The man with the gun didn't say anything. The silence grew protracted. Apparently the man wasn't finding this as easy as he had anticipated.
“Would you like to pray with me?” Brendan asked.
That seemed to jolt the man back to his intention. “No! You're evil! Why would I want to pray with
you?
”
At that moment, Brendan felt a twist of sharp fear, and realized he was not going to be allowed to die in saintly spiritual peace. The will to survive was still alive in him.
“Okay,” he said after a moment, forcing his fear down. “Why don't you tell me what it is you want to tell me?”
Once his plane was refueled, Victor paid with a credit card, then left the airport in a taxi to find someplace to eat.
It wasn't that he was really hungry. In fact, he was almost positive he wouldn't be able to swallow anything except water. His mouth had been dry for hours, ever since he'd taken off from Miami, and he doubted anything would quench his thirst.
But he couldn't hang around the airport. He needed to distract himself from the mission ahead of him. And he had to make sure he did nothing that might arouse anyone's suspicion.
They had warned him about that. He had to act perfectly normal, as if he hadn't a care in the world.
Painfully
normal, was the way his contact had put it. Like any ordinary Joe out to enjoy himself.
So rather than look weird by hanging around the airport for an hour, when he could just as easily have left again as soon as he refueled, he chose to cover the delay with a perfectly ordinary trip for food.
It had surprised him to be tapped for this mission. It wasn't as if he were anyone special. And he'd lived in this country for so many years, since he was four, that it was surprising they would trust him.
But he'd flirted around the edges of the group for a while, seeking some purpose in his life, some sense that he would accomplish important things. Martyrdom hadn't been in his mind, ever. Until the day they offered it to him.
How could he refuse? At once he had been filled with a sense of purpose and destiny that had overshadowed anything he had felt in his life before. It was as if the finger of God had touched him, had picked him out from all the other human beings on the planet, and said, “You are special to Me.”
And here he was, at the long-awaited moment. He had to force himself not to glance at his watch, not to betray any impatience. Not to betray any fear.
Martyrs were fearless. Whispers of fear arose from the Evil One. They had told him so, and he must be strong in the face of temptation.
But he slipped once as he climbed out of the cab, and glanced at his watch. It was quarter to eight. Time to have something cold to drink, and maybe a small piece of pie or cake for the energy. He had to time his arrival back at the airport so he would have only enough time to climb into his plane and taxi to the runway at eight-fifteen. A quick flight after that, and he'd be over his target at eight-thirty.
“Keep it tight,” they had said. “Don't give anyone a chance to observe you.”
He'd done pretty well with that. Except for that nosy mechanic who wanted to fix his transponder. But he'd managed to handle that well, too, and he was sure the mechanic wasn't suspicious at all.
There wasn't any reason anyone should be suspicious. No one knew what was planned, and even so, everyone must be sure that his plane had crashed when he had shut down his transponder and dipped from the radar.
That had been the clever idea of his contact. “Mislead them,” he'd been told. “Just in case someone suspects something. Mislead them completely.”
And that was what he had done.
He sat at the lunch counter and ordered a large Coke and a piece of pie. Another glance at his watch told him he would have to call a cab in another fifteen minutes to make it back on time. No problem.
He lifted his fork and realized his hand was shaking. Quickly he put it down and glanced around, wondering if anyone had seen. The counter waitress gave him an odd look, then went back to talking to a customer.
He had to be more careful.
Besides, there was a good chance he wouldn't die. Not a huge one, but a good one. The flyover of the air base probably wouldn't be met with a challenge because it would happen so fast. He'd dump his load and be headed south before they knew what had happened. There was a possibility that the dump would cause such uproar and confusion that he could get completely away. They would certainly have trouble finding him, since he would fly low, off radar, and silently without a transponder.
But there was also the possibility he would die. That he would be shot down. He knew that and accepted it. The important thing was to dump his load.
But he was scared anyway. Very scared.
But not scared enough to stop.
Matt arrived at the airport at quarter to eight. He found the traffic controller, who pointed out the plane and then called the mechanic to go over and assist him.
The mechanic met him on the apron. “Hi, I’m Jim Leary. You must be the detective.”
“Matt Diel, Tampa PD.” They shook hands.
“That's the plane,” the mechanic said, pointing to a nearby Cessna four-seater. “Same tail number we got the alert on.”
“It certainly is.”
The mechanic looked at him. “Was the alert a mistake?”
“No, it wasn't. But we had information the plane had crashed.”
The mechanic looked over his shoulder. “Looks pretty good to me. And the pilot didn't act like he'd had any trouble. But the transponder is out. Maybe that's why somebody thought he crashed.”
“Could be. Do transponders go out very often?”
“Not usually. They're pretty reliable.”
“Lightning strike?”
The mechanic nodded. “That might do it. But it'd probably take out a lot more than the transponder if it did that much.”
“I see. What can you tell me about the pilot?”
“Not much. Seemed like an ordinary guy. He didn't want my help, but that's not unusual.” Leary half smiled. “Especially since it's a rented plane. He's not going to pay me to make repairs, is he?”
“Depends on how safe he wants to be. So he wasn't remarkable in any way?”
“Not that I could see. He paid for a refuel and filed a flight plan, then he took a cab somewhere.”
“Can I see the flight plan?”
Leary nodded toward a nearby glass door. “In there. Just ask for it. It's no big secret.”
“Thanks. But now I have a big favor to ask of you.”
The mechanic looked surprised but nodded. “I suppose.”
“I need a look inside that plane.”
The mechanic shook his head. “Sorry, Detective, but I can't do that. He locked it. And besides, don't you need a warrant for that? I could lose my job.”
Matt hesitated. He understood that Leary had no idea what was going on here. Nor could he explain it, given that he didn't know himself. Pushing the issue, when for all he knew this was some covert op headed for Cuba, could cause a lot of serious trouble.
“Look,” said Leary, “is the guy some dangerous criminal?”
Matt couldn't truthfully answer that, and lying had never come easy to him. Finally, he said, “He could be.”
Leary sighed. “Can't do it. Now if
you
wanna do it, I wouldn't necessarily have to stop you, you being a cop and all.”
Matt hesitated. Which did he want more? To know what was on that plane, or to get his hands on the guy flying it?
Put that way, the answer was obvious.
“No,” he said to Leary. “I don't want to scare the guy away, and I sure will if he comes back and finds me nosing around in his plane. I guess I’d better wait for him to show.”
Leary nodded. “You need me for anything else?”
“No. Thanks, Mr. Leary.” He headed for the flight office, and Leary headed back to the hangar.
The woman at the desk inside was pleasant enough, and once she saw his badge, she couldn't move quickly enough to pull the flight plan.
Matt scanned it, gleaning what he could from it. “He's heading straight for Jacksonville?”
The woman glanced at the plan. “That's what he says. Departing at eight-fifteen.”
The time in the message had been eight-thirty. Maybe this wasn't the right plane. Or maybe the target was a fifteen-minute flight away. “Isn't it unusual to make a flight like this at night?”
“Why? If he's instrument rated, it shouldn't be a problem.”
“Is there any way to find out if he is?”
“Well,” she said, “you could ask him. He'd have his certificate with him. Checking with the FAA works, too, but it takes a while.”
“Thanks.” Giving her his best smile, Matt glanced once again at the plan. Victor Singh. The man had a name.
Anticipating being shot was hell, Brendan thought. Absolute hell. Nor was it the least comforting to remember that Jesus had suffered worse on Golgotha.
There didn't seem to be a thing he could do to prevent it either. Unless the man started talking, and they could get some kind of dialogue going, that small gun in that shaking hand was probably going to go off.
Brendan spoke, keeping his voice as gentle as possible. “Will you at least tell me your name?”
“Wayne Humboldt. Mean anything to you?”
Because of events over the last couple of days, it certainly did. Brendan felt a hard thud in his chest, not unlike a punch. “Tom,” he said. “You're related to Tom.”
“I’m his father.”
That news didn't come as a surprise; in fact, Brendan had expected it from the man from the instant he heard the name. “I’m sorry,” he said.
That seemed to light Humboldt's fuse. “Sorry?
Sorry?
Is that all you can say?”
Brendan spread his hands. “I’m very sorry that such a fine young man, with so much life ahead of him, chose to kill himself. I’m equally sorry that I didn't see it coming in time to counsel him against it.”
“Well, isn't that comforting?” Humboldt said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “You're sorry.”
“Would it be more comforting if I weren't?” Brendan asked. “I liked Tom. He seemed like a great kid. So much to live for.”
“He
was
a great kid,” Humboldt said. “But not the way you wanted him.”
“How do you think I wanted him?” Brendan asked. This was getting easier. If he could keep the man talking, there was hope.
“Your kind disgust me.”
“Priests?”
Humboldt stared at him. “Yes. Priests. Priests who diddle altar boys and seduce young navy men into lives of degradation.”
Brendan's chest became so tight that drawing a breath was difficult. Given all the ugly stories that had come out about the Catholic Church and its cover-ups of such crimes in the past few years, he could easily see how this man had reached that conclusion.
“I didn't —” his voice cracked, and he had to draw another painful breath, one that couldn't quite fill his lungs. The band around his chest grew tighter. “Believe me, Mr. Humboldt, I never,
ever
did such a thing.”
Humboldt let out a bitter laugh. “And you really expect me to believe that? I’m sorry,
priest,
but the medical evidence said otherwise.”
Brendan arched a brow in a silent question.
“Oh, you didn't know? They did an autopsy. Standard procedure in any suicide. His anal sphincter was torn, and they found semen inside him. So did you like fucking him,
priest?
”
Indeed, Brendan hadn't known. And in light of what had happened recently, this put an entirely different spin on things. Because what this man had described sounded awfully violent. Could Tom have been murdered, and it made to look like a suicide?
“Mr. Humboldt …” Brendan hesitated, seeking the right words through his own shock and fear. “Mr. Humboldt, I’m so sorry. That news must have been … unbearable for you.”
“As if you care!”
“I
do
care. But… I swear before my Savior, I never had that kind of relationship with Tom, or with anyone else.”
“Liar.”
The word hung between them, and Brendan realized with a sinking sense of dread that he probably wasn't going to be able to reason with this man. What proof did he have, other than his own word, that he had never done such a thing? And given all the scandals in the Church, he doubted his word counted for anything at all with Wayne Humboldt.
It was time for a new approach.
“Mr. Humboldt, what possible reason would I have to murder your son?”
“Murder? He wasn't murdered. He shot himself.”
“That's what they'd like you to believe,” Brendan said. He fell silent, letting the words sink in. In the next room, the phone rang again.
“Dammit!” Of all the times to have to take a detour because of road construction. Of all the times to hit every single red light between here and forever.
Chloe swore loudly and reached for her cell, calling Matt.
“Diel,” came the familiar voice. The transmission was crackly and weak.
“Father Brendan's in trouble,” she said, wasting no words.
“How do you know?”
“I made him promise to answer the phone this evening so I could keep him posted. He's not answering.”
“The idiot probably went out on a sick call. Cripes, Chloe, don't make a mountain out of a molehill yet. I’m over in St. Pete at the airport. I’ve found our plane, and I’m waiting for our pilot.”
“Great. But Father Brendan —”
“I’ll have somebody check, okay? But I’m sure he's all right. This isn't the first time he's jumped the corral fence.”
“Matt, he
promised
me. Father Brendan doesn't break promises.”
“Gotta go. I’ll call somebody to check. But I think …” He was gone.
She'd be there before anyone else regardless, Chloe realized. But if there was trouble, it would be nice to know that backup was on the way. At the next light, she leaned over and checked her glove box. The Glock was still there. She had a license to carry, being a defense attorney with some unsavory clients; but she hadn't pulled out that gun once, except to clean it and replace the ammo, since she left the force.
She pulled it out now, keeping it in her lap so that no one would see it. It was loaded. A round in the chamber. Nine millimeter hell. The worst of it was that it still felt familiar in her hand. Even comfortable.