Skyhammer (24 page)

It was just after noon when she sat down at the computer and brought up the Lotus 1-2-3 program. But she was thinking that
what had happened to Stan was similar to what had happened to Emil. Emil had watched as Farraday, like an insidious disease,
destroyed everything he’d worked hard for. But unlike Stan, he had let the evil attack him too. He hadn’t been able to get
over the pain and see that life had to go on. The last night she’d seen him, she’d started to tell him about Stan—how Stan
had lost everything too, squeezed dry by medical bills, and how he was coming back from it, stronger than ever. But she’d
sensed that making the comparison would only reinforce Emil’s misery. And her own.

She would get over the tragedy that Jack Farraday had wrought. She had made a start toward her own recovery and wouldn’t let
thoughts of Emil drag her back. She had work to do. She placed her fingertips on the keyboard again. The telephone beside
her rang.

It was Melissa, home from her morning band practice.

“Mom, there’s a man looking for you.” Her daughter’s voice was pinched with worry.

“What man?”

“He just came by here. He’s from the FBI. He said he was trying to call you. I gave him that number. Mom, what’s going on?”

“Honey, I don’t know,” she said. A dread filled her instantly. It had to be Emil. “We’d better get off the line, in case he’s
trying to call here.”

“Okay,” Melissa said. “But, Mom. Call me, okay? Please, as soon as you find out.”

“I will, honey. Don’t worry.”

She put the receiver back on the cradle, thinking that Melissa, too, knew it was Emil. She turned to the window to see if
Stan was still out by the empty pool. She could just see the top of his head, and that of the architect’s, above the edge
of the coping, down in the deep end. Poor Melissa, she thought. Emil and she had gotten so close.

Her mind coiled into blankness then, and she stared at the monitor’s screen again, seeing her reflection in in the dark field
behind the bright green characters. In the next instant she jumped as the phone rang.

“Katherine Winslow?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God. Brad Tolbert, Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’ve been trying to reach you. You art Emil Pate’s wife?”

“Yes, well—we’re in the process of getting divorced.” She felt a needle of guilt stab through the dread, as if the divorce
were a crime.

“Yes, excuse me. Ms. Winslow, I’m afraid your ex-husband is involved in an aircraft hijacking.”

Winslow exhaled sharply, relieved. It had to be minor, something Emil could handle. He was on a domestic route, and no one
hijacked domestic flights anymore. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is he all right?”

The FBI man made a noise, a syllable of some word. “Ms. Winsow, your ex-husband is the hijacker. He’s taken over his own plane.”

For a moment, she felt like laughing. It was ridiculous. Then the news shoved her hard, like a brutal hand, back into her
seat. “That’s impossible,” she whispered.

“I’m afraid it’s true. And we need you to—”

“Wait a minute.” It was coming too fast. She leaned forward, pushing the keyboard out of the way. They had to have it all
wrong—someone was only making it appear that Emil was involved. Or the whole thing was a hideous joke. “You’re wrong,” she
said, angry now. “Who told you this?”

“My superiors in Washington,” the FBI man answered. “There’s no mistake, Ms. Winslow. We don’t have any time. You must agree
to talk to him.”

A car pulled up sharply outside the office windows, brakes squealing. A white sedan with an emblem on the door. At the same
time the man on the phone said, “We’ve got a car on the way over there, and you’re to be taken out to the FAA center. If you
will.”

A man in a brown suit got out of the sedan and came hurrying around to the office door. A moment later he was in the office,
his badge out for her to see.

“Katherine Winslow?”

Behind him she saw Stan and the architect climbing up now, into the shallow end of the pool. The bright sun glanced off Stan’s
graying temples, and off the lenses of his sunglasses. She knew he liked her, was interested in her. He turned away from the
other man, laughing at something said. Then he looked toward the FBI car, the office, the window where she was, and before
his smile faded into a frown of concern, it seemed to be for her. For the new life she was just beginning. But she knew she
couldn’t think that way, not yet.

“Yes,” she said quietly into the phone. “The car is here. We’re leaving now.”

Air Route Traffic Control Center

Albuquerque, New Mexico

19:33 GMT/12:33 MST

Like a bad dream, Jim Kelly’s memory of the takeover had gradually dimmed. In the beginning, as had most other Westar people,
he’d read every news story, clipped each one that condemned Farraday’s actions, and made photocopies to send to friends. To
no avail. His bitterness, frustration, and fear had kept him awake nights, and finally, after Farraday’s ultimatum, to save
himself and his marriage, he had simply said to hell with it and quit. Better to leave than keep flying a job he had grown
to hate. And he actually liked his new job more than he’d expected. He had recovered his self-esteem.

But now, after the twenty-minute ride to the Albuquerque center, seated at the situation display console for Sector 71, he
could feel himself sinking back into the nightmare. Which was, he realized, exactly what Emil Pate wanted. Pate was acting
out every Westar pilot’s fantasy—and there was something in that which Kelly could not condemn.

And yet this was insane. Pate must have gone over the edge, far beyond the point at which the rest of them had turned back
and found some kind of peace. Kelly remembered his own anguish, as sharp and dense as any physical pain. He had been afraid
of the limit to which it might take him. He had quit because of that, but Pate had gone back, stuck it out, anything to keep
flying, and now he was going to pay for it—pay when it was Jack Farraday who should be punished instead.

When had he last seen Emil Pate? Kelly had actually flown with him only a few times. Pate had been thoroughly professional,
he remembered, but instantly likable. Self-effacing, good natured. jovial in a quiet way—no longer the devil-may-care jet-jock
the older Westar pilots had thought him to be. And no crybaby. Just the opposite. Pate had seemed very much the kind of man
who could tough it through whatever was thrown at him. A pilot’s pilot, happy simply if he had a plane to fly. Or so it had
seemed.

But the more Kelly thought about him, the more he began to remember Pate as the type of man you could never really know well.
Confident to the point of cockiness, not one to mince words—a guy you liked to fly with for those reasons—but a bit strange
and distant. Kelly tried to picture Pate and got the image of his sharp eyes, squinted and covert, and his big cheekbones
and hair so black it reflected blue in the sun.

But there was no more time to think about Pate or the old days. He would be on the radio to him in just a few minutes, and
Lenard Curtis, the center’s supervisor, needed to check him out on the communications equipment.

To Kelly’s relief, the gear was basically similar to the headsets commonly used in aircraft. A small speaker on a panel above
the console had been activated, and the center’s engineers had hung a telephone handset in front of it so that transmissions
could be relayed to Washington. Kelly looked at the clock. They had a few more minutes before 555 was scheduled to be handed
off from Kansas City. He picked up the handset and made the connection to Washington. In the next moment L’Hommedieu was on
the line.

“Homm? Kelly. I’m here and pretty well set up. Can you monitor our transmissions?”

“Affirmative.” L’Hommedieu began immediately to explain what he intended to do. Since he’d be able to hear Pate, Kelly wouldn’t
have to relay what Pate said. And L’Hommedieu would be able to speak to Kelly without Pate hearing him. “Here’s the direction
I want this to go,” he said. “He’ll know you’re not there by sheer coincidence, but play it that way for a minute. Make a
joke of it. Take the edge off first.”

“I get you,” Kelly said. “Pretend I can’t believe he’s for real.”

“Right, but don’t carry it too far. He’s very fragile. Don’t tell him he must be crazy. If anything, tell him you know he
isn’t. The main thing is sympathy. You’re on his side. Make sure he knows you’d feel the same way if you’d gone back. Tell
him you know Jack Farraday cheated him. Make it sound like you hate Farraday as much as he does.”

“That won’t be difficult.”

“Jim,” L’Hommedieu said, “here’s the important part. You must get him to see that his taking revenge won’t solve the problem.
I’m sure he’ll want you to back him up. Do so, to a point. Then draw the line. Don’t condemn him but stop agreeing.

“Sure,” Kelly said. It scared him, though. “What if he
doesn’t
care?”

“We’ve got nothing to lose. But ease into it if you can. Jump too soon, and he might catch on you’ve been coached. And, Jim,
one more thing. If Pate has made up his mind on this—if he’s going through with it—and you fail to talk him out of it, I don’t
want you thinking you caused the whole thing, understand? And don’t forget, I’ll be right there in your other ear if I think
you’re headed onto thin ice.”

“About one minute,” Curtis said.

The blip was coming off the edge of the screen.

“Here he comes now.” Kelly said into the phone as he fit on the headset. For a moment, the responsibility L’Hommedieu had
told him wasn’t his settled onto him anyway. What
would
happen if he failed? Kelly wanted to ask, but it was too late. The blip, thirty nautical miles west of Liberal, Kansas, along
with its accompanying data, had begun to flash. Curtis leaned over him.

“You’re on.”

Aviation Command Center

19:39 GMT/14:39 EST

Brian L’Hommedieu held his breath. It seemed that the sweephand on the clock had become stuck; then it jumped ahead to the
next second, and in the same instant he heard Pate make contact:

“Hello, Albuquerque. New World Five-fifty-five, flight level three-one-zero.”

Kelly took another breath, then said, “Five-fifty-five, Albuquerque. Radar contact.” He waited a few seconds. “Redman, how
the hell you doin’?”

The sweep hand counted three more seconds.

“Who is this?” Pate transmitted.

“It’s Jim Kelly, Emil. Remember me? How’s it doing?”

L’Hommedieu watched the hand count off another five seconds. It wasn’t going to work, he thought.

“Emil, you still there?” Kelly asked.

“Where’s Farraday?” Pate said. “That’s who I’ll talk to. Not you.”

L’Hommedieu breathed a sigh. He heard Kelly’s breath expel at the same time.

“He’s on his way in right now,” Kelly said. “Be here any minute.”

“In the meantime they dug you up?”

“Well, they had to pry me away from the tube. Army-Navy game today, buddy. You sure have a knack for bad timing.”

“Careful,” L’Hommedieu said quietly into the phone.

“This must be pretty important, huh?” Kelly transmitted immediately.

“You know it is,” Pate answered. “You know why I’m doing this. Jack Farraday’s just going to ruin more people.”

“You want to talk about that?” Kelly said. “I’m all ears—you know that.”

There was another pause. “I’m pretty much through talking, pardner,” Pate answered. “Story’s out there. People just aren’t
paying attention yet.”

Kelly was silent for a second. L’Hommedieu shook his head, trying to think of something. Then Kelly said, “How’d you come
up with this plan, anyway?”

“Good,” L’Hommedieu whispered into the phone.

“It just happened.” Pate clicked off, then came back on. “You know what it was, Kelly? The final straw? An engine fire. I’m
riding shotgun to a squirt, a goddamn scab—one of Farraday’s kiddie-corps captains, and we get a fire light, and I’m sitting
there in the right-hand seat, a copilot for this jerk while he’s sweating bullets. Pardner, it did me in. The last final straw.
I swore I wasn’t making one more trip. I’d kill myself first. But instead—” Pate quit again. Kelly was quiet, too.

“Sympathize with him,” L’Hommedieu said. “He’s not ready yet.”

“I know just what you’re saying, buddy.” Kelly said immediately. “I understand. If I’d gone back I’d be feeling exactly the
same way. You sure you have to take it this far, though? I mean, you’re making quite a statement already. You sure you need
to make any more of one?”

“Talk’s cheap, Kelly,” Pate transmitted back, “You can’t just say it, you have to do it, or it don’t mean squat.”

“I know,” Kelly said. “But it’s no good if you can’t be here to enjoy it, buddy. And personally I’d hate to lose a guy like
you. You’re too good a pilot, for one thing. Too professional for this sort of thing.”

“Okay,” L’Hommedieu said. “Good, now go for it.”

“Emil? Let me ask you this. How do you think this will help the rest of us? If you get revenge?”

Pate didn’t answer.

“Keep going,” L’Hommedieu cautioned.

“If that’s what you think,” Kelly went on, “then you’re wrong, buddy. Better to quit right now, cut your losses.”

Pate answered immediately. “That’s the whole point,” he said. “I didn’t quit. I’m still here. If I hadn’t gone back I wouldn’t
be able to do this. But now I can turn this around on the bastard. Monster—that’s what he is. Swallowed me up, but he didn’t
figure on this. I’m stuck in his throat. You see what I’m saying?”

“Yeah,” Kelly answered, but he didn’t sound sure. He said nothing more.

“It’s okay,” L’Hommedieu said, but he, too, was unsure. Pate was going off in a direction he hadn’t anticipated. “Keep to
the point,” he told Kelly. “You’re not mad at him, but revenge isn’t a good motive.”

“You see what I’m saying, though, Emil?” Kelly said. “Two wrongs don’t make a right. In fact, it’ll work against you, buddy.
We’ll all feel worse. We won’t think you did the right thing.”