Legally Dead (20 page)

Flagg looked pained for a long moment. “
Ceci
? My Cessna Citation? But I love that bird.”

“Never love anything that can't love you back,” Danny said. “You're leaving it behind either way. Why not take it out with you in a blaze of glory?”

“I like it,” Flagg finally said, after some thought. “Quick. Clean. Flying high into the big forever.” He looked pleased. “So, who will really be flying her when she goes down? You, Danny?”

“No, no, Errol,” Danny said. “It's you, it has to be you.”

“Oh,” the rocker said thoughtfully.

Venturi had no trouble spotting her in the crowd. He couldn't miss her energetic walk and her red hair, pulled back into a bouncy ponytail, beneath a white baseball cap.

They met at the Port of Miami beneath the huge gantries and tall ships etched against a bright blue sky. Miami's silver and pastel skyline loomed behind them.

He caught her in a bear hug, kissed her forehead, and took her bag.

Fellow passengers, though happy to be home, seemed somewhat subdued about the one left behind. The tragedy gave their trip a certain mystique.

“Never found.”

“Lost at sea.”

“So sad.”

“Sweet little old lady.”

“Had to miss a port of call because of the search,” one man grumbled.

“A terrible accident,” a sad-eyed woman murmured.

“Did you hear what happened?” Keri asked solemnly, as the comments of other travelers swirled around them. “The FBI interviewed everyone on our deck.”

“I'm sorry,” Venturi replied, “but in spite of it all, getting away did you a world of good. I swear you look younger than the last time I saw you.”

He saw the smile in her eyes.

Safely in the car, windows closed, she asked. “Did it go well? Did she make her flight?”

He nodded.

“Yesss!” She erupted into happy laughter. “Yesss! What a wonderful, wonderful cruise!”

She'd had a blast, she said. The FBI agent who spoke to her had even hit on her.

“So you plan to date him?” Venturi asked.

“You mean her—and no.”

He mentioned a new client, with no details, and asked if she'd help, since she was not due back at the office for two more days.

She asked who referred the client.

“Danny,” he said placidly, ignoring her expression.

Keri came to his place later, after checking her service, unpacking, and sifting through the mail.

Venturi steered her right to the war room. Errol sat at the big oval table, a bottle of Smartwater beside him, watching a videotape with Vicki. They were discussing small fishing villages along the coast of Scotland.

Before he could introduce her, Keri, in blue jeans, sandals, and a halter top, approached the conference table slowly, as though on tiptoe, eyes wide, expression transfixed.

“Errol? Errol Flagg? I don't believe this! “Living Love” is my all-time favorite song. I play “Black and Chrome” when I drive to the hospital, so I don't speed and get pulled over. I am your biggest fan.”

“No,” Victoria said quickly. “I am.”

All three turned expectantly to Venturi, as though he, too, would stake a claim to the title. “I was always working,” he said sheepishly, “and didn't listen to much music.”

They all stared at him quizzically.

When Keri left the room to let Scout out, Errol Flagg's hungry eyes followed approvingly. Venturi caught the look. “No,” he said softly, firmly shaking his head.

“Okay, mate.” Errol flashed both palms in instant surrender. “I've always had a thing for redheads. But understood,” he swore, “absolutely understood.”

The day Errol Flagg died was gray and overcast under an indifferent sky. The forecast was for rain as a tropical depression moved in from the southeast.

Perfect. It meant fewer witnesses in the sky and on the sea.

Errol Flagg boarded his Cessna Citation at Opa Locka Airport, northwest of Miami. His flight plan listed his destination as Treasure Cay on Abaco Island. A frequent visitor in the past, he was to meet his manager, some friends, and models to party over the weekend.

He signed autographs for several airport maintenance workers and support personnel.

A recently hired, young fixed base operator fueled the Citation, checked the oil and engine, then cautiously asked the star to pose for a photo with him. Flagg, wearing his trademark stubble, spiky hair, boots, and designer jeans with a pale blue short-sleeved silk and linen shirt, cheerfully agreed.

A number of witnesses saw Flagg's Cessna taxi down runway nine left, lift into the sky and make a wide turn, east-northeast toward the Bahamas.

Danny and Venturi scanned the sky, elated, as menacing thunderclouds built on the horizon. The weather was indeed perfect.

Twenty minutes into the flight, at nineteen thousand feet, Errol Flagg began to closely monitor his latitude and longitude. He had never liked flying over open water and had said as much to a number of friends and interviewers in the past. Those unplanned remarks were now fortuitous, foreshadowing, evidence of a grim premonition. He knew it would become part of his legend.

He scanned the vast sea and prayed that the outline barely visible in heavy rain below was Danny's boat. Flagg made the sign of the cross, said his first Hail Mary in years, then keyed his radio.

“Mayday. Mayday, Citation Jet 79Juliet. I have smoke in the cockpit. I think I'm on fire. Request vectors to the nearest suitable airport.”

Miami Center to Citation Jet 79Juliet. Turn right heading 270, vectors to Freeport. When able, say fuel remaining and souls onboard. Do you read me?

Errol Flagg did not respond. Instead he depressurized the plane so he could open the door.

Citation Jet 79J, Miami Center, over. Citation Jet 79J, Miami Center how do you read?

Flagg turned off the autopilot.

Citation Jet 79J, Miami Center, over. Citation Jet 79J, Miami Center how do you read?

He donned the parachute, turned off the transponder, then banked into a sharp right turn and descent. That insured that when he jumped, the plane would be moving away from him as it spiraled downward.

We lost the transponder.

The air traffic controller's comment to his supervisor was heard on the air.

Errol Flagg released the flight controls and pushed open the left cockpit door.

Citation Jet 79Juliet. Miami Center, over.

No answer.

We only have a primary target now.

Nineteen thousand feet over the Atlantic, Errol Flagg swung open the door of
Ceci
, his beloved Cessna Citation. He kissed her cold metal skin. “Good-bye, beautiful,” he said, then hit the air in a huge leap of faith. “Geronimo!” he yelled, not quite sure why. It was something he vaguely recalled from an old World War II movie he'd seen on TV. But it seemed appropriate. He always had a flair for the dramatic.

His parting cry was swallowed by a rush of wind, rain, and panic that literally sucked his breath away.

He counted to three and yanked the ripcord. To his immense relief, the parachute blossomed above him like a flower. The ride was a high. Hitting the water was a bitch. He landed hard, the air knocked out of him, and became tangled in the lines. The water was colder, the waves higher than he expected. He struggled to free himself but became further entangled, unable to swim or escape the chute. Beaten, battered, and buffeted about by natural forces that pushed, pulled, and dragged him under, he swallowed vast amounts of seawater.

The plan was for Danny to make the rescue alone. Venturi had also suited up, as a precaution—which was a good thing now that the mission seemed to be going awry.

They hit the water simultaneously, as the out-of-control Cessna tightened into a steeper and steeper spiral in a turbulent sky, accelerating past maximum operating speed.

Fighting towering waves, Danny reached Flagg first. He dragged him to the surface, held his head above water and tried to avoid becoming entangled himself as Venturi cut away the cords with his knife.

“Don't lose the chute!” Danny shouted.

A deployed parachute was the last thing they wanted found near the wreckage.

They managed to maneuver both Flagg and the parachute back to the boat.

Both were so busy they barely saw the Citation slam into the sea several miles away, but they heard the impact.

Target disappeared from radar.

Do you know who that was?
said a shocked voice at Miami Center.

The Coast Guard and Bahamian authorities were notified for search and rescue.

Flagg was limp, a dead weight, as they wrestled his body into the boat.

“Shit,” Danny said, as the wake from the plane's impact rocked the vessel.

Venturi, nearly knocked off his feet as he stowed the chute below, shouted, “Is Errol still breathing?”

“Goddammit,” Flagg responded. Sprawled out on the deck, he spit up seawater. Gasping for breath, he croaked, “I could've been killed!”

“Right,” Danny said. He turned the key in the ignition as Venturi guided the anchor line into the rope locker.

“Let's go!” Venturi shouted above the wind and a stinging horizontal rain. “This will look like rush hour in a few minutes!”

Danny turned the key again. The engine did not respond. He and Venturi exchanged tense looks through the rain. He tried again. Nothing.

“How long do we have?” Venturi yelled, dragging out the tool kit. “A Coast Guard chopper or two will be overhead in less than twenty. The whole world will be right behind it.” Danny tried the engine again. Then again. The fifth time, it kicked in with a comforting explosion of sound.

Venturi breathed again. “Get below, out of sight!” he told Errol, who staggered and half-fell down the steps.

“My life was flashing in front of my eyes,” Danny said from the helm. “I saw it end with our faces plastered all over the press as the boaters accidentally in the right place at the right time to rescue rock star Errol Flagg.

“We'da had a whole lotta 'splaining to do. Or we would have had to drown Errol ourselves. This was close.” Danny grinned.

“Too close,” Venturi said as they turned toward home through rough seas.

Only an oil slick and thousands of bits of shattered wreckage surfaced in the area where Errol Flagg's plane fell off the radar.

The media descended on South Florida.
Entertainment Tonight
, Greta Van Susteren, and Larry King all broadcast from South Beach. Geraldo piloted his own boat out to the site south of Grand Bahama Island, halfway between Freeport and Treasure Cay, and described it live as “Errol Flagg's final resting place, a watery grave not far from Miami, his favorite personal playground.

“Is Flagg yet another victim of the infamous Bermuda Triangle?” Rivera asked. “Did his own personal demons play a role in his tragic end? Or did the luck of the high-flying rocker simply run out? The truth may never be known. The sea keeps its secrets.”

Human scavengers bent on salvaging memorabilia battled the Coast Guard, NTSB investigators, and each other over priceless bits of wreckage, as flotillas of weeping fans in bikinis flung flowers into the waves at latitude N 26 32.0, longitude W 078 00.

Many collided with Coast Guard cutters, members of the press, and each other. Charter captains, sightseeing planes, boats, blimps, and choppers sold out trips to the site, creating a seagoing traffic jam.

Rescuers initially hoped to find an intact fuselage and the pilot but quickly realized there was no hope of recovering human remains. The Cessna had been shattered, totally destroyed on impact.

The Coast Guard called off the mission after three days but was kept busier than ever with a record number of arrests, rescues, and medical emergencies as rock fans from all over the world converged for moments of silence at latitude N 26 32.0, longitude W 078 00. Their numbers continued to grow, catching the Coast Guard unaware.

Aerial shots of flowers floating as far as the eye could see were broadcast all over the world, encouraging even more fans to make the pilgrimage. Some never really had been fans, but the drama of the music star's tragic and untimely death fascinated them in a macabre fashion.

His recordings sold like hotcakes.

Sightseers and mourners dangerously overloaded small boats. Some attempted the trip in unseaworthy craft, using anything that would float: rafts, hang gliders with pontoons, sailboards, Jet Skis, and even a personal two-seat submarine. A growing number even tried to float to the site on inner tubes. If Cubans could successfully flee their homeland and float more than ninety miles to South Florida on inner tubes, fans believed they could surely make it to N 26 32 W 078 00. Coast Guard crews soon found it difficult to distinguish incoming refugees fleeing Cuba from departing Flagg fans seeking the crash site. Nearly all of the latter were inexperienced boaters, many were nonswimmers, and most were under the influence of illegal substances. They swamped and sank, or ran aground on the flats. Small boaters ran out of gas or into each other's anchor lines, entangling their propellers. A number were injured when they went into the water to cut the lines and free the props. The blood in the water resulted in frightening shark sightings. Circling news and sightseeing helicopters nearly collided on several occasions. A few fans failed to think ahead and parachuted out of small aircraft over the site. A woman on one boat went into labor and had to be airlifted to the States. Others fell overboard, nearly drowned, overdosed, threatened suicide, hallucinated, or became dangerously dehydrated and disoriented. Miraculously, no one died. Many came close.

Errol Flagg's last address, longitude N 26 32.0, latitude W 078 00 appeared on T-shirts, hats, and bumper stickers within twenty-four hours of the crash.

His final words: “Smoke in the cockpit. I think I'm on fire,” were broadcast over and over. Even Errol Flagg wept copious tears upon hearing them.

Venturi yanked the plug on the TV in order to refocus Flagg on his future.

An unspoken but real fear among team members was that his fans' grief and adulation might move Flagg to launch his own resurrection and comeback tour.

The young airport employee who had fueled Flagg's Cessna sold the rocker's last photo to
People
magazine for big bucks.

The more the world loved the late Errol Flagg, the more annoying he became to team members. Excited by the prospect of life in Scotland with its medieval castles, ancient battle sites, and the Loch Ness monster, he endlessly practiced his brogue, studied his new look, and posed in front of the mirror. The spiky hair was gone, so were the blond tips.

When the women attempted to restore his hair to its natural shade, he had difficulty remembering the color and in his eagerness to assist, inadvertently exposed himself to Keri and Victoria.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Don't make me kill you,” Venturi warned him, not for the first time.

“Understood, Michael. No problem. I mean, one's a doctor, the other's a worldly woman of a certain age. I didn't think…didn't realize…I'm not accustomed to interacting with women who have standards. My apologies. That might be another behavioral issue we should address.”

Venturi agreed.

Flagg's trademark swagger had to go. Vicki spent hours demonstrating how to walk normally, which in itself was hilarious, since she had a pronounced limp.

“That's it, that's it!” she told Flagg at one point. “You've almost got it. Now just kill the limp.”

“No! That's not it. Walk like a man, like this,” Danny insisted, stomping about like a demented bull.

Flagg's accountants and handlers were unaware, he said, of a secret stash of cash he'd squirreled away long ago to buy drugs, or whatever. He turned it over to Venturi for expenses, with the remainder to be wired to an account in a Glasgow bank, in his new name, Andrew McCallum.

Though his dream since childhood was to be a commercial deep-sea fisherman, Errol Flagg had actually gone fishing only twice in his life. But he loved the fact that Scotland's fishermen are Europe's most environmentally friendly. Now he faced reality, the backbreaking work and dangerous life of deep-sea fishermen off the wild Scottish coast. Oddly enough, as he experienced it through virtual reality, he fell even more in love with the challenge. They warned him it was like learning to be a professional boxer before ever stepping into the ring or taking a punch.

Venturi and Danny mercilessly worked him in the gym. He became stronger and more confident. He didn't hesitate to jettison his trademark height-enhancing boots, happy to settle for his true height, five feet nine inches tall. The shrinkage helped his transformation. According to Errol Flagg's official bios and press releases, the rocker stood six feet tall.

Andrew McCallum wore a brown suit from the Men's Warehouse on the day he departed, shoes shined, laces tied. He wore blue contact lenses over his brown eyes and carried a newspaper to read on the long flight.

At the airport he crushed Keri in his arms and startled her with a passionate kiss on the lips. “Good-bye forever, beautiful,” he said. “I'll be seeing you—but only in my dreams.”

Victoria cautiously offered her cheek, but he swooped in to score one on her lips, as well.

He grinned at Venturi. “Can't kill me now.” He chuckled. “I'm already dead.”

“Go catch the damn plane,” Venturi said, “or you'll die twice.”

The two shook hands.

McCallum hugged Danny last. “Thanks, mate. I'll never forget you.”

“Have fun, fisherman,” Danny said. “Stay away from the sharks this time.”

Andrew McCallum nodded briskly and marched off to catch his flight.

“Think he'll be all right?” Victoria said doubtfully.

“Sure,” Danny said. “He'll be fine.”

They watched his flight depart through the picture windows in the terminal and returned to Venturi's place with a sense of relief. It lasted only until Danny turned on the news.