“BETTER BUCKLE UP.” DANIELS reached across the narrow aisle, handed her one of her seat-belt straps. Without looking at him, Millicent found the other strap, snapped the buckle.
“Did you make dinner reservations?”
She swiveled her chair to face the rear and locked the chair, the approved landing sequence. “No. I don’t want to eat out. I phoned Bessie. She’s left everything out. Squab.” Her voice was expressionless; her violet eyes had gone cold and dead. Stranger’s eyes.
An enemy’s eyes?
Would the weekend reveal the truth, friend or enemy?
“Ah—squab. Good.”
“Everyone buckled up?” It was Kane’s voice on the intercom’s loudspeaker.
Daniels spoke into his microphone. “All set.”
“We’ll be on the ground in about five minutes.”
“Is your car at the airport?”
“That’s affirmative.” Always, when they were in the air, Kane’s language was laced with the flyer’s patois.
“Okay. We’ll take the Cherokee.” He paused, glanced briefly at Millicent’s frozen profile, then said, “Stay close to the phone. Stay in touch.”
“Roger. Gotta get off.”
“Yes …” Still with his eyes on his wife, speculating, Daniels replaced the microphone in its rack.