern end of the Gulf of Maine. Until recently, he had vectored a southerly route toward Wilkinson Basin, about eighty kilometers off the coast—a quick ride out. While Jordan Basin in the gulf was farther by fifty kilometers, the floor fell down to more than two hundred and fifty meters, twice the depth—and where storm surges couldn’t reach and the currents were northeasterly toward Nova Scotia, not the other way. It was a longer flight, but less risky. And great foraging ground for bottom feeders and sharks.
The cloud ceiling was eight thousand feet, and visibility five miles. Rain was in the forecast for tomorrow, but they would have no trouble tonight. And a good thing it wasn’t Sunday, or he’d miss the quiz show.
When they were about an hour out, Oliver cut the engine speed.
Below the ocean was a vast black void. Not a ship light in sight. Nor any other planes. At a hundred feet, Phillip unlocked the door. They had rigged a chute from an old plastic playground slide and fit it across the rear seats. They also had devised a crank mechanism to open the door at high speeds.
“Approaching the mark,” Oliver said into his speakerphone.
Phillip finished his beer and got into position.
“Okay.”
Phillip began to crank open the door. The sound of the sucking air filled the cabin. Oliver could feel the cool rush. When it was partway open, Phillip tossed out the beer can.
Oliver steadied the plane against the turbulence, keeping his eyes on the dials.
Usually they would put them to sleep, but Phillip had forgotten the phenobarbital. It made no difference anyway. She didn’t have a clue.
Lilly lay groaning under a sheet. She was naked except for the polyvinyl chord around her arms and legs and fastened to a cinder block. Her head was a scabby mess, and she struggled feebly against the ropes. Her eyes were open, but they looked dead.
“Mark,” Oliver said, checking his instruments.
At one hundred feet, he would bank fifteen degrees to the right and let gravity do the trick. The sheet would stay because that was traceable. The rope they got in Florida, and wouldn’t connect in a million years.
“Now!”
And Lilly slid out feet first.
51
“But how come they have to kill them?” Dylan asked.
Martin and Dylan were watching an animal show about elephants and ivory poachers when the telephone rang.
He had expected to hear Rachel’s voice, telling him how her mother was finally out of ICU and had been moved to her own room. Yesterday when she called, Bethany was still recovering and barely alert, but the doctors said that she would soon be off the respirator and moved to her own room.
“For money,” Martin said, and grabbed the portable phone.
It was Lucius Malenko.
He had called to express condolences about Vanessa Watts and Julian just as he had to Rachel yesterday. The sentiment struck Martin as a little strange since they barely knew the family. Yet it was very considerate of him.
Malenko also happened to mention that he had a friend who had graduated from MIT the same year Martin had. He didn’t recognize the name. Before they said good-bye, Malenko reminded him of the time element. “This is not like having a tonsillectomy. There are considerable preparations to attend.”
“I’m aware of that,” Martin said.
“Even more critical are the time constraints. I’m leaving the country in a couple weeks and won’t be back for a month, which means that it may be another ten weeks before we can set up another time. And, frankly, Mr. Whitman, we’re running out of time.”
“I understand, believe me.”
“I’m not sure exactly why,” Malenko added, “but your wife seems to have reservations.”
“Yes, she has.”
He didn’t say it, of course, but Rachel had a tendency to let irrational concerns grow to paralyzing proportions. It was habituaclass="underline" She’d worry things to death and end up getting nothing done. When Dylan was three, a New York textbook publisher with a Lexington office called her to say they were looking for an English editor with her experience and track record. They had hoped to woo her out of retirement with a handsome salary. For days she agonized over whether to pursue the opportunity or stay home with Dylan. Martin had pushed her to go for it. It would have been good for her; she was good at it. And they could have gotten great day care for Dylan. Not to mention how they could have used the extra salary. But no! She couldn’t let go. Dylan needed her—which was a lot of bullshit guilt. So somebody else got the job, and she remained your basic hausfrau.
“We’ll work on it,” Martin said.
Before Malenko hung up, he said, “You know, it would be very nice, of course, if Dylan could follow in his father’s footsteps. Schools don’t get much better than MIT.”
“I hear you, Doctor.”
Dylan was still spread out on the couch. Martin went back to his chair. It was nine o’clock.
“Time for bed,” Martin announced.
“But I not tired,” Dylan whined. “I wanna stay up with you and watch TV.”
“Well, then how about we watch Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?”
“I don’t like that show. It’s stupid.”
Stupid.
“Well, Daddy wants to watch it.”
“I wanna see the elephant show.”
“But the elephant show is all over.”
With the remote Martin switched channels. The camera closed in on Regis Philbin who announced the special show for teenage contestants, eighteen and under.
“You’re mean.”
Martin felt a blister of petulance rise. “I’m not mean. I just want to watch this.”
“You don’t like me,” Dylan mumbled.
Martin muted the commercial. “What did you say?”
“You don’t like me.”
“Of course I like you. I even love you.”
“How come I had the dream?”
“What dream?”
“The dream about you gave me away.”
“Gave you away? That’s silly. I wouldn’t give you away.”
Dylan looked at him. “Me take stupid pills, that’s why.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Lucinda says.”
“Well, Lucinda is wrong.”
Dylan pouted and buried his face in the pillow.
Maybe he’ll fall asleep.
Martin recalled what Malenko had said about sedatives to calm him down, to minimize the trauma, to delete all memory of the event. Ketamine, or something like that.
The commercials ended, and Philbin announced the qualifying round. The camera showed ten young people, four females and six males, at their consoles with their hand controls waiting for the question. One of the boys was black.
The question was to place four foreign capitals in order from east to west. Before Martin could register the question, the buzzer went off, and five kids had gotten the correct order, the fastest time going to Lincoln Cady—in 3.8 seconds, which was nearly two seconds faster than the next fastest answer.