Falling(8)

On the other side of the cockpit door, the pilots spoke with air traffic control, adjusting the plane’s altitude or speed when directed. They checked weather reports for updates and surveyed the open expanse in front of them, endless stretches of deserts and snow-covered mountaintops, a rolling procession of the dramatic landscapes of the western United States. But with the plane steadily cruising, they mostly passed the time just like their passengers. Ben read a book on his tablet and occasionally sent a text. Bill chewed a granola bar, working on the computer-based portion of the biannual recurrent training he had coming up in a few weeks.

Bill’s laptop pinged with an incoming email. It was from Carrie—but it had no subject or text, only a picture attachment. That’s odd, he thought as he clicked on the attachment. It wasn’t unusual for her to send pictures of the kids or of an activity that he was missing at home. But after the way they’d left things, the gesture felt out of place.

Studying the picture, Bill blinked a few times, even more confused. He recognized the couch and the television behind it. He was familiar with the books and the picture frames. He saw the beer bottle where he had left it the night before after he and Scott finished watching the Dodgers lose game six, and he could envision the tall oak tree in the backyard that left its shadowy outline on the floor of his sunlit family room.

These things made sense to him.

The two figures that stood in the middle of the room did not.

Barefoot, bare-legged, their arms outstretched in the shape of a cross; timid hands opened toward the heavens in a silent plea of helplessness. He knew their faces, but he could not see them beneath the black hoods that covered their heads. He did not need to glimpse his wife’s pink toenail polish to know one figure was her, and he did not need confirmation that the other’s skinny legs were those of his son.

Bill leaned forward, trying to make sense of what Carrie was wearing. Strapped across her whole torso was some strange sort of vest. Pockets covered it front to back, brightly colored wires protruding from small bricks that lay inside. He’d seen such vests on the news in grainy video footage of suicide bombers making their final martyrdom statements. But in the moment, his mind couldn’t process the sight of something so perverse strapped across his wife’s body.

His mouth went dry. Steadying himself with a hand on the tray table, his head spun. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, hoping that when he opened them, the picture would be gone. Or that he would wake up and find this was all a dream. Somehow, maybe, he could start over. Or just—disappear.

Opening his eyes, he thought he might be sick.

The picture of his wife, wearing an explosive suicide vest, standing next to their son in their own living room, was still there.

Another email hit the inbox.

Put on your headphones.



With that, an incoming FaceTime call popped up on the screen.





CHAPTER THREE


BILL RIFLED THROUGH HIS SHOULDER bag looking for headphones. Fumbling the metal end into the tiny hole on the front of the computer, it took him two tries to secure one of the little white buds in his left ear; the side Ben couldn’t see. His trembling fingers struggled to connect the call, the cursor confused under his frantic touch. Managing to click the green button, he watched the live video feed of his own face slide into the lower left-hand corner as it connected.

The man who appeared on the screen was gaunt with bushy brows and thick dark hair. His skin was light tan and his lips were pressed into a thin line. Bill guessed the man was in his midthirties—and he was vaguely recognizable, but Bill couldn’t place why. The man smiled and straight, white teeth appeared.

Strapped to the man’s body was another explosive suicide vest.

“Captain Hoffman. Good afternoon.”

Bill remained silent. ATC squawked a direction.

“Coastal four-one-six, roger, Denver center,” Ben replied, leaning forward to change the plane’s altitude. “Climbing to three-seven-oh.” Twisting a knob on the center dash until the numbers on the altimeter read 37,000, he pulled on the knob to confirm the command and the plane slowly lifted in response. Scanning the horizon for a few moments, he stifled a yawn, turning back to his phone.

The intruder smirked from the computer as Elise’s frantic wailing could be heard in the background. “You’re not alone. Of course. So how about this. When you have something to say, send an email. I’ll respond out loud. Also, in the front of your messenger bag is a privacy shield for your computer. Go get it.”

Messenger bag.

The bag he had set next to the cable guy’s equipment that morning.

Him.

Jaw clenched, Bill searched his bag. That’s how he got in the house and that’s how he got something onto the plane. He’d left the room when Bill came in the kitchen, that was when he put it in his bag. What was his name? Carrie had said it at one point. Bill couldn’t remember if he introduced himself or not.

Finding a thin, translucent sheet, Bill clipped it onto the front of the screen. He began to type, dizzy with the uncertainty of what else he didn’t know. A ping echoed on the other side. Bill followed the intruder’s eyes as they read his email:

Where is my family?



“They’re fine,” the intruder responded. “Now…”

Bill ignored him, typing as fast as he could.