“Turn off the water,” McDonald snapped suddenly.
“Already have,” the navigator （who had also tooted more than his flute on occasion） said. “But I don’t think it matters. You can dissolve what goes into the holding tanks but you can’t make it not there.” They were clustered around the bathroom door, with its OCCUPIED sign glowing jeerily, all of them speaking in low tones. “The DEA guys drain it, draw off a sample, and the guy’s hung.”
“He could always say someone came in before him and dumped it,” McDonald replied. His voice was gaining a raw edge. He didn’t want to be talking about this; he wanted to be doing something about it, even though he was acutely aware that the geese were still filing out, many looking with more than ordinary curiosity at the flight-deck crew and stewardesses gathered around the bathroom door. For their part, the crew were acutely aware that an act that was—well, overly overt—could provoke the terrorist boogeyman that now lurked in the back of every air-traveller’s mind. McDonald knew his navigator and flight engineer were right, he knew that the stuff was apt to be in plastic bags with the scuzzball’s prints on them, and yet he felt alarm bells going off in his mind. Something was not right about this. Something inside of him kept screaming Fast one! Fast one! as if the fellow from 3A were a riverboat gambler with palmed aces he was all ready to play.
“He’s not trying to flush the john,” Susy Douglas said. “He’s not even trying to run the basin faucets. We’d hear them sucking air if he was. I hear something, but—”
“Leave,” McDonald said curtly. His eyes flicked to Jane Dorning. “You too. We’ll take care of this.”
Jane turned to go, cheeks burning.
Susy said quietly: “Jane bird-dogged him and I spotted the bulges under his shirt. I think we’ll stay, Captain McDonald. If you want to bring charges of insubordination, you can. But I want you to remember that you may be raping the hell out of what could be a really big DEA bust.”
Their eyes locked, flint sparking off steel.
Susy said, “I’ve flown with you seventy, eighty times, Mac. I’m trying to be your friend.”
McDonald looked at her a moment longer, then nodded. “Stay, then. But I want both of you back a step toward the cockpit.”
He stood on his toes, looked back, and saw the end of the line now just emerging from tourist class into business. Two minutes, maybe three.
He turned to the gate agent at the mouth of the hatch, who was watching them closely. He must have sensed some sort of problem, because he had unholstered his walkie-talkie and was holding it in his hand.
“Tell him I want customs agents up here,” McDonald said quietly to the navigator. “Three or four. Armed. Now.”
The navigator made his way through the line of passengers, excusing himself with an easy grin, and spoke quietly to the gate agent, who raised his walkie-talkie to his mouth and spoke quietly into it.
McDonald—who had never put anything stronger than aspirin into his system in his entire life and that only rarely—turned to Deere. His lips were pressed into a thin white line like a scar.
“As soon as the last of the passengers are off, we’re breaking that shithouse door open,” he said. “I don’t care if Customs is here or not. Do you understand?”
“Roger,” Deere said, and watched the tail of the line make its way into first class.
15
“Get my knife,” the gunslinger said. “It’s in my purse.”
He gestured toward a cracked leather bag lying on the sand. It looked more like a big packsack than a purse, the kind of thing you expected to see hippies carrying as they made their way along the Appalachian trail, getting high on nature （and maybe a bomber joint every now and then）， except this looked like the real thing, not just a prop for some airhead’s self-image; something that had done years and years of hard—maybe desperate—travelling.