deeper into her Xanax oblivion. While her breathing became more peaceful, it occurred to him that no matter how much you think you know the person you love, even after ten years, there are always those damn little black holes in their makeup from where no light ever escapes. And yet, like the ubiquitous X-ray presence around collapsed stars that astronomers talk about, what Martin detected were the subtle signatures—those microsigns in Rachel’s expression that told him she was holding something back. While she could control her wording and body language, she could not disguise that slightly askew cast of her eyes. It was there again tonight while they spoke. That look that said something was festering just beneath the skin of things.
10
A round eleven, the black Mercedes pulled into an abandoned lot about six miles west of Jacksonville.
Phillip was waiting for him. Oliver had ditched the dark blue Chevy that had doubled as an unmarked police car in the woods, then walked half a mile to the rendezvous site.
They drove another six miles to a dirt road that led to Lake Chino just below the Georgia border where they had left their DeHavilland Beaver floatplane in a black little cove.
Travis was still asleep under his blanket, and he would probably remain so for another couple hours. When he woke up, they would feed him because he probably hadn’t eaten since breakfast. On the floor under the boy sat a large Igloo filled with sandwiches and drinks. They were still cool in spite of the hours the plane had baked in the sun.
Using a self-inflating raft, they floated him to the plane in the dark and loaded him into a seat in the rear, then strapped him in securely and covered him with a blanket. The night air was cool and the plane’s heater was faulty.
Oliver, an experienced pilot, got behind the controls while Phillip took the passenger seat.
A little before midnight, in clear cloudless skies, the Beaver lifted off the black water, then banked to the right, heading northeast which would take them through Georgia, the Carolinas, Virginia, and, eventually, all the way up the coast to New England. It was not the kind of long haul Oliver liked to fly, especially at night. At a cruising speed of 110 knots, the flight would take
about twelve hours with two stops for refueling. He had preselected small airports where you could roll up to a fuel pump and pay with a credit card like that Amoco station back there. And he had a fake credit card so he wouldn’t be tracked. Because he was flying on visual, he did not have to maintain contact with regional operations as he would were this an instrument flight. Which meant no record or tracking of their plane.
When they leveled off to ninety-two hundred feet someplace over the southern Georgia interior, he looked over his shoulder. The kid was in a deep slumber, but breathing normally.
“He’s got himself a good-looking kid here,” he said to Phillip.
Phillip gave a cursory glance over his shoulder. “Yeah.” He was more interested in the lights of the city in the distance.
“Too bad about the scratches on his face,” Oliver said.
“Like we’re going to have to take him back.”
“Right.”
Phillip checked his watch against the clock on the instrument panel. “Twelve hours. I’m getting tired of these long hauls,” Phillip said.
“Take a third as long in a Lear.”
“Except you can’t land on water and do midnight drops. What did you fly in the service?”
“F-1011s. Quite a comedown, huh? Doing kiddie runs in a Beaver floatplane.”
“But the pay is better.”
“There’s that.”
“But you made good money as a PI,” Phillip said, popping open a can of beer. “How come if you were such a crackerjack bringing in fugitives you stopped doing it?”
“Because it’s against the law for a convicted felon to be a detective, private or otherwise.”
“That’s what’s wrong with this country—they get everything backward. If you wanted to know how
10
A round eleven, the black Mercedes pulled into an abandoned lot about six miles west of Jacksonville.
Phillip was waiting for him. Oliver had ditched the dark blue Chevy that had doubled as an unmarked police car in the woods, then walked half a mile to the rendezvous site.
They drove another six miles to a dirt road that led to Lake Chino just below the Georgia border where they had left their DeHavilland Beaver floatplane in a black little cove.
Travis was still asleep under his blanket, and he would probably remain so for another couple hours. When he woke up, they would feed him because he probably hadn’t eaten since breakfast. On the floor under the boy sat a large Igloo filled with sandwiches and drinks. They were still cool in spite of the hours the plane had baked in the sun.
Using a self-inflating raft, they floated him to the plane in the dark and loaded him into a seat in the rear, then strapped him in securely and covered him with a blanket. The night air was cool and the plane’s heater was faulty.
Oliver, an experienced pilot, got behind the controls while Phillip took the passenger seat.
A little before midnight, in clear cloudless skies, the Beaver lifted off the black water, then banked to the right, heading northeast which would take them through Georgia, the Carolinas, Virginia, and, eventually, all the way up the coast to New England. It was not the kind of long haul Oliver liked to fly, especially at night. At a cruising speed of 110 knots, the flight would take
about twelve hours with two stops for refueling. He had preselected small airports where you could roll up to a fuel pump and pay with a credit card like that Amoco station back there. And he had a fake credit card so he wouldn’t be tracked. Because he was flying on visual, he did not have to maintain contact with regional operations as he would were this an instrument flight. Which meant no record or tracking of their plane.
When they leveled off to ninety-two hundred feet someplace over the southern Georgia interior, he looked over his shoulder. The kid was in a deep slumber, but breathing normally.
“He’s got himself a good-looking kid here,” he said to Phillip.
Phillip gave a cursory glance over his shoulder. “Yeah.” He was more interested in the lights of the city in the distance.
“Too bad about the scratches on his face,” Oliver said.
“Like we’re going to have to take him back.”
“Right.”
Phillip checked his watch against the clock on the instrument panel. “Twelve hours. I’m getting tired of these long hauls,” Phillip said.
“Take a third as long in a Lear.”
“Except you can’t land on water and do midnight drops. What did you fly in the service?”
“F-1011s. Quite a comedown, huh? Doing kiddie runs in a Beaver floatplane.”
“But the pay is better.”
“There’s that.”
“But you made good money as a PI,” Phillip said, popping open a can of beer. “How come if you were such a crackerjack bringing in fugitives you stopped doing it?”
“Because it’s against the law for a convicted felon to be a detective, private or otherwise.”
“That’s what’s wrong with this country—they get everything backward. If you wanted to know how
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