Chapter 8

Walking into her Westchester apartment that evening, she flipped on the television and tuned it to CNN. Rambling on was newscaster Alicia Something-Or-Other, staring out blankly at the unseen audience and smiling oddly through the most dismal of pronouncements. A few items rolled over Helen, but one hit her consciousness.

A man flying his private Learjet from the Morgantown, West Virginia municipal airport to Eire International Airport in Pennsylvania had been found dead on a highway in Pennsylvania. No airplane wreckage had been discovered.

This matched the profile of other incidents that the FAA was looking into, the anchorwoman reported.

Helen nearly fainted at the news. Things went a little bit black in her head, she was so shocked. She wished she had gotten Dennis’s home telephone number. She needed to talk to him. He lived in D.C., didn’t he? Or maybe if she called all the health food restaurants in the District, she’d find him having dinner in one of them. Surely he had recovered now that he was on the ground.

How were they going to get his car back? she wondered. That was almost as much a problem as getting Eric’s car back. Perhaps she could fly Dennis from airfield to airfield in fifteen-minute hops. By the time they arrived in Roanoke, he’d be so bored with the whole procedure that he’d be over his phobia entirely.

The phone rang. That wasn’t Dennis, she knew because he didn’t have her phone number, either. The caller must be Viscotti, foaming at the mouth at the news having gotten out and wondering what progress she was making.

No, her call was from Eric. She had forgotten all about him—more or less. The wires crackled. Was he back in Moscow?

“Guess where I am,” he told her. “I’ll give you a hint. It’s a communist country.”

Well, he wasn’t in Russia, then. “North Korea?”

“No.”

“Albania?”

“Is Albania a communist country?” Neither of them was sure.

He was visiting Cuba. “Soaking up the sun?” Helen asked. “Drinking pina coladas? God, how I hate the decadence of communism. Don’t spend any dollars there or we won’t let you back into the U.S. of A.”

“Is that right?” He didn’t know if it was illegal to spend the crackly green stuff there, but that didn’t matter. He was using a credit card.

What the hell was he doing in Cuba, she didn’t ask. But thank God he wasn’t home since his car wasn’t, either.

Eric didn’t have any idea when he was returning because things were a little iffy at the moment. They always were with him. He still loved her, however, but he had forgotten what she looked like. That was all to the good, he said, because it proved that his feelings for her weren’t simply carnal. “We have a spiritual relationship,” he assured her. She knew he was joking around. He was afraid she was going to tell him suddenly one day to forget it, she wasn’t marrying a guy like him. He was deeply insecure. On the other hand, he had good reason to be—she wondered if she really ought to marry him and if, when the moment came right down to it, she would.

She called Viscotti at home. He hadn’t watched the news and she told him what she had heard. He swore into the phone so loudly that she had to take her ear away from the receiver.

“I suppose I ought to issue a public statement,” he said. “What should I say?”

“Say that the PPPA is cooperating with the FAA but is making progress in a separate investigation.”

“Are we?” he wanted to know. “Are we? We can’t go on allowing our members to be killed and their planes stolen.”

“Call for increased security at the airfields. Blame the airfields and the FAA, if things get tough. Demand higher standards, better enforcement. That’s the usual way of handling these things, isn’t it?” She thought. “I’m going to find out about this latest incident. Then I’m going to have to fly down to Miami.”

“That’s an expensive flight,” Viscotti grumbled. “They have very high airport fees. Why don’t you land at Opa Locka?”

“Yeah, maybe the Air Force will let me touch down for free. I’ll tell them it’s an emergency landing. No, I’ll buzz the field. Make them scramble a couple of planes and force me to land.”

“I meant the municipal field.”

“Good-bye, Henry. Remember, lives are at stake.”

She looked online for information about Malloy, Dennis. Not surprisingly, she found more than one. How many? A couple dozen or so. Damn. She needed to talk to her FAA pal.

In the morning before she left the house with Katherine, she called and left a message on Dennis’s voicemail at the FAA. She desperately wanted to speak to him. She gave him her number at home.

Katherine was still grumpy about their kidnapping on Saturday. The stitches in her hand hurt. She was gulping down a variety of painkillers. “I don’t want to take too much ibuprofen or acetaminophen because they’re bad for your kidneys and probably your liver, but aspirin is terrible for your stomach.”

“I know a nice guy for you in Washington,” Helen suggested. “Only your dates will be short. He’ll have to come up by train since air travel doesn’t suit him. You could go down there and visit though.”

“No, really,” said Katherine. “What painkiller are you taking?”

“I guess I forgot about it,” answered Helen. Now that she thought it over, however, her wounds did hurt. Maybe she should take the prescription narcotic that Eric still had from the time he had been shot. Or maybe she should just lie down and refuse to go on with her life, because everything was all too complicated.

They waited in line at the Parking Violations Bureau for forty-five minutes. Katherine handed over her power of attorney plus a court order she had bothered to obtain the day before via fax, so they wouldn’t have to run around today if worst came to worst. The officer eyed her suspiciously but released the car to the women after Helen paid the fines. She gulped when she read the bill. Maybe they should have ditched the Honda and bought a new car instead. She drove out of the lot and Katherine followed her onto the freeway. Helen wondered if their abductors’ car had been impounded, too, but really, she had no way to ask.

The driving was fine until they hit the parkway. My God, why did people drive so fast? She tried to slow down, but the guy behind her wouldn’t give her the space to cut her speed. And she was in the slow lane.

Helen glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Katherine a couple of cars back. She looked forward again, but by then she was far too late. For whatever reason, the car ahead was coming to a halt. Helen braked, but the car behind was so close that he rear-ended her. She rammed into the car in front.

She jumped out to see how bad the damage was. This was two for two. Two days, two cars. Neither was her fault, she guessed, but she must be some kind of a jinx. The Honda wasn’t crumpled exactly, although the grillwork and bumpers had seen better days. The man who had been tailgating her hopped out of his car. “You frigging moron,” she shouted at him. “You were right up my ass. This goes on your insurance, buddy.”

“You stupid bitch,” he screamed. “You weren’t even watching the road.” She hoped he was going to start a real fight. She’d love to knock him down, simply because he was such a jerk. And because life was getting to be a little bit too frustrating lately. They glared at one another.

The car ahead had to be towed. Something had been wrong with it anyway, which was why the man had stopped. Again, no one was charged with the accident, although Helen kept telling the cop that the guy behind her should get a ticket. Helen drove off to locate a garage and found Katherine waiting for her just off the exit.

The estimate on the car was five hundred dollars. She supposed this would go on Eric’s insurance and wondered what the deductible was and if his rate would go up. She really ought to pay for it herself. She had a headache, too. Maybe she had whiplash!

Dennis had called her while she was out—yes, she always forgot to take her cell with her—and the light was blinking on Eric’s phone as well. She was curious and played Eric’s message back. After all, what if the call was an emergency?

The message on Eric’s machine was Garcia for Helen. He didn’t realize that her number wasn’t the same as that of her intended’s.

First, she returned Dennis’s call. “What’s the scoop on this latest incident in West Virginia?” she demanded when he finally came to the phone.

“You’ll have to get that information through the proper channels, Miss Robbins, after I write my report and it’s approved for release.”

“Are you still angry at me about yesterday?” she asked, rather hurt by his tone. “Don’t worry about your car. I’ll get it for you. You’re okay, aren’t you? Now tell me, what happened?”

“I don’t believe I can speak to you any further at this time, Miss Robbins. I’m not authorized to do so. Please go through our public information office in the future. If you like, I can transfer the call.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, devastated by this turn of events. She had pushed him too far. “I was hoping you would fly down to Miami with me.”

“Yes, I’m sure I would make an amusing flight companion.”

Did he think she had been making fun of him yesterday? She tried to reassure him that she hadn’t any such intention when he said he was busy and had to go and clicked off.

Helen kept the phone in her hand until the recorded voice told her to hang up and she obeyed. She went back to the answering machine and replayed the message Dennis had left. He hadn’t sounded miffed at her this morning when he had called her back. No, someone had spoken to him and had warned him off her. Someone at the FAA, someone at the ATF, or very possibly even one of the skyjackers. And he thought his phone was bugged or he would have told her so directly.

She called the number Garcia had given her but refused to leave her own name or number when he didn’t answer the phone. She wanted whatever information Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives could give her, but she didn’t want them to try to stop her from investigating. She was still leery of the whole agency after what Grenade had told her about that bunch.

Helen took the rest of the day off to ponder. She didn’t have a car, so she stayed around the house and planted some bulbs in flowerpots as she had intended to do before Viscotti called her. She thought about what she might wear to her wedding. She had a neat little black cocktail dress that she had only worn once, but she knew people would think it weird if the bride wore black. She went to bed early.

In the middle of the night, Helen woke up suddenly. She thought she had heard a noise, but maybe the sound was Eric letting himself in. She glanced groggily at the clock. It was two in the morning. Eric might have returned from Cuba. That would be all right. At least his car was in the same county that they were in. She rose and walked into the living room to investigate. She wanted to give him a hug and pull him into bed with her.

A few steps in and she felt the barrel of a gun against the back of her neck. The sensation was a nasty one. The feeling chilled her and clutched at her stomach.

The man behind the gun chuckled softly. “Sit down on the sofa,” he instructed. A lamp went on. She turned toward the voice. Before her stood the handsome, vile skyjacker. Why was she not surprised?

Helen backed up toward the couch and sat. She cleared her throat. “Mr. Avilla,” she said.

He laughed. “No, it isn’t Avilla, but what a clever guess. Do I look so much like him? He’s my uncle.” Avilla’s nephew called out to someone in Spanish and the driver of the car in which Helen had been kidnapped entered the room from the kitchen and looked at her without comment.

“You’ve really butted into our business a little too much,” remarked the younger version of Avilla. “I had hoped to kill you the other night, but I underestimated you. I never make a mistake two times in a row, however.”

“Is your uncle part of this?” Helen demanded. “Do the skyjackings have anything to do with Beaumont and government secrets? Were you shooting at me the other day in Roanoke? Did you shoot out my tire?”

“If I were shooting at you, I’d shoot you in the head, as I’m going to do right now. That is, Carlis here is, in a couple of hours. When I’m somewhere else. Not that I actually need an alibi since no one would ever connect us anyway. I’m hardly the type to be accused of rape and murder.” He pushed aside some newspapers and mail and sat on her sofa. He crossed his legs and looked at her with the attitude of someone who has managed a great coup.

“Did you alter the log at Roanoke Regional?”

“Well, yes to everything, my dear. If you spot a crime, you might as well charge me with it. I’m a very bad man. I wouldn’t hesitate to do anything that a person like you would consider wrong or evil.” He picked a piece of lint off his trousers.

“But why?” she asked.

“Because of people in the world like you, very white, very privileged, very content with what you have and satisfied that no one else shall have any of it.”

“Ah,” she said. “I’m relieved for you. At least if you work on the side of the revolutionaries, you ought to talk like one.”

The room went silent. The polished skyjacker stared at her in surprise. “Where did you get the idea that I’m a revolutionary?” he questioned after a moment.

She frowned. Perhaps she wasn’t supposed to be telling the suspect what the ATF knew about him. “Your uncle said something about it. We were talking about you.”

He came up to her and placed the gun to her head again. “That isn’t true,” he told her. “Tell the truth.”

“All right,” she surrendered. “The FAA has tracked the planes.”

“They can’t have,” he disagreed, “because they haven’t been flown since we flew them out of the country.” The gun stayed at her temple.

“You’re wrong. They’re ready to make arrests and even to extradite some of your friends. If you kill me, you’ll only be in worse trouble.”

The gun dropped. He smiled. “Worse trouble? You’re not talking to a retarded child now.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and spoke in Spanish to his companion. “Open your mouth,” he instructed Helen. “I’m a gentleman. This is clean.” He stuffed the cloth into her mouth. The man named Carlis took a roll of silver electrical tape and taped her mouth closed.

Helen choked. Hair oil or perfume permeated the handkerchief. This was unpleasant, revolting. She felt that she couldn’t catch a full breath.

“Your suffering will last a little while,” said Avilla’s nephew, caressing Helen’s cheek, which further repulsed her. “When the phone rings later, Carlis will shoot you once in the head and that will be that. Of course, anything that happens before won’t be at my orders.” Helen glared at him. He smiled.

The bourgeois revolutionary spoke to his associate once again in Spanish and Carlis wound some tape around her wrists, tightly. A semiautomatic appeared in his hand.

“Goodbye forever,” said the skyjacker. “You were only a minor nuisance, but I didn’t like having you around. If I can find your girlfriend, I’ll kill her, too.” He opened the door and walked out, closing it soundlessly behind.

Helen turned her attention to Carlis. Her legs were still free, and she was a great kicker, but he wasn’t in range. He stood there looking at her just as curiously as she was looking at him. The man seemed brutish and had probably done quite a few evil deeds in his life. He must have, to be in such company.

Carlis sat in a chair. Helen tried to think of how to get at him without being shot first. But one thing she did know: If he tried to rape her, that would be her best opportunity. She attempted to smile, but the tape pulled at her face. She must look as if she were wearing a Halloween mask.

He glanced at his watch. It was a wonder that a man like that could even tell time. She imagined him to be an ignorant peasant, brought here by the polished “gentleman” to carry out most of the dirty work in the name of “the people.” Avilla’s nephew didn’t care about politics, she believed. His only passion was for doing harm.

“That should do it,” remarked Carlis. “I think he’s actually gone. You never know with him. He’s a tricky one.” Carlis put down the gun.

Helen was surprised that he spoke English, but that wasn’t the issue here. He was going to rape her now that his commander was out of the way—at his commander’s orders, really.

“I’m not going to shoot you,” explained Carlis, to her amazement. He took a knife out of his boot. Oh! Sure, being knifed to death was at least one grade better. That was very considerate of him. “Come here, and I’ll cut you free.”

If she came over there, she might be able to get hold of the gun. Was she willing to risk it? She would also be in range to kick him, but what was he up to?

She stood, walked to him and turned her back. She tensed her muscles, ready to take advantage of this moment. She might not have another opportunity—ever again.

Carlis cut the tape from her hands. She spun at once and faced him, grabbing for the gun on the table, her eyes boring into his. He reached for the weapon at the same time and they both held it simultaneously, struggling for ultimate possession. He was stronger than she was, however, and she felt herself giving way.

“Be careful,” Carlis grunted. He tried to push her aside. She focused a punch at him, but he blocked. He thrust her back and sprang out of his chair, backing up toward the door, still holding the gun. “Take it easy,” he told her, breathing hard. “We don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

He looked at Helen as if she were a math problem he was supposed to solve. She pulled the tape from her mouth and spat out the handkerchief.

Then she pursued him, ready to continue the fight, ready to take the one chance that might allow her to save her life and to bring down this despicable gang of criminals.

Carlis pointed the gun directly at her. “Hold it,” he said. “Hold it a minute.”

Helen was furious and didn’t feel like containing that anger. She continued to come toward him, but he didn’t shoot. He backed away and bumped into an end table, spilling a lamp and a piece of pottery to the floor, which shattered. He fled from her approach rather than shoot her.

She coughed repeatedly. Her mouth and throat were dry. “If you’re going to kill me, do it now,” she finally said.

“I have no intention of killing you,” Carlis informed her. “I’m a government agent, not a crackpot revolutionary. The only thing I’m concerned with at this point is preserving my cover. I don’t see how I possibly can.”

A government agent? Was she supposed to believe that? She stared at him. The theory might fit his peculiar behavior.

That was when they both became dead silent. A noise outside the door sounded like a thunderbolt, claiming their attention. The skyjacker had returned! Helen’s heart began to pound again with a mix of excitement and fear.

At a soft tap on the door, Carlis picked up his gun. He looked through the peephole, but Helen knew from experience that he couldn’t catch a clear image of the person who stood there. All at once, the self-proclaimed undercover agent pulled the door open, then stepped back to let the visitor enter, dropping his gun hand down.

Helen gasped in astonishment. The newcomer wasn’t Avilla’s nephew at all. The man stepping into the room was ATF agent John Garcia. And she had only a short nightgown on! She really was going to have to put on some clothes.