“You’re alive? You didn’t call.”
“Uh”—I clear my throat—“I would have… eventually. What time is it?”
“10:25 a.m. You ready? You going to be able to handle this?”
I push myself up, and the muscles in my arms and abdomen scream. I collapse against a pillow, my entire body aching. “No… problem. But that’s not really your concern, is it?”
“I’m just asking because this morning you sound like you’re feeling your age.”
I try to smile, but even my face hurts. “Maybe.”
“Well, it’s time to get up and get going. He’s here.”
I sit back up, fully alert now. “He’s here?”
“That’s what I said. You baited him, and he took the bait.”
I am the bait, and he hasn’t taken me yet. I close my eyes, head pounding.
“Now, reel him in.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Denilyn
March 19, 2017
I pull off the road into the parking lot, gravel crunching under my tires. My GPS alerts me that I “have arrived at my destination.” A handful of other cars are parked in front of a hangar, and a sign that says OFFICE points to a walkway on one side of the hangar.
What am I doing? Mouth dry, I reach for the tumbler in the cup holder and take a few sips of water.
Both Jaylan and my mother offered to come with me, but I need to do this alone.
Though, not alone at all.
That’s part of the point, isn’t it? Acknowledging that I’m not alone, nor am I in control. This is an exercise in releasing control and letting go of the fear my attempted control, or lack thereof, has exacerbated.
I stare at the hangar, then turn the ignition off and set the parking brake.
It’s now or never.
I get out of the car and head to the office, where, when I called, I was told I’d check in. A cool breeze rustles my hair. I’ve chosen a perfect day for this adventure—clear skies and warm temperatures for March. “Thank You,” I whisper. Then I reach into my pocket, pull out a band, and gather my hair and pull it into a ponytail.
As I walk into the small office, I’m reminded so much of Ride the Kaweah and Mick that it puts me, if not at ease, at least into what feels like familiar terrain—a place where those who seek adventure or an adrenaline rush gather. Or maybe those like me who’ve come for their own reasons.
But rather than the safety talk I gave over and over at Mick’s, here I’m asked to have a seat on a dilapidated vinyl sofa, where a brief instructional video offers the most basic information: I’ll jump attached to an instructor—a tandem jump—and we’ll jump from twelve thousand feet, and drop at a rate of approximately 120 miles per hour. The video then goes on to explain the basics of free-fall body positioning.
The entire instruction takes less than five minutes.
Once I’ve signed the necessary release forms, the young woman behind the counter, about the age I was when I started working for Mick, comes around, looks me up and down, then goes to a rack and chooses a jumpsuit, which she then hands to me.
I pull the suit on over the shorts and T-shirt I’m wearing. The young woman helps me into a harness and tightens it. Then she hands me a pair of goggles. Again, I’m reminded of Mick’s, only I’ve traded a dry suit for a jumpsuit, a flotation device for a harness, and a helmet for goggles.
“You’re ready,” she says. “Head out that door and wait on the tarmac for your instructor. You’re going up with a group of pros. You’ll see them out there.”
“Okay.” As I make my way toward the door, I turn back. “Thanks.” Once outside, I head for the group of guys. When I reach them, I pass them and stand alone.
I take in the azure expanse, watercolor clear. It seems to beckon in the same way the Kaweah once called my name. I breathe deeply, hoping to still what feels like the wings of hummingbirds fluttering within me. I adjust the harness on my shoulders and thighs, then shield my eyes and look at the sky again. This time a shiver trembles through me despite the warmth rising from the asphalt.
Anticipation or fear? I wrap my arms around myself.
As I wait, a young man, lanky, a chute packed on his back, breaks from the group of pros and saunters my way. “Ready to ride the currents?”
Currents? I’m very familiar with currents. But air currents? “Absolutely.” I attempt a smile as I bend the truth, more for my sake than his.
He studies me for a moment, and then the fair skin around his eyes crinkles and he laughs. He turns and heads back to the group, tossing advice over his shoulder as he goes. “Stay loose and enjoy the ride. There’s nothing like it.”
I wipe my damp palms on the jumpsuit.
An engine throttles in the distance, and soon sunlight glints off the silver wings of a small plane taxiing our way. The plane rattles as it approaches. Loose nuts and bolts? The sound is unsettling.
“Betty!” one of the pros yells.
“Come to Daddy!” shouts another. Laughter and catcalls welcome the plane, Betty Boop, with her pouting red lips painted on its tail.
I hear the squeak of the office door swing open and turn to see a man walking my way—he’s older than I expected.
When he reaches me he sticks out his hand. “I’m Mike. You’re jumping with me. This marks my thousandth jump, let’s make it memorable. Deal?” His thick white hair lifts then falls with the breeze.
I wipe my hand again then take his and shake it. My voice is lost to me, so I only nod.
“Once those bozos jump”—he gestures to the others—“I’ll connect you to my harness, you in front of me, then we’ll go to the door. When I say ‘go,’ we jump. If you don’t jump, I will, and you’re going with me. Better if you take the lead.” He chuckles. “Ready?”
I nod again.
“Good. Remember what you learned—arms stretched out, wrists straight, palms flat.” He demonstrates. “Got it?”
Before I can respond, he strides toward the plane that’s pulled up in front of us. I follow behind him.
As I wait to board, I take the young man’s advice and work to loosen up. I shake my arms and hands, from shoulders to fingertips, then do a shimmy as though I can shake off the spiders of fear skittering up my spine. But then that’s the point, isn’t it? To shake off fear, once and for all. That’s what I’ve come to do. To prove to myself that the phantom known as Fear no longer holds me in its grip.
I straighten, square my shoulders, and take a deep breath. Then I follow Mike and climb aboard the plane. There are no seats, the other divers are piled close to one another on the floor. Mike points to an open space near him, where I lower myself, sit, pull my knees to my chest, and then look out the oval window next to me.
My breath catches and I lean in, cup my hands on the glass to cut the glare, and peer out.
It can’t be…
Mouth dry, I try to swallow. Then I look away.
My heart batters my chest and my pulse roars in my ears, nearly drowning out the clamor of the plane’s propellers. It isn’t him. I’m imagining things. I turn back to the window and take another look, then stare at the man near the hangar. As I watch, he leans against the outside wall and pulls something from his shirt pocket and sticks it in his mouth. A cigarette? He lights it. It isn’t him. He doesn’t smoke. Or does he? It doesn’t matter. It isn’t him—it’s impossible. I know where he is, and it isn’t here.
I steady myself as the plane shoots down the runway then lifts. As memories flash, perspiration trickles down my back. I inhale then exhale. It wasn’t him. Let it go.
Fear will not win. Not this time. Not ever again.
Within what feels like mere moments, the group of professional skydivers have all jumped, and I stand, back pressed against Mike, hooked to his harness. We brace ourselves against the pummeling force of wind as we wait near the gaping opening in the side of the plane. I pull the goggles from the top of my head down over my eyes.
My breaths are now shallow and my pul
se races.
“Step to the edge,” Mike yells. When I don’t move, he yells again, this time his breath hot against my ear. I hesitate a moment more, then step forward, Mike stepping in sync with me. There’s nothing to see but the vast expanse.
“Go!” Mike shouts.
Heart hammering my rib cage, I lean forward, eyes squeezed shut, and fall more than jump into nothingness, arms stretched wide. I anticipate the sensation of falling—stomach lifting to throat—but the sensation isn’t evident. Nor is the velocity at which I know we’re falling. When I dare to open my eyes, I’m only aware of the force of air pushing my cheeks back to my ears, which makes me laugh.
The free fall is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I laugh again, the sound carried heavenward on the drafts, I imagine. Too soon I’m jerked, hard, and the harness cuts into my thighs as I’m pulled upward with what seems like exceeding force.
But then we’re floating. Soaring. “Oh,” I whisper. I want to take it all in, remember every exhilarating moment. I could ride these currents forever. The tension I’d felt is replaced by peace, pervasive peace.
Quietude. Silence. Wonder.
“That was a hard pull.” Mike’s shouted words behind me threaten to break the spell, but I assume the pull—the parachute opening and catching air—was harder than usual but fine. We’re fine.
As we float, my eyes are trained on the ground below. The earth is a patchwork of tones. A river—the Sacramento River—is but a thread stitched across the quilt of colors. I search for familiar landmarks as my sense of confidence soars. I’ve done it. Faced fear, terror even, and—
Suddenly we’re plummeting.
Tumbling.
Head first. Arms and legs akimbo.
Land and sky spin as they interchange. My lungs deflate. Pressure. The currents, tumultuous, pull me under and then spit me out. I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe? I gasp. I’m drowning. Help! Someone, help! But no… There’s no water. Instead, I’m above, where there’s nothing. Just…
Nothing.
Nothing to reach for. Nothing to grab. No way to save myself.
A scream sounds in my mind. Rings in my ears. Scathes my throat.
My scream?
Awareness hits. I’m going to die. It’s my only thought.
I am going to die.
God is going to let me die.
Then…
Everything goes black.
“Hey!” Something shakes me—my shoulder. “Hey!” The voice, louder this time, is still faint, like I’m in a wind tunnel. I strain to listen. “You okay?”
Am I… okay? Eyelids weighted, I struggle to open them, then I… scream. I reach out to grab something, but there’s nothing. I’m falling… falling…
Then I remember. It all comes rushing back. I jumped, we were falling, plummeting, upside down.
Now we’re floating again. I jerk my head up and see the parachute, brilliant against the blue sky. Did I pass out? Hyperventilate?
“Congratulations!” he yells.
Who yells? Mike—his name is Mike.
“Your reserve chute worked!”
Reserve chute?
“The primary chute was bowed, tangled. I had to let it go.”
I look down. This time there’s no sense of wonder, no desire to pick out familiar landmarks. The closer we come to the ground, the faster it rushes to meet us. I just want to land, to have my feet on the ground.
Then the thought returns. The only thought I had time for. I was going to die. God was going to let me die.
Only, He didn’t.
I’m alive.
But… what happened?
The image of the man standing near the hangar returns. The inky shadow of his beard, the way he leaned against the building as we took off…
As we near the ground, Mike yells again, “Pull your legs up. We’re going down hard.”
I recall the brief instruction in the video. For a tandem jump, you’ll pull your legs up so you land on your back end. I do as Mike has instructed and pull my legs up.
As the ground rushes up at us, we crash into it. My back end hits first, then we roll several times and finally come to a stop.
“You okay?” Mike asks. Then he laughs and lets out a whoop. “That was memorable, all right.” He unhooks his harness from mine, stands, then offers me his hand and helps me stumble to my feet. My tailbone throbs, and I suspect I’ll have a few bruises from the landing, but physically I’m fine.
“What… what happened up there?”
“Like I said, the main chute was tangled. I knew it wouldn’t land us, or at least not in any way we’d want to land.”
“But… why? Why did it tangle?”
“They say odds are that one in every thousand chutes will fail. Could have been packed wrong. Who knows?”
“Packed wrong? Could someone have intentionally done that?”
“Intentionally? You paranoid?” He chuckles. “One in a thousand. It was just my turn. Count your lucky stars, little lady. You’re in one piece.” He pats my shoulder, then begins pulling in the parachute that’s stretched out behind us.
I watch him for a moment as I process what he’s said. Paranoid? No. Lucky? Absolutely not. Had I chosen this on my own, depended on my own strength this time, maybe I’d feel lucky. Instead, I know God has spared me.
I turn and walk away from Mike and head for the hangar where I saw him.
Bradley Mathison.
It was him. There’s no doubt in my mind now. What I don’t know is how. How he got out. How he knew to come here. As I cross the field where we landed, more puzzle pieces fall into place and the picture becomes clear. I’m sure of it.
He’s out.
He’s followed me.
And it was him who ran me off the road. It was him who tried to kill Max. And regardless of what Mike said, somehow it was him who tried to kill me today. And take Mike with me. I look back over my shoulder to where he’s standing, parachute around his feet now, laughing with someone. He has no idea.
Paranoid? If he only knew.
Something roars to life deep within as I bear down on the tarmac, searching for him. Anger thunders to the surface. I will find him, and I will end this once and for all. My feet pound the asphalt as I go to the hangar where I saw him. When I don’t see him there, I go out to the parking lot, but he isn’t there either. I turn back and then barge into the office and sputter to the young woman who’d helped me. “Where is he? There was a man…” I turn and look around the office. But he isn’t there. “Where is he?”
“I’m sorry, who are you looking for?”
But as I’m about to demand he be found, to tell her what he attempted to do, a small voice echoes in my soul and stops me as sure as though a hand were slapped across my mouth. No.
I hesitate.
No.
While the rage I feel is new, and my actions seem new, awareness dawns. I’m taking control again. Doing this on my own. If I found him, what would I do? Am I going to do what he’s tried to do to me? Would I harm him? Kill him even? Would I become what he’s become?
“I’m… I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “Sorry.” I take off the harness, unzip the jumpsuit, and step out of it, and then pull the goggles now dangling around my neck over my head. I put everything on the counter. “I’m… Nothing.” I turn to go. “Thank you.”
As I walk toward my car, that same, quiet voice within whispers again.
Not yet.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Denilyn
March 19, 2017
After having a few more security cameras installed on the property, and taking Detective Alejandro’s advice and hiring a security company to guard the property, I hoped to feel more secure at home. I couldn’t expect Jay and Gabe to house us indefinitely. Nor could I just walk away from our lives at home.
But after today and the realization that Bradley Mathison is no longer in prison, home isn’t the refuge it once was. Actually, it hasn’t felt like much
of a refuge since the attempt to poison Max and the note asking who would die next.
The two armed guards at the gates to the property make it more a prison than a refuge. But they are both an expense and necessity I can’t not afford.
As I leave the small airport and merge onto the eastbound interstate toward home, the earlier rage I felt lingers as I place a call to Sonia Alejandro, the lead detective on my case this time. This time? This has to end. As her line rings, I wait not only for her voice mail but also for the voice within—will it stop me again?
“Sonia Alejandro.”
I’m surprised both when Detective Alejandro answers and when I sense nothing holding me back.
“Why wasn’t I notified?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why wasn’t I notified? He’s out! He was there today. Why didn’t I receive notification?”
“Slow down. Who is this?”
I take the next turnoff and pull off the interstate and into a parking lot as I talk. The emotion of the day—seeing Mathison, one more near-death experience, and the anger, the all-consuming, ravaging anger—boils over. All of it.
“Denilyn. Denilyn Rossi.” My jaw aches with unreleased tension.
“Denilyn. Okay. Take it slow. Tell me what happened.”
I take a moment, then start again, my tone measured this time.
“Bradley Mathison. He’s out of prison. I wasn’t notified. I saw him today. He tried to kill me… today.”
I relay the details of what occurred during my skydive and who I saw at the airport.
“You’re certain it was him?” I hear the doubt in her tone.
“As certain as I am that I’m speaking with you. Unless he has a twin, it was him.”
She’s silent for a moment as though thinking. “That may explain a few things. Let me do some checking and get back to you. And oh Denilyn, I am glad you’re okay. Pay attention and don’t hesitate to call. I’ll check again with the Department of Corrections, and I’ll follow up with the skydiving company. You’ll hear from me soon.”
When I end the call, it isn’t Bradley Mathison or the case I’m thinking about. Instead, I ponder Sonia Alejandro’s words, “Pay attention.” How often have others encouraged me to do the same through the years? But this time I understand the message to mean more than looking over my shoulder.
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