by Diane Capri
He took a deep breath. He wasn’t really sure what he wanted. He knew that as soon as he told her about his mother, his problems would multiply. He wanted to put that off a bit longer and maybe forever. So he chose a different subject.
“Tell me what you know about Veronica Beaumont.”
Scarlett stared at him as if he’d instantly grown two heads.
“What?” he said, grinning. It was so easy to wind her up.
“Tell me you’re not dating that woman,” Scarlett demanded in the same way she had demanded his complete compliance with everything she’d ever said since the first day they met. He didn’t know how real sisters behaved, but he’d always imagined any sister would act exactly like Scarlett toward a younger brother. “Because if you are dating Veronica Beaumont, you’re in big trouble. That woman is a barracuda. She will eat you alive.”
He grinned again and sipped the Scotch. “You don’t think I can take care of myself?”
Scarlett cocked her head and narrowed her brown eyes. When they were kids, that look preceded a quick kick or sharp punch, but she was across the room and couldn’t reach him right now. He imagined shooting lasers that pierced his throat and almost laughed out loud.
“I’ve known Veronica Beaumont for years. I’ve seen her go through one man after another, usually leaving them in a crumpled heap by the curb. She’s taken down much stronger dudes than you.” She pointed down the corridor, toward his bedroom. “Definitely don’t be bringing her back to your place. She’s like a black widow or something. You don’t want that bad karma in your house.”
This time he did laugh before he let her off the hook. “Don’t worry. I met the woman only once and she is definitely not my type.”
Scarlett’s face contorted into something much more fierce than a frown, but she said nothing. She would get him back for teasing her. But she’d do it when he was least expecting it. More effective that way. He made a mental note to stay on his toes around her for a few days.
“What’s your professional opinion of her? She wants me to find a guy.”
Scarlett leaned back and relaxed a bit. She was always comfortable when discussing business. Like Flint, she was one of the best investigators around, and she could handle herself. Service for Uncle Sam had prepared them both well for this line of work. They made a good team, although they didn’t work together much these days.
“Veronica can definitely afford your fees. No worries on that score.” She paused. “She’ll be a pain in the ass to work with, but so are you.”
He laughed again and she lifted her glass in a mock toast. “What else?”
Scarlett pursed her lips and shook her head. “I’ve met the boy. Veronica’s son. He goes to Maddy’s school. He’s very sick. Some kind of leukemia, I think. The rumor is that he needs a bone marrow transplant and they can’t find a donor. Is that the problem she’s asking you to solve?”
Flint hadn’t actually talked to Veronica about the case yet, but that was a good guess.
Scarlett shrugged. “A mother will do almost anything to save her kid. I can’t even imagine how I would handle that. If Maddy was as sick as Veronica’s boy.” She paused and bowed her head a moment. “If it’s the father she wants you to find, that makes sense. See if he’s a match. Why can’t she just call the guy and ask?”
“I suspect she doesn’t know where he is. Maybe not even who he is.” Flint arched his eyebrows and Scarlett returned a knowing look. “We both know that relatives are eligible bone marrow donors only about seventy percent of the time, though.”
“What about a public appeal? Or is that too much negative publicity for the queen of fashion?”
He shrugged. “She’s got enough money to hire anyone she wants. She’s tried to find the guy and come up empty, I gather, from what little I know so far.”
“So she’s turned to you because she thinks you can do what no one else can.” Scarlett shook her head and drained her glass and rolled it between her palms. “Well, the problem is, we all know you can do it.”
“How is that a problem, exactly?”
Scarlett stood. “We’ve had this conversation a hundred times. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.”
Flint was pretty sure she was talking about more than finding Veronica Beaumont’s ex. And he knew she was right. He’d been wrestling with a similar question before she arrived. He could find his mother. But should he?
“So if I take this on, can you help me out or not?”
She sighed, but she didn’t say no. “What do you need?”
“I’m not sure yet. After I meet with Beaumont, I’ll have a better idea.”
“You know where to find me.” She left her empty glass in the kitchen on her way out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Red Maple Lake, California
Six Years Ago
Josh was using visual flight rules and traveled below radar. He hadn’t filed a flight plan because it wasn’t required and he’d seen no need to do so. All of which meant he wasn’t communicating with air control towers, even if there were any out here, which he figured there weren’t.
Ahead of the storm, it was a beautiful day for flying. Visibility was sufficient to see and avoid obstacles and other aircraft below eighteen thousand feet. They needed to get up over the mountains, but they didn’t need to cruise higher than ten thousand feet to reach Red Maple Lake.
They spent the flight time catching up on their lives since they’d seen each other last. Josh didn’t mention Veronica or the abortion because he knew they wouldn’t approve. Hell, he didn’t approve. But he’d seen no other way, then or now.
As he listened to Dan and Skip share stories about their families, he wondered if he’d been wrong. Would he have made a decent father to Veronica’s baby?
He shook the thought from his mind. Regrets were useless. The decision had been made a while back and it was not changeable now. Still, he wouldn’t tell his friends. Nothing to be served by feeling their judgment at this point.
He laughed at Skip’s stories of his daughter’s cute shenanigans, and he whistled at Dan’s exaggerated tales of sexy nights with his fiancée. But Josh had searched his soul and could find no lost love in his heart for Veronica.
Half an hour from Red Maple Lake, a weather front moved in quickly from the northeast. Rain ran in streams across the windshield. He flipped on the screen heater to keep humidity from condensing on the glass.
The storm drove the plane sideways. He couldn’t hold it on the rudder, so he resorted to rolling back onto course after each barrage. The same went for the pockets of air that momentarily stole the lift from the wings. The plane dropped a few feet each time. The fall shoved his stomach into his mouth. It must have done the same to the others because the conversation inside the cabin all but stopped. He was glad they’d arrive soon and get out of the weather.
The sun was low on the western horizon as they approached. They’d passed the beautiful and enormous Lake Tahoe a while back and continued south. Fallen Leaf Lake was behind them now, too. According to the maps, Red Maple Lake would be coming up soon.
“I hope this clears up by tomorrow. I can’t wait to fish the lake,” Dan said. “My buddy who told me about the place? Showed me some amazing pictures when we did that fly-in last year up in Canada.”
“Any chance we can do some water sports while we’re here? I brought my wetsuit just in case,” Skip said, sounding like the big kid he actually resembled in every way.
“If this rain doesn’t let up, you’ll need the wetsuit just to use the outhouse,” Josh said.
“What outhouse? I thought this was a luxury resort,” Skip whined. Dan laughed.
Winds buffeted the wings and tossed the Cessna in a stomach-sickening thrill ride.
Josh circled the lake so he could get a visual of the landing site. The lake was a reasonable size and he could land the floatplane in a relatively short distance, but the water looked rough. No whitecaps but lots of chop. The lake
was ringed by mountains, so he would have to drop fast and level off over the water before touching down.
The crosswind had picked up. Turbulence lifted the nose of the plane. Rain pelted the windshield.
During the circle recon flight, Dan pointed out the posh campground they had booked for the week, barely visible where it was set back from the lake amid the trees. “Looks like that’s it. I thought it would be bigger, though. Weren’t there more outbuildings in the brochures? Where’s the heated swimming pool?”
They had considered other lodges and facilities, but the smaller, more remote, exclusive Red Maple Lake Resort was primo, according to Dan’s friend. In the planning stages, they’d all seen the appeal of time spent in the wilderness, away from all modern civilization.
“Man, this is gonna be sweet!” Dan said, rubbing his hands together like a gleeful munchkin. “That hot tub. At night, after fishing all day, the cold mountain air, a cold beer. The very definition of man heaven, isn’t it?”
Skip laughed. “Having a wife and kid around to make you feel loved is great. Don’t get me wrong. But I am really looking forward to some peace and quiet and something to talk about besides domestic stuff.”
“Zip it, guys. I need to concentrate,” Josh said. He glanced toward Dan in the copilot seat. “Everybody snug up your harness. It’s choppy down there. We could be in for a few bumps.”
“You got it,” Dan said. Josh saw him make the adjustments through his peripheral vision.
Josh pulled on his own harness. It flopped off his shoulder. Dan saw his problem and looped the belt around the winder mechanism, shortening the belt. Josh nodded. “Thanks.”
Skip should have been seated behind Josh, but he had been out of his seat and taking pictures throughout the trip and as they’d circled.
“All belted in back there?” After a couple of beats, Josh said, “Skip? Got your harness snugged up?”
“I’m on it,” he replied, but his voice seemed to come from Dan’s side of the cabin.
“Skip. This is important. Get into your seat and get your harness on. Now.”
Josh’s tone was harsher than he’d intended. He wasn’t exactly worried. He was a good pilot. He’d trained in flight school while Dan and Skip were working their way up the civilian corporate ladder. He’d had some of the best training in the world and he’d flown for years. But a new landing zone always presented some wrinkles, and this landing was going to be as wrinkled as an elephant. He took a deep breath. He could do this. No problem.
He took one more circuit of the lake. The easiest way in, between the mountains, would put him sideways into the wind. The alternative was to fly straight into the wind so he didn’t have to account for the crosswind, but that would mean dropping like a stone from above the peak dominating that side of the lake. He chose the lesser of two evils and headed for the easiest way. Between the mountains it is.
He was still facing a few-hundred-foot drop to the lake, followed by leveling out and landing. He took a deep breath and crested the mountain at eighty knots and less than fifty feet above its craggy summit.
He pushed the yoke forward, plunging the aircraft. Dan groaned at the unnatural drop.
A recorded voice calmly announced, “Gear up for water landing.” Josh nodded. Roger that. The wheels were up, floats were down. So far, so good.
The plane’s speed accelerated in the descent. He resisted the temptation to back off the throttle. Speed was life, he reminded himself.
Below the level of the mountains, the crosswind changed direction. Some effect of the bowl shape of the lake, probably. He leaned the plane to the right as he pulled back on the yoke to level out the aircraft.
The Cessna’s wings rocked. He kept pulling back on the yoke. Slowing their descent was harder than he’d envisaged.
The ground whipped away under him. The lake stretched in front. The nose of the aircraft was still too low for the lake’s choppy horizontal surface. He pulled hard, his fingers gripping the yoke and both arms straining.
The nose climbed slowly. The lake was broad and wide and long. Too late, he realized his eyes had deceived him.
The last moments of any landing went by in a dizzying blur. He’d heard it explained with trigonometry, but all pilots knew it as ground rush. He glanced at his airspeed. The water below him wasn’t solid ground, but at ninety-three knots, the surface would feel as hard as iron.
And it was sweeping up too fast.
He jerked the yoke right to bring the wings level and kicked in some rudder to counter the crosswind.
With the load on the wings, the plane reacted slowly. Too slowly.
The right pontoon hit the water. The shockwave traveled through the aircraft structure and almost ripped the yoke from his hands. He bounced back in his seat, and his harness spilled over his shoulder.
The impact had been hard and level. The pontoon had been almost horizontal. The force pushed the aircraft back up, out of the water. Like a stone skimming across a river.
He fought the yoke. If he could keep the aircraft level he had another chance, but it rolled sickeningly to the left.
The water below him seemed to slow.
He rammed the throttle full forward. The impact with the water had stolen all his speed.
There was no way he was going to get airborne again.
The next few moments seemed to pass simultaneously with sickening speed and excruciating slowness—the zone where the world whipped by but his thoughts couldn’t keep up—like a slo-mo film.
He twisted the yoke and hung on. He was a passenger now. Like Dan and Skip. The plane was no longer flying. It was a ballistic projectile and it would suffer the same fate as all ballistic projectiles.
Terminal impact.
The left pontoon slammed the water. The pontoon was almost level, but the plane was leaning ten degrees. The asymmetric force sheared off the float.
The left side of the plane dropped. The wing dug into the water.
The noise was deafening. White spray was everywhere. A pounding force rammed Josh’s face into the yoke.
The engine died.
The nose of the aircraft dove down into the water.
The plane cartwheeled.
Without a tight harness to hold him in place, the force shoved Josh into the instruments.
Something heavy snapped behind him. It sounded like a tree limb, but the screaming that followed told him the snap was something else.
The aircraft lurched to a halt.
It pushed down into the water and surged back up.
The Cessna tipped forward again. The engine was the heaviest component of the plane and the Cessna’s nose began to sink, lifting its tail in the air.
The weight of the water was forcing the air out of the cabin.
Dan was still strapped into the copilot’s seat. He groaned between gasps. Skip cried out with pain from somewhere in the back.
Josh felt the adrenaline running through his body and recognized it for what it was. His limbs felt energized. His heart pounded hard against his sternum. All senses were on full alert. Except for a few scrapes and bruises, he was unharmed.
Normal time returned.
He unlatched his harness and heaved himself out of his seat. He had to open the rear door. If they sunk, opening the door would be all but impossible underwater. They’d never get out. He wasn’t quite ready for a watery grave.
The left pontoon had been sheared, which meant the left side of the Cessna would sink first. The right side would stay out of the water a bit longer. The doors were on the right side.
He steadied himself as well as possible, found the latch, and leaned his shoulder into the door. He pushed it open. Water would soon begin to flood the cabin.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Houston, Texas
Monday
Veronica Beaumont’s offices dominated the section of Houston where all the trendy, successful businesses battled for attention. Flint approached the front entrance like a man headed for
the guillotine. He walked through the revolving door and felt it suck shut behind him with a whoosh, as if he might not keep going without a shove.
“Ms. Beaumont is expecting you, sir,” the man at the security desk said as he handed Flint a temporary visitor’s badge to pin on his lapel. “Take the executive elevator all the way to the top. Someone will meet you there.”
Flint’s boot heels punctuated his walk along the granite tile. Another security guard stood by the elevator door. He pushed a special release button and the door slid silently open. Flint stepped inside and the elevator shot to the top, leaving his stomach on the ground floor. The elevator opened onto a reception area. A fashionably emaciated-looking woman greeted him with a wide smile created by expert cosmetic dentistry framed by fat lips courtesy of Houston’s best plastic surgeons.
“Mr. Flint?” she asked as she pushed back from her desk. Her legs ran all the way to her neck and her skirt barely covered her ass. “Right this way. Ms. Beaumont is expecting you.”
He liked his women with a little meat on their bones and natural body parts. He wondered what kind of man would be attracted to a woman like her as he followed the receptionist down a series of corridors to a door that opened into a private conference room. The rectangular conference table filled most of the space. There were shades covering the floor-to-ceiling windows and the lighting was dim. A seventy-inch television screen was mounted on the wall.
Veronica Beaumont was sitting at one end of the table holding a small remote control. She did not stand up.
“Thank you for coming.” She waved to a chair on her left. “Have a seat.”
Flint might have remained standing simply as a gesture of defiance, but it seemed rather childish. He pulled the chair away from the table and sat, ankle resting on his opposite knee, hands clasped in his lap. But his temperature was rising, so he said nothing. Doing a favor for Maddy was one thing, taking orders from Veronica Beaumont was something else altogether.
“I have something to show you and we’ll talk after that,” Beaumont said. She pushed a button on the remote and the TV screen came to life. A recorded television news program, with a date line from almost seven years ago, began.