The first sensation Matt Connor felt when he awoke that morning of all mornings was pain. For a long time he had come out of unconsciousness to a feeling of loss in his chest, and he had come to accept it as inevitable. It was ironic that the pain was quickly followed by a wave of love. Thoughts of her smile and hair caught forever in a yellow ray of sunshine. He still loved Amy Techer, always would, and he hated her more than words could say.
That morning was special because it was the start of the day Matt planned to fake his death and disappear from the face of the earth. A bold plan, and he was not by nature a bold man. Yet Amy had changed him into something he was not.
He had set the alarm for six but his eyes opened at five. He closed them and rolled over but sleep was lost. He felt unsettled on top of his pain. When he left his bed, he would never return to it. He would never see his apartment again—his stuff. Not that he had much. Thirty years old to the day, he thought grimly, and how little he had to show for it.
The brief reflection hardened his resolve. His stomach was knotted and his heart pounded but he would go through with his plan. If he could not have love then she would not have it either. He wondered how many other men throughout history had come to the same conclusion.
Matt got out of bed and took a hot shower. Tonight, if he was not careful, he would suffer a cold bath. He was an excellent pilot but an inexperienced skydiver. Of course, not many people riding a parachute to earth were required to hit a boat at night in the middle of the sea. Yet that particular challenge did not daunt him as much as others. Those other tasks would come later, after he was dead to the
world, when he could no longer be blamed. Until then he just had to be systematic—do the job and not think.
Still, he thought of her, of Amy. The name alone was a curse.
He had scarce food in his apartment: a carton of milk, a loaf of bread, two overripe bananas. He made toast and spread jam and butter on it and wolfed down the milk while he dialed his mother. She lived in Santa Barbara, ninety miles north of his Santa Monica apartment. His mother had always hated that he never chewed his food. He supposed he had a streak of impatience in him, along with other things.
Although early, his mother answered on the second ring. She was unhappy that he wouldn’t be arriving for his birthday party until seven that night. The insignificance of that particular concern troubled him deeply. His mother would never see him again.
“Why do you have to finish your scuba lessons today?” she asked after they had talked a minute.
“I’ve wanted the certificate for a while. To get it on my birthday makes me feel like things are coming together for the next decade.”
“You already have everything going for you, Matt. Now that Cindy’s in your life. Should I expect her early this evening?”
“I’m not sure. I’m going to call her in a few minutes.”
“She didn’t spend the night?”
His mother was being coy. She liked Cindy, much more than she had liked Amy. None of his friends or family had cared for his ex-girlfriend. They saw what she had done to him; they thought they saw.
He liked Cindy Firestone as well. A nice girl, but made of papier-mâché when touched by his wretched hands. He could not really care for her because she was not Amy. It was so unfair to her, but he continued to date her even though he saw she was falling for him. She was his insurance; she provided extra cover for his plan. He had a girlfriend, the police would say to themselves, he had a life for
godsakes. His death would be seen as an accident, nothing more.
“No. She didn’t spend the night,” he replied. He didn’t know what to add. At this point, the less he said, the better.
“How are you two getting along?”
“Great.” He had to take a breath to lie. “I care about her a lot.”
“She’s excited about your party. She struggled over what to get you. You’re going to be surprised.”
“I like surprises.” He added suddenly, “I told you about that bathroom I have to finish in Orange County? I better get going.”
“You shouldn’t be working Saturdays. On your birthday, of all days. You have to have more fun. You won’t be young forever.”
“I’ll have fun soon.” He had a lump in his throat. The last time he would hear his mother’s voice. She’d had him late, at forty, and his father had passed away the previous year. He had no brothers or sisters. He was the center of her universe. She had a weak heart—his death could kill her. He had thought about that endlessly. Yet the thoughts had not halted his plan. His pain cut deeper than blood ties. He had to say goodbye. He added, “We’ll have fun tonight.”
His mother might have heard something in his voice.
“Take care, son,” she said quietly.
“You too, Mom.”
He set down the phone and closed his eyes. His heart no longer pounded. Inside was cold. The icy sting of the ocean tonight—should he hit it—would be welcome. He deserved to suffer for the suffering he could not bear.
Cindy slept late on Saturdays but did not mind being awakened. He had met her three months earlier at a coffee shop in Santa Monica. One of those late-night encounters that usually held more promise than substance. She was studying architectural diagrams, ones she had designed. They struck up a conversation about the Los Angeles skyline. Her knowledge of the city’s major buildings was impressive. He did not remember who said hello first, but
when they parted she was the one to offer her number. She liked to take risks. Later, she told him she was intrigued that he might be a dangerous character. The remark had amused him.
It was rare that women hit on him. Six foot and well-built—with a shock of choirboy brown hair and intense dark eyes—he supposed he was handsome enough. But he was very shy; he did not invite casual attention. Cindy was the opposite. She would find out where the busboy who cleaned the table went to school. It was important for her to connect to people. She felt they were connected. But she was still trying to understand why they had not been intimate yet. She suspected Amy was a lingering problem. Matt had been vague when describing what had happened.
Like his mom, Cindy was quick to answer the phone. He could imagine her sleepy smile. Red hair and freckles, she was a lanky doll stitched together with enthusiasm. She jogged five miles each morning before going to work at a design firm in the valley. One day, she swore, she was going to build the perfect home. She saw him living in it with her. He promised to help her put the pieces together, knowing it would never happen. Sometimes being with her made him think of Amy even more.
Of course, the essence of their relationship would have been obvious to a first-year psychology student. He treated Cindy as Amy had initially treated him. Their bond was a sixties pop song—he kept her hanging on. Amy had not even let him kiss her for several months. When he made out with Cindy, he kept his eyes tightly shut. He knew what he did to her was wrong and he did it anyway.
“I was just thinking of you,” she said in a drowsy voice.
“You were asleep.”
“Then I was dreaming of you.” She yawned. “I’m glad you called. Hey, happy birthday. How does it feel to be thirty?”
“Good.” Nothing felt good. “How are you doing?”
“Great. Looking forward to your party tonight. Wish I
could fly over to Catalina with you. Why don’t you take me?”
“It’s better you get to my mom’s before me. You can keep her company.” He was glad Cindy would be with his mother when she received the news that his plane had gone down. Cindy was strong; she would get his mother through the first dark days.
She groaned. “You’re so difficult. Hey, I need that guy’s number who taught you how to fly. You said he might want to come with his girlfriend. Was it Clark?”
“Yeah. I can get it for you later.” He did not want Clark at the party. He did not want an expert—personally connected to him—going to the Santa Barbara Airport and studying the radar tapes that described the course of his plane before it crashed. Not that Clark should be able spot anything unusual, but one could never be sure.
“When?” she asked.
“I’ll call you from the road with it.” Another promise he would not keep. He did not want to contact Cindy again. If his cell phone records were later examined, they could show that he had not been in Orange County during the first half of the day.
“Great.” Her voice softened. “I miss you. I wish I was there with you now, lying beside you.”
They had slept together eight times and not had sex. He told her he opened up slowly—a favorite Amy line. The odd thing was that Cindy was every bit as attractive as Amy. But to lie naked beside her in bed did nothing for him. While the mere thought of being close to Amy filled him with longing.
“You okay?” she asked when he did not respond.
“Yeah. Just thinking about the day.”
“Do you miss me?”
“Sure. But I’ll see you tonight.”
She hesitated. “Can I sleep with you at your mother’s house?”
She wanted to make love. Normally, he would have responded with his standard, “We’ll see.” But now all his
promises were moot. There was no reason not to leave her with a dream. Amy had not bothered to do the same for him.
“That would be great,” he said.
She sighed. “I think I could love you, Matt.”
“I feel the same way,” he replied, the worst lie of all. He had to get off the phone before he caused more harm. “I better go.”
He sounded too abrupt. He should not appear conflicted.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Matt?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
They exchanged goodbyes. Time to start the long day.
NOW IT was time to change into his alter ego, Simon Schiller. The transformation took several steps. First, he had to get his other car, an old Honda Civic that he had registered two months ago under that name. The vehicle was parked five blocks from his apartment—at present—although he seldom left it in the same place twice in a row. In the car he kept his disguise: a blond wig, mustache, beard, and green contact lenses. Plus he had a makeup kit. When he walked the world as Simon, he gave his skin a deep tan. It was incredible how powerful the simple disguise was. With sunglasses on, his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him.
The morning air was brisk, February’s gray hand. He walked the empty streets and tried not to think. Every detail of his plan had been worked out long ago. The only thing that could sabotage it now was a failure of will. However, pain over Amy’s betrayal dogged his steps. He did not have to contemplate the actual atrocities she had committed to feel it. He merely had to exist for the pain to exist. In the end that was why he had formulated his plan. He could not go on living without seeking retribution.
But what happened if the pain did not stop when he finally had his revenge?
A question he preferred not to dwell on.
Once at the car, he drove to a deserted supermarket parking lot and applied his disguise. He had bought the stuff at—literally—a disguise shop in Hollywood. The beard adhesive gave him an itch. Later, he would have to grow a full beard to take the place of the disguise. It was the small things that could destroy his plan. But he was practiced at being Simon Schiller. The disguise took him less than fifteen minutes to put on.
His next destination was the marina, a few miles south. The day’s schedule was tight. Nevertheless, he swung north toward Brentwood, where Amy and her husband lived. A nice house bought with real money. David had purchased her as well.
Or at least that was Matt’s main rationalization for why she had betrayed him.
He parked half a block down the street from their house and turned off the engine. Staring at their dark windows and brick walls, he wondered what they were doing that very second. It was early; they would still be in bed together. The weather was cold but they could be lying naked under the blankets. David would roll over and gently touch her nipples. She would stir and smile and lower her hand to his crotch and the ordeal would start all over. For him …
It was a cliché to say it was a nightmare but so it was. He could not wake up from the horror he had fallen into seven months ago when he had caught them together. Kissing on a side street in Westwood after a late movie. He had been out for a snack; he never had food at his apartment. She had said she would be out of town that weekend but she had only gone a few miles from home. To fuck another guy when she wouldn’t even fuck him. Not even after a year and a half of dating. Not even after she had performed oral sex on him a hundred times and promised him that soon they would be together forever. His Amy, in the arms of her old boyfriend, a guy she had sworn she hated.
His Amy, not really his at all.
He had cracked then. All that was joyful and worthwhile in life evaporated. He continued to breathe but the air was
filled with vapors. Everything hurt, even his hair, and the weird thing was that it had not gotten better with time. He wondered if it was because she was his soul mate. If he hurt her, did he harm his own soul? Whatever—fuck that and fuck her. He hoped when he died it was forever because the thought of seeing her again—even in another body—made him want to vomit.
Yet he still missed her terribly.
He was about to leave when the door opened and out stepped Amy, many months pregnant, in a white bathrobe. The size of her belly startled him. He had known she was expecting but had not seen her in eight weeks. Staking out their house was a habit he was desperately trying to break. Neighbors had eyes and ears. The stalking could destroy his plans. He was not sure how many months she was along. He only knew it could not be his baby because they had never had intercourse. When they had finally talked—after he had caught her with David—she had sworn she had only started to see her ex a month before. But she had lied about so much. What did it matter what she swore?
Whether his or not, Amy was very pretty. Half Colombian, half English, she had long brown hair and doe-like brown eyes large and deep enough to suck the heart out of the unsuspecting. He remembered how when she used to look at him, he had felt like the luckiest man in the world. Her magical gaze, clear windows to a soul just as pure.
Immediately following her betrayal his main emotion had been confusion. Because she could not have done such a thing. She was neither a liar nor a cheat. He knew because he had stared into those eyes. But it had all been fun house mirrors. The love they shared had emanated from him alone.
Freckles sprinkled her light brown skin, particularly around her nose, which was short and cute. Her face was round but exotic. She cloaked herself in a silence that was often mistaken for depth by strangers. In reality, Amy was more shy than himself and did not socialize well. She had
difficulty carrying on a conversation until she knew someone well. But alone with him she had been wonderful to talk to. Her great loves were movies and books. She could dissect and re-create a story from a dozen different angles, each one unique.
Her prize was her mouth; large and full lipped, with teeth so white they could have been bought at Cartier’s. When she used to kiss him, he had felt if he died tomorrow he would have already attained everything life had to offer.
“Hey, honey,” he whispered as she picked up the paper. On her way inside, she paused and turned in his direction. A picture to cherish: the long fall of her hair; the grace of her movements, mysteriously enhanced by her pregnancy. He remembered what it had been like to hold her, that delicious warmth.
He did not panic. She could not see him through the morning shadows. Besides, he was Simon Schiller, just a guy, no one she knew, sitting in a car.
She stared in his direction a moment, then went inside.
He felt the familiar ache: pain and love, the devil stabbing the angel. But soon he would give her such pain, it made him wonder if he was the demon. Yet he had been through these mental gymnastics before; he would not change his course. Starting his car, he drove toward the freeway.
He had been to the marina before, as Simon Schiller. He had rented the same boat he was renting today, even driven it north to the waters off Ventura. He had secured the rental with cash, as he planned to do this morning. He had a fake credit card he had purchased on the Internet—there was nothing you couldn’t get on the Web—but he was reluctant to use it in case it was traced back to him.
The boat was a wide-decked thirty-footer, with twin two-hundred horsepower engines. The width was critical because he planned to parachute onto the deck. Because he intended to return the boat, there should have been nothing worrisome about renting it. Nevertheless, if the police checked on rentals in the harbor and showed his picture
around, it was possible he could be identified, even with his disguise. Then people might wonder. For that reason, he wanted to get out of the harbor fast.
It was not a wish he was granted.
There were three unusual items he needed to bring aboard: an inflatable dinghy, signal lights, and an extra anchor. His dinghy was not small, nor was the motor he planned to attach to it to drive him back to shore. A man from Harry’s Ocean Rentals came over to give him a hand. Matt waved him away but the guy was probably anxious for a tip. He followed him back to his car after Matt had obtained the keys to the boat. When Matt opened his trunk, the man saw the deflated dinghy, and looked puzzled.
“Are you going diving or what?” the guy asked.
That would be one reason to bring along a dinghy. But Matt could not hide the fact that he had no diving equipment. Then he had an idea.
“Yeah,” he replied. “I’m picking up friends on Catalina. We’re going to rent our equipment there, then check out the caves on the backside of the island.”
“You need diving equipment? We rent that as well. I bet you could get a deal from Chuck since you’ve already paid for the boat.”
“No thanks. My pals have already got their stuff reserved.”
“Hey, the name’s Timmy.” He offered his hand and Matt had to take it. “You sure? Chuck will give you a deal.”
“I’m sure.”
Timmy was straw-blond with a crooked mouth and sloppy feet. He had bumped Matt twice on the short walk to the car. Now he gave him a peculiar look. “I thought you told Chuck you were heading south to fish?” he asked.
Timmy must have been in the back when Matt had spoken to Chuck.
“Later I’ll head that way. I have the boat for two days,” Matt said.
He nodded as Matt bent over the trunk. “Let me help you with that motor.”
“It’s not necessary.”
Timmy touched the lights and the supporting car battery. “What are these for?”
“Oh. They’re stage lights. Leave them.”
“You’re not taking them aboard?”
Matt shrugged. “No. What would I need them for?”
Timmy insisted on helping him with the dinghy and the motor. Matt slipped him five bucks and thanked him. But the guy simply refused to go away, and Matt could not leave the harbor without the lights. He needed them shining toward the heavens in order to spot the boat in the middle of the ocean. Good old Timmy, he wanted to talk about the Lakers, and the tits on the chick who worked with him in the store, and how drunk he had been the previous night. Finally, Matt had to get rude and ask to be left alone.
Timmy sulked as he shuffled away.
Timmy would remember him, if someone dropped by to ask.
Matt returned to his car and wrapped the lights in a blanket and finally got them aboard. Thankfully, the anchor and its extra rope were hidden in a large backpack. They were not conspicuous. He stowed the equipment below and motored out of the harbor at a brisk clip.
It was a quiet day on the bay, especially for a Saturday. The morning gloom might have discouraged the rich sailboats and their spoiled masters. The wind and chop picked up as he reached the open sea but his ship—The Mistress—handled smoothly. Turning north, he was able to lock the steering wheel and concentrate on the folded dinghy and foot pump. The coast crawled by on his right, desolate in the gray light. He started to work on inflating the dinghy. It took forever. The foot pump had been designed for party balloons.
His work was mechanical, not distracting enough. His mind wandered and there was only one direction for it to go. He could not stop thinking about the day they had met.
He had been out for a walk and had passed the park. Twenty-eight at the time, he’d had his contractor’s license
for only two years, but already he had more business than he could handle. He specialized in bathrooms; didn’t mind the gross wallpaper or moldy plumbing. Some weeks he put in eighty hours and did three bathrooms and cleared four grand. He remembered that morning thinking that maybe one day he would get married, a possibility he had never seriously considered before. He had struggled with so many jobs for so long. Now he had a new car, and a spacious apartment in a rich high-rise. But he had not been in a real relationship in six long years. Talk about someone primed for a fall.
He saw her. Kite and string in hands, four-year-old on her hip, the face of a doll. Sure, he knew skin-deep innocence was a myth, but there was something about her that made him think about the good old days—days he had never actually experienced. He imagined she could stand in the shade and glow. She was a picture of vulnerability, and he found that attractive. He did not understand then that vulnerable people often had horrible self-images, and were capable of horrible deeds.
He stopped to ask what she was up to. She gestured helplessly to the kite.
“We’ve been trying to get it in the air but there’s no wind.” Her voice was so soft she was hard to hear. There was no ring on her finger, but he had to wonder if the child was hers. Something in her body language said no.
Matt gestured to the park. “There’s too many trees here. You need to go down to the beach.”
She nodded. She did not give the impression she wanted him to go away, but she was not exactly comfortable either. He offered to take the kite, surprised at his boldness.
“I can give it a running start. I used to run track in high school. I might be able to get it in the air.”
“Could you?” the little girl asked. They were somehow related; the child had the same incredible Latin eyes, lashes long as tears.
“Sure.” He glanced at the woman. “If that’s okay with you?”
She hesitated. “Fine.”
He took the kite and string and searched for a runway. The park was hopelessly choked with trees. Still, he was determined to get the blasted thing in the air. Taking off at a hard clip, he fed string after the kite. To his surprise it caught an invisible current and he was able to slow down. The kite bobbled between the branches and rose into the blue. The two joined him by the swings. Handing the string to the kid, he felt the courage to introduce himself.
“The name’s Matt,” he said, offering his hand. She touched it briefly.
“Amy.” She paused. “This is my niece, Debbie.”
“Hi, Debbie.”
“Hi! Thanks for getting my kite up!”
“You’re welcome.” He looked around. “Do you come here often?”
“Sometimes,” Amy said.
“I think I’ve seen you before.”
She nodded at the ground. Not big on eye contact.
“It’s a nice day,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“I hope I’m not bothering you.” He paused. “Am I?”
She shook her head.
“Hey, can I buy you coffee? There’s a Starbucks around the block.”
Amy gestured to her niece. “I promised her I would play with her for a while.”
“I understand. I’m out for a walk myself. But I’ll be back in an hour or so. If you’re still here would you like to go then?”
She considered. “Okay.”
He was not sure he had heard her. “Sure?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
He smiled. “Okay, Amy. I look forward to it.”
He was lousy at asking women out. He did not know what had come over him to press himself on her. He expected her to be long gone when he returned.
Surprise, surprise, she was still there. Her house was not
far, she said. They walked her niece home before going to the Starbucks. Along the way the conversation stalled. He did discover, however, that she worked part-time in a lawyer’s office and that she lived with her father and sister—Debra’s mother. He assumed the kid’s father was long gone.
They ordered coffee and pastries and sat in a quiet corner. She continued to have trouble looking at him. He had the opposite problem. Her skin was like the coffee and cream he was drinking. Somewhere along the line he asked if she had a boyfriend and she shook her head. He did not think for a second she was lying. But later he was to come to understand that she still had some contact with a guy named David, who lived on the East Coast. However, the guy was not a part of her life, she made clear. He worked on Wall Street, brokering commodities for his rich father.
By chance Matt mentioned an Alfred Hitchcock film he had seen the night before and her eyes lit up. Sweet, innocent Amy was a hard-core mystery buff, of both books and films. Her tastes belonged to an earlier generation. Besides Hitchcock, she loved Sherlock Holmes, and everything Agatha Christie had written. Suddenly their talk took off, and he had to struggle to keep up. He wished right then that he was a writer. He would have done anything to impress her.
They went on a real date, dinner and a movie. She was a vegetarian. She liked Indian food, so he learned to like it. She did not kiss him on their first date. She did not kiss him on the second either. In fact, he was to date her three months before he was allowed to kiss her good night. The experience was frustrating—very weird, actually—but he felt she was worth the wait. He was not totally naive. He saw an element of manipulation in the way she kept her distance. But he attributed it to her Latin blood. Make the guy beg.
When they finally did make out, the first time, after her family had gone to bed, she burst out crying. Concerned, he begged her to tell him what was wrong. She shook like a wounded child. An old pain had come up, she said. She
refused to elaborate. He did not even think of David; she had assured him that was over. But from that night on he got a sick feeling in his gut, a feeling that was never to leave him over the next eighteen months.
Yet she could be so fine. Dozens of times she surprised him at his various jobs with delicious homemade lunches. She just had to flash her killer smile to change his whole day.
Amy took over his books. She managed his money and did a great job. She was good at other things as well. After they had been dating nine months, she began to sleep naked beside him. At first she would only touch him, make him come, but not let herself be touched. Then she began to go down on him, and vice versa, and the sight of her so close to him, so happy with him in her mouth, drove him crazy. He asked her to marry him. She said, sure, soon, you have to get me a ring. But she would never go with him to buy one and it made him wonder.
Then he caught her with David.
Nothing to wonder about anymore.
Matt finished inflating the dinghy and attached the motor. Raising his head, he saw the bare hills of Malibu. He was already north of the stars’ homes. Taking the wheel, he veered west. He had to get farther from the shore. The plane had to go down in deep water. There could be no chance of recovery. He also had to be far enough from land so his parachute could not be spotted. But there would be no moon tonight—he had already checked—and he had dyed his parachute pitch black.
Matt carried a global positioning system (GPS), which was accurate to within two hundred feet. This evening, while flying on a line between Catalina and Santa Barbara, it would help guide him back to his boat. The GPS helped him now as he aimed for a point exactly between the two locations. He ended up in an area five miles out—an ideal distance from shore. Farther out might burden the motor on his dinghy. Any closer to shore and he might be spotted.
It was eleven o’clock. The ship was equipped with a
depth indicator. He was in four hundred feet of water. He had to move to a shallower spot. They were around; he had found one last time, on his trial run. The anchor attached to the ship could only reach down two hundred feet, and was questionable help. It would create drag against any local current, but it could not stop the boat from drifting. However, the anchor he had brought aboard was attached to a three-hundred-foot rope. After a few minutes of scanning the area, he found a spot where the latter anchor would catch on the sandy bottom.
Matt tossed both anchors overboard.
A minute later the boat came to a firm halt.
He set up his panel of lights. They came equipped with a timer, and would only turn on after dark. Yet he momentarily activated them—using a manual switch—to make sure they were working. They were bright, and blinked red and white—Christmas colors come early this year to call down his doomed sleigh. He hoped there was no fog tonight or low-level clouds. Either could utterly ruin his plans.
Matt took off his disguise and stowed it below.
He shoved the dinghy overboard and climbed in and started the motor. The ocean chop was not bad—he would make good time back to shore. Glancing back at the boat as he sped away, he cursed the fact that he had not brought an inflatable dummy to set up on deck with a fishing line and a hat. Now he was full of great ideas. There was always a chance another ship would cruise by and want to investigate.
He knew the beach where he wanted to come ashore, but he deliberately steered near the mainland far north of the beach—in no man’s land—before turning south. He did not want suspicious eyes seeing him arriving on a dinghy from far out at sea. It was his wish to be seen as a simple fisherman. He wanted to be a nobody. He knew that when a nobody died, nobody cared.
He wondered if she would attend his memorial service.
“Amy,” he said to himself. “Why?”
The beach landing was uneventful. He dragged his
dinghy onto the sand and kept his head down as he stomped the air out of it. There were a handful of people sunning themselves but they would not remember him. He detached the outboard motor and hauled everything to his car.
This was his real car, registered to Matt Connor, a two-year-old Toyota truck that he had parked a block from the beach the previous night. He had everything in the back within twenty minutes of coming ashore. Jumping on the freeway, he headed south. But along the way he swung behind a grocery store and dumped his dinghy and motor in a large Dumpster. Stopping at a self-service car wash, he vacuumed the sand out of his truck.
He drove toward the Santa Monica Airport. He was himself again in more ways than one. He was no sailor but he was a superb pilot. He had a Cessna 172 waiting for him. It bothered him that he would not be returning the plane. He had learned to fly on the Cessna and it was as close to an idiotproof plane as had ever been built. That was both good and bad. Tonight, it would be easy to jump from, but people would wonder how such an experienced pilot as himself could have crashed such a simple plane.
At the airport, the guys at the rental agency wanted to shoot the breeze. He forced himself to socialize a few minutes. He even told a dirty joke. Did you hear about the girl who was cheating on her boyfriend and he walks in on her … ? They laughed, they liked him. He had worked on their office building in exchange for hours with the plane. He had put in a new bathroom, reconfigured their walls so they had twice as much useful space.
Lack of cash was the biggest weakness in his plan. It was not like he could crash in the ocean with everything in his bank account suddenly withdrawn. Talk about raising a red flag. For the last four months he had been taking cash on most jobs. Building up a nest egg that never saw the inside of a bank. He had forty-five grand saved but that was not going to last. Then again, what kind of time frame was he talking about?
Frankly, he had no idea.
They let him go. Wished him happy birthday and good luck on his scuba lessons. No one worried about him flying from Catalina to Santa Barbara in the dark. But it was not as if he could leave Catalina at night. The runway had no lights. He had to depart at sunset, or immediately after. His plan required the dark. From now until he disappeared, timing was everything.
He forced himself to concentrate as he checked out the plane. Ninety-nine percent of the time the ritual was unnecessary. Study the hull for broken rivets. Test the radio and battery supply. See if the flaps were in sync. Look at the color of the fuel. The latter was a light blue, high octane, but as Matt stared at it he saw red. His heart pounded behind his eyes.
He talked to himself as he circled the plane. He was not bringing the Cessna back. He was ditching it in the dark ocean. Amy was not coming home to him. He was going to ditch her as well—into a bottomless well of agonizing loss. It was only right that they should suffer together.
But there would be a difference in their suffering.
He would know why. She would know nothing.
But when it came down to it, he still did not know why she had left him. She had loved him, he could not have been that deceived. So her love had been twisted—it had been real, David’s money and his baby aside. The question spun endlessly in his head.
Why?
In a way, Matt wished she could know it was he who was going to destroy her life. At least then she would know how much he still thought of her. He wondered if she ever thought about him—the single most devastating thought of all.
Matt stowed his gear aboard the four-seater plane and climbed into the cockpit. Inside his bag was his black parachute and a lightweight wet suit that covered his torso only. He planned to wear the suit when he jumped from the plane—not during his scuba instructions—in the event he
missed the boat and ended up in the sea. February water was ghastly. The suit could keep him from hypothermia, make the difference between life and death.
Using the plane’s foot pedals, he crept out to the runway where he was given permission to take off. Getting the Cessna airborne was a snap—student pilots did it on the first day of instruction. He merely had to align the plane with the runway and pull the throttle all the way out. When his speed reached sixty miles an hour, he eased back the yoke and the plane was airborne. Even after so many hours in the air, it always struck him as a miracle when he left the ground.
LAX and its crowded airspace usually dictated his course when he took off from the relatively small Santa Monica Airport. The flight to Catalina should have taken a mere twenty minutes, but he had to steer south of the international airport before he could even turn toward the water. The actual flight to Catalina always took him forty minutes. Greg, his scuba instructor, would be waiting for him.
Soon he was out over the ocean. The plane practically flew itself. He had a visual on Catalina. He stabilized his altitude and speed. Once again, like on the boat, he had too much idle time.
His thoughts returned to the only real vacation they had ever taken together. It had been to Bryce Canyon National Park, where he turned her on to rock climbing. Initially she resisted the sport, but when he finally got her up on a stone wall a deep inhibition broke inside and she began to laugh and couldn’t stop. That afternoon they scaled several cliffs; and that night, lying naked beside her in their sleeping bag under the stars, she told him that she had never loved anyone so much as she loved him.
Just one month before he had caught her with David.
Catalina’s airport was located on the far side of the island. To an inexperienced pilot the landing strip was scary. Besides being short, it ended at the edge of a cliff that dropped straight down to the water. The area was famous for its dramatic upward and downward drafts. None of that
concerned Matt. He could land a plane in a snowstorm. But today he put the Cessna down with a hard thump. He saw Greg waiting for him by the gate and waved. It was past two—he was forty minutes late. Before the sun set he had to complete two dives in order to earn his PADI certificate. It would look odd if he left before he qualified. His birthday party would not be excuse enough.
Greg Pander was twenty years old and more than sure of himself. He had beach-bum good looks and Matt thought it would be safe to say the kid had already had more sex in his short life than he ever would. But Greg was an excellent instructor. He was patient when necessary and was not easily flustered. Matt had chosen to meet with him privately rather than take a class because it allowed him to dictate their schedule. Without the diving lessons, there would be no reason for him to be on Catalina. Simply flying up the coast to see his mother would not have worked. He needed a good excuse to be far from shore when his plane crashed.
Matt left his gear locked in the plane and walked toward Greg. The hulky blond gave him a casual smile. “I was worried you wouldn’t show,” he said.
“I was working a job this morning in Orange County. Had to finish it to get paid.”
Greg gestured to a bus they could take to the harbor. This was the second time they had met on Catalina. Diving directly off the L.A. coast was miserable. You could see your hand in front of your face and that was it. At least here they had fifty feet of visibility and beautiful kelp forests.
“Our gear is stowed at the old casino,” Greg said. “We better get in the water quick. Hey, it’s your birthday today, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool. Having fun?”
“It’s been an interesting day,” Matt said.
They dove off the shore near the main harbor, beside the huge rocks that circled the old casino. Matt would have preferred diving from a boat but this way was quicker. With all the gear on his back he weighed a ton. Climbing down
the slippery rocks was a challenge, but Greg saw it as part of the fun. He laughed when Matt slipped and almost broke his tailbone. They had on full wet suits, plus headcoverings and gloves. The water was only fifty degrees.
Matt was fit. His job kept him limber and he worked out three times a week at a gym. The endurance aspects of the dives did not trouble him. Greg had him ditch his equipment on the surface and climb back into it. They practiced buddy breathing. Greg tore his mask off underwater and had him put it back on and clear it. They went down to sixty feet and Matt had to make a slow ascent on a single breath.
The second dive was more recreational. Greg swam beside him and pointed out a variety of fish and interesting kelp formations. Matt was glad for his mask. It hid his total lack of interest.
They finished at five-fifteen, ten minutes after sunset. Greg presented him with a temporary diving certificate. The real one would come in the mail in two weeks. Matt had posed for the ID’s picture on the previous trip. Greg was excited for him and Matt forced a smile and gave his instructor a thank-you hug. But Matt begged off any further celebration. He told Greg he had to get to his party. After a shower and change at the harbor, he took the bus back to the airport.
It was almost dark when he arrived. The guy on duty was already closing up.
Matt ran to the gate. “Hey, my plane’s here. I’m leaving tonight.”
The guy checked his watch and shook his head. “Sorry, bud. Didn’t anyone tell you that this is a day-only airport?”
“I know the rules. I can leave within forty minutes of dusk. You’ve got to let me go. I fly all the time at night.”
The guy continued to lock the gate. “It’s not my decision to make.”
Matt put his hand in the space between the metal bars. “Listen, it’s very important I get to Santa Barbara tonight. My family’s having a big party for me.”
The dull-headed lug stopped. “What’s the party for? Did you win something?”
“The lottery. Hey, why don’t I slip you twenty bucks and you let me go and no one will be any wiser? What do you say?”
The guy wasn’t a complete fool, he took the money. Climbing into his plane and fastening his seat belts, Matt swung onto the narrow runway. The wind was up—he had not noticed it while in the water. As he pulled back on the throttle and sailed off the edge of the cliff, he felt a sharp downward yank. His nose lowered dangerously and his wheels came within ten feet of skimming the water. It would have been ironic, he thought, after all his preparation, to have crashed and died immediately after leaving the island.
Amy would never have known what she missed.
He gained altitude but kept his speed low. It was not completely dark and the night was his shield. He wished he could circle and stall for time but feared other planes in the area might notice. Low-lying clouds crept in from the west. He could barely see Los Angeles off to his right. Nevertheless, he was familiar with the route and confident in his instruments. He did not have to see the coast to keep on course. Yet he could not jump out of the plane unless he could see the boat. He prayed everything went smoothly and yet he hoped he failed. The truth was, he was a mess. He felt so lonely he wanted to cry.
Like that night, he would never forget that night.
When he saw them kissing on that side street in Westwood, he thought he was mistaken. He drove around the block and parked. He told himself it was not Amy. Yet the girl had looked like Amy and was dressed like Amy. Still, he almost stayed where he was. But of course that wasn’t true. He got out and ran around the corner.
They were still kissing.
So cold, his guts right then.
He walked up and they parted and looked over. Amy quickly lowered her head while David regarded him
quizzically. Matt did not know what to say. But he knew he had finally met the infamous David. The guy was plump, light haired, and well dressed. He looked like a used car salesman. Matt smelled alcohol on both of them.
“Who are you?” David asked. His voice was soft and fruity.
“I’m her boyfriend. Who are you?”
The guy smiled. “I’m her other boyfriend. Who are you, really?”
“I’m her boyfriend.” Matt glanced at his girlfriend. “Isn’t that right, Amy?”
She would not look at them. David did a double take. “Are you serious?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m Matt Connor.” He turned to Amy. “Tell him who I am.”
She turned and ran. She could move when she wanted. He chased after her and it took him half a block to catch her. She shook him off roughly.
“Leave me alone!” she cried.
“Leave you alone? Amy, stop, we have to talk. What is going on here? You have to talk to me!”
She stopped. David walked toward them slowly, still over a hundred yards away. Amy stared at the ground.
“That’s David,” she whispered.
“What’s he doing here? When did he get here?”
She looked like death. “It’s sort of a recent development.”
“What are you doing with him? Why were you kissing him?”
She shook her head. “It’s not like it looks.”
“Have you been sleeping with him?”
She would not raise her head. She would not answer.
Matt glared down the block at David. The guy moved like a zombie.
“Answer me!” he yelled at her.
No response. He tried to grab her arm again and she shook him off. Taking a step back, he swore at her. “Then I’m going to talk to him. I have to know what’s going on here.”
She looked at him with such bitterness. “You would do that to me, huh? Now I know what kind of man you are.”
He was incredulous. “What kind of man I am? What about you? You’re the one who’s always talking about honor and honesty. Now I know who you are.”
“You’re no better. You show up here and say these things and try to hurt me.” She wept. “You’re hurting me!”
None of it was real. He tried to hold her. He hated her right then but at the same time he had never realized how much he loved her. David was close. She struggled in his embrace.
“Let me go!” she screamed.
“Amy! We have to get out of here! We have to talk!”
She cried as she fought him. “Leave me alone! I want to go home!”
“Amy! Please?”
She broke free and ran away. He chased after her for a moment and then gave up. She went around the block and vanished. David walked up at his side.
“What a bitch,” he muttered casually.
Matt staggered to the curb and sat down. He vomited in the gutter.
David stayed with him, he wanted to talk. Matt realized later that he was only interested in gathering information to hold over Amy’s head. David was upset but also pleased in a strange way. He wanted to know the details of their relationship. Matt told him the whole story. For being the “other guy,” David was remarkably self-assured. He was also a snake. Matt saw that much.
While they spoke, David got three calls on his cell phone. He told Matt they were business related and didn’t answer them. Matt was so dazed he did not understand that Amy was calling David because she was worried what the night had done to their relationship. She was not worried about her relationship with her boyfriend. She was just trying to arrange a place to meet David afterward.
Finally David left. Matt stood and staggered back to his
car. He was in absolute shock but he was aware enough to realize he was looking at a torturous future. Amy was his life. He had thought of little else for the last two years. She could not have done this, it was not happening.
He drove to her house and was surprised to find her car missing. He assumed she’d be home. She had said she wanted to go home. She would not have gone to David’s house, for godsakes. He knocked on the door and her father, a retired schoolteacher, answered in his pajamas. Bent with age but nevertheless wise from years of working with rowdy kids, he saw something was wrong and quickly invited Matt inside. They sat on the couch and Matt told him what had happened. Amy’s father had always loved Matt deeply, but there was nothing in the universe more precious to him than his daughter. He kept shaking his head as Matt spoke.
“She wouldn’t have done this,” he said. “She would never have betrayed you this way. I know my daughter, that is not her, no.”
Matt shook his head sadly. “None of us knew her.”
He waited an hour for Amy to show up but she did not. Finally it sunk in that she was with David. He said good night to her father and went home and lay on the floor and wept. He kept hoping she would knock on the door to beg his forgiveness. His brain had short-circuited on an endlessly repeating loop:
This is not happening. This cannot be happening.
At two in the morning, she called.
“Hello?” he said.
“Hi,” she said, cold.
“Where are you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. Where are you?”
“I’m not going to tell you,” she said.
“I have to see you. We have to talk.”
“I’m not going to talk to you.”
He could not believe her insolent tone.
“You’re not going to talk to me? After what you’ve done? You should be on your knees begging me to take you back. How dare you! You cheated on me!”
“Look what you did to me! You talked to him because you wanted to hurt me. You wanted to convince him that I was really your girlfriend when I’m not. You were always trying to convince me that he was a jerk and I never believed you.”
“Wait a second. What are you saying? You’re my girlfriend. You’ve been my girlfriend for two years.”
“I have not! Did I ever have sexual intercourse with you? Did I?”
Matt got a real bad feeling on top of a mountain of bad feelings. “Why are you saying such things? Is he there? Are you trying to get me to say I’m not your boyfriend?”
“He’s not here.”
“Liar. He’s listening right now. Or else you’re taping this conversation so you can play it for him later. You’re trying to put words in my mouth so you can swear to him you were never in an intimate relationship with me. Where are you?”
She hung up. He hit *69 and got a number in Brentwood. There was no answer. He dialed a dozen times but apparently they had gone to bed.
Them in bed together. The image was a curse he was never to be free of again. How many nights after that night did he want to take a gun and blow that picture right out of his brain?
She did not call the next day. What did it matter? He was never going to see her again as long as he lived. Nevertheless, the day after that, at five in the morning, he drove to her house, saw her car was parked out front. Using a side gate to get in the backyard, he stepped to the sliding glass door attached to her bedroom. Peering inside, he saw her roll over in bed and sit up. She had on the pink pajamas he had bought her the previous Christmas. She let him inside and they sat on her bed together and she wept.
“I’m sorry, Matt. I’m so sorry.”
She told him her story. She had been with David six years before she met him and even when it had ended it had not really ended. He knew that, she said. He knew she was still obsessing on the guy. Actually, Matt did not know that but he let it pass.
She had seen David four times in the last two years, for a week each time. Matt remembered the occasions. They were supposed to be the times she had gone to visit her relatives in Colombia. She had called during those trips, every night, to see how he was doing. Matt asked if she had slept with David during each trip. Stupid question. Yes, she said. But each time she had sworn to herself she wasn’t going back to David. She had cared for him, Matt. She had wanted to make it work with him.
Had cared. Had wanted to make it work.
It was hard to miss her choice of tense.
“How long has he been here this time?” he asked.
“A month. He catted—I told him I wouldn’t see him. But he kept calling and I finally gave in.”
The other trips were a while ago. Maybe he could forget, maybe he could forgive. “Have you slept with him in the last month?” he asked.
She took a long time to answer. “Yes.”
His turn to cry. He had never wept in front of someone as an adult. He honestly felt like he would die. She kept squeezing his hand and saying she was sorry but somehow it did not help.
“Are you going to see him again?” he asked pitifully.
She hesitated. “I’m not sure. After what happened the other night, he doesn’t trust me anymore.”
“So you’re over him? It’s done?”
She looked away. “I’m still conflicted.”
“What does that mean?”
“I feel like I have to get him out of my system if I’m going to be with you.” Taking his hands, she stared him straight in the eye. Her sorrow somehow intensified her beauty. But there was something wrong with the picture.
She was not asking him to take her back.
“I really wanted to be with you,” she said. “But you know how I’ve kept my walls up. I think it was because of David. I have to resolve this once and for all if I’m to have any peace.”
“But you just said he doesn’t want to see you again?”
“I said I wasn’t sure.”
He pleaded. “But we’re happy together. We’ve had so much love together. You can’t throw it all away. Please, Amy.”
“I have to get over this. It’s tearing me apart.”
He was going to be sick. “Do you love him?”
She sighed. “I don’t know.”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes. I love you a great deal.”
“Then how can you do this to me?”
She spoke with feeling. “I wanted to spare you the pain. I knew if you knew he was in town you would never be able to rest. You would always be wondering where I was. I thought that I could finish it with David and come back to you a hundred percent.” She ran her hand through his hair. “You’re so good. You’re so perfect. You’ve taught me what real love is.”
The words sounded good. There was just one problem.
She was choosing David over him.
That night, he sat in his car outside her house for several hours. Until she finally appeared and drove over to David’s house. Now Matt knew where the guy lived. David was a swell guy. He had already forgiven her. At least enough that he was able to fuck her again. She spent the night with him, and the next four nights as well. She never did call Matt. She had told him she would only contact him when she was ready to come back a hundred percent.
A month later Matt read about their wedding in the Los Angeles Times.
He stalked them and discovered she was pregnant. And from the size of her, he knew she had gotten pregnant while she had been dating him. That same day—it was a very special day in many ways—he began to formulate his
plan. The pieces just fell into his head. God could have e-mailed him the blueprint. The plan was intricate but simple. Pain in exchange for pain. And no Matt Connor left alive to take the blame.
Seven months of planning. Now he flew toward his destiny.
Only he could not clearly see where he was going.
The darkness grew swiftly and he no longer felt the need to stall. But the clouds got worse the farther north he went. He decreased his altitude until he was flying a thousand feet above the water. He could not stay at such a height. He had to leap from at least two thousand feet to have any chance of maneuvering toward the boat. He had hoped to be a mile high. But even if he had an hour in the air with a parachute, it would do him no good if there was no boat beneath him.
He forced himself to focus on his GPS. The coordinates could not lie. But not even a zealot such as himself would leap from a plane without seeing the boat lights. He did not want to die. Certainly, he did not want to drown all because of a girl he hated.
He spoke to the Ventura tower, told them everything was A-OK. They asked why he was flying so low, and he explained about the clouds. They wished him Godspeed. But how would the experts explain why he suddenly increased his altitude just before he crashed? They would have their theories. Fortunately, he would not have to be there to answer their questions. Nor would the wreckage of his plane be located in such deep water. The Coast Guard would send out a boat to make official the paperwork, nothing more. No one would expect to find his body.
But he had to increase his height! His instruments told him he should already be able to see the flashing lights. Where was that damn boat? The ocean was a dark gray soup. He scanned with his binoculars and saw nothing. This was insane, the boat could not have drifted from where he had anchored it!
Then he understood. He still had a thin layer of cloud
beneath him. What he had thought was water was in reality mist. He had to drop lower, down to five hundred feet. Now he played a dangerous game. If he got confused even slightly, he would crash into the water and die.
At five hundred feet he saw the lights. Two miles directly in front of him. The boat had indeed drifted slightly north. It had probably gotten caught in an exceptionally powerful current, and his spare anchor must have lost its grip on the ocean floor.
Immediately Matt banked upward. He would lose sight of the boat above the clouds. He would have to estimate when to jump. Jesus, he had not put on his wet suit yet! He had forgotten all about it, and now there was no time.
He reached into his bag and pulled out his parachute and put it on, yanking the waist strap tight. From the same bag he took out a steel yardstick. He needed it to prop open the door while he climbed out. His Cessna had not been designed for skydivers. Luckily, the wings were above the cockpit, not below. They would not obstruct his path when he bailed out. He hoped the yardstick didn’t snap in his face.
His speed was eighty knots, ninety miles an hour. He pulled back on the throttle, strove for five thousand feet. Yet already he could see he wouldn’t reach half that height before he flew over his target. The clouds wiped away his last sight of the boat but he was certain he was directly above it.
Now or never. He could not circle back. No single act would be more suspicious to those in the towers who studied his course on their screens. At least his descending and climbing could be explained away as simple confusion or panic.
He cracked his door and shoved it open with his left hand. The wind slapped his face like a cold fist. Bringing the yardstick out, he wedged it between the top of the door and the side of his seat. The door remained open but the precarious situation could not last.
He had the nose up, now he had to bring it down hard.
He wanted to give the impression that he had become completely disorientated—could not tell up from down. That he had fallen into the infamous graveyard spin that was the bane of all inexperienced pilots who had lost all visual clues. The problem with the Cessna 172 was that it naturally resisted such a spin and righted itself. Unless he forced the plane into the water, it would continue happily along for several more miles. It might even veer east and crash on land. Then how would a medical examiner explain his missing body?
Matt thrust the yoke flush with the control board. As the plane sank he pressed the throttle down. His altitude was twenty-two hundred feet and dropping quick. Now, even had he wanted, he could not have saved the plane. He was falling fast into a black cauldron. He had been falling since he had caught Amy with David.
Matt climbed out the door and leapt from the plane.