Cold Fire

As he stepped back to let Christine Dubrovek get up, he noticed the passenger in the seat behind her. The poor woman was evidently terrified of flying. She was holding a copy of Vis Pis in front of her face, trying to take her mind off her fears with a little reading, but her hands were shaking so badly that the magazine rattled continuously.

"Where are you sitting?" Christine asked.

"The other aisle, row sixteen. Come on, I'll show you.”

He lifted her single piece of carry-on luggage while she and Casey gathered up a few other small items, then he led them to the front of the plane and around to the port aisle. Casey entered row sixteen, and her mother followed.

Before Jim settled down himself, something impelled him to look across the wide-bodied plane to the aerophobic woman whom they had left behind in row twenty-three. She had lowered the magazine. She was watching him. He knew her.

Holly Thorne.

He was stunned.

Christine Dubrovek said, "Steve?" Across the plane, the reporter realized that Jim had seen her. She wide-eyed, frozen. Like a deer caught in car headlights.

"Steve?" He looked down at Christine and said, Uh, excuse me a minute, Christine. Just a minute. I'll be right back. Wait here. Okay? Wait right here.

He went forward and across to the starboard aisle again.

His heart was hammering. His throat was tight with fear. But he didn't know why. He was not afraid of Holly Thorne. He knew at once that her presence was no coincidence, that she had stumbled on to his secret and had been following him. But right now he didn't care.

Discovery, being unmasked-that was not what frightened him. He had no idea what was cranking up his anxiety, but it was escalating to a level at which adrenaline would soon start to squirt out his ears.

As he made his way back the aisle toward the reporter, she started to get up. Then a look of resignation slid across her face, and she sat down again.

She was as easy to look at as he remembered, though the skin around her eyes was slightly dark, as if from lack of sleep.

When he arrived at row twenty-three, he said, "Come on." He reached for her hand.

She did not give it to him.

"We've got to talk," he said.

"We can talk here.”

"No, we can't.”

The stewardess who had warned him about blocking the aisle was approaching again.

When Holly would not take his hand, he gripped her by the arm and urged her to get up, hoping she would not force him to yank her out of the seat. The stewardess probably already thought he was some perverted Svengali who was herding up the best-looking women on the flight to surround himself with a harem over there on the port side. Happily, the reporter rose without further protest.

He led her back through the plane to a restroom. It was not occupied, so he pushed her inside. He glanced back, expecting to see the stewardess watching him, but she was attending to another passenger. He followed Holly into the tiny cubicle and pulled the door shut.

She squeezed into the corner, trying to stay as far away from him as possible, but they were still virtually nose to nose.

"I'm not afraid of you," she said.

"Good. There's no reason to be.”

Vibrations were conducted well by the burnished-steel walls of the lavatory. The deep drone of the engines was somewhat louder there than in the main cabin.

She said, "What do you want?" "You've got to do exactly what I tell you.”

She frowned. "Listen, I" "Exactly what I tell you, and no arguments, there's no time for arguments," he said sharply, wondering what the hell he was talking about.

"I know all about your" "I don't care what you know. That's not important now.”

She frowned. "You're shaking like a leaf" He was not only shaking but sweating. The lavatory was cool enough but he could feel beads of sweat forming across his forehead. A thin trickle coursed down his right temple and past the corner of his eye.

Speaking rapidly, he said, "I want you to come forward in the plane, farther front near me, there're a couple of empty seats in that area.”

"But I" "You can't stay where you are, back there in row twenty-three, no way She was not a docile woman. She knew her own mind, and she was not used to being told what to do. "That's my seat.

Twenty-three H. You can' strongarm me-" Impatiently, he said, "If you sit there, you're going to die.”

She looked no more surprised than he felt-which was plenty damned surprised. "Die? What do you mean?" "I don't know." But then unwanted knowledge came to him. "Oh Jesus.

Oh, my God. We're going down.”

"What?" "The plane." Now his heart was racing faster than the turbine blades of the great engines that were keeping them aloft. "Down. All the way down.”

He saw her incomprehension give way to a dreadful understanding "Crash?" "Yes.”