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  His request was met with silence.

  ‘Nothing,’ Jim said.

  Greg shook his head. ‘There must be too much interference. The HF is a primitive device. I’ll try to find another frequency.’

  He tried several others but was unable to establish contact. It was something Jim had witnessed many times before, so he wasn’t overly concerned. The high-frequency equipment was primitive, as Greg had pointed out, and as a copilot he had often become frustrated by its quirks.

  The turbulence had started without warning, and it ended just as abruptly at 2:30 in the morning. One moment it felt as though they were aboard a ship in a hurricane-whipped sea, the next moment the storm had subsided and the Princess was continuing on her way calm and steady.

  As she did so, the OAT started rising.

  ‘Well, that’s that,’ Ben sighed in relief.

  ‘Yes,’ Greg concurred. ‘But this is another one of those CATs that make no sense to me.’

  ‘Try the HF again,’ Jim urged. ‘Let’s see if we can get through this time.’

  Greg once again hailed Tokyo. Apart from white noise, they heard nothing but silence. But the copilot had communicated with air-traffic control just half an hour ago.

  ‘HF is still not working,’ Greg reported.

  ‘Transmit our position and try the shortwave,’ Jim said.

  Greg nodded in acknowledgement and placed the microphone close to his mouth.

  ‘This is Oceans 5-8-2, transmitting blind,’ he stated. ‘Our position, roughly, is 14 north, 160 west. Zulu time is GMT minus twelve hours.’

  ‘Zulu time’ is a term of endearment for Universal Time Code, corresponding with Greenwich Mean Time, used routinely by airline pilots.

  ‘We’ve just crossed an area with clear-air turbulence, and we are currently experiencing a malfunction in our high-frequency.’ He stared ahead pensively for a moment and then continued. ‘Possibly atmospheric in nature. We’ll use VHF to try and contact another plane in the vicinity, and we’ll try using ACARS. We have no satellite phone on board.’ A pause, then, ‘Oceans 5-8-2 out.’

  Greg released the transmit button and switched off the HF as a new burst of static clogged the airwaves. ‘I don’t know if anybody heard that transmission, but I agree it was worth a shot.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Jim said.

  One by one, Greg tried the three VHF radios – one used for communication with air-traffic control, the second for backup, and the third always tuned to an emergency frequency. But each attempt failed. He could not make contact with another plane or with a ground station on one of the islands in the Pacific beneath them. Nor was there a response on the emergency frequency.

  ‘Without VHF, ACARS won’t work either,’ Jim observed.

  Silence ensued, as each pilot weighed in his own mind the significance of what Jim had just said.

  To Jim, silence sometimes spoke louder than words. He and his wife Jody had become increasingly reticent in each other’s company, and that summed up their relationship these days. The only words they still openly expressed to each other involved recriminations. If their marriage was a candle, it had guttered and could not be reignited. That was the conclusion he had reached during the final hours before boarding the Princess.

  He wished that those hours had never happened.

  Suddenly Greg leaned forward, his eyes intent on something.

  Jim followed his gaze and saw what Greg had seen. His jaw dropped.

  Interlude I

  A friendly young woman with a pleasant smile invited her inside. She rose from her chair in the waiting area and smoothed her blouse and mid-length skirt. The young woman opened a door and she entered, walking toward a man named Gerald Pierce who was sitting behind his desk.

  Except for thin wisps of white hair on the sides and back of his head, Pierce was a totally bald man with striking blue eyes. As he rose to greet her, another thing that impressed her about him was his six-foot height. She estimated that Gerald Pierce weighed more than 200 pounds and he seemed to be an excellent physical specimen for a man of his age and stature. He was not a man to be overlooked in a crowd.

  ‘Have a seat,’ he said in a deep, jovial tone of voice that seemed to suit him.

  Sharlene sat down.

  Pierce had her CV laid out neatly in front of him. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ Sharlene countered politely.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Gerald continued. ‘Now would you mind telling me a bit about yourself?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Sharlene started talking about her studies, her summer jobs, her first real job, and her hobbies. She was proud of her achievements as a long-distance runner, which she felt confirmed her self-image as a go-getter. She did not, however, tell him why she had taken up running in the first place. Initially it had been a release from her troubles at home. Only gradually had she started to enjoy it. Slowly, deliberately, Sharlene worked her way toward telling Pierce about her motivation for applying for the job.

  ‘Actually, it all started with my mother.’

  Gerald Pierce interrupted her. ‘Yes, I understand that your mother … um … met with a tragic end. I can imagine …’ He groped for appropriate words. ‘Let me be blunt, Sharlene. I would expect this to be the last job someone in your … circumstances would apply for.’

  Sharlene nodded. She had expected him to say that.

  ‘My mother used to tell me stories about her work. She loved it, and I always enjoyed her stories. I’ve wanted to be a flight attendant since I can remember. She instilled a lot of enthusiasm in me, and it’s thanks to her that I’m here today, with you.’

  ‘But still, your mother …’ Pierce did not finish his sentence. He didn’t need to.

  ‘It was a terrible thing,’ Sharlene agreed. ‘But I don’t want her fate to control my life. The fact that my mother died in a plane crash doesn’t mean that the same thing will happen to me. I just don’t believe that. It was an accident, the same way anyone can die in an automobile accident because some other driver isn’t paying attention.’

  Gerald nodded. ‘I admire that about you. You’re not letting this beat you.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Sharlene avowed.

  Unlike her father. But she didn’t say that out loud. It was fine with her if Pierce knew that her mother’s death had not stopped Sharlene from following in her footsteps. What it had done to her father was something that no one else needed to know about. Or what Dean Thier had done to her, as a result. That, too, was a private matter, a family secret, just like the nightmare that went by the name of Todd Bower.

  Gerald asked a few more questions, but Sharlene had the distinct impression that he had already made up his mind.

  When a week later she received a call from Oceans Airways informing her that she had been hired as a flight attendant, the first thing she did was make a phone call. A familiar voice answered the phone.

  ‘I did it,’ she said. ‘I got the job. I just heard.’

  ‘That’s wonderful!’ Noel Richardson cheered. ‘Good girl! I’m so proud of you!’

  II

  2:36 A.M. – 3:52 A.M.

  NINE

  Cacophony

  When Sharlene and Aaron left the galley on the upper deck, a passenger in a brown suit seated a few rows down turned to look at Sharlene. As their eyes met, she thought he was trying to draw her attention. But when she started walking toward him, he turned his head back around and faced forward.

  She followed behind Aaron as he made his way aft toward the crew’s quarters. She had stabbing pains in her sides, as she often did when she couldn’t control her nerves. And she couldn’t hold a single thought – another symptom of stress she knew all too well.

  In the Tourist Class section on the main deck, the girl with the ponytail gave her another sharp glare. Sharlene stopped beside her while Aaron continued on.

  The girl’s sky-blue eyes bore into her.

  ‘
What?’ Sharlene said quietly. ‘What is it?’

  The girl did not respond.

  Sharlene crouched down to eye-level with the girl. The mother looked askance at Sharlene and noticed that her daughter was staring.

  ‘Cassie, stop doing that,’ she scolded. In reply, the girl turned front and center. But she clenched her fists and her face twisted in an odd grimace, as though she was flummoxed by something she could not utter aloud.

  ‘Cassie? Is that her name?’ Sharlene asked the mother. ‘I thought she wanted to say something to me.’

  ‘Oh, hardly,’ the mother answered, not unkindly and without the least hesitation.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ Sharlene asked, mystified.

  ‘Believe me, I know,’ the mother said, her erstwhile friendly tone replaced by one of open hostility. Sharlene observed them both with uncertainty. But the girl kept looking ahead with that tortured look on her face as her mother waited for Sharlene to leave.

  Sharlene decided not to press the issue.

  In the crew’s quarters, Aaron did not ask her what had delayed her. As he slid on to one of the beds, he said, ‘What say you and I snuggle for a while in this bunk? No one’s about and we can be discreet.’

  ‘Get some sleep, Romeo,’ she chided him with a slight grin. ‘We both need our rest before we get to Australia. I’m not planning on either of us getting much sleep there, if you catch my drift.’

  ‘Roger that, Juliet,’ Aaron said as he turned on his side. ‘Pleasant dreams.’

  Sharlene shook her head, more in disbelief than humor. Her dreams, she knew, would not be pleasant, assuming she was able to doze off at all. Hopefully, she thought, she would feel better after the plane landed safely in Sydney and this night was behind her.

  Sabrina Labaton was a twenty-seven-year-old woman with long, wiry hair and hazel eyes. When she smiled – in her own slightly cocky way – she was radiantly beautiful. She did not smile often enough, however, or so her friends told her. Every bird has its song, but she had quite a few birds inside her mind. And they would fly up in fright at the least provocation, besieging her with groundless insecurities and doubts.

  It had not escaped Sabrina’s attention how the ponytailed girl two seats away from her had stared at the attractive blonde flight attendant. She had also overheard the brief exchange between the mother and the stewardess, in which the name Cassie was mentioned. After the flight attendant left, Cassie had kept staring ahead. Her mother waited a few minutes, then turned with a sorrowful sigh toward Sabrina seated to her right.

  ‘My daughter carries something of a burden,’ she said apologetically.

  Sabrina noted that these were the first words that the portly lady had said to her since boarding the flight. But then Sabrina had not said anything to her, either. She smiled briefly and shrugged, as if to say that what she had just witnessed was none of her business.

  ‘That sure was some turbulence, wasn’t it?’ she said, steering the conversation toward a different topic. ‘People say flying is so safe, but then people say a lot of things.’

  ‘They sure do,’ the woman concurred.

  The turbulence had in fact made Sabrina seriously nauseous. In her overactive imagination, the bucking of the plane could have torn the aircraft to pieces. She had dug her fingers into her thighs so hard she had probably bruised them.

  ‘What are your plans in Sydney?’ Sabrina asked pleasantly.

  ‘We’re going to a minerals fair,’ the mother answered. ‘My husband sells gems. But he hasn’t been feeling well recently, so I’m going in his place. With Cassie.’

  ‘Sounds like fun,’ Sabrina said.

  ‘My name’s Evelyn,’ the woman said, finally introducing herself.

  ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Sabrina.’

  Her look moved from Evelyn to Cassie.

  ‘I’m trying to protect my daughter,’ Evelyn said, her tone again apologetic. ‘She’s a bit of an outsider for several reasons. She’s not my blood daughter, you understand. My husband and I adopted her.’

  ‘Oh,’ Sabrina said, wondering if this was an invitation for her to ask what those reasons were. But with the snappy answer Evelyn had just given the flight attendant, it seemed unlikely. And did she even want to know?

  Cassie sat motionless, staring grimly ahead and pretending not to hear her mother. The girl was strange, Sabrina mused. Very strange.

  But it wasn’t Sabrina’s problem. She had enough troubles of her own.

  The only thing she wanted was to get to Sydney to be with her sister Susan and her sister’s husband and their children.

  Sabrina, however, was not someone who could easily switch off her mind. She had been nervous about the trip, worried she would miss her flight. Before she left for the airport, she had scheduled a number of sessions with clients who claimed they needed to see her before she left. If these meetings were to run late, she would have to hurry – and of course those sessions would run late because they almost always did. So she had decided to pack her suitcase two nights earlier, but then took so long to pack – she needed much more time to pack than most people did because she worried that she would forget things – that she had overslept and had to reschedule her first meeting for later in the day. When that last meeting was finally over, she had given the airport taxi driver fits by forcing him to drive as fast as he could in order to get to the airport with ample time to catch her flight.

  That was Sabrina Labaton, noted psychologist.

  Like others of her acquaintance in her field, she had chosen her profession for the wrong reasons. One reason was to better understand herself. Thus far, she couldn’t claim to have realized that goal, but still she found her career rewarding.

  She had started her job only a year earlier, when she was hired as an assistant to Dr Pritchart, a man thirty years her senior. He was exactly the kind of boss she needed. He was a father figure she could look up to, someone who supported her and gave her peace of mind, but also someone who was quick to reprimand her when she said things he considered baseless.

  Before this flight to Sydney, she had resolved to get as much sleep as possible on the plane, both to pass the time and to keep from fretting. In essence, she lacked faith in herself. Despite her professional credentials she often felt insecure when interacting with other people. She had blown too many fuses during her career, including the one with Curtis Fausset, the primary inspiration for her making this trip. There was no definitive reason for her bouts of low self-esteem – that was the key message she had heard repeatedly from Martin Pritchart. But it was for sure no confidence-booster when Curtis, her erstwhile boyfriend, ran out on her screaming ‘You’re fucking crazy!’ after she hit him in the face with a blow-dryer.

  Sabrina had suspected him of cheating on her with Isabel Stromeyer, her best friend. Isabel had suddenly stopped calling Sabrina and returning her phone calls; as for Curtis, he was spending less time at home, claiming he needed to work late. Even when they were home together, their sex life had fizzled to a few quickly doused sparks. Curtis had vehemently denied being involved with Isabel. Although Sabrina had meticulously searched for evidence, she had found none. No frilly underwear between the sheets, no suspicious stains, and no confessions. A week earlier, when trying to wrest a confession from Curtis, she had come unhinged. The confrontation had led to a broken blow-dryer, a smashed mirror, and the final words between them.

  Her younger sister Susan had always been her closest friend and advisor. Susan had moved to Australia in 2008 with her husband Jerry, whom she had married when she was nineteen years old. Despite having no personal career ambitions – or perhaps because she had none – Susan was happy. Jerry brought home the bacon while Susan stayed home and took care of their two toddlers, Josh and Christopher. Detesting any form of showing off, she dealt with problems by adhering to mottos such as ‘A day without laughter is a day wasted’. A simple psychology, to be sure, but the sentiment sprang from her heart, and it seemed to work.

&nbs
p; Susan was the opposite of Sabrina and Sabrina envied her sister’s breezy outlook. She hoped that her vacation in Sydney would give her an opportunity to sit back and take stock of her life and learn the life lessons that her sister would surely try to instill in her.

  She couldn’t wait to cross the Pacific.

  Joe Tremain’s crotch itched. It did that sometimes, and he fought the urge to scratch it. But that was the least of his discomforts.

  Since the turbulence erupted, he had been bothered much more by his knowing.

  It had been a tumultuous few minutes, but nothing he hadn’t experienced before. It was hardly his first time on a plane. The violence of the turbulence had left him with a throbbing headache, however, and he was acutely aware of what that meant.

  Joe thought there was something going on behind his back. He glanced around, but it was only a flight attendant with long blonde hair, accompanied by that idiot steward who could not distinguish fine wine from slop you’d feed to pigs.

  Whenever something was not right, Joe felt it. Some people claimed they could sense approaching calamity in their bones. In Joe’s case it came in the form of migraine headaches above his right eye. From long experience he knew that aspirin would be useless, even if he could reach a bottle stashed in his suitcase in the cargo hold.

  Joe had possessed this keen sense of knowing ever since the car accident.

  Twelve years ago he had crashed his burgundy Chevrolet against a fallen cedar tree. During that December night, Southern California had been hit by the worst storm in two decades. He had not seen the uprooted tree blocking the road until too late and had awakened thirty-six hours later in hospital. According to the doctors treating him, he had returned from the dead.

  Several days later, Joe suffered his first attack of serious migraine. When others followed, he saw these attacks as the price he had to pay for his survival. In time, however, he came to see the migraines as heralding a dramatic shift in his fortunes, since they gave him the guts to plant a fist in the face of the Frankenstein monster.