Authors: Ridley Pearson

Killer Summer (21 page)

BOOK: Killer Summer

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“Transponder off, yes?” he said.

“Off,” McGuiness said, busy with other switches.

Cantell’s action prevented the broadcast of a radio signal that would allow ACT, air traffic control, to track the Learjet’s flight. Above fifteen thousand feet, the Lear would be visible on most radar. But McGuiness had no intention of flying above fifteen thousand feet. He’d keep it at ten thousand or lower, once out over the desert. It was only mountain flying that presented problems. That, and the fading light.

“Nice and easy,” Cantell said. “No rush.”

“Call the tower.”

Cantell had practiced his few lines to the point of impatience. McGuiness had warned him that it wasn’t just a matter of saying the right words—there wasn’t all that much to say—but it was the cadence, the indifference, that would sell the call to the Hailey tower.

Cantell announced their tail number, then requested, “Taxi to takeoff.”

The unusual wind direction meant a northbound takeoff. The tower reminded TA959 that noise abatement was in effect.

Cantell acknowledged.

McGuiness shook his head in disbelief. “We would have preferred three-one,” he said, meaning the southbound runway.

“C.C.?” Salvo stood in the gap behind them. He’d been instructed by Cantell to keep back and allow them to do their jobs.

“I told you to stay out of the way!” Cantell looked over his shoulder.

Salvo was holding a Heineken.

“Jesus, Salvo, throw that thing out. . . . Not now!”

“It’s not mine!” He raised the can.

The Lear jerked into a taxi.

“Pre-takeoff checklist,” McGuiness said to Cantell, ignoring Salvo.

“It was in the cup holder, C.C.,” Salvo said.

“What do I care where it was?” Cantell complained, grabbing for the laminated checklist. “Toss it, and take a seat.”

“It was in the cup holder,” Salvo repeated, “and it’s
cold.
”

That won looks from both pilot and copilot.

Cantell reached out and touched the beer can. He glanced over at McGuiness.

“It’s not like we can back up,” McGuiness said. “We’re cleared to taxi.”

“Search it,” Cantell whispered to Salvo.

“Let’s roll,” he said to McGuiness.

O
ne of those guys sounds so familiar,” Summer whispered into Kevin’s ear, “but I can’t place it. Maybe . . . I think . . .” She didn’t complete her thought. With the jets rumbling, she had to press her lips to his ear, contorting them both in the small place and causing Kevin to practically lay atop her.

“I’ll take care of it,” she said. “It’s probably better if you stay here until I get it straight.”

Kevin reached to stop her but she shook him off, as she slid the partition open and slipped out of the storage compartment. Kevin blocked her from shutting it completely, wanting to see out.

“Excuse me!” she then called out.

She was met with three dumbfounded expressions. The copilot pulled off his headset. In five quick steps, she was standing behind the short guy, her back to Kevin.

“Where’s William?” she said, getting a look at the pilot’s face and realizing she didn’t know him. She stood erect, trying to assert her importance. “Who are you guys, anyway?” She then addressed the copilot, having identified him as the one with the familiar voice. “I know you, right? I’m Summer. You know me. You’ve got to take me back to the FBO.”

“We’ve not met. What are you doing on this plane?” the copilot said. “You can’t be here.”

“You think? My father
owns
this plane. Take me back to the FBO, please.”

“Can we turn it around?” the copilot asked the pilot. It seemed an odd question for the copilot to ask. Of course they could turn around, and would, right now.

“You can and you will,” she said, reminding them who she was.

The pilot shot a confused look over at the copilot.

“Where’s William?” she repeated.

The pilot didn’t seem to hear her, but then he hadn’t pulled off a headphone cup as the copilot had.

“We’d have to explain things to the tower,” the pilot said. “You really want to do that?”

“I need to go back. I can’t fly with you, even if it’s only a short flight!” Summer said. “I don’t have the time, okay?”

The copilot checked her out. Then he looked out the plane’s windshield at the blue lights of the runway to their left.

“Is anyone listening?” she said.

“Step back a moment, miss, would you please?”

The copilot’s demeanor had changed. He was suddenly the one in charge, which was not the way a cockpit crew worked.

She kept her feet firmly planted. She wasn’t going anywhere.

“Take me back,” she said.

The copilot had been ignoring her, but now he faced her and raised his voice. “TAKE A SEAT!”

The reprimand turned her stomach. “I . . . am . . . not going with you. You will turn the plane around now!”

The copilot flicked his head, and suddenly a pair of arms wrapped around her. The third guy had her.

“Go!” the copilot instructed the pilot.

The jet rolled forward. It swung left, taxiing north onto the runway.

The engines screamed up to a high-pitched whine.

“No!” she said, kicking and trying to break free. But the man holding her was seriously strong, and his hands were all over her.

K
evin caught pieces of the confrontation. At first, it appeared that, true to form, Summer had taken charge, or tried to. Hands on her hips, back arched, she’d tried to come off older than she was.

He heard her ask—demand
,
was more like it—to be taken back to the FBO.

But then it went wrong. The small, wiry guy had grabbed her, and Kevin’s first instinct was to run to her defense. The man pinned her arms behind her back and held them at the wrist with just one hand, pushing her to the floor with the other. He did it like he’d done it a hundred times before. He tied her hands with a seat belt, then touched her face in a lecherous, disgusting way. He glanced hotly toward the pilots, saw they were occupied, and ran both hands over her chest.

Kevin sat up furiously, thumping his head against the plastic ceiling.

The guy looked back. Kevin hoped he’d backed his eye away from the opening in time. He reached for his cell phone as the jets screamed louder, his thumb searching out the correct string of numbers.

W
alt pulled the borrowed Prius up to the reserved parking at the Blaine County Sheriff’s Office. It was his prize, this long-sought-after, newly constructed headquarters and county jail. It had taken him three failed referendums to raise the bond before finally convincing the public of its necessity. Erected in the light-industrial zone adjacent to the airport, it was thirty-six thousand square feet of state-of-the-art law enforcement, and he was as proud of it as he was of his daughters.

“The airport’s right there,” Fiona said, pointing out the obvious. “Let me just run over there and look for him.”

“If you want to, sure,” he said, climbing out of the car. “Check with Pete.” He tossed the keys into her lap. “I’ve got to stay on point.”

“Happy to do it,” she said.

“Hey!” he said, stopping her as she hiked up her dress to climb behind the wheel. “Pick-up sticks. That was a good call.”

Caught!

She nodded, wiggling and tugging her dress down.

He shoved the car door shut and headed for the entrance.

His cell phone vibrated.

The caller ID read KEVIN CELL.

Walt pressed the CALL button.

“Where the hell
are you
?” he said by way of introduction.

The line crackled and spat.

“Unc . . . alt?” Kevin’s voice was nearly unrecognizable.

A roar erupted in the background.

“. . . got . . . her,” he thought he heard. He missed everything else.

He didn’t want to hear the true confessions of a teenage conquest. Playing Kevin’s surrogate dad required they both walk a fine line.

The roar grew ever louder. It dawned on him that it wasn’t static but background noise.

A plane—a jet—took off to the north, and he glared at it.

Maybe the background noise hadn’t come over the phone after all.

It took him several seconds to connect it with the jet. Even allowing for the delay over the phone, the two were inseparable. It meant Kevin was close by. Maybe at a hangar party, some rich kid throwing a rave.

“Where . . . are . . . you?” Walt hollered into the phone.

“I’m on—” Kevin’s voice stopped midword.

Walt checked the phone. It had lost its connection.

On?
he wondered. It was the operative word that lodged in his thoughts.

He waved for Fiona to hold up, rushed to the car, and motioned for her to lower the window.

“Kevin just called. Have Pete check the north hangars. And see if Teddy Sumner owns or operates a private jet, and, if so, have Pete check that out as well. I think Kevin’s right here, somewhere ridiculously close.” He realized he was ordering her around like he would a deputy. “That is . . . if you wouldn’t mind?”

“I wouldn’t mind at all,” she said.

He looked up. The jet’s lights blinked in the gray of the evening sky.

“Aren’t you glad I came along?” she said.

“If I’m overstepping . . . There are people here . . .”

“Shut up, Walt. I’m happy to do it. This, and . . .
more.
”

She backed up the car. Her hair caught in the window when she put it up.

Amused, Walt stood there a moment wondering how long it had been since anyone had told him to shut up.

D
ave McCormick’s gloved hands gripped the parasail’s plastic handles, sensing the amazing control he maintained over the ribbed fabric overhead. Before him, an astonishing waterfall of red-and-orange light cascaded into the craggy horizon. Without referencing the altimeter on his wrist, Dave could tell by his shortness of breath and the sudden bite to the air that he’d exceeded eleven thousand feet. He didn’t want to go any higher or stay aloft too much longer, it being far darker on the ground than in the air, making for a difficult landing.

He spilled some wind from the sail and began a descending spiral. He spotted a dark V, coming from the north, aimed directly for him. It was several hundred geese.

He glided lower, hoping to join the formation, and descended into the twilight incredibly fast. He arrived within yards of the lead goose, startling the formation and scattering their symmetry. The V quickly reformed, Dave McCormick suddenly a hundred yards in its wake.

A blinding strobe won his attention.

A jet. Coming fast, at an absurdly low altitude.

He saw what the pilot could not: the jet was on a collision course with the geese.

And quite possibly with him.

He tugged on the parasail’s controls, trying to drop down and outrun the jet’s blowback. The plane hit the geese like a dart, the V scattering as orange flares rose from the jet’s engines.

Smoke streamed thickly from the port jet.

He reached for the portable two-way radio strapped to his chest just as a blast of engine thrust hit him, driving him upside down and away from the plane like a seed. He struggled to control the fall.

B
ird strike!” McGuiness called out, leaning back to look at the wing, his right hand searching out toggles overhead.

Cantell grabbed for the dash.

“Mac,” Cantell said, “tell me we’re all right.”

McGuiness studied the instruments.

“Starboard’s producing three-quarter . . . check that . . .
fifty percent
power.”

“Mac?”

“Not good.”

McGuiness reached for the buttons on the GPS.

“I’ve got that,” Cantell said.

“Known airports,” McGuiness said.

“Known airports,” Cantell acknowledged. “Mac . . .”

“The GPS can show us all—”