God, he had to think of a way.
The man missed his cigar and hated that they wouldn't let you smoke on commercial flights anymore. It made him edgy, and he didn't like to feel edgy. Beside him sat his associate, all unaware that his fate had been sealed.
Funny how the priest had turned up in Tampa at just the right time. He knew Lance had been worried about that, worried that the man knew enough to interfere, but he was of a completely different opinion.
When you were doing the right thing, the universe cooperated. The priest had been put there just so all the loose ends could be tied up. So the operation couldn't be traced back to the Group.
God was good.
Chloe and Matt landed at Baltimore-Washington International at four-thirty in the morning. It was one of the delights of modern air travel that unless you departed from a hub, you had to, as Matt put it “fly around your ass to get to your elbow.” They arrived at BWI by way of Chicago. And they were going home by way of Miami.
Finding Vreeland Aviation proved not to be difficult. The community airport was about twenty minutes out of Baltimore, in an area near wealthy homes. Planes of all types were neatly lined up and tied down on the apron. They arrived there by six and waited for someone to show up at Vreeland's hangar.
They'd both managed to catch some shut-eye in the air, but it hadn't been enough, and Chloe found herself wanting to doze off as they waited. Her head kept nodding, but as soon as it drooped, it woke her back up.
“We'll catch some more sleep on the way back,” Matt told her.
“Maybe. Or maybe not.” She had a feeling that whatever they learned here, it wasn't going to make them happy. They weren't talking much, and she figured it was because they were both exhausted and tense. This day, she thought, couldn't be over soon enough.
At five minutes before the hour, a car pulled up in front of Vreeland Aviation, and a man in jeans and a bomber jacket climbed out, heading for the door.
“Let's go,” Matt said.
The man at the door turned to face them as they approached. Keys dangled from his hand, and he looked a bit wary. Chloe supposed most general aviation companies were probably feeling a bit wary since September 11.
“What can I do for you folks?”
Matt showed his badge. “I’m Detective Diel from the Tampa Police Department. My associate and I would like to ask you a few questions about a plane that's registered to you.”
The man hesitated only briefly. “I’m Bob Waterson, owner of this joint. Come on in. I’ll make us some coffee while we talk. You two look like you could use it.”
“Thanks,” Matt said. “We've been flying all night.”
Waterson cracked a grin. “It shows.”
The office was pleasant, well-appointed, in keeping with the wealth of the surrounding suburbs. Waterson immediately started making coffee in a commercial drip machine.
“What exactly does Vreeland Aviation do?” Matt asked him.
“Oh, a little of this and that, basically. The company belonged to my granddad Elmer Vreeland. He started it way back, just after the First World War. The family's been running it ever since. He started it as a crop-dusting outfit and flight-training school. We still train pilots, but we're out of crop-dusting. We also have our own group of pilots who fly charters, and we rent planes to qualified pilots. We fly organ donations as a public service. That's about it.”
“That's quite a bit,” Chloe remarked. “You must be proud of your history.”
“We are.” The coffee started brewing, and Waterson sat down so that he faced them across what was probably the reception desk. “The whole family is pretty much involved to one degree or another. We were one of the few general aviation firms to survive the flight ban after the World Trade Center attack.”
“I bet you fly a lot of famous people.”
Waterson grinned. “My lips are sealed.”
Chloe laughed.
Matt pulled out a piece of paper and passed it to Waterson. “Do you recognize this tail number?”
“Hell, yes. That's one of my twin-engine Cessnas. Rented it to a guy … Lessee …” He rose and went to a file cabinet, opening a drawer to pull out a folder. Back at the desk, he opened the file. “Okay, I rented it to a Lance Brucon eighteen days ago.”
Chloe and Matt exchanged looks. She felt ice water running down her spine.
Matt spoke. “Did he say why he wanted it?”
“Family vacation, it says here. He was supposed to fly to Kentucky, Texas, Louisiana, and finally to Orlando. Wife and two kids with him.”
“When's it due back?”
Waterson looked up. “Day after tomorrow.”
Chloe leaned forward. “Did he leave a home address?”
Waterson hesitated. “I don't know if I should. … This stuff is supposed to be private. My customers wouldn't like it if I was telling folks where they lived.”
“Would it help,” Matt asked, “if I told you Lance Brucon was killed in Tampa four days ago?”
Fifteen minutes later, they were pulling up in front of a large house situated on the golf course in a gated community. Matt's badge had gotten them in.
The lights were on, a car sat in the driveway. Shadows could be seen moving behind some of the curtains.
Together they climbed out and went to the door. A sleepy woman answered the door. “Yes?”
Matt flashed his badge. “Is this the Lance Brucon residence?”
She looked confused. “I’m sorry. You have the wrong address. This is the Mayer residence.”
“Do you happen to know a Lance Brucon? Or anyone named Brucon?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of him.”
“Sorry to have bothered you, ma'am. I guess we have bad information.”
She gave them a wan smile and closed the door. Somewhere inside a small child wailed.
They climbed into the car together, then Matt pulled out his phone and placed a call. “Phelan? Yeah, I know it's early. Listen, I need you to get a team on something PDQ. I need you to start hunting all the airports within a couple of hours flying time of Tampa for that number I showed you yesterday. Yeah, it's a plane tail number. And it was rented by Lance Brucon.”
Then he placed another call. “This is Detective Matt Diel of the Tampa PD. I need to speak to your terrorism desk.”
While he waited, he glanced at Chloe. “I’m calling the FBI in on this.” Moments later, he relayed the sketchy information they had.
“Okey-dokey,” Matt said as he disconnected. “Let's get our asses back to Tampa and see if we can hunt down this damn plane.”
Dominic paused by Brendan's office door and knocked.
“Come in.”
He entered the small room, and took the only other available chair. “How are you doing?” he asked.
Brendan shrugged. “All right. My keepers assure me I’ll be free as of this evening. I hope they're not wrong.”
“It's been driving you nuts, hasn't it, being confined this way?”
Brendan leaned back in his chair. It creaked as it tipped. “It's not easy.”
“No.” Dominic folded his hands and sighed. “I have to make a confession.”
Brendan nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Monsignor Crowell sent me down here to spy on you.”
Brendan arched a brow, then chuckled. “Man, he must be disappointed. How can I get into any trouble when I’m not even allowed out the front door?”
Dominic returned a smile, but it wasn't a happy one. “I wanted you to know that. I also want you to know I told him he was all wrong about you. I haven't spoken to him since.”
“I’m sorry. You just made a powerful enemy on my behalf.”
“No, I did it on my own behalf. I told the truth and did the right thing. And I’m not sorry.”
Brendan's smile became almost sad. “I guess you won't be going back to your office at the chancery.”
Dominic shrugged. “Maybe not. Actually, I hope not. I’m beginning to love it here.”
“And the parish is beginning to love you.”
“So anyway, I wanted to ask your forgiveness and absolution.”
“Well, there's really nothing to forgive, Dom. Nothing at all. You didn't do anything wrong. The chancery sent you on a mission, and you came down here to perform it faithfully. And it seems to me that you've done exactly that.”
“I still feel guilty. I wasn't honest with you.”
Brendan leaned forward and gave Dom a quick squeeze on his forearm. “Read any Bible lately?”
Dominic looked confused. “All the time.”
“Then maybe you can refresh my memory about where it says that we have to tell everyone everything.”
Dominic cracked a smile. “It was still devious.”
“No, Crowell is the devious one. You, on the other hand, were performing a legitimate task. What if you'd gotten down here and found out I was some kind of pedophile? Would you have felt guilty for not telling me your mission then?”
“No.” Dominic nodded. “So okay. But I still feel guilty.”
“That's a waste of emotional energy. You confessed, I absolve you — although you don't need absolution — now give it a rest. Remember that saying? Once you confess, God throws your sins into the deepest part of the pond and puts up a
no fishing
sign.”
Dominic laughed. “Of course I remember.”
Brendan gave him a crooked smile. “I use it all the time in confession. The thing is, Dom, guilt is only useful insofar as it makes us aware that we need to do things differently. After that, it's a waste. The parish would benefit far more if you saved the energy for something else.”
Dominic nodded. “Thanks, Brendan. I hope they let me stay here.”
“Me too. Do you know how hard it is to find another priest to comfortably share a rectory with? I hear horror stories all the time.”
“I’ve heard them, too. Well, I won't take any more of your time. Just know you can trust me now.”
Brendan smiled. “I knew I could trust you all along.”
But just as Dominic reached the door, Brendan stopped him.
“Dom? I don't know why, but I’m feeling uneasy. Could you hear my confession?”
Dominic turned to face him, concern creasing his brow. “What's wrong?”
“I don't know. Just a feeling. So if you wouldn't mind …”
“It would be my
honor
” Then he hesitated. “Brendan?”
“Yes?”
“Maybe, given the things that have been happening lately … maybe I ought to give you the anointing.”
Brendan lifted a brow. “I’m not sick.”
“But …” Dominic stepped closer. “But you might be near death.”
Brendan looked down at his hands, hiding whatever emotions flitted across his face. When he looked up, his face was serene.
“Thanks, Dom. I’d like that.”
Matt dropped Chloe off at home. She wanted to shower and change, and he promised to let her know when they located the plane. She had a bad feeling about this, a really bad feeling. Of course, since the terrorist attacks in New York and Washington, it was easy to feel concern when somebody who didn't exist rented an airplane.
It was probably innocent, she told herself. After all, the guy had been traveling on government orders. Even if he was some kind of spook, he was dead. So how could he do anything deadly with that plane?
But, like Matt, she couldn't forget the coded message. It might not have been intended for Lance Brucon, whoever he was. It might have been intended for someone else.
And there was that sketchy, garbled story Brendan had heard from Tom Humboldt about a conspiracy of some kind.
No, she wasn't going to assume it was innocuous.
But she was equally worried about Brendan. Maybe more so. That date and time might also be a deadline directed at him. Someone out there might even now be stalking him, prepared to kill him before the witching hour.
Frustration and fatigue combined to make her scrub herself ruthlessly with a loofah, until her skin glowed red. She didn't want the fatigue to overwhelm her, but she needed a rest. She'd be useless to anyone if she couldn't think clearly.
Wrapped in a towel, she padded into her bedroom and glanced at the clock. Amazing. It was already four-thirty. She called the rectory to make sure that Brendan was planning to behave himself.
“I promised,” he said, when Lucy put her through. “I’m sitting here like a good boy.”
“Good. Answer your phone tonight, will you? I’ll be over later, but in the meantime, I want to be able to check up on you. And I want to keep you posted if Matt learns anything.”
“Okay,” he said, agreeably enough. “But this is the last night.”
Sighing, Chloe hung up, then collapsed on her bed for a couple of hours of sleep. She had to sleep, or she wasn't going to be any good to anyone.
Matt was sitting at his desk, restlessly shaking one leg, trying to be sure that nothing had been overlooked. Not that it was his case anymore. The feebs, of course, had thrown him a bone and allowed his team to keep hunting for the tail number, but they were in on little else. How many calls had he made just since returning to the office an hour ago? He'd lost count. And he'd gotten tired of hearing from every airport, “Yeah, we got the alert. We've got an eye out.”
Apparently the FBI had gotten the FAA to put the plane on an alert watch list, and apparently the notice had gone out to all airports by midafternoon.
So he was nothing but a fifth wheel. That hadn't kept him from calling local airports personally, though. This was his town and
his
case. And pardon him, but he just didn't trust the FBI to care as much about the Tampa Bay area as he did.
But nobody local had seen the plane. So, what the hell. He'd probably made a huge mountain out of a molehill … even if the FBI had practically shit their pants when they heard the message had been sent by stegnography. It seemed the Al Qaeda had used stegnography to communicate.
Interesting. So how did someone on government travel orders fit in with Al Qaeda? A new twist?
Phelan came up and dropped a fax on his desk. “Take a look at that.”
It was from NCIC, in response to the Lance Brucon fingerprints. The message was pointedly brief.
This information is classified. Cease inquiries immediately.
Phelan dropped into the chair beside him. “Case closed,” he said. “Bing, bang, boom. No lookie, no talkie. What do you think? CIA? NSA?”