March, Spring, Resurrection. All things dead during the long winter were being resurrected, namely Saul Abramovitz.
He thought surely he’d gotten that bastard. But two weeks ago, he’d gone to the Gary, Indiana newsstand where they sold out of state newspapers and had purchased a copy of the New York Times.
The Times was doing an article on a local man who had survived the crash of Nations Air Flight 625. In the article Mr. Abramovitz had talked about how a lot of the passengers had blamed him for opening the plane’s door which had led to the drowning of several passengers. But the NTSB had absolved him of any wrong doing, stating that he did what any person in his position would have done.
The article went on to say that Mr. Abramovitz at the time, thought that the crash was quite possibly an act of revenge against him. And that a certain Rebecca Schuster, aka Mary Ellen Schuster, was wanted in connection with the crash.
However, Mr. Abramovitz was not going to let what happened aboard Nations Air Flight 625 keep him from taking a once in a life time trip to Israel to attend this year’s Passover Seder with his family. Mr. Abramovitz’s flight would depart from JFK International Airport on March twentieth.
Lester sat in his old beat up truck across from JFK airport and watched the grounds crew through binoculars. He was paying particular attention to their work habits, rotation schedule, uniforms, and IDs. He figured he could easily slip in during the evening work rotation, but not as part of the maintenance crew.
This time, his best course of action was to become part of the cleaning crew. That way, he would have access to the on-board computer. Once aboard the plane, he would program the computer to shutdown when three criteria were met: after the plane had traveled one hundred and eighty miles, reached an altitude of thirty-two thousand feet, and the autopilot was engaged. By that time, the plane would be well off the coast and high over the Atlantic. The location would make rescue difficult and detection of his handy work all but impossible. This time he wasn’t going to leave any room for that bastard Saul to escape.
From his observations, he knew International flights sat on the concourse for about an hour before departing. After he’d finished his ‘modifications’ on the plane, he’d have time to leave the airport and drive the forty miles to where he would set up his long-range cameras along the coast. If he couldn’t be there in person to see her go down, at least he could get a picture of her before she headed out to sea.
He had his tools, uniforms, and cameras stored in the same garage where he’d kept his truck. His movies were stored there also. During the past three months, he’d consoled himself by watching those ‘movies’. But now he’d have something new to watch, Trans Air Flight 200 departing JFK at eight o’clock p.m. on March twentieth.
It was time Lester Schuster thought to resurrect his goal of becoming master of death.