The Whisper Box (19 page)

Larry stared into the distance. The skinny little man from Miami, Florida had made a good point. John Timmerman was caressing his thick mustache with his bitten fingernails, waiting for Larry to answer.

“OK, your buddy has to come back here, though. Only one of you can be up there at a time.” Larry kept the gun on his hostages while he slowly walked towards the cockpit again. The door was still open.

“You, whatever your name is, do you actually have a pilot's license? Get the hell outta' there. It's your buddy’s turn.” He motioned for the exchange with his gun hand.

The second pilot jumped up and ran to a seat in the cabin. John Timmerman picked up his weak frame and briskly walked up front to the pilot's chair. Grant felt better already. He also thought Larry was easing up. Larry did not have to be told this time. He offered the other pilot, Charles Eidson, his clothes almost immediately. He was showing some compassion, which made Grant feel like his subtle negotiating scheme was working. That's when the plane took a drastic dive towards the earth. Larry, Charles Eidson and Grant went flying over seats to the front of the cabin. Grant could hear screams coming from the cockpit.

John Timmerman, the pilot who had been sentenced to die just fifteen minutes before, must have lost his mind. Grant could hear the man scream from the cockpit, “If I’m gonna’ die, it’s gonna be on
my
terms!” He was intentionally trying to crash the plane.

Grant watched Larry to regain his balance and run to the cockpit. The plane was almost at a ninety-degree angle at this point and it was almost impossible to move. The gravity towards one end of the plane was intense. Grant could see Larry reaching for his gun while struggling over seats and bouncing off the ceiling. The plane was not only diving now, but taking on a gradual spin as well. Larry lost his grip on the handle on his gun. It fell towards the cockpit.

Grant's only chance was to reach for the parachutes in the back of the plane. Amidst all the confusion, screaming, and spinning, Grant was crawling backwards unnoticed. John Timmerman, the now psychotic, madman crashing the plane had everyone’s attention. Grant was very close to the parachutes. He would climb over one seat at a time, pausing between each one to make sure his grip was secure as he moved closer. If he fell now, there was no getting back to this point.

Grant's hands were beginning to sweat, and he could feel himself slipping. He swung his right arm up over the back of the seat above him and hung on for life. The airplane was in a complete spin now and sight was almost impossible at this point. Two seats away, he decided to lunge for the closet. He was going towards the back of the aircraft, which was the highest point of this diving plane. Physics would help him get there. He lunged forward with all his might. His left hand caught the handle of the cabinet perfectly. In one swift motion he unhinged the door, where he found three parachute packs still neatly hung on the wall. He ripped one off and clutched it to his chest.

The next chore would be equally as difficult. He had to make his way back to an emergency exit, which was now directly below him. If he fell past it and into the cockpit, there was no telling what would happen. He would probably have to fight four other men for the one parachute. He had no time for that. Three gunshots rang out. He had no idea who shot who, but he did not plan on sticking around to find out. He let go of his seat cushion and fell about eight feet before reaching out for the seat next to the emergency exit. His body jerked to a sudden stop as he hung on for his life.

The red latch with the red arrow was now within his reach. Grant went for it. He was about to be sick. He had to get out of this plane. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the windows. These were the same windows he loved to look out of as a child. He did not like what he saw this time. The ground was about four hundred yards away. He swung the red handle in the direction of the arrow and was sucked out of the aircraft. The wind was so powerful that it threw him almost one hundred feet before he could regain all of his senses.

While in college, his girlfriend at the time, Dina DeTorres, took him skydiving once. The experience paid off. He found the cord to pull and release the chute almost without even looking. He was still holding the sack. He was not strapped to it at all. The parachute blew out the side that was away from his chest and opened almost immediately. Grant knew that a sudden jerk would occur when the chute opened and it captured its first burst of air. He had to be traveling close to a hundred miles an hour. In about a half of a second, he would be traveling close to thirty miles per hour. He tightened his grasp and waited for the jerk. He was now blind from the tears that flooded his eyes. The wind felt like fire under his eyelids. With a hard snap the chute caught its air, with Grant still clinging to the sack.

Because Grant was hanging on and not strapped in, he could not use the steering mechanism on the chute's pack. He could not pull up or down to control his speed. The chute was in control. This landing was going to be a hard one, yet definitely softer than the one the chartered flight he had been on was about to have.

Just then, Grant heard an explosion. The jet had crashed somewhere nearby. Grant could hear it so crisply. It was so powerful he could actually feel an extra force -- a hot air burst -- in the sky for a second. He looked off to his right and saw nothing but trees. He looked off to his left and saw a small mushroom cloud. The trees were already in flames. He assumed that he was about half a mile from the explosion. He then looked down and saw the earth about fifty feet below him. Closing his eyes, gritting his teeth, and stiffening his legs, he prepared his body to absorb the blow.

Grant hit a tree branch, which he did not expect. He felt and stinging across his face. He could feel blood streaming across it almost immediately. The chute must have gotten caught up in the treetop. Grant just stopped hung there about twelve feet from the ground. His shirt was almost torn off his body. He was freezing from the wind whipping past him at almost a hundred miles per hour and he was exhausted. He let go of the pack and fell to the earth. He broke through a few small branches on the way down but the fall was minimal compared to what he just went through.

Grant had no idea where he was. He was in the middle of the woods somewhere. The total flying time was not even an hour so he figured he was somewhere in North Carolina. There were a lot of mountains and woods in the state of North Carolina. He could be stranded for days for all he knew. He took a moment and thought of the two pilots that had just lost their lives. John Timmerman was driven to his death. He was driven by the words of Larry. Any man that was told he was going to be shot to death in a terrible manner by some wiseass loudmouth like Larry would lose his mind in the way John Timmerman did. Grant did not blame him at all. He died on his terms, his way. He also saved Grant's life, although his original plan had nothing to do with Grant. The aversion he caused let the young, frisky reporter sneak out the emergency exit. Grant swore to himself that he would never fly again.

Aaron went to the farthest, smokiest corner of the bar in the airport. He wanted to sit there all day away from the crowd as much as possible. He had no idea what would happen in the next few days, or even hours, for that matter. He was so tired and his bones ached so much that he truly did not know if he could go on. He was almost out of money and was afraid to use a credit card or a bankcard at the ATM machine. He feared that the people that were following him were looking for such transactions. If he used his credit card they could find him within an hour.

A short woman in black slacks with a maroon apron approached his table. She swung her thick straw-like hair to one side and asked if he was ready to place his order. She already had her pen in hand. Aaron felt that drinking alcohol would be very irresponsible at this point but he also felt like he needed anything to calm his nerves. He ordered a gin and tonic with extra lime.

He could hear people in the bar laughing. The couple behind him was sharing their wildest travel stories. Each story out did the last one as the conversation progressed. He could hear the slight slurs in their speech. It was obvious both had been drinking for quite some time. The man was cursing like a devil with each story. His language got progressively worse with each scotch and water. His girlfriend was of zero class and less intelligence. She was tattooed all the way up her left arm. Each time she told a travel story she included a tattoo she received on that trip. If she traveled anymore she would be a billboard by year's end. The last thing Aaron needed was trailer park trash sitting behind him. He could not move though. His table was perfectly positioned in the back of the bar at the farthest point from any traffic.

His short, stubby waitress came back with his gin and tonic. She also handed him a napkin with three more limes on it. “You look tired sweetheart, I figured you deserve as much lime as I can give you. I was also a little heavy on the gin for you sweetie.”

She winked at him while nudging him in the shoulder and walked back into the crowd and smoke. He almost wanted to hug her. She was polite and that was what he needed most again. He found himself drifting back and forth into daydreams about his family. He prayed they were safe every twenty minutes it seemed.

Off in the far corner of the bar, Aaron noticed a small hallway with a sign above it that read: KITCHEN, with an arrow pointing down the hallway. It seemed like the perfect setting for a pay phone, he thought. Although he could not see one from where he was sitting, he just figured there would be one there. He could call his father's house from there. The call from a pay phone would not be traced and no one probably knew to tap phone wires in New York at his father's house. He had to call to check on them.

He made the phone call collect for two reasons. He did not want to use his calling card for the same reason he would not use credit cards or ATM cards. He also was down to almost nothing in his wallet and needed to conserve his money. He told the operator that his name was 'Ritchie'. His wife used to call him Ritchie Rich when they first met. Aaron's father made very good money back then and always helped them out with cash when they were younger and times were tough. Using the name Ritchie would further confuse any uninvited listeners. The phone hardly rang when he heard his wife answer.

The operator could not even finish her speech. Emily accepted the charges. “Baby? Are you OK? What's going on?”

“I'm OK,” he said, not letting on completely to save his wife from a nervous breakdown. “I have been followed a lot, but I think I lost them.”

“Who is 'they' sweetie? Who is following you? You didn't do anything!” She began to cry.

“I think they are, well, I know this sounds crazy, but I think they are Secret Service guys or something.” Aaron explained in a low whisper to his wife as his eyes shot back and forth.

“Baby, what s going to happen? I'm a wreck here, ya' know?”

“I'm confident it's all gonna' work out.” That was a lie. “I just need another day or so. I miss you guys and I just wanted you to know that I am fine. I have to go Em, I can't sit on the phone.”

Emily Gallo began to sob on the phone. She tried to speak. Her tears and sobs were too much. Aaron hated doing what he had to do next. He hung up the phone, scared to be on the phone for more than a minute. After he hung up the headpiece, he stood there, right hand still clutching the headpiece, staring at the ground. A small Spanish man bumped in to him as he walked past him towards the kitchen, it scared the daylights out of him. He was a different man today then he was seventy-two hours ago. He was always on the defensive. He trusted no one and death meant half to him today than what it meant at the beginning of the week. He headed back to his table.

The drunken couple was now leaning across the table in their booth making out in the bar. Aaron had seen it all in the last few days yet this still made him roll his eyes. They began to talk about their wedding. The groom-to-be was telling her how their trip after the 'fucking wedding' was going to be first class. He was going to take her to Myrtle Beach for a long weekend. His cousin Billy Bob had a nice camper down there on one of the nicest campgrounds near the beach. He would be able to take Friday and Monday off from the plant for their honeymoon. She seemed equally as excited. They kissed some more and then ordered shots of Wild Turkey.

Aaron wanted to suggest that the waitress stop serving them but the last thing he needed was to draw any attention to himself. Pissing off a drunken red neck would have been like hanging a flashing neon light around his neck while standing naked in the Vatican. The red neck would make sure everyone was aware that he was about to punch some guys’ lights out. Aaron decided to keep his mouth shut.

Bubba told his bride to be that he had to go “take a squirt” and that he would be right back. As he lifted up his weary body and swung around towards the bathroom, he tripped over Aaron's left foot. Aaron quickly apologized to the drunken red neck. Bubba stopped, swayed slightly, and shot a look down upon Aaron. He mouthed out the word, “Asshole” and walked on to the bathroom. Aaron bit his bottom lip, clenched his fists under his table and smiled at the onlookers at a near by table. Somehow, some way, he swore revenge on his fellow patron in the bar.

Aaron slowly turned around to pretend he was looking for a clock on the wall. He was dying to get a better look at the bride to be. He noticed her face down on the table. Her eyes were shut. She was officially passed out. It would be funny to watch the big drunken ogre get back to the table to find his one and only true love completely unconscious.

Bubba came swaying around the corner from the bathroom. He stumbled over is own feet. Seemingly, he had not even noticed his true love face down on the table yet. He glared at Aaron as he walked by him again, still unaware of his surprise waiting at the table. Once he sat down Aaron heard the man mutter more expletives under his breath. He kicked his bag out from beside his feet on the floor to get up and shake his girlfriend. A bankroll was jarred loose from the bag when he kicked it. The man never noticed it. Aaron looked around. All eyes were either on the man and his passed out girlfriend, or in a completely different direction. Nobody saw the thick rolled up, rubber band bound money on the floor. Aaron grabbed his own personal bag on the floor, leaned forward, scooped up the money roll and began towards the exit. He found his waitress on the way out. He gave her a twenty-dollar bill from the roll, which far exceeded his total, told her to keep the change and swiftly moved out of the bar.

Aaron walked to the main bathroom in the airport. He was six gates from the bar. He went into a stall and removed the roll of money from his pocket and counted out seven hundred and fifty eight dollars. Aaron was back in business. He felt no remorse. He flushed the toilet to make it sound like he was actually doing something in there, then he exited the bathroom and headed for another bar about five more gates away. He still had about six hours before Grant arrived.

Aaron motioned for the waitress. She was there in less than twenty seconds. She was a tall, slender woman. Her dark brown hair was long and wiry enough to make Aaron worry about it getting tangled with his food and drink as she delivered. Aaron did not particularly care at this point. He ordered the Gamecock Deluxe and another gin and tonic. It was the biggest burger on the menu. It almost reminded him of the one he ordered from the old maid back at his hotel. He only got about three bites off of that one. He would eat the entire sandwich this time.

The waitress took his order and disappeared behind a wall covered in sheet metal with a little hole cut out in the middle to give the kitchen employees their orders. This lanky woman was going back there to fix it herself.

She brought him his cheeseburger with a smile. Aaron lowered his head into the attack position and went to work on the glorious burger. It was almost four inches thick and stacked high with crisp lettuce, bacon, and tomatoes. He ate all of it extremely fast and then he went for the fries. Each fry was better than its predecessor. He ordered another drink to wash it down.

After his third gin and tonic with extra lime Aaron cut himself off. The last thing he needed right now was to be drunk. The thing he wanted most right now, was to get drunk. The irony was as thick as the cheeseburger that he just finished. He still had five hours before Grant showed up in his jet. The drinks made him tired so he went to a crowded gate, leaned his head back in a chair, and fell asleep.

As he slept he dreamed of the First Lady sitting in a small office at her computer talking with Aaron. She kept telling him to “just get this over with.” He would wake up momentarily and tell himself that he was dreaming. He would fall back to sleep and almost immediately jump back into the same dream. She was standing now in front of the computer desk telling him how sweet he was. The dream struck him as odd.

Aaron opened his eyes to the sound of two young children playing a fierce game of cowboys and Indians. The game centered on his row of seats. His first thought was the whereabouts of these children's parents. If these were his children he would have given both of them the silent pointing of the finger from his chair. He would have gritted his teeth once he got their attention. He then would have moved his pointed finger to the spot directly in front of him. His children would have gotten the message almost immediately and ran to their father. He was a good parent. There were no beatings for disobedient children. He treated them fairly, yet they knew the rules. There would be no arguing. These children, obviously, were not trained as well. There was no parent in sight.

Aaron rubbed his eyes and stretched his aching muscles. It felt good to stretch his arms high in the air. He stretched his legs out in front of him as hard as he could, still out of his senses a little. He could easily restore himself with a big cup of coffee with extra sugar and a generous helping of cream. This would snap him out of this fog and begin to prepare him to meet Grant Winchester.

The coffee was exactly what he needed. He burned his mouth because he was too eager to let it cool. The woman across from him in the airport coffee shop was staring at him through the corner of her eyes. Aaron caught her several times. He hoped it was because she thought he was cute and not because she recognized him from some newspaper or newscast. He thought his new disguise was great and did not need to discover otherwise. After about five minutes, as expected, he snapped out of his fog. He had done this every morning for the past ten years and knew the ritual well. Grabbing his coffee and his bag he headed for the bathroom.

He found the bathroom down the hall. Now, not only was he looking over his shoulder for whoever was trying to kill him, but he was also looking for the big angry redneck that had probably figured out by now that Aaron took his money.

The bathroom was busier than usual. It was just past four o’clock and the airport traffic was picking up. Aaron looked in the mirror and immediately noticed why the woman in the coffee shop was staring at him. His hair was sticking straight up near the top center of his head. He looked like a blonde chicken. He just shook his head and patted it back down with some water. He then opened his bag, found his hair gel and lubed it back to position. He washed his face and hands in an attempt to revitalize himself even further.

After a few minutes in the stall where he read the local paper and tended to some other business, Aaron exited the bathroom and headed for a restaurant in the airport. There was a Chick-Fil-A right in the center of the food court. He began to feel his mouth water. Upon arrival he would wolf down some chicken nuggets and a chicken sandwich. By the time he finished up his early dinner he could probably go to the chartered aircraft area and ask about a chartered jet coming in from Washington-Dulles.

He walked through the airport gift shop looking at magazines, sweatshirts, children's toys and other usual gift shop goods. He flipped through a basketball magazine, a Playboy, TIME, and People until bored. Then he headed towards Chick-Fil-A and got ready for another big meal. Putting up with the red neck was paying off.

After dinner he sat there for a minute letting his food settle. He thought about the past days and hoped that he was about to take the first step towards the end of this entire mess. Would he remember this moment, the last moment on his own as a fugitive, an informant, and a rebel about to wreak havoc on the American government? He continued his thinking and then smiled. He was proud of himself. What he had endured the last few days was for the better of his country. He, realistically, could be considered a national hero. He may be asked to do a photo shoot for TIME magazine, or People. He might do an interview on CNN or The Rush Limbaugh show. He smiled for himself.