Authors: John J. Nance
Kat looked at Ken Wolfe, unable to resist the question.
"Was that a guess, Ken?"
He looked puzzled. "What?"
"You said I should trust you about a takeoff, but we almost crashed."
He was shaking his head. "No, we didn't. That was exactly what I expected. Get it a few feet above the runway, suck up the gear, fly it off the cliff and accelerate. Worked perfectly. I just hadn't expected to go yet."
"So what are you planning now?"
He snorted and shook his head as his eyes remained ahead.
"The basic equation is the same, Kat, despite what we've found Bostich carrying. Lumin must be taken, the grand jury has to indict, and Bostich has to confess or be nailed on that lie so the state warrant can be reinstated."
"We're halfway there, Ken."
He turned and looked at her, his eyes tired, wearing an expression of sad determination.
"Kat, halfway isn't good enough to a man who has no time left."
She sighed loud and long. "Look, Bostich is toast after what you found, and Lumin will be arrested any minute. There's no reason to keep this hijacking going any longer. Let's get this thing on the ground and let all the people off safely. You know that the criminal penalties for what you're doing are severe, but if you end it now and without anyone getting hurt, there is hope for you."
He was shaking his head slowly.
"There's no hope for me, Kat. There hasn't been for a long time."
"You don't know that!"
"Kat, it is over for me."
She shook her head in disgust. "Stop being fatalistic and assuming your life is finished. Due process takes a long time, and a lot can happen.
You just have to wait and see."
"I don't intend to wait."
"What else can you do but wait and see?"
"Kat, you need to understand something here," he replied, his eyes on the center pedestal for a while before he raised them up to search hers.
"I didn't take that deputy's pistol to shoot Bostich."
Aboard AirBridge Flight 90. 5:52 P.M.
When it was apparent they were going to stay in the air without hitting something, Annette Baxter left the forward jumpseat and moved into the cabin to take inventory of her wide-eyed passengers.
She could see Kevin and Bev doing the same thing in the rear of the cabin, both of them avoiding the last row where Rudy Bostich was sulking.
Louise Richardson, alone now in first class, waved at Annette and motioned to a notebook.
"I'm trying to do something useful. I'm trying to take notes on all of this."
Annette smiled at her and moved into the coach cabin as the P.A. came alive.
"Folks, this is Ken Wolfe again. I had not planned on taking off from Telluride, at least not yet. But I had no choice. That roar you heard overhead while we were on takeoff roll was an Air Force transport trying to land to bring in a team of federal agents to deal with me. That's why I had to get us airborne, because this isn't over yet and I don't want to subject you-or me-to possible commando tactics. Now. Where are we going? The answer is, I don't know. I'm waiting for the government to tell me that my daughter's killer is in custody, and that a grand jury has handed down a federal indictment. Both things should be forthcoming.
The last item depends on Mr. Kiddie Porn back there. Bostich. I must have his confession to end this. So, if any of you would like to say anything to a man who buys pictures of little children being sexually abused, please be my guest. The sooner Bostich is ready to admit he lied, the sooner I'll put this aircraft safely on the ground somewhere and let you go. Oh, and the phones should work again now that we have some altitude, so please use them all you like."
Annette had been looking at the rear of the cabin when Elvira Gates's hand reached for her sleeve, and she looked down to see the fear-of- flying group leader looking up at her with an expression of grim determination.
"You okay, Elvira?"
"That would depend," Elvira replied.
"On what?"
She ignored the question, her eyes boring into Annette's.
"I need to ask you a question, my dear, and I need an honest answer.''
Annette knelt beside her. "Of course."
"Is your captain telling us the truth about his daughter?"
"Yes, I believe he is."
Elvira Gates nodded slowly and looked over her shoulder briefly toward the rear of the airplane, then back at Annette. "I'm well aware that what he's doing is criminal, but we've come this far..."
Annette shook her head. "What are you saying, Elvira?"
"I took a poll of my people. We're all willing-all but one--to stay hostages until Mr. Bostich owns up to what he did."
Annette was in the process of answering when a flurry of activity several rows back caught her eye.
Mike Clark, the retired police detective who'd spoken with Ken Wolfe earlier, was on his feet, charging toward the back of the cabin with an angry scowl on his face.
Annette stood up, unsure what to do.
Clark brushed past Kevin and moved rapidly to Rudy Bostich's row as Annette began walking in the same direction. She could hear Clark's angry voice ten rows away.
"Bostich, you sorry sonofabitch, you're holding all of us hostage here, and by all the evidence I've heard, you're guilty as hell!"
Bostich's reply was sullen and almost inaudible. "I don't confess to things I haven't done."
"Then you're going to get us all killed."
"Who the hell are you?" Bostich snarled.
"Who the hell am I? I'm Detective Mike Clark, retired. And you, you bastard, are obviously a liar and everyone on this airplane knows it.
But it so happens I already know you by reputation, Bostich. You defamed a good friend of mine back in Connecticut. Roger Matson.
He's as honest and upright a man as I've ever seen. That's enough reason to distrust you, but now we find out from the FBI you're a child pornography customer to boot. Jesus!" Clark had his fists knotted, restraining himself with considerable effort. "You did it, dirtbag, and you're going to confess to it!"
Bostich had his jaw set, his eyes squinted, and his body molded against the seat and window in a defensive posture as he glowered back at the detective.
"I had no such things on my computer. This is some sort of amateurish attempt by the captain to force a false confession out of me, and it isn't going to work."
"So how about the FBI agent up there, Bostich? She in collusion?"
Bostich shrugged. "She's a hostage. He probably threatened her to get her to say those things. If there's anything on that computer that shouldn't be there, Wolfe planted it."
"Yeah, Mr. Prosecutor, like I haven't heard that excuse from every drug dealer I ever met." He raised his voice to a mocking falsetto.
"'Oh, dear! You mean you found three hundred pounds of crack in my basement right next to the methamphetamine lab? What a shock! That isn't mine, Officer. I have no idea where it came from.' Right, Bostich!
Try again."
Bostich snorted derisively. "If that maniac up there really found anything, he'd be looking at the shadowy remains of files that were there once, but were erased before I bought the computer. What are you, anyway, some hick town constable? You planning to rough me up if I don't confess, Marshal Earp? Go crawl back under your rock.
The felon in the cockpit is simply manipulating you, and you're too stupid to realize it."
Without a flicker of warning, the detective's beefy hand shot out and grabbed Bostich by the collar, hauling him bodily across two airline seats and pinning him against the back wall behind the last row.
Annette moved forward to stop him, then thought better of it and paused to watch as the big man put his face within inches of Bostich's, his voice a guttural growl.
"Get this, scumbag! You're talking to Detective Mike Clark of the Providence Police, thirty-eight years on the force, now retired with no intention of being a victim of your stupidity. I know your type, Bostich.
Another slimy, slippery, snob of a legal whore who thinks he's better than the rest of us. Captain Wolfe up there is certainly committing a bag full of felonious acts, but he's sure got your sorry hide pegged.
You're the one holding us here, and that stops now."
With one large hand intertwined in Bostich's collar, Clark pulled him forward and slammed him back against the bulkhead again.
"You open your arrogant mouth one more time, Bostich, it'd better be to confess you set up my friend Matson and lied in that hearing."
"Or... what?" Bostich asked, struggling to get the words out.
The retired detective looked around, aware several other passengers had been gathering behind him. There were at least six men, he realized, and one of them had a ready answer, a furious expression on his face.
"Let's dump this bag of garbage out the door. I don't want to share air in here with anyone who likes kiddie porn."
Another echoed the same idea, and two other passengers, one male, one female, stood in nearby rows nodding agreement as Bostich's eyes began to grow wide with fright.
"That dumping idea sounds good," another passenger suggested, a dead serious expression on his face.
Clark read Bostich's reaction.
"Well, well, well. You're scared of heights, aren't you, Counselor?"
Bostich's left hand began clawing for the back of the seat while his right tried unsuccessfully to drag Clark's hand from his throat; but he was no match for the muscular detective.
With utter contempt, Mike Clark propelled Bostich back toward the window seat, letting him fall sideways painfully on the arm rest.
"I'm going forward now to suggest to Captain Wolfe he consider that idea... depressurizing and tossing you overboard if you don't talk." He looked around, as if calculating the distance to the nearest exit, then smiled a gleeful smile at the thoroughly panicked Bostich.
"And as the man says, I know just which one of these hatches to open."
"Don't be ridiculous," Bostich stammered. "You... can't do that!
You'd be committing murder!"
Mike Clark raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Really? You mean when a hijacker with a bomb orders me to do something or get blown up, that's murder? I don't think so." He turned to the others.
"You folks think I'd have a choice?"
A chorus of'No's" reached Bostich's ears.
"They say no, Mr. Kiddie Porn. So do I."
Clark stood and turned to move forward. Annette had been watching the faces of the others in alarm, wondering if the detective knew he was inciting a lynch mob. There were no smiles, only fury--all of it directed at Bostich.
She caught Clark's eye and raised her hand. "Look, we all want this over, but--"
"We're going to give him a chance to admit what he did before we shove him out, ma'am," the detective said in a loud voice Bostich could hear.
"But he's not getting away with this."
Clark walked to Annette, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Don't worry, I'm not starting a riot. I'm just trying to shake him up."
She studied his face for a second before nodding and looking at the others crowding the aisle.
"You... talked to these people in advance?"
He nodded.
"I just don't see how assaulting the man is going to extract a confession from him that would be usable anywhere."
"It won't directly," Clark told her. "But I've dealt with this type of arrogant garbage for decades, ma'am, and they have to be terrified before their little shell cracks. Don't do anything to make him think we won't throw him out, okay?"
She shook her head. "I can't participate--"
He raised an index finger and smiled. "Trust an old Irish cop, will you? Just don't damage the illusion."
She nodded at last and he smiled at her. "I'm going to walk to first class now and disappear like I was talking to the Captain. Okay?"
"Okay," Annette replied.
Bostich had retreated back into his corner, his eyes out the window as he rubbed his neck. A well-dressed member of the fear-of-flying group leaned over the aisle seat toward Bostich, causing him to look up. "You did recognize that fellow, didn't you?" the man asked, smiling.
Bostich said nothing for several seconds, then shook his head no.
"Interesting, and you a prosecutor." The man glanced forward as if checking to make sure Clark was gone, then looked Bostich in the eye.
"On the Providence force he was known as Mad Mike. The mob hated him, but respected him enough to try to hire him as an enforcer after he retired last year. Mad Mike's wiggled out of more police brutality charges than anyone can count, because he always got a confession, and it always held up, though it's true that there were a lot of suicides after his interrogations. Very odd, that. Criminals just seemed to jump off ledges or drown themselves in toilets in his presence." He straightened up. "Think about it, Bostich. We're all tired of you. Mad Mike will encounter no resistance from this group, whatever he decides to do."