Only, he thought, the gun lying next to him.
The magazine of the Lexington P-2 held forty hollow-tipped Eagle's Claw bullets. For this he would need only one.
With a deliberation born of alcohol and despair, Bowden placed the P-2 to his temple.
Tears filled his eyes. The lightest pull of the trigger would end his suffering.
Slowly Bowden lowered his eyelids, still gripping the photograph of Marie.
There was a sharp rap on the metal door. Bowden's fingers twitched; quickly, he relaxed his grip on the gun.
"Who is it?" he called out in a trembling voice.
"Housekeeping," a woman's voice shouted.
"Go away."
There was silence. In the stillness, second upon second, Bowden thought of the only action which would make his death seem more than pitiful.
Slowly, he put down the gun, and found the airline schedule in the crevice of his wallet.
* * *
"Their plane is late," Lara told her husband. "A mechanical problem."
"Too bad. Whenever, there'll be someone waiting for them."
They sat cross-legged on a blanket tucked in a recess of the sand dune, watching an orange-red sun recede into the ocean. Lara had made them Caesar salad, and Kerry provided the lobster: while Lara had seen far more death than Kerry—though not of anyone close to her—she could not stand dropping lobsters into a boiling pot. Sipping chilled chardonnay, Kerry remarked contentedly, "This is like
"The version with Faye Dunaway?" Lara asked.
"Uh-huh. And Steve McQueen. They made love on the beach."
Lara smiled. Together, they watched the sun vanish beneath the ocean, leaving striations of orange-streaked clouds in a darkening cobalt sky.
* * *
When the Costellos landed at San Francisco International, Marie at last awakened.
As the others slowly gathered their belongings, Joan dabbed the sleep from her daughter's eyes with a moistened cloth. The little girl stretched. "Are we home?"
"Nearly home."
Together, the four Costellos left the plane, reentering a life without the privileges of proximity to Lara. Marie ran ahead on the moving rubber pathway, at times turning to glance back at her mother. Reaching the security gate, she paused, looking back again.
On the other side were cameramen and people with microphones. "Marie," someone called out. But before she could answer, two men in sport coats had swooped down, standing between her and the cameras, and then she felt her mother's hand on her shoulder.
"Marie," the man called again. But Marie had already learned to stare straight ahead. She hoped that his feelings weren't hurt.
* * *
Beneath a woolen blanket, Lara gazed at the star-streaked sky, brighter for the absence of city lights. "Do you know the constellations?" she asked.
"No."
"Neither do I. Maybe we can send someone for a book on stars."
That, Lara realized, had become her notion of a major project. Content, she listened to the deep spill of the ocean.
Abruptly, Kerry tensed, touching her arm in warning. Startled, she turned to see him staring ahead of them, quite still.
The skunk, its tail arched distinctively, sniffed at Kerry's feet.
Hostage to its impulses, the two humans watched the animal, afraid to move. At last, the skunk lowered its tail and ambled away.
"Where's Peter," Kerry inquired, "when we really need him?"
TWENTY-FOUR
With a pneumatic hiss, the glass door opened for John Bowden.
His coordination was impaired by drink; as he walked, the rows of baggage carousels seemed to magnify, then recede. His mind oscillated between a foggy stupor and a fractured vision of what might come. In the crook of his arm was the box for a girl's pastel Lego set.
It was a little past six o'clock. The baggage area was crowded with passengers awaiting luggage; the digital sign above the carousel nearest Bowden listed three incoming flights. As he approached it, a middleaged blonde woman saw the Lego set he carried, and smiled at him.
Ignoring her, Bowden read the sign. Boston, New York, Miami.
He moved on, more quickly now. He could feel anger pulsing in his temple, imagine the release of pain which would come with each pull of the trigger. Above carousel three the sign flashed "Flight 88— Washington/Dulles—IN."
Abruptly, Bowden stopped.
The first trickle of passengers began to gather at the empty carousel. To the side, Bowden began to pace.
The crowd thickened, surrounding the metal oval. A sheen of sweat dampened Bowden's forehead. He paced now in concentric circles, agitated, eyes darting as he scanned the new arrivals.
Still they did not come.
