Hard Landing (34 page)

His only reaction was to look down and touch Ellen's note, brushing his fingertips across her words, thinking, perhaps, that he could make them disappear. A tiny smile formed on his lips. "Ellen always did have a flair for the dramatic."

I felt my body begin to collapse in on itself, felt the four walls disappear and the world drop away until it was just the two of us standing in a barren wasteland, barren as far as I could see. And I knew that I was looking at the life that I'd made for myself, and when I looked again, I was alone, desperately alone.

He walked over to the window and stood with his hands deep in his pockets, rocking up and down on the balls of his feet. "That must have been some storm last night. It had mostly blown itself out by the time we landed."

I watched him, stared at the side of his face as he squinted into the bright sun.

"Have you seen the video?" he asked, in a tone that can only be described as jaunty.

"Last night," I whispered, leaning against the wall for support. "I saw it last night."

"I've never seen it. I imagine that it is quite extraordinary. I suppose I'll see it now. Everyone will, won't they?"

When he turned toward me, the light was coming from behind him and I couldn't see his face, but his manner was as smooth as ever and I knew that he was grinning. I could hear it in his voice. His tone wasn't flippant exactly, just light, and very, very confident.

It pissed me off.

"Why do you suppose she left it here that night?"

"Maybe she got smart and decided she didn't trust you after all."

"I have some ideas about that video," he said, "Would you like to hear them?"

"No." I pushed myself away from the wall and slowly made my way back to my desk. When I got there, I leaned over it, using both arms to support myself.

"What did you tell the authorities?" he asked quietly.

"I told them what I knew at the time."

"Which was what?"

"That on the night of March 15, 1995, Little Pete Dwyer worked Flight 1704 under the influence of alcohol, and his negligence caused that plane to go down. I told them that the incident had been recorded on a surveillance tape from beginning to end and that, as a part of a cover-up, Dickie Flynn, Big Pete Dwyer, and Lenny Caseaux stole that tape and altered official company documents. I told them that it was my belief that Dickie and another man, Angelo DiBiasi, were paid ten thousand dollars each to keep quiet about what they knew. I told them that Lenny Caseaux would have done anything to keep the sale of Nor'easter on track so that he could cash out his stock and become a rich man."

I stopped for a breath, but my lungs wouldn't fill. He was closer now and I could see his face, could almost see the wheels turning as he listened, sifting the facts, and pulling out what he needed.

"What else?"

"I told them that the money for these payoffs and others was embezzled from Majestic Airlines, that Lenny had an accomplice working inside, and that that person was Ellen Shepard."

I paused again as I remembered talking to the troopers just hours ago, how sure I had been about Ellen, how wrong I had been.

"She threatened Lenny with exposure," I said, my voice fading, "and he had her killed. Little Pete killed her." I sat down in my chair, suddenly exhausted. "That's what I told them."

"This is why Lenny is in custody."

"Lenny is in custody because his name is all over Dickie Flynn's package of evidence, along with both Dwyers, Dickie himself, and Angelo." The late Angelo. Another pang of guilt. The thought of him lying on that bag belt came back to me, and I knew that he was dead, too, because of Bill, that Bill had tipped Lenny off with information that I had given him, just as he must have told him about John McTavish. I'd told him enough that he'd figured out that John was the source. I'd blamed Dan, but I had been the leak.

"Did they believe you?"

"Why wouldn't they? I was very convincing."

"I'm sure you were. Is that all you're going to tell them?"

I plucked his travel schedule off the desk and held it up. "Are you asking me if I am going to tell them that it was not Lenny who arranged Ellen's murder? That you were the one she was expecting the night that she died? That you sent Little Pete in your place to murder her?"

His neck stiffened. "I never even met this Little Pete character."

"Of course not. That would be stupid, and we know that you're not stupid." I dropped the page back on the desk. "That's what Lenny was there for, to do all the dirty work. You gave him your key to Ellen's house. You gave him the security code, and you made sure that Ellen would be home that night waiting for you. Then you booked yourself on a flight to Europe and waited for news that she was dead."

"It sounds rather elegant," he mused, "when you put it all together like that, clearly thought out."

"You're saying it wasn't?"

He regarded me with a wistful smile, looking disappointed that I might think ill of him. "Do you know how much the stock price has appreciated since I started running this airline? Three hundred and fifty percent. Three
hundred
and fifty percent, and it was the Nor'easter deal that put us over the top. That deal was the last missing piece, and do you want to know the irony?"

He slipped onto the corner of the desk and rested there, half standing, half sitting. He picked up a dish of paper clips and seemed to find it fascinating. "All this business here in Boston, none of it made any difference. Looking back, the Nor'easter deal was going to happen anyway. Lenny takes credit for the contract failing, but it's my bet the thing would have sunk under its own weight anyway. It was all for nothing." He took one of the clips out and studied it, turning it over in his hand.

He dropped the clip into the bowl, put the bowl on the desk, and went back to the window, where he stood with his arms crossed. "A strange thing happens when you operate for any length of time at this level and particularly if you achieve any measure of success, which I have. You start to feel that you can't do anything wrong, that whatever you do is right just because you want to do it." He turned slightly. "Silly, isn't it? And extravagantly arrogant. But you need to be to get where I am." He waited a beat, then came back to the desk and stood across from me. "I convinced myself that I was the only one who could save this company. And Nor'easter. At one time it wasn't clear that the contract would fail, and I thought it best not to risk it. What was a couple of hundred thousand dollars against all the jobs I saved? The tremendous wealth I created?"

"What about Ellen?"

He sniffed and with studied nonchalance glanced down and straightened the crease in his slacks. "You never plan for people to get hurt. That's one of the variables you can't predict. But things get… distorted. Once you're in, you're in. When a problem comes up, the only question that matters is, can you think your way around it? Are you smart enough?" He shrugged. "Ellen was a problem. She was going to be, anyway."

I stared at him. His tone was absolutely flat. We could have been analyzing a business deal gone bad.

"It's unfortunate," he said, "but Ellen was pulled into this whole affair by that drunken bastard Dickie Flynn, the self-serving son of a bitch." He looked at me and laughed as if he were relating a funny story that he was sure I would find amusing also. "Can you imagine saving that tape the way he did, then dumping it on poor Ellen? And Lenny, trying to cover up a damn plane crash with all those nitwits involved. The thing was flawed right from the beginning."

"You would have been smarter about it, no doubt."

"I never would have tried to cover up negligence. They told me after the fact, after it was too late, but in that situation you have to go public in a big way because there are too many people involved. And the risk if you're exposed is too great. You have to deal with it head-on, diffuse the risk, take away all the leverage. That's why this videocassette is so powerful for us. Do you see?"

"No."

"That video will be run over and over on every newscast, every news magazine, every cheap tabloid reality program. You can't buy that kind of exposure. So you ask yourself, how do you use that? You make an immediate disclosure, at which point you announce a very well-thought-out program of complete cooperation with the authorities, comprehensive safety reviews, and enhanced operating procedures. You prove to everyone that the people responsible have been dealt with, sternly, and-this is very important-you meet with the families of the victims face-to-face. In fact, you'd like to do that before you go public. And every time you open your mouth to talk about it, you tie the
crash
to Nor'easter and the
response
to Majestic. Pretty soon all people will remember is Majestic's great response." He smiled again. "Most people, Alex, are waiting to be told what to think."

"You already have a plan."

"I always have a plan."

"And where am I in this plan?"

"Don't you know?" He looked at me with those hotter-than-the-sun eyes beneath those long, lush eyelashes. Then he began to move around to my side of the desk. I stood up, backed away, and kept going until I felt the wall again against my shoulder blades.

"Don't I know what? That you are
hopelessly,
desperately, pa
thet
ically in love with me?"

He seemed to be floating toward me, moving without walking, immune to the natural forces that tethered the rest of us to this earth. I could have moved away, but there was really no place to go. He was going to keep coming until he'd had a chance to play his final hand.

"I told you what I thought you needed to hear, that's all. I should have told you the truth."

The smell of rum surrounded me like a seedy cloud, but as he moved toward me, ever so slowly, his scent was stronger.

"What is the truth?"

"We're good together. That's the only truth there is, Alex, the only one that matters." He was very close now, and I could feel his whisper as much as I could hear it. "You wanted me the other night as much as I wanted you, and nothing that's happened since has changed that. I want you right now. I want you so bad I can taste it. And you want me, too."

I needed to be angry, and I was. I needed to hate him, and I did. But I could also feel his breath in my hair. I could feel the heat through his clean cotton shirt, feel the flush beneath my own clothes. I could hear his breathing grow shallow, more ragged as he got closer.

"As far as the police are concerned," he said, "what you told them is exactly the way it happened. Lenny paid the kickbacks on the contract with money he and Ellen stole, he took even more money to cover up the crash, Ellen was so remorseful that she killed herself, and I'm the guy who can make the whole thing make sense. All you have to do is give me that little tape."

"What about Lenny? He knows everything."

"Lenny's not going to discuss his role or anyone else's in an alleged murder. There's still no proof that she didn't kill herself. Besides, he's going to need lawyers, and I can get him the best. Lenny will be all right. But to really make this work, I need you."

He leaned in closer, and now there wasn't much that separated us except for the smell of the rum. My back arched against just the idea of his hands on me, his long, graceful fingers touching me in ways that no one ever had before or since. No matter what else was happening, no matter what he had done or what I might do, there was something between us and it was never going away. And there was truth in that connection, if only in that its existence could not be denied. Maybe he was right. Maybe that was the only truth when you got right down to it, and maybe it was foolish to try to fight it. Maybe that's what Ellen had tried to say in her note, that life without that connection was no life at all.

I think of how my life would be without him, and the thought of letting go scares me to death.

He bent his head down as if to nuzzle my neck. He didn't touch me, but still I felt the rush of blood through my veins, a powerful surge fueled by a heart beating so wildly, it threatened to lift me off the floor. I tried to breathe, but when I did, I breathed him in. I closed my eyes, fighting for control, and tried to remember the rest of the passage, hoping for some kind of a message from Ellen, some kind of safety in her words.

When I think about life without him, she'd said…
my lungs fill up with something cold and heavy, and I feel myself going under and…
and what?
And the only thing that keeps my head above water is the motion of reaching up for him… without him I'll disappear to a place where God can't save me and I… can't… save… myself.

I opened my eyes and scanned the room, searching for the note. I wanted to see it, to see that it was still there. It was on the desk where I'd left it. I can't save myself is what she'd said. "But she could."

"What?"

I hadn't even realized I'd said it out loud. "She could have saved herself."

When I looked at him, he was wearing that smile, the one that changed him, the one that changed me. "Ellen didn't need you, she didn't need Dan, and she didn't need God to save her. She could have saved herself. All she needed was to know that, and she wouldn't have disappeared. You couldn't have made her disappear if she'd known that, if she'd felt it. She couldn't feel it."

He stared down into my face and I stared back.

"But I do."

He took a step away and then another, and I watched him back off, fascinated by what I was seeing-finally seeing. It was a reverse metamorphosis. The smile disappeared, and then the charm, the smooth self-confidence, the easy authority, all began to fall away. He was like a butterfly wrapping himself back into a cocoon, turning from awe-inspiring and breathtaking to small and tight and ugly. Ugly but, I knew, authentic.

By the time I'd completely exhaled, he was across the room, around the desk, and sitting in my chair. When he spoke again, even his voice sounded different. "You should give me the tape," he said, but with no inflection, conserving energy, saving the charade for some fool who would still buy it. He tapped the answering machine with one finger. "There's nothing on here to incriminate me beyond that silly contract business, and I can make even that questionable. Why put yourself through it?"