The stick between her legs shook violently. "Take it," he said through her earphones. "Take the stick."

She grabbed it. It seemed alive. "Bank, like you did with the yoke. Press left."

She eased the stick to the left, and the plane responded solidly. "Now... a little rudder..." She pressed the rudder pedals. "Good."

She flew for a while. "You're heading south," he warned. "Toward Cat Island. Nassau's way to starboard, luv."

She pressed to the right. The stick resisted impassively. She tried again. It seemed as solid as a rock.

"Hoagie! It won't bank!"

"Sometimes she's a mind of her own."

He must have the stick in his hands. "Hoagie, you nut, let go!"

"Can't do a thing with her sometimes. Just like a woman, she is."

"Hoagie," she insisted. "I can't go to Jamaica!"

"Then there's nothing more in life for me!" He threw off his safety belt, stood in the slipstream, braced his hands on the side of the cockpit, and turned. "Cheerio, luv... ta-ta!"

"Hoagie!" she shrieked. "You get right back in that seat!"

He sat down, and in a moment she felt him take over the controls. His voice came over her earphones, soft and sweet and low.

"Nassau, then? For sure, Ellen? Shouldn't care to press your luck?"

"If we just fly off, you'll lose your job," she warned.

"Best-kept secret in the Bahamas, luv. I am Calypso. I'm the boss."

Shocked, she sat back, thinking. Past Nassau lay the cold of Amity; a phone that would never ring; Sean's bed, made up and gaping; and endless nights of mourning.

But past Cat Island? Great Exuma, he'd said, or something like it. Crooked Island, Great Inagua...

"Hoagie?"

"Yes, Ellen?"

Jamaica, and those lazy eyes...

"You have an ace," she murmured into her mike, "so hit me, one more card."

The world suddenly rolled upside down and righted itself again. Below the yellow lower wing passed stately emerald coves.

She sat back, free at last of fear.

Jamaica, here we come.