MINUS 027 AND COUNTING

They came up the stairs with a full forty‑five seconds to spare. Amelia was panting and frightened, her hair blown into a haphazard beehive by the steady wind that rolled this manmade flatland. McCone’s appearance was outwardly unchanged; he remained neat and unaffected, unruffled you might say, but his eyes were dark with a hate that was nearly psychotic.

“You haven’t won a thing, maggot,” he said quietly. “We haven’t even started to play our trump cards yet.”

“It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Williams,” Richards said mildly.

As if he had given her a signal, pulled an invisible string, she began to weep. It was not a hysterical weeping; it was an entirely hopeless sound that came from her belly like hunks of slag. The force of it made her stagger, then crumple to the plush carpet of this plush first‑class section with her face cupped in her hands, as if to hold it on. Richards’s blood had dried to a tacky maroon smear on her blouse. Her full skirt, spread around her and hiding her legs, made her look like a wilted flower.

Richards felt sorry for her. It was a shallow emotion, feeling sorry, but the best he could manage.

“Mr. Richards?” It was Holloway’s voice over the cabin intercom.

“Yes.”

“Do we . . . are we green?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m giving the service crew the order to remove the stairs and seal us up. Don’t get nervous with that thing.”

“All right, Captain. Thank you.”

“You gave yourself away when you asked for the woman. You know that, don’t you?” McCone seemed to be smiling and scowling at the same time; the overall effect was frighteningly paranoid. His hands were clenching and unclenching.

“Ah, so?” Richards said mildly. “And since you’re never wrong, you’ll un­doubtedly jump me before we take off. That way you’ll be out of jeopardy and come up smelling like a rose, right?”

McCone’s lips parted in a tiny snarl, and then pressed together until they went white. He made no move. The plane began to pick up a tiny vibration as the en­gines cycled higher and higher.

The noise was suddenly muted as the boarding door in second class was slammed shut. Leaning over slightly to peer out one of the circular windows on the port side, Richards could see the crew trundling away the stairs. Now we’re all on the scaffold, he thought.

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 629