“Black ops of some kind.”
“Yeah, that's my read. So this guy is linked to that plane, which no one has found yet, and the government says butt out. I love it. I guess I’ll go home and spend the evening with my family for a change. I wonder if they still recognize me.”
“I’m sure they do.”
Phelan rose. “You might as well get out of here, too. The feds aren't going to tell you anything, even if they find that damn plane.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
Phelan laughed bitterly. “We probably stumbled into some covert operation trying to locate a terrorist cell. You know they were all over us after nine-eleven.”
Tampa had a large Islamic community, which
had
made the feds poke around quite a bit. But that was a long time ago. Things had quieted since then. Maybe.
“Go home,” Phelan said again. “You look dead beat.”
“Yeah. In a bit.” He watched Phelan walk away. Matt's phone rang, and he picked it up. “Diel.”
“Detective, this is Special Agent Bruster, FBI.”
“Yeah, hi. What's up?”
“Well, we got a call from a small airport outside Miami. The plane we're looking for flew out of there around three-thirty, headed for Jacksonville.”
“Oh? You find it?”
“That's the problem. The plane got caught in a thunderstorm just north of Miami. The pilot radioed in that he'd been hit by lightning and lost his avionics. His transponder even went out. Then he dropped off radar and never reappeared. We've been checking, but it seems he went down in the water.”
“Thanks for letting me know. Keep me updated?”
“Of course. We're not through investigating. We've got a good description of the pilot. Maybe we can find out more about him.”
“I hope so.”
“I do, too, Detective. I do, too.”
Bruster sounded like he really meant it, but as he hung up the phone, Matt found himself wondering whether the FBI was in on this “classified” thing, too, or whether they were as blind as he.
Down in the water. How very fucking convenient. He tipped his chair back and closed his eyes, and waited. Because as sure as he was sitting here, this wasn't over.
The plane landed at Albert Whitted Airport in St. Petersburg at six that evening. The alert had been canceled by the FAA at five, so the tower didn't even bother checking the alert against the tail number. The lack of a transponder didn't bother them either. Lots of private pilots didn't have one, or if they did, didn't bother to check it out to make sure it was working as often as they should. The tower called to a mechanic to have him go tell the pilot if he had a transponder, it wasn't working.
The pilot set the Cessna down gently and taxied over to refuel. He climbed out and spoke to the mechanic, laughing when the guy told him his transponder was out.
“Sorry,” he said. “Maybe something's loose.”
“Want me to check it out for you?” the mechanic offered.
“Nah, I’ll check the wiring first. If I can't figure out what's wrong, I’ll ask you for some help.”
“Sure.” The mechanic was accustomed to pilots who didn't want to pay for help with their planes if they could do the work themselves. “Nice plane,” the mechanic said, patting the side of the Cessna.
“Yeah, I like it. I rented it.”
Which explained why the guy didn't want to pay to have the transponder fixed.
“Thinking about buying one?” the mechanic asked.
“I wish. No, I’m just puddle-jumping on vacation.”
“You gonna be here long?”
“Nah. A couple of hours. I’ve gotta get to Jacksonville tonight.”
The mechanic nodded and walked away. As he did so, he glanced at the tail number and wondered why it looked so familiar.
Back in his office, he put his feet up, thinking about the dinner that Judy was going to have waiting for him when he got home. She'd promised him roast turkey and all the trimmings for his birthday dinner, and he could hardly wait.
But amid his visions of stuffing and gravy, the tail number of that Cessna kept floating. Finally, he pulled out the alert that had come earlier and felt his heart jump when he saw that the numbers were the same. He reached at once for his phone and called the tower.
“The alert was canceled at five
P.M
.,” the tower told him.
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” The mechanic went back to daydreaming about cranberry sauce and heaping mounds of breast meat.
But the controller supervisor who had answered his call was troubled. He looked out at the Cessna on the tarmac getting refueled. Why would they put out an alert like that, then cancel it?
And he remembered that detective from Tampa had called him and seemed quite concerned. He hesitated, then picked up the phone and dialed the number the detective had left. It couldn't hurt anything to pass the information along. If someone had made a mistake of some kind, they'd just tell him so.
Down below, the pilot of the Cessna was filing a flight plan for Jacksonville, departure time 8:15
P.M
.
The sound of the ringing phone jerked Matt out of his doze so suddenly that he nearly tipped back his chair. Funny, he thought groggily. Phones must have been ringing all around him while he dozed, but only his own had disturbed him.
The squad room was nearly empty, though. And quiet. It was dinner hour, and even detectives ate. And went home to families. Unless, of course, they were called out on something fresh.
Rubbing his eyes, he reached for the phone. “Diel.”
“Detective Diel? This is Carl Kessler over at Albert Whitted Airport. You called earlier about a Cessna with a particular tail number.”
“That's right.”
“I see the alert's been canceled. Was it a mistake?”
“No. It appears that the plane crashed into the Atlantic north of Miami.”
“Well,” said Kessler, “that can't be, because I think it's sitting on our apron right now.”
Matt's hand tightened on the phone. “Are you sure?”
“Well, I can't exactly see the number from here, but one of the mechanics out here said it was the same.”
“Thanks, Mr. Kessler. I’m on my way over.”
As soon as he hung up. Matt started to call the local FBI field office. But before he had punched in more than a couple of numbers, he stopped and hung up the phone.
It was possible Whitted had made a mistake about the tail number. After all, according to the feds, Miami said the plane had gone down in the ocean.
On the other hand … He stopped the thought, not wanting to have it at all. But it finished anyway.
What if the feds had lied to him?
He rubbed his eyes again, impatiently, then decided what he'd do. He'd go over to Whitted and check it out. If it was the same plane, he'd alert everybody from the FBI to the National Guard. But until he knew for sure that plane was on the apron at Whitted, he had nothing to tell anyone.
Chloe pried one eye open and looked at the digital clock on her night table. Seven-ten. Morning or night? Then panic hit her like a tsunami. What if she'd slept all night?
She sat up immediately, looking around in confusion. The little light was illuminated on the clock. That meant it was
P.M
. Didn't it?
Yes, yes it did. Relieved, she picked up the phone to call Brendan, and make sure he was still behaving himself.
There was no answer. His voice mail, provided by the phone company, picked up after four rings, a sure indicator that he wasn't on the phone, that he simply hadn't answered it.
She waited five minutes, in case he was in the bathroom or something, and called again. No answer.
She jumped up and started dressing.
There were times when Matt was absolutely convinced that the area was nothing but one great conglomeration of parking lots passing for roads. 1-275, which ran directly to St. Petersburg across the bay, was choked on the Howard Frankland Bridge. Traffic was moving, but not nearly fast enough to suit him.
Drumming his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, he wondered what the hell he was doing. After all, if this was all tied up in some classified operation that the entire federal government was determined to hide from him, what the hell good would it do him to find that airplane at Whitted?
If he tried to prevent it from taking off, they'd merely remove him. The pilot wouldn't tell him a damn thing. He might even find himself without a job.
On the other hand, Lance Brucon had had something to do with the death of an innocent young man, and someone was linking that death — and an earlier death — to Brendan, and by God, Matt had had enough. Whatever was going on, he was getting to the bottom of it, even if it did cost him his job.
Dominic went out just before seven to pay some home visits. He said he should be back by eleven. Brendan, who'd done as much paperwork as he could stand for the day, decided to settle in front of the television in the back parlor, the one the public never saw, and watch some mind-numbing sitcoms, or maybe some animal shows on one of the cable channels.
Animals, he decided. There was a show on about wolves, and he punched in the channel. He liked animals. People might think they didn't have souls, but he felt quite differently. He hadn't the least doubt that he was going to get to heaven and find all kinds of animals, particularly dogs. Cats he wasn't so sure about.
But the thought held amusement, born of the time he'd had a cat named Bandy, because its legs were so bowed. Bandy had been the most independent cuss ever to walk the planet, and simply trying to pet her would get him clawed until he bled.
Bandy had come and gone as she pleased, until one day she had never come home again.
Brendan's mother had told him that cats were like that: they up and moved whenever the whim took them. Bandy, she said, had probably moved a few blocks away to another family.
The explanation had been a happier one for a seven-year-old than the likely truth, which was that Bandy had probably been hit by a car. But ever since, he had not quite trusted cats.
He wondered if Dom would have a problem with getting a dog for the rectory. After all, he was the pastor at St. Simeon's, which meant he was pretty much settled here as long as he wanted to be.
As long as Monsignor Crowell didn't find a good reason to get rid of him. But Brendan forced that thought away and focused on the program about wolves. They were actually shy animals, and he liked that about them. Yes, they had to kill to survive, but, unlike human beings, they
only
killed to survive.
Suddenly he heard a sound behind him, but before he could move, something icy pressed against the side of his neck.
“Don't move, priest,” said a rough voice. “Or you'll wind up dead.”
Once past the bridge and the Fourth Street exit, traffic began to speed up. Matt relaxed. A glance at the clock on his dashboard told him he had plenty of time before eight-thirty. Time to see if the plane was really the same tail number, time to try to locate the pilot. Time, even, to call for help from the St. Petersburg police, if he needed it.
Screw the feds. They were going to hear about this once it was all over.
The man moved around the chair, keeping the gun pointed at Brendan. He looked to be nearing sixty, but not a healthy sixty. His hair was thinning and white, and his skin had an unpleasant sallowness to it. The hand holding the gun trembled.
It was a small gun, something that could be easily tucked in a pocket. To Brendan, however, it seemed plenty menacing. Once the man was standing in front of him, facing him, Brendan managed to speak. “What is this about?”
“Oh, you'll find out,” the man said bitterly. “I have every intention of making sure you know what this is about.”
“Good. Now, would you like to sit? Can I offer you some coffee?”
The man looked confused. This was not at all the response he'd expected to get. “Aren't you afraid?”
“Well, of course I am,” Brendan admitted. “I imagine it hurts to be shot.”
“It hurts to die, too.”
“Well, I’m not afraid of that.”
The man was startled. “Not afraid of what?”
“Of dying. Dying is a beautiful thing. It's being born into a better life, a life with God. Have you ever spent much time with the dying? I have.”
The man, looking absolutely stumped now, eased down onto a chair facing Brendan, keeping the gun aimed at the priest.
“It can be a painful process letting go of the body,” Brendan continued. “Medical science, unfortunately, has helped with that, drawing it out beyond belief in some cases. But in the moments near death … well, those who are blessed to be conscious seem to see the most beautiful world awaiting them. If they can talk at all, they sometimes say things about it. About seeing Jesus, about the light, about seeing deceased family members awaiting them. And they grow incredibly peaceful.”
“Bull.”
Brendan shrugged. “I don't expect to convince you. But I know what I’ve seen and heard. And even if I hadn't seen and heard those things, I would still not be afraid of death.”
“Why?”
“Because I believe in our Savior Jesus Christ. And He told me I would have eternal life.”
The man with the gun stared at him in disbelief.
“Would you mind if I turned off the television?” Brendan asked. “I’d be able to hear you better. But I’ll need to reach for the remote.”
The gun waved, telling him to go ahead. An instant later, silence filled the rectory. The phone rang sharply, causing the man to jerk. Brendan didn't move a muscle. “Don't worry about the phone,” he told the gunman. “My voice mail will take care of it. And people are used to getting my voice mail when they call here.”
The man was sweating now, but nothing in his face revealed wavering determination. Brendan sent silent prayers winging heavenward as he waited. He didn't ask God to spare him, but to forgive this poor, troubled man. At some level he was feeling surprised at the calm with which he was facing this threat. But the calm remained with him, the same calm that had come over him when he had made the decision to continue his pastoral duties whatever the threat, the same calm that had filled him when Dominic had given him the anointing earlier.