Liberty (28 page)
Authors: Stephen Coonts
He was afraid to do much more. He was still alive only because Arch Foster was a sadist. If one of those guys glanced back and saw him moving, they would shoot him without a qualm.
He swallowed. For the first time in thirty-some odd hours, he swallowed. Worked the muscles in his face. Forced his tongue across his teeth.
The plane flew on and on. Tommy Carmellini lay still as death. His moment would comeâhe could feel the strength flowing back into his muscles. He forced himself to relax, to not tense up.
The waiting was the most difficult thing he had ever done. Every minute passed glacially.
He was so focused on killing these men that he never thought of afterward. Not for a second.
Waiting ⦠listening ⦠trying to stay relaxed.
He was lying in a heap, still waiting, when an overhead interior light came on.
Norv put a leg over the back of the copilot's seat. He kicked at Carmellini, then found room for his foot. Now he stepped completely over the front seat. Squatting, he grabbed Carmellini by the jaw, turned his head so he could see his face.
Using iron self-control, Carmellini kept his eyes unfocused, his face slack.
Norv unfastened the bungee cords that held Carmellini
and his concrete buckets secured in place, took them off one by one. He slid one of the buckets toward the door, then reached for the other. When the buckets went out, Carmellini would follow.
and his concrete buckets secured in place, took them off one by one. He slid one of the buckets toward the door, then reached for the other. When the buckets went out, Carmellini would follow.
As Norv pulled and shoved, Tommy Carmellini flexed his right leg, lifted the concrete bucket off the floor, and kicked Norv with it.
Lalouette grabbed for the doorpost, tried to save himself. Carmellini got a glimpse of his face, saw the shocked expression, then the slipstream took him and he was gone.
Tommy Carmellini pulled his legs under him, used his arms and hands to lever himself upward.
The airplane danced. Carmellini could see the whites of Arch's eyes as he looked wildly at the apparition coming to life. Arch tried to fly and pull a pistol from a holster behind his belt. His shoulder and lap harness kept him pinned to the seat. Carmellini saw the fear in Arch's faceâand it made him glad!
Carmellini ripped off Foster's headset, pulled it over the seat back. Then he reached for Arch's neck so he could strangle him. Foster's writhing prevented Carmellini from getting his hands around his neck, so he grabbed his head.
Foster banked the plane to the right, toward the open door. Whether it was a conscious move on his part or just a happy accident, the effect was the sameâthe concrete buckets on Carmellini's feetâand Carmelliniâslid toward the yawning blackness.
Unwilling to release his grip on Arch's head, Carmellini used all the strength in his upper body to resist the pull of gravity and get his feet under him. Arch was moaning, a primal howl that mixed with the fierce growl that came up Carmellini's throat.
Arch released the controls and used both hands to fight the vise that was squeezing his head. When he did the plane righted itself, and Tommy Carmellini adjusted his grip. Even with his wrists tied together, his fingers were like steel bands digging into Arch's head.
His left hand was behind Foster's head, his right over his eyes.
Carmellini dug two fingers into Arch Foster's right eye.
Arch filled his lungs and screamed, a demonic scream of pure terror. Using both hands, he fought to pull Carmellini's hands away. His writhing banged his knees against the yoke; the plane bucked viciously.
After all those years of rock climbing, Carmellini's fingers were like steel rods. He forced his fingers deeper into Foster's eye. The eyeball popped out, dangled on his cheek, held there by the optic nerve.
Arch Foster screamed insanely as the airplane stalled and fell off on one wing.
The human eye socket is constructed of bone. With a grip like a steel vise, Tommy Carmellini jammed his fingers into the back of Arch's right eye socket and squeezed with all his strength.
He felt the bone give. His fingers sank into Arch Foster's brain. He jammed his fingers in as far as they would go.
Foster's screams ceased abruptly, and he went limp.
Tommy Carmellini shook the now-limp corpse like a dog shakes a rat. The airplane rolled left.
The antics of the plane brought him out of his killing rage. He threw Arch's body to the right and grabbed for the yoke. For the first time, he looked outside. There was nothing to see in the stygian universe, not sky or sea or land ⦠nothing at all.
The gyro was right there in front of him, telling him the nose and left wing were well down.
Concentrating on the gyro, he lifted the wing slowly so as not to tear it off and began pulling back on the yoke.
How high was he?
He looked for the altimeter, felt a moment of panic when he couldn't find it, then realized which instrument it was. He was descending through two thousand feet, still going down.
Somehow he got the nose up, then he let go of the
yoke and jammed the throttle forward to the stop.
yoke and jammed the throttle forward to the stop.
Back on the yoke, pulling, climbing, watching the airspeed so the plane didn't get slow again, trying to read the gyro and not panic.
Finally he realized he had the plane under control. He looked outside again, searched the darkness. Saw the lights of a beach town far to his left. He gently turned the airplane in that direction.
Carmellini had had a half dozen flying lessons from Rita Moravia in a high-wing Cessna smaller than this one. Those flights had all been during the day, and Rita had demanded he look outside.
As he stared at the gyro he found the sensations of flying disorienting. He kept the aircraft level by sheer strength of will. He also forced himself to glance at the altimeter, checked every now and then out the front windshield to see if the smear of light from the town was still dead ahead, then again stared fiercely at the gyro.
With his hands tied together he could only do one thing at a time, and that thing was handle the yoke. There was no way he could reach the rudder, no way to reach the trim wheel.
But he was alive!
Alive!
Oh, God,
yes
,
alive!
Alive!
Oh, God,
yes
,
alive!
The lights were still a smear on the horizon. How far out over the ocean was he? He was down below a thousand feet. He should climb, get away from the ocean, get higher so he could see. He pulled back on the yoke, made sure the altimeter was moving upward, desperately scanned the panel for the airspeed indicator. Oh, there it was, right above the altimeter.
At three thousand feet he decided he was high enough.
Slowly, slowly, the plane approached the city on the shore. Now he could see individual streets, buildings, the lights of a boardwalk. What city was it?
He didn't know or care.
A flashing light off to his right caught his eye. He turned gently in that direction. Yes, it was an airport! In about a minute he picked out the runway lights.
A wave of relief flooded him.
The wind, where was the wind? He couldn't find the wind indicator, so he gave up. He let go of the yoke momentarily and pulled the throttle out several inches. The drone of the engine changed dramatically.
He flew a wide, sloppy, descending circle, trying to line up on the runway that looked the longest. He had to release the yoke and adjust the power several times. Every time he took his hands off the yoke, it jerked forward, and the nose of the plane dropped precipitously. When he grabbed it again he had to pull back quickly. The problem was that the plane was trimmed for cruise, and he couldn't reach the trim wheel and fly, too.
If there were other airplanes about, he didn't see them.
He was still very high when he crossed the end of the runway. Releasing the yoke momentarily, he pulled the throttle all the way out, to idle. He grabbed the yoke as quick as thought, got the nose back up, let the plane settle.
Holy damn, he was going to run out of runway!
He eased the nose forward, dived at the runway, pulled back at the last moment, just before the plane hit the earth. It floated along just above the dark runway in ground effect, slowing slowly, refusing to touch down. The lights at the end of the runway raced toward him.
Now the wheels touched.
He couldn't reach the brakes. He couldn't steer.
How do I turn off the engine?
The red knob! The mixture! He released the yoke and grabbed for the red knob on the throttle quadrant, jerked it out as far as it would go.
The engine died as the plane careened past the lights marking the end of the runway.
Carmellini grabbed the back of the seats and braced himself for the inevitable, which wasn't long in coming. One of the wheels hit something and the nose slewed right. The plane tilted left, then the left main gear collapsed; the wing hit the earth and sparks flew.
The airplane was slewing to the right amid the howl of
tearing metal and slowly decelerating when the left wing tip hit something solid. The impact almost tore the wing off, spinning the plane madly to the left. Tommy Carmellini lost his grip on the seat back. His head smashed against the right side of the cockpit and the lights went out.
tearing metal and slowly decelerating when the left wing tip hit something solid. The impact almost tore the wing off, spinning the plane madly to the left. Tommy Carmellini lost his grip on the seat back. His head smashed against the right side of the cockpit and the lights went out.
From the door of the helicopter Jake Grafton saw the wreckage of the Cessna in the headlights and floodlights of the fire trucks. The carcass sat off one end of the runway amid the stanchions that held up the approach lights. The left wing was nearly severed, the gear was torn off the plane, the tail was severely damaged.
The chopper settled onto the grass a hundred feet from the wreck. As the rotors spun down, Jake and FBI Agent Harry Estep climbed from the chopper and walked briskly to the ambulance. Tommy Carmellini sat on a gurney with a blanket around him drinking water from a bottle. Nearby lay a body covered with a shroud.
“Zip Vance said you were robbing a bank this weekend,” Jake said. “What in hell are you doing here?”
“Fun and games with agency colleagues.” Carmellini jerked his head at the corpse. “That's Arch Foster. Norv Lalouette is somewhere out there”âhe pointed a thumb eastwardâ“sleeping with the fishes.” He lifted a leg. The skin was raw and bleeding in places. The lime in the concrete had taken off the top layer of skin on his feet and ankles, leaving them red, raw, and inflamed. “The bastards had me in concrete booties. The firemen pounded me loose. See those buckets over there?”
Jake glanced at the buckets and piles of concrete shards.
“Who are those guys over there with the police and firemen?”
“Off-duty cops, I think, and plainclothes. Every cop in eastern Maryland must be here tonight. Crash at the airport, corpse in the cockpit, the only live guy wearing concrete
galoshes ⦠The chief himself was by to see if I'd talk without a lawyer. He and some brass from the state police. I told them I wasn't even telling anyone my name until after I talked to you. I told them how to get hold of you.”
galoshes ⦠The chief himself was by to see if I'd talk without a lawyer. He and some brass from the state police. I told them I wasn't even telling anyone my name until after I talked to you. I told them how to get hold of you.”
“They found me, all right.” Jake turned to Harry. “Maybe you'd better talk to them.”
Harry nodded and walked over to where the police officers stood.
“These two bastards were going to put me in the ocean while I was still alive,” Tommy explained to Jake, wanting desperately to make him understand. “I kicked Norv out the door and killed Arch, then flew that thing back here. Screwed up the landing.”
“I guess you did.”
“They had a plastic tie on my wrists. Thought I was history.”
Jake Grafton bent over for a close look at Carmellini's feet, then straightened.
“How'd you kill Foster?”
“Jammed a couple fingers into his right eye socket. Punched them through to his brain.”
Tommy Carmellini began to shake. He wrapped the blanket tightly around himself, but the tremors continued. His teeth began chattering.
He told Jake about searching Arch's house on Friday night, finding the money, and being kidnapped on Saturday morning. “They injected me with something that paralyzed me. It's been a long weekend, I want to tell you.”
“Sounds like the weekend from hell, shipmate,” Jake said, and laid a hand on Carmellini's arm.
“I was fucking scared shitless, man,” Carmellini admitted, biting his lip until blood flowed. “When the paralysis wore off, I just ⦠like, you know ⦠lost it, I guess. Wanted to kill those two bastards with my bare hands. Never thought about how I was going to land the planeânot once. Didn't care, really. Just as long as I could kill them.”
He put a hand over his face and took several deep breaths. By the flashing lights from the emergency beacons Jake could see the struggle going on behind Carmellini's hand. The tremors gradually ceased, which surprised Jakeâhe had never seen anyone demonstrate such iron self-control.
When Carmellini lowered his hand his face was composed.
“Where'd Arch get a hundred fifteen thousand in cash? Did he say?”
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