Falling(42)

Taking the book in his hands, Bill stared at the page for a long while before handing it back. He looked as confused as she felt.

“So… everyone dies. And that isn’t fair?”

Carrie looked down at the ghost of her father.

“Yes.”



* * *



Carrie unbuttoned Sam’s other sleeve. “I don’t have many regrets when it comes to my father. But I do regret never asking what he thought about God. I always assumed he never talked about it because he didn’t care. But the older I get and the more I look at his life choices—I wonder if he actually didn’t have quite a bit to say about it.”

“How old were you when he died?”

“Nineteen. Freshman year of college. Last time I saw him was in my parents’ kitchen. I’d come over for dinner and was about to leave. I already had my purse in hand and my mom and I were finishing up our conversation when he came into the kitchen to grab another beer and asked what we were talking about. I told him I was trying to pick a major. He shrugged and told me that, whatever I chose, just make sure I chose to live.”

Sam furrowed his brows, confused.

“Exactly,” said Carrie. “He was always giving that kind of fortune cookie nonsense. Drove me nuts. So when he said that, I rolled my eyes like I always did. But I’ll never forget—and I’ll never forget it because it’s the last thing he ever said to me—he looked at me and seemed… offended? No, not offended. Hurt. He seemed hurt and he said, ‘You don’t think everyone actually lives, do you? Most people just exist and roam around. It’s a choice, to actually live.’?”

Carrie finished with his sleeve, her words falling flat in the silence. Her gaze landed on the detonator and an ancient wave of understanding washed through her body.

Sam picked up the phone, returning the two of them to the situation at hand. “I actually think I understand what your father meant.”

Carrie stared into the dark. She nodded her head.

A noise came from outside.

Sam looked at Carrie, wide-eyed.

He put a finger to his mouth. Silence.

His thumb moved on top of the detonator’s red button. A reminder of what would happen if she didn’t obey.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


JO STOOD NEXT TO KELLIE on the other side of the galley curtain, listening to the sounds in the cabin. Right after they stopped the video, all three had held their breath. Would there be screaming? Pandemonium? About a minute had passed and there hadn’t been much of a reaction at all.

“So far, so good,” Daddy said without taking his eyes off the cabin. “Nobody’s released their own poison. No one’s saying they’re a bad guy too. No one’s even pressed a call button. I’m surprised. I thought that may—”

He cut himself off and broke away from the galley.

Jo ripped the curtain open, following Big Daddy as he hustled up the aisle toward a man who was charging forward. The two men met just beyond the bulkhead.

“I want to know,” the man said, loud enough that half the plane could hear, “when we’re getting on the other side of that damn door.”

Big Daddy raised an eyebrow at the finger pointed in his face. “What door?” he asked.

“That one.” The man’s chin jerked toward the cockpit.

“Ah,” said Daddy. “Unfortunately that won’t be happening, sir.”

The man exhaled a harrumph, his cheeks flushing even hotter. His was the type of face that had a natural pink to it, but his barrel chest and paunchy beer gut made it clear that it wasn’t the result of running a quick half mile. If Jo was being honest, he made her nervous. She knew men like him. Big on ego, small on tolerance.

“Sir,” Daddy said, “that door has multiple locks, all of which are controlled from the inside. There’s no key. And even if we were able to unlock it—which we can’t—there’s a manual override inside the cockpit.”

The man blinked, as though the thought of unlocking the door had never occurred to him. Jo put her hand on Big Daddy’s shoulder to let him know she had his back and to remind him to stay cool.

“Then we’ll bust it down!” the man hollered, spittle flying out of his mouth.

Someone a few rows back grunted in agreement. A few heads nodded.

“That door,” Jo said, her voice low and firm, “is bulletproof. Kevlar reinforced. Impossible to break down by design.”

“Didn’t stop them on September 11th.”

“That door is because of September 11th,” Jo said. “You think it’s luck no one’s breached a cockpit since then?”

The man didn’t answer, merely shook his head, nostrils flared. The crowd was starting to turn with him, their fear finding comfort in his overconfidence.

“We’ve gotta get in there!” a female voice shouted from somewhere. Jo couldn’t even tell who had said it.

“Okay,” Jo said. “Let’s say we could break the door down. Which we can’t. But let’s just say we could. What are you going to do once you’re in there?”

The man blinked again. This too he hadn’t yet worked out.

“We’ll take ’em down!”

“Who?” Big Daddy asked.