C
AROLE O’NEILL and her two girls, Meredith and Brigid, were camping along a wide, bubbling stream in the Gunnison National
Forest. They had brought along a small Sony TV. They had the set turned on, the volume as loud as it would go, but even that
wasn’t loud enough, and the picture was way too small.
“It’s Max! And there’s Aunt Frannie!” Brigid shrieked, as they watched the live news report inside their RV. “Mom,
what
is going on? What’s happening? Can you believe this?”
“Shhh. Shhh,” Carole spoke above the TV and her daughter. “I want to hear this. Shhh, girls.”
Carole did a lightning-quick station check on the TV. The same startling, mind-blowing pictures were on every channel she
reached. Something incredible was going on at Gillian Puris’s house. What was it? Carole couldn’t believe her own eyes. Of
course, she hadn’t been able to believe her eyes for the past twenty-four hours.
Max was doing a dangerous kamikaze dive at a helicopter. She was going to crash right into the chopper. Carole winced and
she held her breath.
What was going on?
Frannie was punching Gillian Puris. Could that possibly be? Why would her sister hit Gillian?
Oh my God! It looked as if Kit had been shot. He was lying on the ground. He wasn’t moving. Men with rifles were running everywhere.
Thousands and thousands of TVs in the populous greater Denver area were receiving the same live pictures with a voice-over
description. Thousands more sets were switched on as word of the newscast traveled. Entire families gathered around their
TVs. Late sleepers were hauled out of bed to come see. People surrounded TV sets at hotels, breakfast cafés, early-bird taverns,
places of business.
Within a few minutes, the networks had patched in the live news feed from the Denver stations. Excited newscasters delivered
the story in either high-pitched or very hushed tones.
The amazing, stunning pictures of the flying girl began to be transmitted around the world, to every continent, every country,
big city, and small village. The striking image of the flying girl seemed spiritual to some. “An angel,” “awe-inspiring,”
“supernatural,” “once-in-a-lifetime,” “a miracle” were ways that people tried to describe what they saw and felt. The first
sight of her was an indelible image, never to be forgotten. It struck the deepest chord in every man and woman, every child
who saw it.
“The future has just arrived,” intoned one of the British news journalists, “and we’ve got the pictures to prove it.”
I
SAW EVERYTHING as it developed from ground level. Kit was down and I was trying to comfort and aid him. He’d been shot below
the clavicle and there was a great deal of blood on his neck and staining his shirt. He insisted that he wasn’t hurt badly.
I didn’t believe him. I was shaking with fear.
“She brought the ‘good guys,’ ” he said in a low voice. “She’s a smart girl.”
She was also poetry in flight. I was so proud of Max, only I was also deeply disturbed and frightened for her. She was taking
too many chances near the whirling helicopter blades—not to mention the guns. She was fearless.
The noise overhead was deafening and confusing. I could make out a bold scrawl of call letters on the sides of the helicopters.
The TV news was here—live. Max had brought the cavalry, hadn’t she?
The TV choppers were filming all the surprised, guilty faces. Gillian and the rest of the bastards, including her husband.
Maybe they wouldn’t get away with this, after all. Their dirty secrets were being exposed. On TV. That’s what I hoped, anyway.
Max suddenly banked sharply to the right. She wasn’t just fearless; she was reckless. She dived toward the black Bell Jet
Ranger helicopter that was rising from behind the main house. She was trying to hinder, or even stop the takeoff. She didn’t
want them to escape.
From out of the towering pines, Matthew joined her. Jesus, what a sight that was. Brother and sister finally reunited. They
were getting their revenge, a little payback.
“Watch out!” I screamed. I stood up to yell. I waved my arms. “Max, come down. Max, don’t.”
There was no way she could hear me over the roaring, thundering noise that filled the sky. Max was definitely too close to
the rising helicopter. She was doing it on purpose.
Too close. Too dangerous.
She appeared to collide with the helicopter in midair. It happened fast. I couldn’t tell if she’d actually struck the copter,
and if so, how much damage she’d done to herself.
I watched, and I was still yelling as she began to plummet.
Oh Max—don’t fall. Please don’t. Oh please, Max.
The helicopter had jigged, tried to avoid her, but now it wobbled and spun. It was out of control, dropping rapidly from about
five hundred feet. The chopper was definitely in trouble. The blades slowed and it began to shudder and shake. I could see
men and women inside, looking out the windows, frightened, close to panic.
Matthew floated like a leaf above the failing chopper. He was watching close up. Way too close, as if this were all some kind
of game to him. It looked like he might be sucked down into the maelstrom.
I left Kit for the moment. I thought he’d be all right; I prayed that he would. I was racing toward Max when the ground shook,
the result of a terrifying, fiery explosion.
The helicopter had crashed into treetops and limbs on its way down. A deafening metal-against-metal shriek pierced the air.
The copter collided with the ground and burst into flames that shot high over the tops of the surrounding evergreens. Smoke,
black as coal, billowed from the wreckage. Everyone on board must have died in that insane, terrifying instant.
I was a witness again. I didn’t want to be. I desperately wanted my old life back.
I saw Max struggle out of a cloak of thick black smoke. Her wings and face were covered with soot and ash. She was still flying,
but she looked exhausted. She was trying to fight off fatigue, but it weighted her down.
The other children were circling back from the shelter and safety of the woods. They whistled for Icarus and he managed to
stay with them. They joined Max and she guided them down onto the rolling, Technicolor green lawns beside the house.
No sooner had Max and the smaller kids landed, when she and Matthew began to race across the manicured patch of lawn. Their
stamina was incredible. They took off again, shot straight up toward the shimmering morning sun.
I saw what they were up to; at least I thought I understood. They were following a grayish Mercedes sedan. It was moving at
high speed along a dirt road, a back way to the main house. I had been on that poor excuse for a road a couple of times in
the past.
I knew who was crammed inside the gray S600. I’d seen them climb in: Gillian, Dr. Peyser, little Michael, a driver, and Harding
Thomas. Except for Michael, it was the family from Hell. Thomas was riding shotgun. They were getting away again.
A dusty Land Rover was idling a couple of yards from where I stood. I had no idea whose vehicle it was—but for now I decided
it was mine. I borrowed the car.
I got in and chased after the speeding sedan. I didn’t want to be a hero, didn’t want any part of that. I just wanted to stop
Max and Matthew somehow. I didn’t want them to die.
I
GUESS I WAS TRYING to follow the sage advice of Sophie Tucker:
keep breathing.
The Rover was built to handle most of the deep ruts and bumps in the dirt road. Almost fifty yards ahead I could see the
Mercedes speeding away. The S600 was severely punishing its suspension. The driver was trying to go faster than he should
on the mottled, makeshift road.
Max and Matthew were diving and swooping too close to the car. They were like angry gnats. Without a doubt, though, they were
disturbing and irritating the driver.
Then Max did a power-dive. She struck the center strut on the roof of the Mercedes. A caroming hit that made a dent. She and
Matthew were acting crazy, acting like children.
“Max, no!” I yelled out the side window. I stuck my head and shoulders out as far as I could. Wind whipped into my face, making
me squint. I drove the Land Rover as best I could from the scary position.
I hit the horn hard with the heel of my hand. I sounded the alarm, the warning, over and over.
Max never looked back. Neither did Matthew. They must have heard my car horn. They must have known I was there. They just
didn’t care anymore.
I pressed down on the gas, had it to the floor. Trees rocketed past me on either side of the narrow, twisting road. I was
going too fast, double the speed that would have been safe.
Max finally turned. She saw the Land Rover, with me hanging unceremoniously out the side window. I hadn’t known how really
connected I was to Max until that moment. All my maternal feelings had been building up, layering on, thickening around my
heart. I couldn’t bear it if she got hurt, if I lost her or Matthew or any of the children.
I saw what was about to happen, but Max couldn’t. She was busy looking back at me.
“The car window. Max!” I was screaming at the top of my voice again. “Look out! Max—turn around!”
She couldn’t hear me. Couldn’t, or wouldn’t. She was smiling, laughing at the danger around her.
The side front window of the sedan was sliding down. Harding Thomas stuck his head out. Then I could see his hand. He had
a gun outside the window. He was taking aim at Max or Matthew, who were both flying too close to the car.
Max finally saw Thomas. She and Matthew darted off toward the thick evergreens and pines on the side of the road. The daring
kids whipped back through the trees at a tremendous, dangerous speed. They were laughing at Uncle Thomas, taunting and mocking
him.
Thomas fired his gun, anyway. He blew a huge, furry branch off a tree. The S600 picked up more speed.
So did I. I was ready to do anything to stop them, to protect Max and Matthew if I could. They had suffered far too much from
the monsters inside the car. Gillian, Dr. Peyser, Thomas—they shouldn’t escape again, shouldn’t get away with this.
But they
were
getting away. The Mercedes was roaring down the mountainside and would soon be gone from sight.
I
SHIFTED INTO FOURTH GEAR and the Rover obeyed, roared forward. The woods were still rushing by me, incredibly blurry and
fast, extreme danger on either side. There was no room for even the smallest error.
I’d never driven at anything close to this speed. I realized I could easily spin out and crash. I could die in a split second
and the thought terrified me. Still, I kept my foot pressed to the floor.
The slender, twisty road suddenly tilted up toward the sky again. It was a tricky, dangerous roller-coaster track, a wild-mouse
ride. I’d thought it would take us down toward town, but it didn’t happen that way.
Max and Matthew appeared again, flew into full view. Max went
right,
Matthew
left.
They seemed to have a plan this time.
They zigzagged directly behind the gray sedan, close on its tail. The car’s brake lights were flashing repeatedly. The kids
were flying too fast, though.
I saw Thomas twist around to get his gun sight on them again. He lunged even further out the open side window. Because of
the slick turns of the road, Max and Matthew had no trouble keeping up with the slipping, sliding car. It was an amazing chase,
stunning to watch.
The kids began shouting at Thomas again, teasing him, calling him “murderer” and “asshole.” Their taunting voices echoed back
to me.
I slammed my palm into the horn again and again, but I finally stopped. It was useless. Max and Matthew were beyond listening
to me or anyone else. I couldn’t stand to watch what might happen.
But I couldn’t look away either.
M
AX LOWERED HER RIGHT WING, and she swooped at full speed toward the car. She didn’t seem to care about Thomas and his gun.
She torpedoed herself straight at the Mercedes windshield. She must have seen the driver’s terrified eyes. Maybe even her
own reflection as it rolled across the glass of the windshield.
She screamed, “Murderers! Murderers!” at the top of her voice. I could hear her clearly from several car lengths behind.
The gray sedan went into a severe skid. Two of the wheels left the ground, the whole right side did. Then everything terrifying
and bad seemed to happen at once, and much too fast.
Max had come close to hitting the windshield. She must have cut into the driver’s vision. And now, both she and the car were
spinning out of control.
The sedan tried to avoid colliding with her. Then Max caromed off the spinning, sliding Mercedes.
She was thrown like a raggedy doll toward the woods.
I watched as she hurtled forward, then smashed into an oak tree. She hit the tree trunk unbelievably hard.
I was almost certain she died in that terrible instant of impact. My body shuddered.
Harding Thomas had turned to fire, his head thrust out the window again. He probably couldn’t believe his eyes. He watched
Max crash into the tree. But he didn’t see a low tree hanging over the roadside until it was too late to duck back into the
Mercedes.
Thomas’s head was horribly wedged, then flattened between the metal of the car and the unyielding wood of the tree trunk.
I could hear the savage crushing sound, the crisp snap of bone. I saw the terrified sneer on his mouth wiped away. Blood spattered
and spurted everywhere. Flesh and bone was pulverized. I witnessed the instant of the terrible man’s painful death.
I braked hard and the Rover went into a long skid. The car spun a full 360 degrees.
The Mercedes sedan was fully out of control, the driver apparently unable to maneuver. Harding Thomas’s head and shoulders
hung lifelessly out the side window. The car struck the trunk of a tall oak. It bounced off. Ricocheted sharply to the right.
The wheels rose up, then touched down again.