“Where do you practice law?” Estancia asked.
“In New York City.”
“Do you do criminal trial work?”
“Sometimes.”
“I think I may be in need of a lawyer quite soon,” Estancia said, obviously aware of his understatement. “Do you have a card?”
Stone dug a card from his wallet and handed it to the man.
Estancia gazed at it, seeming to memorize the information, then he stuck it into a jacket pocket and settled down to watch the movie.
Later that night Mike, Todd, and Holly returned to the trailer and got into their bunks.
“We’ll be arriving around four or five a.m., local time,” Holly said to Stone as she pulled up a blanket.
Estancia glanced at his watch, then returned to the movie. He turned down the volume so as not to disturb the others.
Stone woke around four a.m., Eastern time. He had never changed his watch. The others were still in their bunks, but Estancia wasn’t there. He must be back in the cockpit, Stone thought to himself. He glanced at the moving map and saw that they were off the tip of Long Island and were descending through eighteen thousand feet. He splashed some water on his face and left the trailer, taking his jump seat in the cockpit for landing. They were now descending through ten thousand feet over Long Island Sound, approaching the coast. He could see the lights of the towns out the window, and to the south, the glow of New York City.
The others filed in and took their seats.
“Where’s Estancia?” Todd asked.
They all looked around and realized their prisoner was not in the cockpit.
“He must be in the john,” Mike said.
Then a roar began to fill the cockpit, growing louder, and the aircraft seemed to be striking turbulence. Papers in the cockpit were flying around.
“The rear platform is lowering!” the pilot yelled over the noise, and Stone couldn’t hear what he said next over the roar of air.
Everybody got out of the seats, in spite of the turbulence, and moved into the cargo bay, looking for Estancia. Todd looked in the trailer and came back. “He’s not in the john.”
“Good God!” Holly yelled, pointing.
Stone stepped to the other side of the cargo bay and saw the interior lights of the Mercedes on and Estancia at the wheel. He ran toward the car, followed by the others.
Before any of them could reach the car, it reversed, sped down the ramp, and disappeared into the dark night.
Everybody was stunned into silence. Mike recovered first. He walked aft in the airplane, found the switchbox, and closed the rear ramp.
Relative silence returned to the interior of the airplane.
“He committed suicide?” Todd asked.
“No,” Stone said. “He was wearing a parachute.”
TWENTY-SIX
Fred Holland, a successful cosmetic surgeon, lay sound asleep in his Rye, New York, home when he was shocked awake by something like an explosion. He lay there for a couple of minutes, afraid to get out of bed, wondering if another explosion was on the way.
Finally, mustering his courage, he went to the bedroom window, which overlooked the gardens leading down to Long Island Sound, and peered through a small opening. It was dark outside, but the security lighting was on for some reason. It must have been a clap of thunder, he thought, since the walk around the swimming pool was wet with rain. He closed the curtains and went back to bed.
A couple of miles west of where Dr. Holland was trying to go back to sleep, Pablo Estancia looked down at the rapidly approaching ground for a place to land. It was his thirty-first parachute jump, a hobby of his youth.
Ahead and slightly to his left he saw a school, the grounds lit with streetlights. Estancia pulled on the left side of the harness to correct course and aimed for the darkened soccer field.