Final Call, page 21
He had not needed it, other than to tell her each night that he loved her and Cherry.
It was possible one of these guys had something similar. It was the kind of thing they’d buy – a gadget designed for the wilderness that they would never use, but which would make them feel tough and outdoorsy. They probably kept it with their climbing magazines.
The jets appeared, level with her, one on each side. She could see the pilots. The one on the right glanced at her. He tapped his microphone.
Let’s talk.
She nodded and opened the channel. His voice was crackly in her earpiece.
‘You need to return to your approved flight path,’ he said.
‘I don’t intend to do that.’
‘You need to deviate to an airport. If you’re low on fuel, we can help you find one. Otherwise, Portland is ready to receive you at any time.’
She looked at the pilot and shook her head.
‘I’m afraid not,’ she said, and cut the communication.
So the jets were here to escort them home. It was pointless. What could they do? Shoot her out of the sky? What good would that do? They would all die anyway, which was not a problem for her. And they weren’t a threat to any civilians; they were over the ocean.
She closed her eyes. She was exhausted. This was nearly over now. Pretty soon they would be past the point where they could make it back to land, past the point where there were any decisions left to be made.
And she welcomed it. She’d had enough.
It was over. And she was glad.
Varun Miller
He had emailed Sharon asking for the organizational charts from when he was in Barrow.
He studied it. They were all there: Jill, him, Chip, Kevin, Jeff, Marcia. Then there were the other people, local to the research facility in Barrow. Tom Higgins, Susie Clarke, Dimitri Hodge, Bill Standish.
He looked them up in the corporate directory. Higgins and Clarke were still in Barrow. Hodge was in the Boston office.
There was no sign of Bill Standish. He remembered him – he was a wry, serious man who ran the research team. He wasn’t much older than Miller.
He googled him.
Nothing. No Facebook, no Twitter, no news stories, no LinkedIn.
It was weird. There was no sign of him at the company, and if he’d left he’d still be in the workforce. He’d have some kind of online profile.
He IM’d Sharon.
Do you remember Bill Standish?
Yes. He was friends with my cousin, Janet.
What happened to him?
He left. Took early retirement.
Early retirement? At what? Forty-five?
Very early! When did he leave?
2018. June, I think. I can check?
No, it’s fine.
How are things on the plane?
How did you answer that? Things were unbelievably awful, a terrifying shit-show to end all shit-shows.
Not good. But no space here to dwell on it.
He went back to the news stories and checked the dates.
June 9th and June 11th. Just before Standish had taken early retirement, and not just retired, but – seemingly – vanished.
Miller’s neck prickled. There was something going on here. Something that explained why the pilot was doing what she was doing.
Because maybe she was right.
He typed a message to Sharon.
This is urgent. Ask Marc Tanner to check the email archives for June 7–9, 2018 and see if there was any correspondence from Bill Standish to Jill Stearns, me, Chip, Jeff Ramos, Marcia or Kevin. I need this asap.
On it.
He was waiting for her to reply when something exploded. There was a noise like sheet metal being crumpled, or torn apart. He looked around, expecting to see half the plane missing, but it was still there.
Maybe it was thunder. He checked the window; nothing but blue skies.
‘What the fuck was that?’ Ramos said. They all turned to their windows, but there was nothing to see.
And then, out of nowhere, two military jets appeared, one on each side of the plane.
A white star, and the words US Air Force.
The cavalry had arrived.
Behind him, Marcia Fournier gave a little cheer. ‘They’re here,’ she said. ‘Finally.’
‘Yeah.’ Kevin Anderson was bent over in his seat, cradling his wrist with his uninjured hand. ‘But what good’s it going to do?’
‘They can escort us to an airfield,’ Marcia said.
‘How? Threaten to blow us out of the sky unless the pilot does what they say? That’s what she wants.’ He shook his head. ‘We’re no better off than we were before.’
Anderson was right. Miller’s stomach contracted. They were going to die. They really were.
The Pilot
She thought about Cherry, pictured her as a seven-year-old, as an eight-year-old, a nine-year-old. Imagined kissing her goodbye on her first day of junior high, holding her as she cried after her first heartbreak, telling her about Dan and how they had met.
Cheering as she graduated from high school.
Crying as she left her at college, the eighteen years of having her at home too short, but knowing that she had to grow up. Had to become an adult, so that, in turn she would be a grandmother.
She thought about Dan and the father he would have been. Steady, warm, loving. Not perfect, but not far off.
And not only to Cherry. To Baby Two. And maybe Three and Four.
But all that had been taken from her. And she wanted two things.
She wanted to know why. And she wanted justice. And this was how she was going to get it.
And if it didn’t work?
She’d get the next best thing.
Revenge.
Jill Stearns
Anderson was wrong. They were better off. The arrival of the jets changed plenty. It didn’t make things perfect, but it made them better. It gave them a chance they did not have before.
She leaned forward and beckoned to Jeff, Marcia, Mary Jo and Miller. Chip and Anderson were no use for what she had in mind.
‘Listen,’ she said in a low whisper. There was no time for passing notes. ‘I have an idea.’
‘What is it?’ Jeff said.
‘We break into the cabin.’
Jeff again. ‘Kevin tried that. It didn’t do much good.’
‘I know. But he used brute force. If we can get a lever, then we might be able to open it.’
‘We still need her to fly the plane,’ Marcia said. ‘She’ll just crash it.’
This was what had changed when the jets arrived. ‘Maybe not,’ Jill said. ‘We can overpower her – quickly – and the Air Force pilots can talk us through how to bring it down on water, as close to land as we can get. Then they can pick us up from the water. Get a Coast Guard vessel or something.’
‘So we crash the plane? That’s what she wants,’ Ramos said.
‘No. We land it on water.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s not perfect, but it’s the best we have.’
‘It won’t work,’ Ramos said. ‘It’ll just piss her off. She’ll slam this thing into the ocean.’
‘Why so cynical?’ Jill said. ‘It’s all we’ve got.’
‘OK,’ Marcia said. ‘Let’s assume we can. What’s next?’
‘We need a lever. Like a crowbar.’
‘I didn’t bring mine,’ Jeff Ramos said. ‘Left it at home.’
‘What about the fridge?’ Mary Jo said. ‘It’s bolted to the floor with a metal bracket.’
Jill knelt and looked at it. She gave a thumbs up. ‘We need some way of undoing it. A tool kit. Is there anything on board?’
‘Left my tool kit at home as well,’ Ramos said.
‘I have something.’ Mary Jo reached into her bag. ‘I have this. It’s Ray’s Christmas present for our son-in-law. I picked it up yesterday.’
Jill stared at her. She was holding a brand-new Leatherman.
‘It’s perfect,’ she whispered.
The Leatherman opened out into a set of pliers. Jill knelt on the floor and squeezed hard on the first bolt and tried to turn it.
The jaws of the pliers slipped.
She squeezed harder and tried again.
The bolt turned a fraction of an inch. The next turn was easier, and, within a few seconds it was turning freely. The next two bolts were the same. She worked them free and slid the bracket out.
A slim, strong piece of metal.
A lever.
There was only one question left to answer. If this fit in the gap between the door and the frame, it might just work.
She walked slowly to the front of the plane, and slid it into the gap.
It fit perfectly.
The Pilot
What the hell was going on?
The sound of metallic scraping was coming from the door. She looked over her shoulder. It was bending outwards by the lock, as though it was being pulled hard.
As though someone was levering it open.
They would not get through. The doors were made to resist this kind of assault.
The scraping sound continued. The bend in the door deepened.
Then it stopped, and the door returned to normal.
She waited.
They would not have given up.
And then it came again, louder than before.
The door bent.
The lock strained.
She had no idea how they were doing this, but it looked like it was going to work.
She braced herself.
They would not get what they wanted.
Not now, not ever.
Varun Miller
Sharon’s reply appeared on the screen.
There are no emails at all from Bill Standish in that date range.
The alarm bell that had been threatening to sound at the back of his mind went off full bore.
It was impossible; there were no emails. There were always emails. The only way they were gone was if they had been deleted. It was possible there were other ways of getting to them – maybe there were some backups somewhere and, given time, someone would have been able to retrieve them.
But he did not have time.
What it told him, though, was that something had happened back then, and the evidence had been covered up.
With no proof, though, there was nothing he could do. He paused. Was there anything else he could look for? Phone records? Notes.
Instant Messages.
Of course: emails weren’t the only way people send messages. He typed a note to Sharon.
Ask about IMs.
People thought instant messages were fleeting, less permanent than emails, and they were right. But they were not impermanent. They were all stored, if you knew where to look.
A few minutes later, an email arrived. It contained three instant message records.
They were from Bill Standish.
There’s been an incident. Some kids got sick.
The reply was from an employee ID, and not a name. He copied it and sent it to Sharon.
Who is this?
The reply was time-stamped one minute after the original message.
What happened?
I don’t know. Only that four kids were taken to the hospital with some kind of organ failure. Maybe liver.
What’s this got to do with us?
My son got hold of some product. He gave it to them.
What product?
Not yet on the market. We were testing it and the results weren’t great.
OK. Say nothing to anyone. Understood?
Miller’s whole body went cold. This was it. This was the smoking gun. The company had killed those kids. In error, yes, but it was still their fault.
The fire was no error, though. It was a cover-up.
It was murder.
His IM flashed. It was Sharon.
Surprised you don’t know that employee ID. It’s Jill.
He stared up at Jill Stearns. She was standing by the cockpit door, straining to force it open. Behind her, Jeff Ramos watched, arms folded.
She had done this.
Oh, God. She had done this. He had to say something.
Before he could, there was a loud pop, then a bang as the cockpit door swung violently open.
Jill Stearns
Jill pushed the door open hard and stepped through into the cockpit. Ramos stumbled and banged into her back; it knocked her off balance, but she recovered, ready to spring at the pilot.
She froze. The pilot was facing her, a gun pointed directly at Jill’s chest.
It was a shock; she had never seen a gun before, much less had one pointed at her.
‘Sit back down,’ the pilot said. ‘Both of you. Or I’ll shoot you in the knee. And him.’
‘No,’ Jill said. ‘I won’t.’
‘You will.’ She tapped the fuel gauge. ‘And it’s nearly too late anyway,’ she said.
‘You’re really going to do this?’ Jill said.
‘Yes.’
‘What if you’re wrong?’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are.’
The pilot shook her head. ‘He said, she said. I know what happened.’
‘It was a series of terrible accidents,’ Jill said. ‘Nothing more.’
‘No,’ the pilot said. ‘Something poisoned the kids. Something Bill Standish’s son, Kingsley, gave them at school. Something your company made. And you covered it up. My daughter survived, so you killed her. You thought I was dead, but I wasn’t. And one of you knows what happened. That’s all I want. The truth, and for justice to be done.’
‘You’ve been waiting all this time?’ Jill said. ‘For this moment?’
‘Waiting and planning,’ the pilot said.
‘What’s your name? Not Sarah, right.’
‘Stacy.’
Jill remembered the name. She paused. ‘I feel for you. You’ve built your life around this. It’s what gave you meaning after the loss of your husband and daughter. But it’s all in your head, Stacy.’
‘No. No, it isn’t.’
‘It is. And if you stop this now – while there’s still time, just – I will personally make sure you get the help you need. You will not be punished. You will be helped.’
‘No.’
‘It’s time, Stacy. You know I’m telling the truth.’
‘You’re lying. You’re a liar.’
‘It’s painful to hear this, I know. But it’s time to accept it and move on.’
‘It’s not true. It can’t be.’
Jill reached out a hand. For a split second Jill thought the pilot – Stacy – was going to take it, then she gave a violent shake of her head, and shoved the control column forward.
Varun Miller
It was her. It was Jill. Maybe others, too. But definitely her.
He had to speak up, now, before the pilot did something stupid. He got ready to shout out I know what happened! Stop this!
He didn’t get the chance. He was thrown forward, an invisible hand in his back thrusting him into the seat in front of him. Chip’s body slumped against the front bulwark. Anderson squealed in pain from the sudden movement.
They had gone into a steep dive. He let out a shout – aware that somewhere on the plane someone was screaming – and looked out of the window. The blue-gray of the ocean filled his field of vision. It was impossible to say how far away it was, but one thing was clear.
It was getting closer, fast.
The engines whined. This was the end, then. This was his death.
How long did it take to crash a plane? Seconds? Minutes? That was what remained of his life. Scenes from his childhood, his wedding, Ari’s birth flashed past him.
It was over. He closed his eyes and awaited the end.
And then the whine of the engines faded and the pitch of the dive eased and the force in his back lessened and the plane was flying level.
He opened his eyes. Jill Stearns was standing by the main cabin door, looking at her colleagues, her expression set and grim.
‘What happened?’ Varun said. ‘What did you do?’
‘I told her the truth,’ she said. ‘I told her it was me. I did it.’
Barrow, Maine, December 2022
Stacy Evanston
Stacy ran her hand through her hair. It was short and black, and she was wearing green contact lenses. No one would recognize her from a distance; even up close she looked different, her face lean and gaunt.
Still, she looked warily down the street for a familiar face.
At midday, it was more or less deserted.
Her house was gone. She’d expected that, of course. She’d watched it burn down three and a half years ago. She hadn’t expected a new house to be there in its place. It was nearly finished, a van parked outside, the construction crew presumably finalizing the interior.
A new home, a new family: it was as though she and Cherry and Dan had never existed. They had been removed from the world and left no trace behind.
Except that would change soon enough. Soon enough their existence would matter.
A man in his early thirties in Carhartt pants and a dark T-shirt came out of the house. He opened the door to the van and took out a toolbox. He looked up at Stacy.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Nearly done?’
‘Couple of weeks.’
‘Then onto the next job.’
‘After we move in.’
Her throat tightened.
‘This is your house?’
‘Yeah. Been working on it for a while now.’
‘You built it yourself?’
‘Me and my brother.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks. We’re looking forward to moving in. My wife and I have a five-year-old.’
‘Boy or girl?’
‘Girl.’ He smiled. ‘Another on the way.’
‘Congratulations again.’
‘Thanks again. Seems Barrow is a good place to raise kids.’
‘It sure is.’
‘You live here?’
She shook her head. ‘Used to. I moved away a while back. Just here for the day now.’
