'Don't talk to me. Tell that to your sweetheart at the Eden. You need the phone number?'
'It's the jet, right? The 757?'
'That's right,' Venetia said sweetly. 'And baby, do me a favor? Don't call me again. We're through. Finito. Kaput!''
She slammed down the receiver and looked at the detectives. 'I guess you heard that.' She shrugged. 'Boyfriend trouble.'
69
There the bitch is! Amber watched as Gloria Winslow, dressed in a bright citron pantsuit, exited the Huntington Hotel. She had on big dark sunglasses and was carrying a handbag. Looking very glamorous, chatting with a doorman.
Amber brushed strands of stringy hair out of her eyes. What's she up to today? she wondered.
Amber had been watching and waiting, watching and waiting.
Waiting for just the right moment to—to get even!
Today she'd borrowed Doreen and Roy's Jeep Wrangler. Doreen was a topless dancer she knew, and for gas money and a little extra, she and Roy let her use the Wrangler from time to time.
She jerked up when she saw Gloria's familiar Mercedes pull up in front of the hotel. A man got out and held the door open for Gloria, who slid into the car.
Good! Amber thought, starting the Jeep. The bitch is driving someplace today. And I can follow her.
She put the Jeep in first gear, and waited as Gloria slowly pulled out onto the street. Then Amber let out on the clutch, gave the Jeep gas, and eased up behind her. She didn't have to worry about being spotted. After all, the woman didn't even know she existed.
She followed her west on Sacramento a few blocks, then took a right just behind her onto Van Ness Avenue, heading north. Amber shifted up into third gear, then fourth, rolling along at a steady clip. Traffic on Van Ness wasn't too bad this afternoon. Rush hour hadn't started yet. But Amber was oblivious to everything but the Mercedes. She let Gloria get a couple of cars in front of her, but didn't let the glittering car get out of her sight.
After several blocks, she saw Gloria angle over into the left lane as they approached Richardson Avenue, Highway 101. Amber pulled up directly behind her when Gloria put on her turn signal at the traffic light. When the light changed, she took a left on Highway 101, Amber on her tail. Now Gloria picked up speed and Amber followed suit, giving the Jeep gas.
Cruising west along Highway 101 at a steady pace, then north as 101 curved toward the Golden Gate Bridge, Amber wondered: Is she going to take the bridge? Going to Marin County somewhere?
Only a few minutes later, she had her answer. Gloria was taking the approach to the Golden Gate, and Amber trailed along behind her, watching the Mercedes roll majestically along in front of her. The wind up here was powerful and buffeted the Wrangler, but Amber felt no fear. No. She felt exhilarated by the task at hand.
The end of the bridge neared, and she saw Gloria put on her right turn signal. What? Right? Where the hell is the crazy bitch going now? Amber wondered. She downshifted from fourth into third, put on her turn signal, then downshifted again as they approached the turnoff.
After the right turn, Amber realized what Gloria's destination was.
Jeezus! She nearly wet her pants with excitement. The old drunk was going up into the Marin Headlands. The perfect place to . . .
She watched the shiny metallic Mercedes curve up, up, up, into the vast hills overlooking San Francisco Bay and the city itself beyond. It was a sunny, clear day with almost no fog, but Amber didn't notice the spectacular scenery. Her eyes were glued to the car just ahead of her. There wasn't a single vehicle between them now. The Headlands were practically deserted.
Gloria was nearing the highest point of the brownish green hills, driving very slowly, apparently taking in the view. Two or three times, she nearly stopped, and Amber could see her take off her sunglasses, looking out over the bay to San Francisco.
She eased up directly behind her now and waited for Gloria to pick up a little speed. When she did, Amber caught up with her, then downshifted into second gear and gave the Jeep gas, revving it up as far as it would go in seconds.
She braced herself and rammed the rear end of the Mercedes, immediately letting off on the gas. The impact jerked Amber backward, then threw her forward. The seat belt kept her from slamming into the steering wheel.
Hot damn! she thought. This is just like that time Christos took me to play bumper cars.
Gloria slowed down the Mercedes and Amber could see her head jerk around. When she did, Amber put the Jeep in reverse and backed up a few feet. Then, shifting into first, up to second, she gave the Jeep gas again and rammed the Mercedes hard, on the left side of the rear. The Mercedes fishtailed toward the steep hillside, then jerked to a stop.
There! That'll give the crazy bitch something to think about!
She watched as the Mercedes started moving again, picking up speed. Gloria had obviously decided to get away from here. After a moment, Amber shifted up into second, then third, pulling to the left of the Mercedes, getting on the driver's side, up to the rear door. She could see the old bitch jerking around to try to see her. Could see that she still had her sunglasses off, her eyes real big. Then she floored the gas pedal, ramming the door hard. The car jerked to the right. Swerving off the road again, over the shoulder, then skidded to a stop. But Gloria quickly started moving forward again, angling up toward the road, picking up more speed.
Up ahead about seventy-five feet, Amber could see that a sharp curve—nearly ninety degrees!—to the left was coming up.
This is it! she thought. This is where I pay the bitch back!
She quickly caught up with the Mercedes and rammed into the rear end hard, giggling as she watched it jerk forward but keep on going, faster now.
Amber stayed right on its tail, giving the Jeep gas, then rammed it again, harder. And again, harder yet.
The Mercedes zigged, zagged, swung right, and bounced off the hillside. Then it plunged out of sight.
Amber stomped on the brakes, jumped out of the Jeep, and ran to the drop-off. She had to stand at the very edge to look down.
Far below, the Mercedes was rolling over and over until it smashed into the rocks along the shoreline and exploded.
The ground beneath Amber's feet shook, and a fireball enveloped the Mercedes.
Amber stared down for another minute, then walked slowly to the Jeep and drove off sedately.
You've got to be careful on this road, she thought. It can be a real killer.
70
Two hundred miles north of Puerto Rico, Captain Larsen turned on the seat belt sign.
'Better strap yourself in, Mrs. Cantwell,' he said over the speaker system. 'From here on in, things are liable to get bumpy.'
Dorothy-Anne pressed the intrajet intercom. 'Would you mind terribly if I joined you in the cockpit? Right now it's a little . . . quiet back here.'
'If that's what you want, ma'am. It's your aircraft.'
Dorothy-Anne hurried forward along the portside corridor. So far the skies were still clear, and the Atlantic Ocean far below looked deceptively calm.
When she appeared in the cockpit, Captain Larsen said, 'Use that jump seat, there, Mrs. Cantwell. It folds down.'
'Please,' Dorothy-Anne said. 'We're in this together, so let's drop the formalities, shall we? Call me Dorothy-Anne.'
'And I'm Jim, as you know. And our copilot here is Pete.'
Dorothy-Anne got the seat down, secured it, and strapped herself in.
'Did you get permission to change the route?' Dorothy-Anne asked.
Jim Larsen grinned. 'We used the old noggin. Radioed in a change in our flight plan. Supposedly, we're headed to Caracas. Of course, San Juan will soon know we're off course. Can't fool radar.'
'I hope this won't cost you your licenses. If it does, I'll think of something.' She smiled humorlessly. 'Maybe build some eco-resorts in the African veldt.'
Jim Larsen grinned. 'My boyhood dream always was to become a bush pilot.'
'Get us through this alive, and your dream
just might come true,'
Dorothy-Anne said wryly. Suddenly she leaned forward and squinted out the tinted windshield. 'What in the name of God is that?'
A wall of looming, charcoal gray clouds extended from the surface of the ocean high into the sky, like a range of angry mountains on the move.
'That,' said Jim Larsen, with admirable understatement, 'is the leading edge of the storm. Say hello to Cyd.'
'Holy Moses!'
'According to the latest reports, it's moving north at ten miles an hour and accelerating. Winds are exceeding one hundred fifty m.p.h., and it's been upgraded to a category five.'
'If that's the leading edge, how far away is the storm proper?'
'About a hundred sixty miles south of Eden Isle.'
'So it won't really hit for sixteen hours.'
'Sooner. It's accelerating, which means it might hit full force as fast as eight hours from now. If it weren't for the clouds, we'd be seeing Puerto Rico.'
'Then we're almost there.'
At that moment, they hit a pocket of turbulence. The fuselage shook violently, and the aircraft dropped sickeningly straight down, as if it had lost its wings. After a few hundred feet it regained its forward momentum.
'Shit!' Dorothy-Anne whispered. 'That was not fun.'
'No,' Jim Larsen agreed. 'And the fun hasn't even begun. Once we hit the outer edge gales, you'll think you spent all day on a roller coaster.'
The next winds to buffet the jet lifted it several hundred feet higher in one fell swoop. Jim Larsen fought with the controls.
'I think I know what they mean when people say 'bucking like a bronco,' ' Dorothy-Anne said queasily. She was white as a sheet, and sick to her stomach.
'Actually, I've been in worse,' Jim said calmly.
'I haven't,' Pete said from the copilot's seat.
'Boeing 989 Charlie, this is San Juan Center,' a voice crackled over the speakers. 'We suggest you turn seven degrees west and skirt hurricane. Over.'
'Negative, San Juan Center,' Jim Larsen said steadily. 'We only have enough fuel for a direct flight to Caracas. Over.'
'Roger, Boeing 989 Charlie. Do you request permission to land at San Juan? Over.'
'Negative, San Juan Center. Winds are too unpredictable. If landing is aborted we'll run out of fuel. Proceeding directly to Caracas at thirty- two thousand feet. Over.'
'Roger, Boeing 989 Charlie. Proceed on course. Over and out.'
'Won't they realize what we're doing when we descend?' Dorothy- Anne asked.
'They'll think it was an emergency. I'll radio back that we landed safely. And we're descending slowly already.'
'I don't know much about these things, but how will you find the runway?'
'We'll execute an automatic instrument landing. Simply follow the Eden Isle beacon.'
'But the island's been evacuated! Nobody's at the control tower.'
'That doesn't matter. So long as there's electricity—and if that goes out, there's an automatic backup generator. It's good for up to four hours.'
Jim put the 757 into a wide sweeping turn and ten minutes later, he began the descent. Soon they were no longer above the hurricane, but inside the gray clouds, buffeted by gale-force winds from all sides. Doro- thy-Anne clenched her teeth and gripped her seat until her knuckles were white. She didn't know when she'd been so scared. Visibility was zero, with shreds of clouds whipping past.
Pete called out the altimeter readings: 'Twenty-six thousand . . . twenty-five thousand, five hundred . . . twenty-five thousand feet . . . '
The lower their altitude, the more they were at the mercy of the winds. Dorothy-Anne wasn't sure how much more shuddering the fuselage or wings could take.
'Locked into automatic landing beacon,' Jim said, glancing at the computerized screen. 'Bringing her down to fifteen thousand feet.'
Except for the shakes, rattles, and rolls, the cockpit was silent. Nobody spoke. The tension kept ratcheting up, notch after notch.
Eight thousand feet . . . seven thousand . . . six . . .
Visibility was zero, and wind-whipped rain blasted the aircraft. It wobbled and wavered, but Jim Larsen kept it on course, his eyes glued to the glowing green screen of a computer. The gridwork, with its perspective of a runway, kept shifting according to the plane's position, while the constantly changing readout tracked both the aircraft's true position and its ideal altitude and degree.
'Flaps are lowered,' Jim said.
'Two thousand feet,' Pete reported. 'Fifteen hundred . . . one thousand . . . '
'Landing gear down,' Jim announced.
Dorothy-Anne hardly felt the wheels descend and lock into place; it was as if they were in an earthquake.
What if the beacon is wrong? she thought in a sudden panic. Or the computer that's guiding us if off a few degrees?
'Decreasing airspeed,' Jim said.
'Five hundred feet . . . four hundred . . . '
Jim fought to keep the nose of the jet up, and Dorothy-Anne noticed that both he and Pete were sweating profusely. Rain thrashed the windshield, drummed on the fuselage.
'One hundred feet,' Pete read off. 'Sixty feet . . . '
'According to the screen, the runway's below us . . . now,' Jim said.
What if the construction crew made a mistake? Dorothy-Anne thought. What if they made the runway too short?
'Let's set her down,' Jim said calmly.
Dorothy-Anne clutched her seat, prepared for the jet to land on its nose and begin flipping somersaults with its wings. Then she felt a familiar bump, a bounce, another bump, and the engines were screaming in reverse.
'Welcome to Eden Isle,' Jim Larsen said.
Dorothy-Anne sat there, frozen to her seat. They were safe and on the ground, but it didn't register. Suddenly she was sick.
Jim handed her a bag, and she vomited into it. When her heaving stopped, she simply sat there, barely realizing the jet was not moving.
'I suggest you gear up for this weather,' Jim told her.
She nodded and undid her seat belt and started aft. 'I've got changes of clothes back in . . . in—'
Suddenly she vomited again.
'In my cabin,' she said faintly.
Five minutes later, she had changed into khaki slacks, a long-sleeved shirt, lace-up hiking boots, and a heavy raincoat. Jim Larsen handed her two objects.
'First, here's a waterproof flashlight,' he said. 'And second, here's the gun we keep onboard.'
It was a pistol in a plastic Zip-Loc baggie.
'I think you may need it more than we do. Careful, though. It's loaded. The chamber holds six shells. As a safety precaution, the first one's empty. That gives you five shots.'
Dorothy-Anne pocketed the flashlight and the pistol both. 'I can't express how grateful I am.'
'There's time for that later. Sorry there's no jetway or boarding stairs. Pete and I will lower you down as far as we can. When we let go, cock your legs, try to land on the balls of your feet, and roll over.'
She nodded, and on impulse hugged them both. Then Jim Larsen opened the cabin door and slid it aside.
The noise of the wind and rain was incredible, and Jim had to shout to make himself heard.
'You're on your own now. We'll be taking right off again. Otherwise there won't be much left of this plane.' He paused. 'Ready?'
As ready as I'll ever be, she thought, and nodded. Jim and Pete held her by the arms and lowered her. She nodded when she was ready for them to let go.
The fall seemed to take longer than she anticipated. She'd forgotten how high the jet stood off the ground.
Then her feet hit the tarmac, and she rolled.
I'm here, she thought in astonishment. Even more amazing, I've made it here alive!
After Hale One turned around and hurtled down the runway, engines screaming, and lifted off into the gray, almost maroon sky, Dorothy-Anne noticed another jet parked by the terminal building. Ducking forward to avoid the worst of the slashing rain, she ran over to the aircraft.
It was a small Citation I. Its door was open, and the folding boarding steps were down. She felt for the pistol in her pocket, seeking reassurance.
'Hello?' she yelled, approaching cautiously. 'Hello?'
There was no reply. Carefully she moved up the steps. The pilot was in his seat.
But he would never fly again.
He had been shot in the back of the head.
71
Eden Isle was like Dante's inferno. What little sun leaked through the clouds gave them an ominous reddish cast, a surreal quality more suited to a Tim Burton film than a tropical paradise. The barometric pressure continued to plunge even lower, and the winds had risen to a steady forty-five miles per hour, with gusts of up to sixty.
And that's just the beginning, Dorothy-Anne knew. Soon it will get worse. A whole lot worse.
The approaching hurricane aside, Dorothy-Anne realized she had an even more dangerous enemy to worry about—namely, the faceless killer or killers who had gone through the trouble of luring her here. The same assassins, most likely, who had been responsible for a series of murders, from sabotaging Freddie's jet to murdering the woman in the red raincoat; from poisoning Cecilia to killing Nanny Florrie; and, most recently, who had shot the pilot of the Citation I.
She had to find out where Zack was being held captive—and fast. Before the full force of Hurricane Cyd hit the island.
Where the devil could they be keeping him?
Think! she told herself. Think!
The faxed drawing had depicted Predator's Lagoon. And the only inhabitable structures on Eden Isle—the temporary boomtown of Quonset huts, trailers, and RVs—the only real shelters were located just east of the lagoon, and north of the Oceanographic Institute.
That's got to be where they are.
Head tucked down, she struggled against the oncoming gusts of wind and made her way to the parking lot at the back of the terminal. Another squall of rain beat down at a crazy angle, each wind-driven drop stinging like a needle.
Second Love Page 64