Here she was really hitting a nerve with me. Malcolm and I had been best friends since our days as unaccompanied minors, crisscrossing the coasts to accommodate the custody schedules of parents who seemed more concerned with sticking it to each other than the welfare of their kids. We had been through so much together, Malcolm and I, that I considered him an essential part of my life. Lately, as this business about his father’s fraudulent actions hit the fan—the indictment, the media, the shame—Malcolm had begun to spend more and more time with me and Flo. We were careful to never mention the indictment and strived to create a safe emotional haven for him, but still he seemed to retreat emotionally, sometimes to the point where he would simply sit with us, staring blankly for hours. I could always bring him around, though. Sometimes it took awhile, but eventually I could bring him back. Now here this horrible woman had taken advantage of Malcolm’s fragile state and gotten her hooks in him. I fumed visibly. If anything happened to Malcolm . . . I just . . . I don’t know what I’d do. I had a hard time breathing just thinking about it. I mean, his own mother couldn’t be bothered to . . .
Suddenly it occurred to me where Malcolm’s mother was.
“That’s Mrs. Colgate in the hospital, isn’t it?” I seethed, but I already knew the answer. Same size and general physique of the former Molly, and a face beaten into an unrecognizable pulp. How convenient that all you had to do to name a comatose assault victim was to have the next of kin identify the person. In this case Hackman probably simply told the ER personnel that the woman was his wife. Bing bang boom. Instant life-insurance settlement, but for one small snag.
“Damn you.” Molly glared at me. I see why she was mad; if I hadn’t kept Hackman from pulling the plug at the hospital, they’d be half a million richer right now. Instead, my friend Alby was now the legal guardian of Molly, or actually the unfortunate Mrs. Colgate, whom Hackman had chosen to be Molly’s stunt double.
The flight deck opened and Ash made it halfway down the aisle before he saw me and Officer Ned, then he did a swift 180 back to the cockpit, where he furtively knocked on the door, asking to be let back in.
“Just one question,” I implored Molly. She shrugged and took another hit off of the cigarette she’d appropriated from Flo.
“Why the Waffle House?” I asked. “I mean, of all places.”
“I was wondering that, too,” Flo said.
Molly exhaled. “Malcolm’s dad was a big fan. We had him staked out as a mark for months, and we noticed that he stopped in there on his way in and out of town, like clockwork. Turns out he had a thing for Waffle House waitresses.” Flo and I snorted. Molly glowered at us. “What’s so funny? It happens.”
On second thought it made sense. There were countless websites devoted to stewardess fetishes, why not waitresses? Both professions trained them to be subservient, right? And then over time some wire snaps in their head and they become “sassy” instead. I theorized this was why Flo collected ex-husbands like postage stamps. She seemed to have the same Jedi mind-trick effect over gentlemen that Otis had over women. Play it right and it’s like a super power. I bet a Waffle House waitress fetish wasn’t that uncommon.
“He was crazy about me,” Molly jutted out her chin proudly. “Bought me a Vegas wedding and a house and everything.” So the mansion in Alpharetta was not bought with Hackman’s bribe money after all, but as a love token from Mr. Colgate. I wonder how many rich old dudes Hackman and Molly had teamed up on before this one. Mr. Colgate probably pillow-talked about the Cayman accounts, and Hackman and Molly no doubt thought they hit the mother lode. I turned my head toward the window in disgust. Wait, were we descending already?
“Where did you get the badge?” Officer Ned intoned gravely. It was obviously a sore spot with him, since he’d belly-upped like a puppy when she showed up at his office this morning claiming to be an FBI forensic psychologist. “It’s a federal offense to impersonate an agent of the FBI, you know,” he continued.
Now it was Molly’s turn to snort. “The badge belonged to one of the bodies we hoodwinked last month. It was in her casket along with her personal things. She died while vacationing alone—fell off the top of a pyramid in Peru.” She examined her nails. “Probably a suicide. Anyway, I figured it couldn’t hurt to keep the badge. You’d be surprised how easy it is to swap out the pictures on these things.”
“The FBI would never be fooled by that.”
“I wasn’t trying to fool the FBI.” She laughed hoarsely at Officer Ned. “Just you. And it worked pretty good.”
“You’re in big trouble, young lady.”
“Oh my gawd, seriously?” She laughed again. She was way worse than her husband, I realized. A sociopath with real skill at homing in on the weaknesses of her marks, then transforming herself to fill the voids. “Do you think for a second,” she continued, “that I’d be telling you any of this—any of you—if I planned to let you live?”
“Wait,” I backtracked. “Malcolm, he would never, ever, agree to this. Malcolm!” I called up the aisle to him.
Molly seemed unperturbed by my statements. Flo began looking around nervously. Where were Otis and LaVonda? “Who you looking for, sweetie?” Molly asked us with saccharine sweetness. “Worried about your friends?”
We didn’t answer. A sinking feeling grew in my gut. “Huh?” she goaded me. “Worried are ya?” I stood, ready to run to the galley, anywhere, to try to find them. “Sit back down,” Molly hissed ferociously. I did as she said, nervously glancing at Flo and Officer Ned, who seemed as edgy as me. “I had our friend Ash decompress the cargo area, which as you know includes the galley.”
Flo and I looked at each other in alarm. Cabin pressurization is necessary in an aircraft traveling above 10,000 feet, because the air at higher altitudes contains too little oxygen per cubic foot for human sustenance. Thus the airplane “cabin pressure,” which creates an atmosphere that is comfortable for passengers. The cabin pressure is usually adjusted automatically, with air from the engines operating at the compressor stage. The air is then treated in all kinds of ways—cooled, humidified, mixed with recirculated air if necessary—and dispersed throughout the cabin by environmental control systems. All this so the passengers could, like, survive. This was why the trend of people trying to stow away in the wheel wells of jumbo jets was so deadly—at that altitude, and outside the aircraft cabin, they suffocated in seconds.
Molly’s face was smug. She looked at her watch, “I give them about . . .”
She didn’t finish, because Officer Ned, with a furious roar, launched himself at her. He caught her at her midsection and they both fell into the aisle. Molly’s backpack broke her fall and she was able to kick herself away from him, but he lunged at her again. I knew Officer Ned wasn’t thinking rationally, as he was severely restricted by his bound wrists and legs. But Molly had hit a nerve when she threatened LaVonda. As much as he complained about LaVonda, I knew Officer Ned loved her like a little sister. Hell, everyone loved LaVonda. Flo and I stood up and ran to the back galley. I had already picked one of my wrists free from the zip-tie handcuffs, which have a toggle-and-tongue mechanism similar to that of the metal variety, and within seconds freed one of Flo’s wrists as well. With our remainder cuffs dangling, we set about our actions.
Here’s the thing: All WorldAir jet-cabin jumpseats are stocked with emergency equipment such as flashlights, fire extinguishers, first-aid kits, etc.—and PBUs (portable breathing units). These PBUs are like big inflatable space helmets, to be used in the event of a fire onboard the aircraft. It’s made of yellow flame-resistant plastic and silver flame- retardant insulation. The device enables the flight attendant to traverse a smoke-filled cabin to address the source of the fire without succumbing to smoke inhalation. Essentially, the flight attendant activated the helmet by popping apart two CO2 cylinders at the neck opening and slipping it over her head. The helmet then inflated with air. The time of useful oxygen was just seven minutes.
Flo grabbed the PBU from its s
lot against the bulkhead, broke apart the cylinders, and slipped the helmet over her head. Immediately it inflated around her face. Her lips were set in a grim line as she entered the elevator and nodded to me through the yellow fire-resistant face mask. She looked so much like a sci-fi character that I would have laughed if the situation weren’t so serious. I tossed her another PBU unit I’d found in the overhead bin above the galley jumpseat, and saw her close the door and begin her descent.
Each jumpseat also has a nearby portable-oxygen bottle (referred to as PO2s in the industry) for those common inflight cases when a passenger passes out or just plain hyperventilates from all the suppressed fear and stress that is the inescapable bane of air travel. (Seriously, very common.) I ran to the place where the PO2 unit should have been, only to find an empty bracket. Damn! Usually this flight would not have been cleared to take off without all the emergency equipment in place, but since this was a ferried flight with no revenue passengers, the plane didn’t have to meet the safety standards of the NTSB.
I ran to the back of the plane to the other set of jumpseats to see if the correct equipment was stowed back there. Luckily it was. I grabbed the PO2 bottle and sped back toward the mid. The PO2 bottle was cumbersome, as it was a big metal cylinder and weighed almost 13 pounds. A glance out the window had me wondering again; are we descending? If we were, it was gradual enough not to be too alarming. Pilots get instructed to rise and fall to different altitudes all the time to avoid upcoming turbulence and the like.
Malcolm had made his way to the mid with Anita behind him, until he was standing above Officer Ned and Molly, now a writhing pile of limbs each trying to get power over the other. Bound as he was, Officer Ned could do little more than use his body as a kind of human club to try to physically contain her. Finally Molly wrestled free to stand above him. Officer Ned still struggled in the aisle, trying to get upright. She pointed the gun at his head and pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER 21
I know I mentioned before that Officer Ned was fast. In fact, he was a former linebacker for a professional football team (the name of which he’s asked me to never mention) (okay, it starts with “D” and ends with “etroit Lions”), so all I could conclude is that between the time Molly pulled the trigger and the bullet hit him, Officer Ned had positioned his body so that the bullet, rather than entering his skull, sank into his upper arm.
Officer Ned hollered in pain, and the sound soaked into me like acid. Molly smirked with satisfaction and raised the gun to take aim again. This time Officer Ned made an easier target, as he’d passed out from shock. She placed the barrel against his forehead and squeezed the trigger.
I can’t explain what happened next except to simply recount it as it transpired. First, there is such a thing as “hysterical strength” in humans. You hear about it all the time, like when the 90-pound granny lifted the truck off her grandson, or the young Canadian woman physically fought off a polar bear—hand-to-paw—to save the two children it was attacking. This strength is caused by adrenaline, evidently, and is beyond what is believed to be humanly normal.
Now, I mentioned earlier that I am skinny, with arms like broomsticks. So I can’t explain how I did this except to say that on my physical, conscious level I saw Molly put that gun to Officer Ned’s head, I saw her pull the trigger—I saw it—but on my reflexes level I must have acted faster than my own eyes. Because before I could register what I’d done, I had hurled that big-ass oxygen bottle through the air and down the aisle like it was a pebble I’d picked up on the side of a creek. I remember watching it spin through the distance like a fat green helicopter blade, wondering, consciously, “Where the hell did that come from?” while I reflexively continued to move forward.
The PO2 bottle hit Molly square in the chest and she fell backward. Her firearm discharged into the ceiling before scuttling from her grip to land somewhere under the center seats. The oxygen masks dropped and a high-pitched ringing sound filled the air as the cabin adjusted to the change in pressure from the hole in the fuselage. I grabbed an inflight blanket and ran to Officer Ned’s side to put pressure against his wound. “Malcolm, help me!” I called. He stood frozen in place.
“Malcolm, help me!” Molly called. She put out her hand and Malcolm took it to assist her to her feet. She turned to me, her back to him, brushed herself off, and addressed me with haughty assuredness.
“See?” she said. “He’ll do anything I say.” She noticed my gaze and turned around to see Malcolm pointing the gun she’d just dropped. “Shoot her!” she demanded. “Do it!” Malcolm raised the gun. I shook my head, my eyes pleading. “That’s a good boy,” Molly grinned. But then Malcolm pointed the gun at Molly instead. “No,” he said, suddenly shaking with fury. “No!”
Molly was swift, already on him. She snatched the gun back away from him and he grabbed her wrist. Another bullet discharged into a passenger seat. Then another into the window at the end of the aisle next to them. Finally Molly got the gun free from their struggle and pointed it at Malcolm.
“I don’t need you!” she shouted. “I’ve got the dog, which means I have the microprocessor with the account numbers. I don’t need you!” She pulled the trigger. Click. She tried again. Click.
Click. Click, Click. Click.
“Give it up!” I yelled. “It’s out of bullets!” But then I realized the sound wasn’t coming from her gun.
Click. Click, Click. Click.
Malcolm and I knew what was happening before Molly did. He turned to tackle Anita into the row of center seats, scrambling to secure their seatbelts. I ran forward and reached for Molly just as the window gave way, leaving a jagged gaping hole in the side of the fuselage.
Here’s the thing: During flight, an aircraft cabin is a sealed system that is under pressure. Whenever a pressurized, sealed system is breached unexpectedly—such as in this case, when the bullet hole caused enough structure fatigue to blow out the window—it creates that “rapid decompression” I talked about earlier. It causes the opening to act like a black hole of sorts, sucking through it everything nearby that is not tied down—sucking it out and into the wild blue yonder.
Unfortunately for Molly and me, we were not tied down. Even more unfortunately for her, she was closer to the window and had turned toward the noise. She hardly had time to scream before she flew, as if drawn by a monstrous vacuum, toward the jagged opening. There she became wedged, front-first, with a sickening splat against the fuselage, plugging the gap like a big bag of meat.
“Molly!” I cried, and ran to her. My hands found the straps of her backpack. I grabbed them and pulled with all my might. Small rivulets of blood appeared at the seams of the hole and spread out like thin spider legs. She must have suffered some deep lacerations against the jagged edges of the metal. Anita screamed and Malcolm put his arms around her, turning her away. He turned back to me.
“I’m coming to you!” he yelled.
“No!” I implored. “Stay back!”
He hollered something in response, but I barely heard him against the deafening roar of the failing aircraft, which screamed under the pressure of the compromised fuselage. I braced my foot against the armrest of the seat and held on tight, but Molly wouldn’t budge. At least not in my direction. Instead it felt as if the center of her was, like, sinking into the hole.
How is this happening? I thought, and then it came to me with horrifying clarity. Her skin had been lacerated. The power of the wind against an aircraft traveling at 385 miles per hour was monstrous. If a small fissure can cause enough friction to rip the roof off of a 737, imagine the damage the wind can cause to a gash in a human torso.
Oh, my God! I realized. She’s being degloved!
I don’t know why I held on, even through the revolting rattle I felt as her insides emptied out of her. But I couldn’t let go. Molly’s skin was no match against the gravitational force of the sucking wind. Eventually her body began to crush in on itself, like a dying star. Her arms and legs bent backward unnat
urally, like limp tentacles, then she slipped out of the rucksack and was gone.
I was so stunned I didn’t feel myself getting pulled toward the opening myself until I was against it. I could hear Malcolm’s screams as I struggled to gain purchase, but with nothing to pull against I’d lost my leverage. Cocktail napkins, blankets, oxygen masks ripped from the ceiling flew by me and out the window. I watched them flutter into oblivion. The plane, engineered to descend automatically in the event of a sudden decompression, tilted sideways in order to drop as quickly as possible. Unfortunately I was on the bottom of the vertical tilt. The autopiloted maneuver made it worse for me. Horrifically, I felt myself pass through the opening.
The funniest things go through your head when you’re about to die. Like in this instance. My long hair was already through the opening and slapping against the exterior of the airplane. You’d expect I’d be thinking about my mother, and how her heart would snap in half like a redwood at the news of my demise, or my maternal grandparents, who were with her on the cruise in the Antarctic right now, and how their vacation would be ruined when the purser knocked on their cabin door to present them a terrible telegram, or even the terror at the horrible fate that awaited me after I fell thousands of feet into the rough ocean below. But no, I thought none of those things. As I was about to fly out of the airplane, I felt my pant leg catch on something, and I thought, Christ, please don’t let me get sucked out without my pants. I am NOT going to be found floating ass-naked in the ocean. My half-nude body is NOT gonna wash up on the shore of Cancún in front of a bunch of drunk frat boys. No . . .
“. . . you are NOT!”
Wait, was that LaVonda’s voice?
“Honey child, you are NOT fallin’ off this plane.”
Then I realized it wasn’t my pant leg that was caught, but my ankle, and it was caught in someone’s grip. “No you are NOT!” LaVonda shouted again. She sounded like she was hollering from a far-off mountaintop. I looked back to see she was wearing the portable breathing unit Flo had taken her. Her face was resolute through the thick yellow plastic that made up the face mask of the inflated helmet.
We Will Be Crashing Shortly Page 15
