displays seen over New England in decades. Witnesses from as far as Boston and Nova Scotia reported seeing the spectacular fireball. Residents of Midcoast Maine heard sonic booms.
Data from a meteoroid tracking system at the University of Maine, Orono, indicated that the meteor was several times brighter than the full moon and may have weighed as much as fifty tons when it entered the Earth’s atmosphere. The single track reported by witnesses suggests the meteorite was of the iron-nickel type, as those are the least likely to break up in flight, rather than the more common stony-iron or chondritic type. Its speed, tracking scientists estimated, was 48 kilometers per second or about 100,000 miles per hour—thirty times faster than a typical rifle bullet.
Dr. Stephen Chickering, professor of planetary geology at Boston University, said: “This isn’t a typical fireball. It’s the brightest and biggest meteor seen on the East Coast in decades. The trajectory took it out to sea, where it landed in the ocean.”
He also explained that its journey through the atmosphere would have vaporized most of its mass. The final object that struck the ocean, he said, probably weighed less than a hundred pounds.
Abbey broke off and grinned at Jackie. “You read that? It landed in the ocean. That’s what all the papers are saying.” She settled back and crossed her arms, enjoying Jackie’s wondering look.
“Okay,” said Jackie, “I can see you’ve got something on your mind.”
Abbey lowered her voice. “We’re going to be rich.”
Jackie rolled her eyes theatrically. “I’ve heard that before.”
“This time I’m not kidding.” Abbey looked around. She slid a piece of paper out of her pocket and unfolded it on the table.
“What’s that?”
“It’s the data printout of GoMOOS Weather Buoy 44032, between 4:40 and 5:40 GMT. That’s the instrument buoy out beyond Weber Sunken Ledge.”
Jackie stared at it, crunching her freckled brow. “I know it.”
“Look at the wave heights. Dead calm. No change.”
“So?”
“A hundred-pound meteorite slams into the ocean at a hundred thousand miles an hour and doesn’t make waves?”
Jackie shrugged. “So if it didn’t land in the ocean, where did it land?”
Abbey leaned forward, clasped her hands, her voice dropping to a hiss, her face flushing with triumph. “On an island.”
“So?”
“So, we borrow my father’s boat, search those islands, and get that meteorite.”
“Borrow? You mean steal. Your father would never let you borrow his boat.”
“Borrow, steal, expropriate, whatever.”
Jackie’s face darkened. “Please, not another wild-goose chase. Remember when we went looking for Dixie Bull’s treasure? And how we got in trouble digging in the Indian mounds?”
“We were just kids then.”
“There are dozens of islands out there in Muscongus Bay, tens of thousands of acres to cover. You’d never search them all.”
“We don’t have to. Because I’ve got this.” She pulled out the photograph of the meteor and laid it on top of a chart of Muscongus Bay. “With the photo, you can extrapolate a line to the horizon and then draw a second line from that point to where the photo was taken. The meteorite must have landed somewhere along that second line.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Abbey pushed the chart toward her. “There’s the line.” Her finger stabbed a line she had penciled across the chart. “Look. It intersects just five islands.”
The waitress approached with two enormous pecan sticky buns. Abbey quickly covered up the chart and photograph and sat back with a smile. “Hey, thanks.”
When the waitress had gone, Abbey uncovered the chart. “That’s it. The meteorite is on one of these islands.” Her finger thumped on each one in turn as she named it: “Louds, Marsh, Ripp, Egg Rock, and Shark. We could search them in less than a week.”
“When? Now?”
“We have to wait til the end of May, when my father’ll be out of town.”
Jackie crossed her arms. “What the hell we gonna do with a meteorite?”
“Sell it.”
Jackie stared. “It’s worth something?”
“Quarter million, half a million. That’s all.”
“You’re shitting me.”
Abbey shook her head. “I checked prices on eBay, talked to a meteorite dealer.”
Jackie leaned back, a grin slowly spreading over her freckled face. “I’m in.”
3
MAY
Dolores Muñoz climbed the stone steps to the professor’s bungalow in Glendale, California, and rested a moment on the porch, her large bosom heaving, before inserting the key. The scrape of the key sounding in the lock, she knew, would trigger an explosion of yapping as Stamp, the professor’s Jack Russell terrier, went berserk at her arrival. As soon as she opened the door the ball of fur would shoot out like a bullet, barking furiously, whirling