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He went back to his seat, where the attaché case of cash waited. He took off the wig, the sunglasses. He stripped off the green corduroy shirt; beneath it he wore a thin black cotton pullover, long-sleeved, and the single emergency chute, strapped to his stomach. He wasn’t about to use the two chutes he’d asked for. He knew they would be bugged; they would be hastily but well armed with homing devices that could lead the FBI and everybody right to him. He would wait a while, and, one at a time, throw those chutes out, to send the posse on a wild goose chase or two.

He settled back in the seat and, breathing easily for the first time in hours, began to relax. The project was going well. Flawlessly. Admittedly, it had been harder to execute than to plan—well, not harder, really, but more taxing emotionally. It was one thing to coolly plot, to engage in deliberated planning, to rehearse his lines in his head, and quite another thing to carry out all of that in a plane filled not with Xs on a diagram, but human beings.

And that was the element he couldn’t plan for, the human element, and it had worried him, both at home and on the plane. Blueprints were fine for building houses; diagrams were great for putting together electrical systems. But human beings weren’t as dependable as diodes, and he realized something could go haywire, despite his thorough engineering; he knew some human could throw a wrench in the works.

In fact, he had thought he’d spotted someone who might be just the person who would throw that wrench. Sitting next to that kid, that curly-haired guy with the Big Little Books and comics, was a rock-faced man with dark hair and mustache and narrow eyes that had an almost Oriental cast to them; he’d felt those eyes on him, boring into him, and had noticed the stewardess, Hazel, talking to the guy more than was perhaps natural. He’d almost decided the guy was a FBI man or sky marshal or something, but to his relief the guy hadn’t stayed around as a hostage, which would have been a good indication that he was a law enforcement agent of some kind who’d happened to be on the flight. He hadn’t banked on having someone like that aboard, and was glad to find his suspicions were groundless.

Some time passed, and he went back to the noisy aperture and tossed out the first of the parachutes.

He went back to his seat, the calculator still in hand but not so firmly now, and he sat and watched the land go by. He’d told the pilot to fly a straight course, not wanting to be overly specific about precisely what course he wanted (since that would alert everyone that he indeed did intend to jump soon) but knowing that if the pilot wasn’t pulling something, Highway 67 should be in constant sight. It was. It was important for Highway 67 to be within reasonable walking distance when he jumped, in order for Carol to pick him up as planned. He checked his watch; time was working out okay. All was running smooth, then.

A few minutes passed, and he went back to the ramp and threw out the second parachute.

He sat down again, looked out the doubled-paned window. Missouri was rolling by. Some of it was hilly, but most was relatively flat farmland, which was what he was after. Soon he should spot the landmark he was looking for and make his jump. He prepared himself, checked out the chute; got the C. B. out of the Radio Shack sack, which had been under the seat in front of him; he set it on his lap, atop the attaché case. He still had the calculator in hand, and
hadn’t decided whether to take it along or not; probably wasn’t wise to leave anything behind he didn’t have to, but maybe there was some freak chance of the thing detonating the bomb on the plane, with the impact of his fall.

He watched out the window, the familiar landscape gliding by. And then he saw the landmark—and red barn whose slanting roof bore white letters advertising
MIRACLE CAVERNS
—and he got up. He clipped the C.B. onto his belt, tucked the attaché case under his arm.

Now was the time.

He walked down the aisle, toward the ramp at the rear of the plane; the opening beckoned him, a gateway to freedom, to a new start for Carol and him. And as he walked by the rest rooms, a hand reached out and clamped onto him by the wrist, shook the calculator from his hand. Then a fist crashed into his jaw, damn near breaking it, knocking him back on his butt.

His mind reeled:
someone sneaked on the plane at Moline
, he thought,
damned FBI sneaked someone aboard!

Then he looked up and saw who it was.

That hard-faced S. O. B. with the mustache.

Who was now on the floor, in the aisle, scrambling after the calculator, which had flipped between some seats. The guy had a look of pain on that scowling face of his, from the mingled wind-noise and jet-screech coming from the open ramp door, a harsh, grating sound that was working on the guy’s eardrums.

The skyjacker was used to the sound, as the ramp door had been open some time now; but the guy with the mustache had been hidden away in the rest room, apparently, where the sound had been muffled. Which meant the guy was somewhat incapacitated, but the skyjacker was still hesitant about retaliation: the guy was big, and looked mean as hell, and was probably armed.

He knew he was close enough to that door to make a successful jump, no problem; he had the money. Why not go for it?

But the guy with the mustache had seen him, sans wig, sans sunglasses, sans any disguise; and would be able to report exactly where he’d jumped. Which meant one thing: the skyjacker would be caught.

He’d never considered the possibility of capture, really; he’d always thought it was either/or, heaven or hell—a bundle of money and make a new life, or no life at all. Now, with capture, he’d have prison to face; life imprisonment, perhaps, and the same for Carol. . . .

In the three seconds it had taken the skyjacker to make these realizations, the guy with the mustache had retrieved the calculator from between the seats, though he was still on his hands and knees. He looked up with an expression of annoyance; he was a mean-looking S. O. B., all right, like an Indian with a grudge.

The skyjacker swung his attaché case and caught the guy on the chin, throwing him back, on his back, apparently unconscious. The skyjacker went to retrieve the calculator from the man’s hand—best not leave that behind. . . .

But the guy reached out a big hand and grabbed him by the ankle, and yanked, and he fell on his ass in the aisle, hard, and the attaché case of money went skittering out of his hands, landing a few feet away from the open ramp door. With that suction effect, the case would get pulled outside in a second if he didn’t reach it first, and on his hands and knees he crawled after it, like a grossly oversize infant. He got his hands on the case, the suction of the open door tugging at the skin on his face, the wind slapping him, and he felt something come down hard on his back.

A foot.

And then the guy said something; he had to yell, scream it really, to get his voice above the jet roar and wind. He said, “If I let you up, will you behave?”

Now it was the skyjacker’s turn to yell. “Yes!”

“I shouldn’t,” the guy said, still screaming, “I should kick your goddamn ass out of this plane.”

But the pressure subsided; the foot went away.

He got to his feet and looked at the guy. He had expected the guy to be fuming, but he still seemed more annoyed than enraged. And another surprise: he had no gun, at least not in sight.

And that gave the skyjacker a burst of courage.

He knew he was close enough to that door to make a successful jump, no problem. He had the attaché case in his hands. Why turn the money over to this guy when there wasn’t even a gun pointed at him? Why give up now, after working so hard and coming so close?

He lurched forward, shoved a hand into the guy’s chest, pushing into him, knocking him off balance.

But it wasn’t enough.

The guy with the mustache lashed out with a fist as big as a softball, and the skyjacker tumbled back, head spinning, knocking against the edge of the open ramp door; then the suction got hold of him and he was gone, unconscious or damn near but somehow instinctively clutching the attaché case to him, falling down those steps into the gray sky.

Four

16

SOMEONE DROPPED
something in the kitchen and woke Jon.

He sat up in bed, startled by the sound, and found the room around him dark, which startled him too. When he lay down late this afternoon, it was still light outside—or as light as an overcast day can be—but now it was pitch black. He’d fallen asleep and now, as he checked his watch, he found he’d slept well into the night.

Damn, he thought. He’d only meant to rest for a moment, just lie down and relax a while, really. Not fall asleep. He hadn’t even had a chance to call Karen yet, to tell her he was back in Iowa City. Too late for that now. Damn. How could he fall asleep, with Nolan literally up in the air like that? What the hell was wrong with him?

Another sound.

Someone was moving around out in the kitchen.

Breen, Jon thought. Just Breen, up having a post- midnight snack.

They had left Breen at the antique shop while they went to Detroit for the Comfort heist; Breen hadn’t felt like traveling right away, with his wound and all, and besides, his car windshield was shot out, so they’d left him to mind the store.

When Jon got back late this afternoon, Breen had been full of questions.

And complaints.

“You might’ve called,” Breen had said, “and let me know how the goddamn thing came out. I had a stake in it, too, you know.”

And Jon had said, “Well, you know Nolan. He couldn’t see wasting a long-distance call when we were coming right back, anyway.”

Breen had mumbled something about what a cheap-ass Nolan was, and then went on to ask, well, what the hell happened at the Comforts, anyway? What Jon told him sounded like a good news/bad news joke. First the good news: they had successfully stolen over $200,000—even the part about the Comforts dying was good news to Breen, who was glad to see them go. Then came the bad news: the skyjacking.

And Breen had started to moan and groan—such a terrible thing, losing all that money. Jon was in no mood to listen to him bitch, and went upstairs and fixed himself a ham and cheese sandwich. Breen came up and ate half of Jon’s sandwich and asked Jon if he could recommend some place to get a new windshield put in his car. Jon told him where he could get that done, then went into his uncle Planner’s bedroom and lay down for a short rest.

So now it was the middle of the night and he was awake, finally, and someone was moving around out there, in the kitchen. Probably Breen, but Jon wasn’t sure; he was nervous, not having heard from Nolan yet, and he wondered if it could be an intruder of some sort out there. He pulled open the nightstand drawer by the bed and got out one of his uncle’s .32 automatics.

He stalked through the pine paneled living room and slowly edged toward the archway that led into the kitchen. The lights were on in there, bright and white. Breen, probably; but he kept the .32 leveled out in front of him, just the same.

He lunged through the archway and into the kitchen, and Nolan was sitting at the kitchen table, eating some breakfast cereal.

“Don’t shoot, kid,” Nolan said, holding up his hands, one of them with a spoon in it, dripping milk down on the table.

“Nolan!”

“Quiet,” he said. He put down his hands. “You want to wake up Breen? He’s down sleeping like a baby in your bed, and I don’t want that talkative son of a bitch waking up and making me explain things all night.”

“Nolan,” Jon said, incredulous. He sat down at the table with him, set the .32 next to the box of breakfast cereal. “Where’d you come from?”

“Caught a bus at St. Louis. Where’s the god-damn sugar? These fucking Grape Nuts are supposed to be naturally sweet, but they taste like wood shavings to me. Get me the damn sugar.”

Jon got him the sugar, rejoined him at the table.

“Well, Jesus, Nolan.”

“Jesus what?”

“What happened? What happened?”

“I caught a bus at St. Louis, I told you.” He ate some cereal and grinned at Jon as he chewed.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Nolan, quit being so goddamn cute. I can’t stand it. Tell me what happened!”

“Say, have you been listening to the news, kid?”

“No, I fell asleep, damn it.”

“I’d like to know what they’re saying on the news. I’d like to know what they’re saying about our money, which ought to’ve been found by now. Turn on that radio on the counter. The news’ll be on in five minutes.”

“I’ll turn it on in five minutes. How’d you get in here, Nolan? The doors were locked and you don’t have a key.”

“I don’t need a key to get in a house. So you were sleeping, huh, kid? Your concern for me’s overwhelming.”

“Yeah, well, Nolan, I’m sorry I fell asleep, but could you please tell me what happened?”

“Not much to tell. I stayed in the can. Nobody caught on I was in there, least of all the skyjacker. I waited till all the hostages were off the plane, waited for that stupid kid to make his move to jump, and then I took that calculator away from him. Didn’t want him blowing me up, whether by accident or not, and that wasn’t unlikely with him jumping with a damn detonator in his hand. So I took it away.”

“Then you decided he
did
have a bomb on the plane?”

“Yes,” Nolan said, and he ran through the same chain of logic, proving the bomb’s existence, as had Jon. Which would have given Jon a certain sense of satisfaction, if he hadn’t been so confused about so much else.

“But I don’t get it, Nolan. Why’d you even bother staying on the plane? Certainly not just to take the calculator away from the guy, to save the airlines their plane. You’re not the knight-in-white-armor type.”

“I had my reasons.” And he grinned again, chomping cereal. “I got a surprise for you, kid.”

“Surprise? What do you mean, surprise?”

“Well, just before the plane got to St. Louis, I knocked on the cockpit door and told Hazel and the pilot and everybody what I’d done. That I’d taken that thing away from the skyjacker, before he jumped. And I was a hero. They were so grateful they could shit. When we landed and were getting off the plane, I asked Hazel if she would go get that briefcase of funny-books out of that closet across from the john, because if I left that behind, my young nephew—that’s you—would never forgive me. She obliged, and before the FBI or anybody could ask me a thing, the hero of the hour, briefcase tucked under his arm, excused himself to go to the can and instead went out and caught a cab and went straight to the bus station. After all the time I’d spent boxed up in that crapper in the plane, you’d think it would occur to those jokers I’d already had ample opportunity to relieve myself. But it didn’t.”

“Now let me get this straight,” Jon said, not understanding at all. “You mean you went to the trouble of asking for that briefcase, just to be nice to me? That doesn’t sound like you, Nolan. No offense, but you’re not the most thoughtful man I ever met. I mean, it’s a nice surprise, but . . .”

“That’s not the surprise,” Nolan said. He reached down and brought the briefcase up from the floor beside him; he put it on the table.

“Hey,” Jon said, “that’s not my briefcase.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It looks something like it, but that’s not it”

“Open it. Go ahead.”

Jon snapped the case open.

“Jesus,” he said.

The case was full of money.

Crammed with packets of money; packets of $20 bills, in bank wrappers. Thousands and thousands of green dollars.

“The skyjacker’s money,” Jon said. Awe struck. “You switched on him!”

“Yeah,” Nolan said. “Easy as pie. He went forward to boss the pilot around, and I just sneaked out of the can, switched his briefcase with yours, and sneaked back again.”

“Damn, you switched on him! You switched on him. Nolan, you’re a genius. And an even trade, at that. We hardly lost a cent on the deal.”

“I wouldn’t say that, kid. Every serial number on every bill in that briefcase was recorded by the feds before they let it go, you can bet on it. We’ll have to peddle it to a fence, at a loss.”

“But we’ll still come out okay, won’t we?”

“We’ll come out okay.”

“What about
our
money? The money in your suitcase? Who gets that?”

“I’m not really sure. It’s confiscated, of course, so I suppose the government ends up with it. Don’t they always?”

“Nolan . . . how in hell could you know the money would come in a briefcase so similar to mine?”

“I didn’t. That was dumb luck. The way I had it figured was I’d have to switch the contents of the two briefcases, and that would’ve been tougher. But possible. Maybe I would’ve had to tangle with the skyjacker sooner that way, and that could’ve been risky.”

“What happened to the skyjacker, then? Did he make his jump or what?”

“Well, we had a little scuffle. I hit him pretty hard and he fell out of the plane. His chute opened, late, but it opened. I told the pilot later that the kid waited till we were almost to St. Louis before jumping, which I said to throw them off, since it’s to our benefit if he gets away, with everybody assuming he has the money. I suppose he’s alive.”

“I kind of hope so.”

“Yeah, me too, but only because it helps us if he is. Otherwise, after what he put us through, he could break his goddamn neck and be okay with me.”

“He’s just another kind of thief, Nolan. Like you. And me.”

“No. There’s a difference. He’s an amateur. I . . . we . . . are professionals.”

Jon smiled. “I don’t think I’m much of a pro, but thanks anyway, Nolan. There’s only one thing I regret. . . .”

“What’s that? You still brooding about killing old Sam Comfort? Don’t. You couldn’t have shot a more deserving soul.”

“Oh, not that. That does bother me, don’t think it doesn’t. But that wasn’t what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

Jon leaned forward and spread his hands. “Well, it’s great you got the money, and I don’t want you to take this wrong, but if you’d have just told me what you had in mind, I could’ve emptied the briefcase and taken my comic books with me. Do you have any idea what those things are worth? How hard they are to find? Do you know that . . .”

Nolan put some more sugar on his cereal