Zero Separation (20 page)

“I'm sorry. I don't operate that way.”

“Give me one good reason why not,” Lauren said with more bite than she intended.

“Meredith thought very much the same way you do, and my unfiltered actions got her killed. If you watched the movie, my guess is you have three questions about Costa Rica. The threats, the delay in my getting the money, and the phone call.”

“I already know about the threats and the money. William explained the delay and he told me the threats weren't anything specific.”

“William doesn't know everything,” Donovan said, his voice almost a whisper. “There was one threat that came straight to Meredith. We came back from a meeting to find an envelope placed on the bed in our hotel suite. Inside was a letter written by some political extremist that basically threatened to kill Meredith. She shrugged it off and said that security at the conference was perfectly adequate. I was furious that some crazy man knew what room we were in and I let my fear get the better of me. Without thinking it through, I convinced her to leave the hotel and get to the villa we'd rented, thinking we'd return when we had beefed up security. I didn't really think it through, and as soon as we abandoned the security of the conference, she was taken. I'd reacted emotionally. Took a manageable situation and turned it into the scenario that got Meredith killed.”

“You tried to protect her.”

“What I did was get her killed. She's dead because of me, plain and simple. I can't change what happened. I can't bring her back. I can't change places with her. All I can do is never forget her and with that comes not forgetting what I did to her. With every molecule of my being, I want to keep something like that from happening to you or Abigail. I may appear impulsive at times, but I
can assure you that I process everything, and that will never change—ever.”

Lauren felt stung. His fury, guilt, and shame possessed an energy she'd never known him to have—and he'd unleashed it at her, as if his revelation came with a measure of punishment. Then she felt her resentment rise. He'd made her feel like she'd crossed some sort of line, but in her mind this was his mess, issues he'd never dealt with, and most certainly wasn't her doing. She decided that as long as he was talking, she'd ask him the one question still on her mind. “What was said when you talked to her that night?”

“That's private.”

Fully rebuffed, Lauren felt the last of her patience dissolve into anger. “Fine. You and Montero do what you need to do. I'm exhausted. We'll talk later.” Lauren slammed the phone down and found that her hands were shaking. She felt the tears come and did nothing to try and stop them. She lowered her head, pressed her hands over her face, and began to sob.

Distant screams filled the morning sky. The sun hadn't yet cleared the trees, but already the air shimmered in the heat. As always, everything started from far away and drew closer. What at first sounded like only a few scattered people's cries of alarm, quickly grew to dozens, then hundreds. Donovan felt his growing panic and fought the muddy field, each step forward a monumental effort. Turning back wasn't an option. In the distance, he could see her lying motionless, pale skin and auburn hair. His terror grew and he pushed harder, heart thudding furiously in his chest as the screaming around him grew in intensity. The voices of a thousand people were now wailing and sobbing. The field resembled an amphitheatre and Donovan clawed his way closer to her body. Lurching forward, pulling himself with his hands, he kicked furiously with his legs to cover the last few yards. Tens of thousands of tortured voices shrieked at him from every direction.

With a hand darkened by the soil, he gently touched her shoulder so he could see her face. Her skin was cold and lifeless; her green eyes stared past him. The single bullet that had neatly perforated her forehead told him she was beyond help—but it wasn't Meredith—it was Lauren. The thousands upon thousands of voices went silent at the same moment and the only scream was his.

“Donovan! Wake up! It's just a dream.”

Arms wrapped him up and he fought the restraints until the images in his head faded and then dissolved. In the darkness he slumped, spent from exertion, and he felt hot tears roll down his face. His breathing was shallow and rapid. His heart pounded and
he felt sticky and flushed. He couldn't remember where he was—only the paralyzing fear that Lauren was gone.

“You're safe,” Montero said as she clicked on the bedside lamp.

Donovan brought his hands up to his face to ward off the light. He struggled in the purgatory between the nightmare and reality.

“Take long, steady breaths.”

Donovan let the pieces began to arrange themselves in his head. He was in Florida. Montero's house—she had her arms around him. He opened his eyes to find a genuinely concerned expression on her face. Donovan spotted her Glock on the nightstand and understood that his night terror must have alarmed her.

“You were yelling—calling her name.”

“Whose name?”

“Meredith's. I'm sorry if I've dredged up old wounds.”

“You didn't dredge them up. They're always there.”

“Is it always the same dream?” Montero asked. “I have the same one over and over. In mine I keep trying to wake Alec up to tell him we're in danger and I can't—he never wakes up.”

“Yeah. Something like that.” Donovan didn't want to share his dreams with her, or anyone else for that matter. He gradually became aware of the fact that Montero's hand was still on his shoulder. Sitting on the bed next to him, her proximity made him feel uncomfortable. “What time is it?”

“It's a little after five.”

“I'll never get back to sleep. I think I'm going to hit the shower and get dressed.”

“I'll make coffee.” Montero stood up and grabbed her Glock. She hesitated for a moment and then left the room, gently closing the door behind her.

Donovan threw off the damp sheets, swung his legs off the bed, and rested his head in his hands for a moment. He recalled his conversation with Lauren. It was a miracle he'd even gotten to sleep at all last night. He needed to talk to her, but he also needed time to process a response. The fact that she'd found and watched the documentary
about Meredith was bad enough, but he'd hidden it from her. He was eventually going to tell her. He just hadn't been prepared for how hard it had hit him. Until he could get through watching it unfazed and intact, he hadn't wanted to share it with her. All of that sounded rational, but now she'd discovered his deception. She was angry, and he didn't blame her. What he hadn't been prepared for was the intensity of her anger. Last night she was hurt, tired, and scared, and he was an easy target. After all, he was at fault. She'd said last night she didn't want to be Mrs. Robert Huntington. Right now he wondered if she was all that thrilled about being Mrs. Donovan Nash.

“You better get in here and see this!” Montero shouted from the living room.

Donovan threw on his pants and shirt just as his cell phone began to ring. He didn't recognize the number, but he snatched it from the table and ran to join Montero.

She was standing in front of the television, the remote still pointed at the set.

“CNN has learned from the FAA that a search is now underway for an overdue airliner. Pan Avia Flight 17, flying from São Paulo, Brazil, to Washington Dulles is listed as missing.”

Donovan answered the phone. “This is Nash.”

“Mr. Nash. It's Captain Ryan Pittman onboard the
Atlantic Titan
. I'm sorry if I woke you.”

“Ryan, I was already up. What's going on?”

“We have a situation. About an hour ago we encountered a fairly large debris field coupled with a fuel slick on the water. We've discovered bodies as well. At this point we've recovered enough wreckage to determine that it's from an airplane.”

“Are you certain? Any idea whose airplane it is? I'm watching a CNN report about an overdue Pan Avia flight. Do you think that's what we're dealing with?”

“Too soon to tell.”

“Bodies?”

“Fifteen, so far. Judging by the amount of kerosene floating in the ocean, my guess is it's something big.”

“How long until you have some assistance?”

“We've notified the Coast Guard and they should have a cutter here by midday. The British Navy has a destroyer steaming our way, as does the U.S. Navy, but they won't be here until sometime late tomorrow or the next day. Right now we've been asked by the Jamaican authorities to secure the site and recover as much debris as we can until more help arrives. I've already deployed all of our underwater acoustic and sonar assets to try and pinpoint the wreckage.”

Donovan turned to Montero and mouthed that he'd be right back. He went to the bathroom and closed the door and lowered his voice. “Ryan, I need a favor.”

“Sure, name it.”

“If you're in contact with the Navy or the Coast Guard, ask them to route a request to the FBI field office in West Palm Beach. Tell them my presence is required immediately onboard the
Atlantic Titan
. The guy you need to talk to is Hamilton Burgess. Don't mention to him we've spoken, only that you're trying to find me.”

“You got it.” Ryan replied.

“Where exactly are you?” Donovan asked. “And what's the closest airport that will handle the Gulfstream?”

“We're a hundred thirty-five miles east of Kingston, Jamaica.”

“I'll call when I have more details. Plan on having the helicopter meet me in Kingston.”

“Will do,” Pittman replied and severed the connection.

Donovan ignored the sad state of his reflection in the mirror. He could feel the effects of the liquor he'd consumed the night before and the gritty hollow feeling of not enough sleep. He waited until the water turned ice cold and leaned in and splashed as much as he could stand on his face. The jolt would have to get him through until he could pound down some coffee and properly
shower. When he emerged from the bedroom, he found that Montero was on the phone. Donovan moved past her and began loading the coffeemaker.

When Montero finished her phone conversation, Donovan was surprised to find that she looked deflated, both frustration as well as resignation showing in her eyes.

“What's wrong?”

“That was Burgess.” Montero said. “I have to meet with the shooting review board this morning at nine sharp. It's routine, but it would be helpful to know what the one eyewitness said in his statement.”

“The truth, that you saved my life.”

“You didn't mention the intercom mix-up?”

“There was really no proof and it didn't seem relevant.”

“Thank you for that.” Montero seemed relieved. “Burgess also informed me that there's an Eco-Watch ship on the scene of what everyone now thinks is the site of the Pan Avia airliner crash. It seems your presence has been requested aboard your ship. I talked Burgess into thinking it's a good idea for me to stick with you—for your protection. I think he's relieved I'll be out of South Florida. So it sounds like we're going out to your ship.”

“I just heard about all of this myself. We need to get to Kingston, Jamaica as quickly as we can,” Donovan said without any trace of the pleasure he felt at maneuvering Montero out of South Florida into an environment of his making.

“And Nash,” Montero added. “The moment we get any kind of lead on the guy with the white beard and hair, we're on it. I don't care where we are when it happens. Do I make myself clear?”

Donovan climbed the
da Vinci
to 37,000 feet, relieved to finally be leaving Florida behind. The rarified air was intensely clear, as if the entire atmosphere had been scrubbed clean by the cold front. Kyle Mathews was seated in the right seat acting as first officer. Kyle had been with Eco-Watch for almost two years and was steadily working his way up to captain. He was in his early thirties, born in the Midwest, down to earth and easygoing. Donovan enjoyed flying with the young man and was impressed with how he'd overseen the maintenance performed on the
da Vinci
.

Montero was seated in the jump seat, which placed her between and slightly behind the pilots. Donovan and Kyle quickly drifted into the easy conversation of professional pilots at work, which, by design, excluded Montero from most of the conversation.

Donovan scanned the instrument panel, then shifted his view out the side window. From seven miles up he could see the green vegetation and stark white beaches of the Bahamas. Under the gin-clear water were the muted contours of miles and miles of submerged sand dunes, shaped and reshaped by the ceaseless storms and tides of the Atlantic.

Kyle opened a high-altitude aeronautical chart and smoothed it out on his lap. Using a pencil he marked an
X
between Jamaica and Haiti. From a file, he pulled a sheaf of paper and began organizing.

“What do you have there?” Donovan asked.

“We all saw the latest televised reports of the Pan Avia crash before we left Boca Raton, and I'm trying to fill in some of the blanks. The news outlets want it to sound all mysterious, comparing
this accident with that Air France A330 that went down years ago over the Atlantic Ocean. But I don't think that's the case.”

Donovan nodded his silent agreement. The Boeing 767 was a proven design that had been flying for decades. Nothing in its history resembled the Air France crash, which was eventually ruled as being caused by a multiple onboard flight computer failure coupled with probable pilot error causing the airliner to plunge into the ocean in stormy weather.

“The only aspect of the Pan Avia flight that was out of the ordinary was the significant course change to avoid weather,” Kyle explained. “Instead of flying the normal track over the Windward Islands, it deviated west to get on the backside of the front. Given the conditions, I say it was a good call.”