“Still,” Thomas said. He threw the car into a left turn and careened down a short dirt road, screeching to a stop at a small dock. A man was already taking in the lines on a fishing boat. “Henry!” Thomas yelled, “wait for me!” He and Stone jumped onto the moving boat. “You saw the plane?” Thomas asked the skipper.
“Everybody saw the plane,” Henry replied. “We’re goin’, but cain’t be nobody alive out there. How many folks was on it?”
“Three, including Chester.”
“Chester gone,” Henry said. “They all gone.”
Twenty minutes later they saw the first piece of wreckage—a wing tip, floating on the surface; then smaller bits of flotsam.
“Look,” Thomas said, pointing to some woven straw in the water. “That’s Libby’s hat, I think.”
“There somebody is,” Henry called out, pointing and changing course. “Peter, get the boathook!” His crewman got the tool and ran forward as Henry slowed the boat. “It’s Chester,” Thomas said.
“He’s missing an arm,” Stone said quietly.
It took fifteen minutes in the swells to get a line around the body, and Stone was feeling a little queasy from the motion. He had seen enough bodies as a cop to be unruffled by the sight of Chester. The body aboard and covered, they patrolled the area for another two hours, but, except for the floating wing tip, which they brought aboard, found nothing larger than Libby’s hat. A police boat joined them.
“I reckon we go in now,” Henry said.
“How deep is the water out here?” Stone asked.
“Deep. We outside the hundred-fathom line.” He pointed to their position on his chart.
“How much of a search will there be?” Stone asked.
“You’re looking at it, I expect,” Thomas replied. “I reckon the two women must still be in the fuselage, but there’s no National Transportation Safety Board to go after the wreckage and the bodies, not down here in the islands. They’re gone.” They headed back toward the dock with their grisly cargo.
Stone thought about Libby Manning and her new-found wealth, which she would never spend.
Chapter
30
Stone poured himself some orange juice and sat down at a table. After a moment, Hilary Kramer from the New York Times came downstairs.
“Morning, Stone,” she said. “May I join you?”
“Please do,” Stone replied.
Thomas came over with menus. “What can I get you folks?” he asked quietly.
Kramer ordered bacon and eggs. “I’m hungry this morning,” she said.
“Stone, you want something?” Thomas asked.
“Just toast and coffee; I’m not very hungry.”
“You’re looking kind of grim, Stone,” Kramer said. “Something else go wrong with your case?”
Stone shook his head. “Plane crash this morning. Thomas and I saw it.”
Kramer dipped into her handbag and came up with a notebook. At that moment, Jim Forrester joined them, looking not very well.
“Morning, Stone, Hilary,” he said.
“Morning, Jim,” Stone said. “You want some breakfast?”
Forrester shook his head. “Thomas was kind enough to bring me something in my room this morning.”