Sail (22 page)
THE DAY WAS A PILOT’S DREAM, all right. Nearly perfect visibility. With barely a cloud in the sky, Peter could see everything from his perch at three thousand feet.
Everything, that is, except Katherine and her obnoxious brat pack. Plus their uncle, of course.
He’d covered a half-dozen islands along the southernmost tip of the Bahamas that qualified as uninhabited. Sure enough, they were still uninhabited.
There remained two ripe prospects in his mind, and he had the coordinates for both.
A half hour later, that was down to one.
Peter wasn’t given to self-doubt, and that wasn’t changing as he steered the plane due east and throttled up. It was Devoux’s work he was beginning to question.
With his charts and graphs, the guy had certainly made the search seem like a slam dunk.
Of course, that expression had some interesting history with the CIA, didn’t it?
Peter still had an unfair advantage over the Coast Guard. Its search wouldn’t expand this far south until the following day—at the earliest. Still, what good was having the extra time if he came up empty?
Peter increased the throttle and the plane responded seamlessly. He very much liked the way it handled. Even when pushed, she still felt smooth.
Very
smooth. With the engines purring, he gave the throttle one more nudge.
Why not get there a little faster?
Out of nowhere, the plane answered with a loud sputter.
That’s why.
Jolting up in his seat, Peter looked out his side window to see the left propeller slowing down. Then it stopped.
Immediately the wings seesawed, the plane lurching hard left. Peter threw his weight against the control stick, struggling to steer it back to the right.
Again he looked out the window—both sides now— checking the ailerons on the rear edge of the wings. They looked intact, but he was still losing roll control.
Peter’s gut shot up into his throat as the small plane began to spiral downward. Once, twice, he tried to restart the engine, but with no luck. The nose of the plane plunged farther and farther south. Within seconds there would be nothing he could do.
Except crash into the sea.
Was this God intervening? Was there some kind of cosmic justice after all? Nah!
Peter shook his head, clenching his jaw. With one last heave he pulled back on the control stick, trying to bring the plane out of its spin. If he could level the plane, he’d have another shot at restarting the engine.
That’s it, baby, straighten out! You can do it.
The left engine stirred, then stammered, the propeller clicking, clicking, clicking . . .
Then catching.
Sweet music to his ears, the engine fired up, kicking out a burst of air and sending the plane hurling forward out of its spin. Only when it leveled out a few hundred feet over the water did Peter remember to breathe.
“Unfuckingbelievable!”
he shouted.
But that was only the half of it. Peter stared out over the nose of the plane, quickly lifting his sunglasses. The island! Twelve o’clock, straight ahead! Were those animals?
No, they were people.
And not sunbathers, either—not tourists enjoying a secluded day at the beach.
Back on went the sunglasses. He throttled down, the plane swooping lower and lower. He wanted to get closer, close enough to know for sure that what he was seeing was for real.
That it was the Dunnes.
I’M NOT THE FIRST TO SPOT IT, Mark is. He yells so loud that I think I’m back in the ER and there’s a big problem.
But the second I turn to see him down by the water, his arm outstretched and pointing feverishly into the sky, I know he’s screaming for joy.
The next second we all are.
Carrie and Ernie, sprawled in the shade by the top of the beach, jump up like two jack-in-the-boxes. They practically trip over each other as they sprint to join their brother.
No one says a word about lighting the fires.
We don’t have to!
That’s how close this low-flying plane is. It’s coming straight toward us, no mistake. There’s no way it can’t see us.
Still, just to be sure, Carrie runs over to our SOS spelled out with rocks. I actually laugh as she elaborately motions to it with her hands. She looks like one of those silly prize girls on
The Price Is Right.
Wow, this is really happening! We’re about to be rescued!
Yesterday we thought our ship had come in. Today, for real, our plane has!
It’s only a few hundred yards away and dipping lower, as if to say hello, signaling that it’s seen us.
That’s when Mark screams out again. “Look!” he says. “It’s got pontoons!”
He’s right. I was so happy to see the plane, it never occurred to me where it might land.
No problem at all.
It’s got a runway as big as the ocean.
With a giant
whoosh!
the plane sails right overhead, its wings angling into a steep turn. I catch a glimpse of the pilot—or at least the silhouette of the pilot. It looks like a man, or maybe I’m just assuming that. I really can’t tell for sure. But if it is, he’s going to get the biggest hug of his life, whoever he is.
“It’s coming around to land!” yells Mark. “He’s coming! He’s coming!”
We watch the plane circle back at the far end of the beach. The wings level out no more than a couple of hundred feet above the surface. In all my years of sailing, I’ve never actually seen a water landing.
Talk about a memorable first time.
The plane approaches, its twin propellers like two perfect circles against the sky. Any second now it will begin to dip toward the surf, those pontoons gently easing down.
But that expected moment never comes.
Right before our eyes—so close, so very,
very
close—the plane continues straight past us, the roar of its engines drowning out our screams.
“Noooooo!”
Stunned, we watch as it flies off into the distance. It doesn’t turn around, it doesn’t come back. Instead it disappears over the horizon.
Gone.
How could what just happened here possibly have happened? Who was that maniac who just buzzed us?
CHRIST, IT’S DARK . . .
Not that Peter was complaining. This was exactly what he had been waiting for, the cover of night. The darker, the better.
Walking through the thick and tangled brush, he kept his flashlight low, shining it ahead only enough to see where each step was about to land. Anything more would’ve been too much. It would make him into a walking lighthouse.
He was an uninvited guest, after all—the ultimate surprise visitor—and the whole key to his plan was keeping it that way until the very last moment.
Now he just had to find his lovely family, once and for all, and finish them off.
The plane was anchored on the other side of the island. Earlier he’d cut the engines and performed a near-silent “dead drop” a few miles from shore.
Hey, kids, don’t try that at home—trust me on it.
For one thing, there are no do-overs.
It took hours for the current to drag the plane close enough to the island, but hours he had. If he’d really thought about it, he would’ve included a few magazines in the FedEx box.
Other than that, though, he’d packed everything he needed. One fold-up shovel. The flashlight. Some double-braided rope. Of course, the most important was his Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum. And yes, he was ready to use it. The murders wouldn’t be a problem for him.
Peter pressed on. The night air was warm and still, peppered only with the high-pitched chirping of some kind of bird. Short of that, the only distinct sound was the pounding of his heart. The adrenaline was now gushing through his veins. Maybe the murders would be a small problem.
Finally, through a clearing, he saw it. Distant but definitely there. It was a small orange glow.
Their campfire.
The edge of the beach was only a few yards away. Reaching it, he immediately kicked off his docksiders and wet his feet, made sure he was balanced in his stance.
Each step he took now was silenced by the squishy give of the sand. He was quiet as a mouse.
As he got closer, his eyes began to distinguish among the shapes near the fire. Bodies. All horizontal. Fast, fast asleep. No one seemed to be stirring. He could even hear some snoring.
One big happy family.
But who was who? Peter wondered.
Did it even matter?
For some perverse reason, it did. Yes, the first shot would be reserved for Katherine. He had nothing against her, really. There was no need for her to see the kids slaughtered.
Peter took one more step forward, his eyes squinting down to narrow slits.
Until
. . .
The light from the fire shifted ever so slightly, illuminating Katherine’s face for only a split second.
There you are, sweetie pie!
With a stiff arm he swiftly raised his gun in front of him, the barrel aimed squarely at Katherine’s head, right between her eyes. All he had to do was pull the trigger.
At least, that’s how it might have looked.
“But trust me, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I was there to save my family, not to kill them.”
Trust No One
PETER’S ASSEMBLED DREAM TEAM of lawyers looked like an ad for Paul Stuart suits as they conversed in hushed tones around the defense table. As for Peter himself, having traded in his flashy Brioni for a Brooks Brothers gray flannel, he kept his focus squarely on the jury as they were led back into the courtroom after a one-hour recess for lunch.
That’s right, people, make eye contact with me. Only an innocent man can stare a jury straight in the eyes, right? That’s been my experience, anyway.
“All rise!” bellowed the court clerk.
Judge Robert Barnett, midfifties with slicked-back gray hair divided by a razor-sharp part, made his way to the bench and further cemented his reputation as a no-nonsense, no dilly-dallying man even before he sat down. He dispensed with any idle chitchat—not even a “Please be seated”—and asked the prosecution to call their first witness.
Nolan Heath, the lead prosecutor, promptly stood and straightened his rep tie before adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. Heath was a deliberate and pensive man, his expression always like that of a chess player considering his next move.
“Your Honor, the prosecution calls Mark Dunne.”
Mark, pot-free for over four months now, rose quickly from the first row behind the prosecution table. If anything, he looked a little too anxious to testify. Who could blame him? He had something to say here, something hugely important.
As he was sworn in, he stared at Peter Carlyle, his hatred of the man on full display for all to see.
Heath said, “Mark, would you please describe the events, as you recall them, of the night of June twenty-fifth earlier this year?”
Mark nodded and took a deep breath. That was something Heath had repeatedly reminded him to do on the witness stand.
Breathe. Think, then speak.
Slowly Mark began to answer. “My sister, Carrie, and I had been taking turns watching over our campsite on the island while everyone else slept. A large snake had attacked our mother a few days earlier, so we wanted to make sure nothing snuck up on us during the night. Carrie and I were vigilant.
“Anyway, a few hours in I heard something. It was dark, but I knew it wasn’t just the wind blowing. Or even an animal. They’re quieter. Sure enough, I could see someone approaching. I mean, I couldn’t tell who it was, but I knew it was a person.”
Heath nodded. “You must have been excited, right? You thought you were about to be saved.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought at first,” said Mark. “Then I wondered why the person wasn’t calling out to us or anything. It didn’t make any sense. That’s when I saw the gun in his hand.”
“So what did you do?” asked Heath, as if he were hearing the story for the first time.
“I protected my family as best I could. As soon as I saw him raise that gun and point it at my mother, I hit him with a heavy branch. Thankfully, it knocked him out.”
“And when you say
him,
who are you referring to, Mark?”
Mark pointed, jabbing his finger as he had done when he spotted Peter’s plane flying toward the island. “
Him
right there. Peter Carlyle. My stepfather.
The son of a bitch!
”
The courtroom buzzed until Judge Barnett banged his gavel. “Young man, I won’t tolerate that kind of language in my courtroom. Do you understand?”
Mark nodded dutifully before turning back to Heath. No one would ever know by the prosecutor’s expression that he was extremely proud of his young witness. Mark had delivered the son-of-a-bitch line exactly as he had been told.
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
JUDGE BARNETT MOTIONED to the defense table. “Your witness,” he announced.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” cooed Gordon Knowles, presumptive captain of Peter’s dream team. He stood up and nodded politely at the jury.
Then, as if to please the impatient judge, he turned to Mark and got right into it.
“You just testified that you were on guard duty that night on the island. So in a way you were sort of looking for trouble, weren’t you?”
Heath bolted up from the prosecution table. “Objection, Your Honor! He’s putting words in the witness’s mouth.”
“Sustained,” muttered Judge Barnett with a disapproving glance at Knowles. “You know better than that, Counselor.”
Yes, he did.
And he would do much better, too.
“Tell me, Mark,” he continued before quickly stopping himself. “You don’t mind if I call you by your first name, do you?”
“Not at all,
Gordon.
”
The jury chuckled.
“Fair enough,” said Knowles, pretending to laugh along. “Now, Mark, when you first saw Mr. Carlyle arrive at your campsite on the island, could you see what he was wearing?”
“No, I couldn’t,” answered Mark. “As I said, it was dark.”
“Yes, it was, wasn’t it?
As you said,
you didn’t even know who the person approaching was until after you attacked him.”
Heath was halfway through his objection when Knowles rephrased. “I’m sorry,” he lied. “Sprang into action, I should’ve said.”
Judge Barnett frowned. “Get to your question, Counselor.”
“Gladly, Your Honor. My question is this. Mark, if you had known that it was Mr. Carlyle, would you have hit him with that heavy branch?”
Mark blinked a few times as if trying to keep his mental balance. He saw where Knowles—
Gordon
—was going with this line of questioning and didn’t want to be tripped up. Not by this prick!
“He had a gun,” Mark answered, slowly and distinctly.
“That’s not what I asked,” said Knowles. “If you had known who it was, would you have hit him with that branch?”
Mark fell silent again.
Judge Barnett leaned toward the witness stand. “Please answer the question, son,” he said.
“No, I wouldn’t have hit him,” said Mark softly.
“Why is that?” asked Knowles.
“Because he was my stepfather.”
“Someone who would have no reason to harm you or anyone else in your family, right?”
“But he had a gun!” Mark repeated, his voice cracking.
“Yes, he did,” said Knowles. “For the same reason you claim to have jumped him.
For self-defense.
” He turned to the jury, throwing up his arms in mock desperation. “After all, Mr. Carlyle had more than large snakes to worry about that night. As I mentioned in my opening statement, he had been told by none other than a federal agent that drug traffickers may have been involved in his family’s disappearance. So Mr. Carlyle came prepared. He had a gun
for self-defense.
It makes all the sense in the world.”
Heath stood to object again, but it was too late. A few members of the jury were shrugging in agreement.
Gun
=
guilty
.
The damage was done.
So was Knowles.
“No further questions,” he announced.
