THE TEMPERATURE IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS HAD DROPPED TO
negative five degrees with a wind-chill factor of minus forty. The tenpassenger
twin-engine aircraft floated across the vast gray sky, slowly
gaining altitude. In spite of strong warnings from Air Traffic Control,
the Merlin IV had taken off and had been in the air for nearly fifteen
minutes.

Although all VFR-rated pilots at the Errol airport had been
grounded, the pilot of the plane, Bud Graves, was Instrument-rated,
therefore free to fly through the storm if he elected. The flight was
filled to capacity with six of his colleagues, both male and female attorneys
at Benson, Graves & Sneed, and two couples that had unofficially
chartered their seats. They had already boarded and were ready
to go when he had received the Center Weather Advisory. A storm
was moving into the White Mountain region at an alarming rate, yet
Graves had an important case in court the next day and couldn’t take a
chance the system would snow him in. The advisory had warned of
adverse conditions with turbulence, low level wind shear and clear ice
in the clouds, but Graves was not to be daunted. He had picked his
way through many a storm without incident and wasn’t about to let
even the northern wilds of New Hampshire keep him down. By his
calculations, he would be landing in Boston a mere two-hundred and
ten miles away, just in time for supper.

“My radar’s working fine,” he had responded to the report. “I’ll find
a hole in the pattern just like I always do.” Yet in touting his competence
to Air Traffic Control, there was one factor he failed to mention:
he hadn’t waited the mandatory eight-hour turnaround required
by the FAA between the time a pilot consumes alcohol and the time his
feet leave the ground.

SCHILLING2

KYLIE O’ROURKE had just drifted asleep when the turbulence first hit.
The plane dropped suddenly, then immediately rose again. Her husband,
Jack, instinctively grabbed her hand.
“What was that?” he asked, looking about. The group of attorneys
at the front of the plane were passing around a bottle of Scotch,
unfazed by the jolt.

“It’s alright Jack,” Kylie said and kissed his cheek. “It’s just a little
bad weather.” Just then the floor seemed to fall from beneath them
then forcefully rush back up. It repeated the motion several more
times drawing screeches from the passengers. Their drinks were
spilled and their bags tossed about, until finally, the plane leveled out
again. Sunlight broke through the windows and a cheer came from the
group of drunken attorneys.

Kylie peered out the window at the storm cloud that had released
them. She looked over at Jack whose lips had gone white. Tiny beads
of sweat had formed at his temples. “Are you okay?” she asked.
He gave her a half-smile and adjusted his body in the seat. She
could see that he was terrified and felt guilty for dragging him onto
the flight. His father had died in a plane crash when Jack was fifteen.
That had been twenty years ago but the fear of flying had stayed with
him, making him apprehensive from the moment the trip had been
proposed.

“Fly? Why do we have to fly? New Hampshire’s the next state over.
It’s silly to take a plane,” he had argued. His point had been reasonable
enough: the Dixville Notch area was a mere four hours from Boston
in good weather. Yet the chartered seats on the aircraft had been
part of a gift from an appreciative client––a ski-package to the famed
Balsam’s Resort. Located within the northern region of New Hampshire
near the Canadian border, the four-star destination was not exactly
Kylie and Jack’s style, but they knew it would be a much needed
break. After ten years of hard work building their own interior design
firm, it was time to enjoy the perks. “But we can’t just take part of the
gift,” Kylie had argued, fearful of offending their client. “Besides, the
weather up there is so unpredictable. It could take forever if the roads
are bad.”

With thought of having to trudge through the back country on a
snow-packed highway, Jack had finally conceded and until that moment,
the trip had been a success.

QUIETUS3

Kylie’s best friend, Amelia Blackwell and her husband Dix, had
flown up from Savannah to join them, both couples taking the last leg
of the journey together. After six days of non-stop skiing and warm
pampered nights inside the luxurious hotel, the two couples had
caught the flight bound to Boston where Kylie and Jack would remain,
while Amelia and Dix continued back to Savannah. Kylie would
report back to her client, Alex Newhunger, that the trip had been a
pleasure and tell him that the next time he needed one of his mansions
refurbished, she and Jack would be there for him again.
With another jolt of the plane, Kylie squeezed her husband’s hand.
“We’ll be on the ground soon,” she promised.

He threw her a glance. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he grumbled.
“Now, now,” she whispered, kissing him tenderly on the cheek. As
much as she hated to see him uneasy, she couldn’t help but admire the
way it made him look. He was a handsome if not beautiful man with
long lean angles to his delicate face and lanky body––attributes he had
acquired from his mother, much to his father’s dismay. His father, who
had been a stocky, beer-drinking, cigar-smoking man, believed it necessary
to instill in his winsome young son a strong sense of manhood
to counterbalance his almost feminine comeliness. Jack’s high cheek
bones, small up-turned nose and soft skin had long since been
roughed and scarred by years of football, basketball and every other
type of activity that proved he was more than a pretty boy. His body
was strong and muscular, and his hands worn from sixteen years
of work as a carpenter . . . certainly a respectable occupation for the
son of a brawny factory worker from South Boston. After years of
tough discipline his father had succeeded in his quest and had turned
out an insecure son that would never be accepting of his beauty or of
anything else that he encountered; but Jack was masculine if nothing
else.

From the moment Kylie had met him, she had been intrigued by the
vibrant intensity with which he approached life, as though by sheer
concentration he could change anything around him or within himself;
even obliterate all traces of vulnerability or grace. It was the
glimpses into the man that should have been that kept Kylie riveted.
As he sat beside her clutching her hand, his face lost its virile stranglehold
and took on the frightened innocence of a child. His curly blonde
hair, blue eyes and pouting lips gave him the guileless look of a

SCHILLING 4

cherub; but a cherub Jack was not. It was an interesting juxtaposition
that brought a smile to Kylie’s face.
“What are you smiling at?” he asked, the tiny line between his eyes
returning.

“Nothing, Jack,” Kylie said, unable to remove the grin from her
face. “I was just thinking about how cute you are,” she said.
“Give me a break,” Jack grumbled, slouching back in his seat.
Dix Hamilton peered around from the seat ahead of them, his short
black hair standing on end. “Looking a little pale there, Jack,” he said
with a mischievous smile.

“You’re one to talk, you bloodless albino,” Jack retorted to Dix’s delight.
“Just turn your cheerful, earring-ed butt around, ‘cause I don’t
want to look at it.”

Dix laughed and disappeared again.
“You’re lucky he’s got a sense of humor,” Kylie said.
“He just likes to torment me,” Jack said.
“That’s because it’s so easy,” she said, unable to suppress another
smile.

“There you go again,” said Jack with genuine irritation. “You’re
enjoying this aren’t you? . . . Getting me on this damn plane. These
guys are idiots, I’m telling you,” he scowled, glowering at the loud
attorneys.

“Jack, just relax,” said Kylie, suddenly growing irritated herself.
Amelia’s head slowly appeared over the seat. She glanced at Jack
who sat pouting, then turned to Kylie with a heavy smile.
“Don’t worry,” said Kylie, motioning toward Jack. “If he doesn’t
behave we’ll stick him out on the wing.”
“Kylie,” reprimanded Amelia. “Leave him alone.”

The two smiled at one another. They had wanted to sit together but
Jack was insistent on having Kylie next to him. It was painful for the
two women, who lived 703 miles apart, to be so close yet unable to
talk. From the time they were seven years old, when they had met on
the playground of St. Mary’s School for Girls in the Historic District
of Savannah, the friends had been inseparable. Even after Kylie had
moved from Savannah back to her hometown of Boston at the age of
twenty-two, the distance hadn’t kept them apart. In the following
twelve years they had talked daily and visited often. While most
friendships would have dwindled, theirs had only deepened.

QUIETUS 5

“Hey, you’re bleeding,” Amelia said.
Kylie suddenly became aware of the sweet taste of blood in her
mouth. She touched her lip and felt a small cut.
“It must have happened during the turbulence,” she said reaching
for her bag.

“Here,” Amelia said, offering a tissue.
“Thanks.”

Amelia smiled and disappeared once again onto the other side of the
seat. Kylie pulled out a compact and dabbed the blood from her lip.
Adjusting her long auburn hair, she frowned to see that her eyes were
still swollen from the night before. She and Jack had argued until
nearly daylight. The long night’s tears and lack of sleep had created a
puffed look, that, in spite of her concern, went unnoticed by anyone
other than Amelia. Most strangers would be too taken with Kylie’s
clover-green eyes and long dark lashes to notice any temporary flaw.
In fact, most found it hard to look into her strong gaze for long without
looking away. Her lion-like mane of hair, full lips, tawny freckled
skin and self-possessed confidence made them cower under her attention.
Her casual attitude toward her appearance only seemed to add to
her disheveled beauty. With the exception of ruby lipstick, she rarely
wore make-up. It was simply too time-consuming. She was indifferent
to her looks, except of course, when they revealed more than she
cared to tell. Her eyes had betrayed her that morning. When she had
descended the long stairs of the hotel, Amelia knew instantly it had
been one of many rough nights and Kylie felt embarrassed. They usually
experienced each other’s problems from afar, with seven hundred
miles of phone line to ease the reality of marriage or lack thereof. It
always made for an awkward adjustment every time they saw each
other and realized that the voice had a body and face that time was
slowly changing.

Kylie sighed as she closed the compact and returned the bag to the
floor. Within eight hours, her closest friend and strongest source of
stability, would be hundreds of miles away from her in Savannah. She
had implored Amelia to stay in Boston for awhile, but her beloved
friend had to get back for work. Saying good-bye was always the
hardest part, and it left her feeling sad. Though the friends came from
totally different backgrounds, they had formed a life-long bond that
gave them both a profound feeling of security. Upon their first

SCHILLING 6

meeting, they had connected instantly, finding in each other what
their own self was lacking.

Kylie had been born into a poor, volatile household, where every
day brought about a new adventure of one countenance or another.
She was Boston-Irish: curvy, strong-willed and with a temper to
match. In spite of her buoyancy and a firm sense of survival, grim happenings
always seemed to seep into her roller coaster life. There was
no middle ground of experiences in Kylie’s life, only extreme highs and
extreme lows. While some would consider her to be the luckiest person
on earth, others would consider her ill-fated.

Amelia, on the other hand, had been raised by wealthy, cultured
parents steeped in the strong traditions of a Southern wealth. It was a
quiet household governed by the stifling forces of unbroken formalities.
She was blonde, thin and delicately sublime, her tenor equally
clandestine and tender. She had been sheltered and protected, and
within the overly maternal walls a timorous spirit had formed.
The most stable influence Kylie would ever know was Amelia. She
learned from Amelia the importance of boundaries and that her erratic
energy could be focused so that the demons within would not
destroy her. Whenever she ventured too far, Amelia was always there
to pull her back. When she lacked the refinement of one born into the
socially elite, Amelia smoothed her rough edges and taught her poise.
Kylie, in turn, showed Amelia how to risk in order to live. When
Amelia lacked the confidence of a rebel, Kylie led the way. As an adult,
Kylie helped to bring the single most important love into Amelia’s life:
Dix Hamilton. She had given Amelia the strength to marry the penniless,
young musician against her mother’s wishes.

It was a perfect friendship in every way; so perfect that Kylie felt
the same understanding and accord lacking within her own troubled
marriage; but she loved Jack and was committed to making it work.
She had been drawn to him for the very reasons they now suffered.
Theirs had been a rocky relationship that followed in the same pattern
as everything else in her life: no middle ground. The good times were
incredible and the bad times, devastating. They struggled to learn
where the middle ground was, but neither knew how to find it.
Kylie suddenly felt like holding him, just taking him into her arms
and keeping him there; instead, she merely took his hand. He was unusually
quiet watching the attorneys party instead of joining in. She

QUIETUS 7

knew by his pursed lips and stunned gaze that he was afraid, but was
lost as to how to comfort him.

She lay her head back onto the seat and looked out at the billowing
clouds looming ahead. They created a surrealistic wall that seemed
impenetrable. She looked out at the wing of the plane as it glided
through the turbulence. She had often wondered how the appendages
could withstand the constant pressure, the rivets holding all of the
many pieces together. The bright light danced on the silvery surface
as the arm quivered. She looked down at the mountains below, their
uneven edges appearing so distant. Just looking at the vast frozen area
made her shiver. She took Jack’s hand and nestled into the seat, her
gaze falling once again to the wing of the plane. The roar of the engines
had replaced the voices around her. She lay back and let the
steady blare lull her into a drowsy calm, when she saw something out
of the corner of her eye move onto the wing. Her stomach dropped as
she turned. It was a bird––a large black raven facing sideways, and it
seemed to be staring in at her.

“Jack, look!” she exclaimed, clutching her husband’s arm, but when
they turned back to the window the bird was gone.
“What?” Jack asked with alarm.

“I just saw a bird. It landed on the wing and––”
“Jesus Kylie, you scared the hell out of me,” he groaned, wiping his
brow. “How could a bird land on the wing? We must be going two
hundred miles an hour,” he argued.

“It did,” she said defensively. “It was just standing there.”
“There’s no way.”

“It was,” she grumbled, but when she turned back to the window, to
the smooth surface of the wing, her conviction waned. She had been
drowsing, so it was possible that her eyes had deceived her. “Maybe it
just lit there for a second,” she said quietly, but Jack was already onto
his own thoughts. His quick dismissal of the subject left her feeling
saddened and chilled. She sighed heavily and closed her eyes, but the
image of the bird refused to leave her. It stood solidly on the wing, its
tiny eyes peering into her soul. The wind rushed past but it was
unmoved. She abruptly became aware of the speed of the plane, herself
trapped in the belly of the roaring beast. With a start, she quickly
opened her eyes. She was prone to claustrophobia and recognized the
beginnings of an attack. To her dismay, she found herself in the worst

SCHILLING8

seat imaginable. Not only were they in the back of the plane, but luggage
––strapped by a cargo net––formed a wall behind them. Sitting in
anything other than an aisle seat was always a mistake, but she had relinquished
it to Jack so that he would feel more comfortable. She
looked over at her husband who sat twisting a napkin in his hands. She
shook her head and smiled to herself. “What a pair . . . the brave Irish
O’Rourkes,” she said softly. The comment drew a smile from Jack.
Kylie’s heart warmed, for he was simply beautiful when he smiled. As
she looked into the childlike eyes, a shadow passed over the cabin.
Both O’Rourkes turned to the window. They had finally reached the
wall of clouds, the billowing thunder heads rising around them like
skyscrapers, the plane carefully making its way through a valley between
them.

“God, I’ve never seen anything like this,” murmured Kylie, Jack silent
beside her.

As the plane penetrated one of the storm cells, the cabin was
swallowed by the darkness.

JACY GREERS SAT AT THE RADAR SCOPE INSIDE THE AIR ROUTE TRAFFIC
Control Center with headsets on and a space heater at her feet. She
had a twin-engine requesting assistance through an impossible storm
over the White Mountains––a range notorious for bad weather. The
pilot was foolishly attempting to penetrate a solid line of thunderstorms
and needed guidance through. She had been handling the
flight for the past twenty miles and had been anticipating the call with
mounting anxiety.

“Irresponsible dumb-ass,” she grumbled as she scanned the monitor
for a hole in the hazardous line of weather. If the macho-types
would just stay out of the skies on days like this, it would make her job
a lot easier. She shook her head and just as she was about to depress
the push-to-talk-switch an impatient voice came back through the radio.
It was the voice of Bud Graves.

“Center, Merlin Niner-Six Alpha. I’m getting knocked all over the

QUIESTUS9

place up here. I need to stay out of these cells. Every time I go in, I
pick up more ice.”
“No shit,” she grumbled to herself. She herself had warned the pilot
of the storm as soon as he had come onto her frequency, but it had not
deterred him. Now he wanted options and she had none to give. She
knew from the Center Weather Advisory that the storm cells were
towering to 45,000 feet. The Merlin IV was incapable of climbing
over the storm and if the pilot tried to get under it, he would run the
risk of boxing the plane inside a canyon without power enough to
clear the mountaintops.

Before she could respond, Bud Graves came back over the airwave.
“Center, Merlin Niner-Six Alpha, I’m getting severe icing here at
seven-thousand feet. I need to get lower now,” he said emphatically.
“Negative, Merlin Niner-Six Alpha,” she responded. “Minimum
Vectoring Altitude in your area is 6500 feet. I can’t take you any
lower.”

“Center, Merlin Niner-Six Alpha. Cancel my IFR flight plan.”
Jacy shook her head. The pilot was cutting his cord to Air Traffic
Control so that he could engage in scud running––a term given to the
dangerous endeavor of an aircraft picking its way through unfamiliar
terrain beneath low-lying clouds. But there was nothing she could do
to stop him. Now that he was dumping his flight plan, he could go
wherever he wanted as long as he stayed out of the IFR governed
clouds.

“IFR cancellation received,” she reluctantly responded. “Remain
on that squawk code for flight following.”
With shoulders tensed, she watched the plane’s descent until it sank
below her radar coverage. “Merlin Niner-Six Alpha, I’ve lost radar
contact,” she said.

“Roger.”
“You’re on your own,” she said softly as she stared at the place on
the scope where the signal had vanished.

“WHO NEEDS you anyway?” Graves muttered, the sour taste of indigestion
rising into his mouth. He stared nervously through his icecovered
windshield at the canyon before him. After changing his

SCHILLING 10

heading, he found the skies beneath the heavy clouds more suitable,
but he was concerned about the new, unfamiliar course. He had flown
in and out of the Dixville Notch area several times before and had always
been able to follow the same flight path. Since he had deviated
from that plan, he was forced to take the terrain as it came at him, but
at the moment his reflexes were slower than he would have liked and
his head felt like someone had rammed a poker into his skull. For the
first time in his life, he was regretting those last few Scotch and sodas.
THEIR NEW altitude seemed dangerously low to Kylie. She stared intently
out the window watching the sides of the mountains pass so
closely it felt as though they were going to scrape one of them. The
cabin of the aircraft was completely quiet, the party had stopped and
no one seemed to be laughing anymore. It was clear when they had
abruptly dropped into a ravine that Bud Graves was not exactly in
control of the situation. The misty clouds were squeezing down on
them, while the dark wooded terrain seemed to be closing in from
both sides.

The sliding door to the cockpit was suddenly yanked open. Graves
looked back into the cabin, his face taut. “Murphy, get up here and
help me with the charts,” he directed at what appeared to be the
drunkest of the attorneys.

Jack straightened in his seat. “You’ve got to be kidding. That guy’s
going to help him?”

“That’s right buddy,” Graves said, overhearing the comment. “Unless
you happen to be a pilot.”

“He’s been knocking back booze the whole flight,” Jack retorted.
“Don’t worry about it,” chirped Murphy pivoting back to him. “I’m
not going to fly the plane––I’m just going to check the charts for him.
Isn’t that right, Bud?”

“Just get your butt up here,” said Graves.
Murphy obediently made his way to the co-pilot’s seat where he began
rummaging through a flight bag on the floor. “Jesus Bud, you’ve
got the whole country in here. Which chart is it?”
“The Montreal Sectional.”

The passengers watched in silence, their confidence in the situation
waning as the attorney fumbled to unfold the awkward paper. When

QUIETUS 11

he finally wrestled it open, the stiff chart nearly filled the cockpit.
Graves had to bat it aside to see through his windshield.
“We’re about twenty miles southwest of Berlin,” Graves said.

“What’s the highest altitude in our area?”
“Let me see,” muttered Murphy. “6288.”
“Check it again,” Graves said under his breath.
“6288 feet,” Murphy repeated.

Graves looked at the chart himself and was clearly disturbed by
what he saw. He abruptly reached back and yanked the cockpit door
shut closing the passengers off from further view.

THE MERLIN IV advanced up the rising canyon at 170 knots with
maximum power. The nose of the plane pointed upward as the small
aircraft struggled to out-climb the steep grade. The passengers inside
were thrust back in their seats, the severity of the situation apparent
to all, everyone aware of the straining engines.

Kylie looked out the window but the steep angle of the plane made
her instantly nauseated. Never before had she experienced such a
sheer climb. She could see the precipitous wall of rock moving beneath
them but the top of the mountain was nowhere in sight.

A man in the rear of the cabin began praying softly, “‘Hail Mary, full
of grace . . .’”

“Oh Jack, I’m sorry,” Kylie whispered, looking into his frightened
face. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, there’s nothing to be sorry about,” he said with feigned good
spirits.

As the plane struggled higher and higher, Kylie felt as though a
huge rock was bearing down on her chest. The ceiling of the plane
seemed suddenly lower than before, and the seat ahead of her appeared
to be pressing toward her legs. It felt as if the oxygen had been
sucked from the cabin, leaving behind a stale void. She began to
hyper-ventilate. The luggage behind her moaned as the curve of the
wall threatened to crush her if she didn’t get out of its way. She tried to
lift her head from the seat but the force of the climb pushed it down.
She gripped the arm rest to pull herself up but there was nowhere to
go. She could see Amelia peering back at her through the crack in the
seats, her friend’s worried face fueling her panic even more.

SCHILLING 12

“I can’t breathe,” she whispered.
Jack grabbed her hand with a firm grip, “It’s okay,” he said.
The prayer in front of them continued in the ritualistic drone.
“‘Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy
womb––’”

“We’ll be alright,” Jack said, but she could tell he was not convinced.
She squeezed his hand tighter and began to weep.
“I can’t believe this,” she said. She felt foolish for panicking, even
though she was still in the midst of the terror. She smiled a genuine
smile, the tears streaming down her face. “You’re the one who’s afraid
to fly, remember?”

The man continued to pray, his voice becoming louder and louder.
“‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour
of our death––’”

“––Amen! Now shut the hell up!” an anonymous voice yelped.
Suddenly, the plane leveled and they could see the jagged top of the
mountain. Sunlight burst through the clouds and the ground was falling
away.

“We’re going to make it!” an attorney announced.
Just as the passengers cheered with relief, there was a massive jolt.
Clipping a dead tree, the plane swung violently to the side. The passengers
were yanked sideways as the plane lurched and then thrust
into weightlessness as it knife-edged downward, the nose angling toward
the floor of the valley. Within a second they were in a full
nosedive, the passengers’ torsos held tight by their seat belts, their
arms and legs dangling like rag dolls. Objects hurtled through the air,
pummeling against the suspended bodies.

Jack’s hoarse scream seemed an illusion that danced around Kylie’s
head. She felt her body going limp as her jumbled vision began to fade.
Out of the chaos, the plane rolled back upright and they were once
again flying level. Like a hideous ride at an amusement park, the insanity
had ended as abruptly as it had started. On the brink of hysteria,
the passengers were lulled back into a hesitant ease.

The cabin was eerily quiet as the moans began. Kylie and Jack were
still in their seats, Kylie’s sweater spattered with blood.
“Where are you hurt?” Jack asked as he inspected her for the
source of the crimson stains.

“I’m fine,” Kylie replied, as they both realized that the blood had

QUIETUS 13

come from an attorney at their feet. He was lying face up, his broken
nose bleeding profusely. His eyes were dazed as he lifted himself from
the floor and silently stumbled to a seat at the front of the plane.
Jack kissed Kylie’s cheeks and her lips then pulled her into his embrace.
She quickly undid her seat buckle and stood to look over the
seats at Amelia and Dix. They were both shaking and pale.
“Quite a spin, huh?” said Dix, the smile on his lips betraying the terror
in his eyes. He had a cut on his ear that was dripping blood onto
his black leather jacket.

“You’re bleeding,” Kylie said softly.
“We’re alright,” said Amelia, her arm securely around Dix. “You’d
better sit back down.”

“Buckle back in, Kylie,” Jack said, pulling her into the seat. She
looked out the window and saw that they were once again over a valley.
She let Jack strap her in, then rested her head against his thumping
chest and began to cry. He held her tight, his strong lean arms
wrapped about her, as he whispered soothingly into her ear. Suddenly,
his body went rigid and he was instantly silent. Kylie pulled back and
saw the horror in his eyes: he was looking out the window. She followed
his line of sight but at first didn’t see anything. The wing was
vibrating just as before, the air was clear and the storm seemed to be
behind them. Then, her eyes were caught by the moving wing. Something
was different. It jumped out at her like a grotesque amputation
of a man’s hand, only there was no blood or hanging arteries, only
hanging wires. There was a void where the tip of the wing had been
severed.

IT WAS ONLY a matter of minutes before the plane would reach the next
ridge. It had already started the precipitous climb, but the damaged
wing was creating additional drag and vibration. With the sounding
alarms, the incessant praying had begun again, accompanied by panicstricken
outbursts.

In the midst of the chaos, Kylie and Jack hovered together; both
were silent.

The cockpit door slid open, Murphy struggling from the co-pilot’s
seat covered in vomit.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday,” came the desperate voice of Graves.

SCHILLING 14

“Merlin Niner-Six Alpha. I’ve got damage to my flight controls. I
need a heading to the nearest airport.”
A female voice came back over the radio. “Merlin Niner-Six Alpha.
You’re not in radar contact. State your position.”
“Somewhere around . . . I don’t know,” said Graves, panic overtaking
him. “I . . . don’t . . .”

“Merlin Niner-Six Alpha, say fuel on board . . . souls on board,”
came the female voice.

Graves turned back to the passengers, his eyes red and terrorstricken.
“I uh . . . eleven souls on board and my fuel is about . . .
eight-hundred pounds,” he stammered as he looked back to his
gauges.

The praying grew frenzied, as the noise and vibrations intensified.
Kylie and Jack clutched tighter together, both starting to weep. They
looked into each other’s eyes, each with a gentleness; never before had
the bond been so strong. Ten years of pain and regret passed through
them, all the missed moments when they should have said they were
sorry. It had been a long road but they had made it through. Kylie
brushed her cheek against her husband’s, then tenderly kissed him on
the lips.

The shudder of the plane grew frenzied as Graves struggled for
control of the crippled aircraft.

“Oh Jesus God!” came the scream from an attorney.
It tore at Kylie’s heart to hear Amelia crying in the row ahead of her.
“It’s okay Melia,” she said, but her voice faltered. She knew that it was
a lie; they were going to crash. She looked out at the mountain which
moved toward them like a vast dream. Shards of sunlight broke from
the clouds reflecting off the brilliant snow-covered surface, stabbing
into the black woods.

“Put your head down,” Jack said, but Kylie couldn’t move, couldn’t
release her gaze from the window. With her surging adrenaline, her
focus felt sharper, the deep colors intensifying. The dark trees rustled
softly, the shadows playing between them. As the screams around her
faded, drowned by her own heightened pulse, she felt something beneath
the twisting shades . . . an unseen force that seemed to be drawing
them inward. At first it looked like branches casting shapes over
the ivory mountain, but as the plane drew nearer, the dark streaks

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looked almost human, a grouping of shadows that spread distinctly
over the white sheet of snow. She could see the trace of clothing, the
posturing of unseen heads, and eyes as gray as night peering upward.
It looked as if someone or something waited beneath. At once, the
cold terror filled her, and her mouth opened in a silent, agonized
scream. The plane hurtled downward, yet she couldn’t take her eyes
off the shrouded presence beneath. “God help us,” her mind whispered,
as the darkness swallowed her.