by Peter Parken
Tom jumped in. “Nate, we need to talk about who would benefit from sabotaging us. And there are several candidates, sad to say.”
“Yes, there are. But…I’m not finished yet, Tom. I wasn’t at a business lunch today when you were looking for me. I was meeting with a senior person I know down at Emergency Services. I demanded to know why the ambulance at Adventureland was unattended. And I also wanted to know why it took so long for additional ambulances to respond.”
Tom cracked his knuckles. “I’m bracing myself.”
“Well, apparently, the two ambulance attendants who parked the ambulance at the site, disappeared, never to be seen again. They were employed, with impeccable credentials, only two months before the accident. Parking the ambulance that day and abandoning it, turned out to be their last job. References were checked when they were hired. All came back fine. After the accident, those references were checked again, only to find out that the phone numbers were out of service.”
Ron shook his head and cursed. “Fuck! This is way too weird!”
“Yeah, ‘fuck’ is right. And ‘weird’ is an understatement. But, brace yourself for this…the reason the other ambulances took so long to get to our accident site was because exactly two minutes before our accident an emergency call went out for assistance at a twelve car pile-up on the Woodrow Wilson Bridge caused by an overturned tractor trailer. All available units were dispatched.
“Only to find out that there was no such accident. It was a false alarm.
“Somebody went to great pains to make sure that there would be no emergency assistance at Adventureland that day. It’s almost as if everyone on that rollercoaster was supposed to die.”
Chapter 14
John Fletcher pulled into the driveway of his modest home in Georgetown, a beautiful historic section of Washington. He noticed right away that his wife, Linda, had been busy in the front garden. Splashes of color were everywhere—places where he had never seen color before.
Last week, she’d wielded her magic in the backyard, looking nicer now than in all the years they’d owned the old house.
Instead of getting out of the car, John turned the volume of the radio up a notch and reclined his seat. He wanted to take a moment or two to savor his favorite song—their favorite song: The Way We Were—and no one could sing that song quite like Barbra Streisand. The melodic range of her voice caused his eyelids to relax and close.
Yes, ‘the way we were,’ he thought. Retirement was something he and Linda had been planning and looking forward to for years. They had been married for forty years—a lifetime—and he loved her as much today as he had on their wedding day. A beautiful church service—he could still picture his gorgeous bride in her flowing white dress, the very one that her mother had worn on her wedding day.
They were both so happy—planning their lives together. And working so hard over the years to reach this point—ironically, the point where he now had just one more year to live.
Two years ago, when his oncologist had given him the death sentence, he hadn’t really believed it. He had very few symptoms, and death just seemed so unreal, so impossible. But, brain scans over the last two years confirmed that the tumor had continued to grow and the symptoms had become much more regular. The thing had a life of its own and it was stealing his in the process. He knew the end time for him was coming—and coming fast.
Linda had taken good care of him. At first, she’d fawned over him, treated him like an invalid. Until one day John got angry—told her that if she was going to constantly remind him that he was dying he couldn’t bear to be with her. Couldn’t bear to spend whatever time he had left watching her feeling sorry for him.
It broke his heart to tell her that. But he did it to get her attention—he never had any intention of leaving her. He just didn’t want her looking at him that way and treating him that way. He wanted to retain some dignity and wanted their lives to be as normal as possible right up until the end.
She said she understood. And her actions since then showed that she did. In fact, she went in the opposite direction—started planning for what they would do years down the road, talking about what life would be like once John retired. Denial. And then she just poured her wonderful heart into every little hobby she could put her mind to. Gardening was the first thing she studied—took courses and bought all the tools. Her persistence was paying off. Their garden was starting to look like it was right out of a page from Home and Garden Magazine. Bless her little heart.
Around that same time, she became a voracious reader. Linda started reading anything she could get her hands on. Then joined a book club, attending meetings every week. Most book clubs met once a month, but this club was made up of readers just as voracious as Linda and one of the requirements of the club was that a new book would be reviewed every week. It was just what Linda wanted—to take her mind off what her and John were going through.
Several months before, though, she had finally started referring to the inevitable again—instead of trying to pretend it didn’t exist. Not in a negative way though. One night she sat down beside John on the sofa, took his hand, and said, “Let’s do the bucket list.”
John was in shock. Didn’t quite know how to answer her at first. Then he said, with a profound sadness in his voice, “We can’t afford it, sweetheart. I have to keep working.”
She rubbed his forehead, and then kissed it tenderly. “We have to find a way.”
The subject was never raised again. But he knew that she knew he was right. If Linda had any expectation of having a comfortable lifestyle after he died, she needed him to work until the end—sad as that was.
The song ended, but Barbara’s lovely voice still reverberated through his mind. John kept his eyes closed, totally relaxed now, a nice time to think.
He had no regrets about the past. He had married his dream girl and they had loved each other deeply for decades.
But then John caught himself—yes, he did have one regret. The fact that he and Linda were estranged from their son. He was living in Europe somewhere and they hadn’t heard from him since he’d gotten out of prison a decade ago.
Their son, Vincent, had been in and out of the juvenile system for years. Raising him had been a nightmare for both he and Linda. He was a bad seed. Dealing drugs at a young age, breaking and entering convictions—then that night of the liquor store robbery it all came to an inevitable end. Someone finally got hurt—badly.
And John burst into Vincent’s bedroom to discover him and his buddy counting the cash. Loaded handguns on the bed beside them. John had heard news reports just a few minutes earlier about a young cashier with a gunshot wound in the abdomen. Her partner, a young man, had been pistol-whipped into a concussion. John knew who had done the deed—knew in his heart and soul—and that sixth sense caused him to barge into Vincent’s bedroom.
John didn’t hesitate. He phoned the police and turned his son in.
Luckily, the two liquor store employees had lived, and they identified Vincent and his friend in a police line-up. Ten years in prison was the ‘tough love’ that John had helped deliver to his son. But he knew that it had been the right thing to do—it broke his heart, but his heart broke even more thinking that his son had caused such harm to innocent people. John was Doctor Frankenstein, and Vincent was his monster. He’d finally decided that he no other choice but to cage the monster.
His son never forgave him. Linda did, though. And as far as John was concerned, that was all that mattered.
With his eyes still closed, he shook his head in sadness. Life had dealt him some wonderful cards, but it had also delivered some unfathomable sadness. Was the tumor his punishment for throwing his own flesh and blood in prison?
And there he was—a year left in his life—still married to the only woman he’d ever truly cared about and all they could afford to do was wait. Wait until he died; wait until the NTSB sucked the last working hour out of him.
And there he was also—thin
king about how he’d done the right thing twenty years ago, turning his only son over to the authorities. Yet, he’d just signed an accident report that he knew was a lie, signed a report that he knew would sink a decent company and ruin the reputations and lives of countless people who had done absolutely nothing wrong.
He, John Fletcher, a man who had always prided himself on doing the right thing. But, this time he couldn’t, because he was being held ransom by a death sentence and the need to keep this stupid job so his wife could live on comfortably after he left. He needed Linda to be happy after he was gone. He wanted her to be looked after and not having to worry about anything.
This time he was doing the wrong thing—for the right reasons. But, it made him feel ashamed, made him feel like he had sold his soul. For the sake of ‘national security.’ How on earth could a rollercoaster accident affect national security? And who could have pulled off such a professional sabotage…and why?
The car was still running and the radio was still on. The soothing music had stopped and the news had taken over. The top headline was the wildfires in California, and the story went on to discuss how the years of drought in about half of the United States were nowhere near to coming to an end. That this was the ‘new normal,’ apparently.
Some towns were less than two years away from running out of water completely. And others had already resorted to attempting to purify sewage water to recycle as drinking water. There were no new sources of water anywhere on the horizon—and the rains weren’t expected to ever come back to anywhere close to the extent that they were needed. The distribution of rain around the world had changed—countries that had suffered through hundreds of years of drought, were now seeing rain. And other countries that had always been able to count on plenty of moisture were now seeing drought. The scales had tipped—the world was being rebalanced, it seemed. First World countries were reverting to Third World status, slowly and inexorably. And the United States of America seemed to be one of the first victims of this rebalancing act.
Crops were dying in the fields, irrigation water was in limited supply, and there wasn’t even enough water to properly fight the massive fires.
For a morbid second, John wondered how much longer the human race would have after he was gone. Did Earth itself have a massive tumor that was growing in an unstoppable fashion just like what was expanding in his brain?
He thought about his conversation with Tom Foster the other day—the engineer at Flying Machines Inc. How desperate and shocked the man sounded when John had explained what his report was going to say. How indignant he was when John told him that the determined cause was a faulty weld in the track. Foster insisted there were no welds on that section of the track—and of course John knew that he was right. But, he couldn’t admit that. He had to remain silent.
John remembered hearing the hurt in the man’s voice, the despair in his tone. John understood. And then the absolute desperation in his protests when John confirmed that the wreckage had already been hauled away to a location that he couldn’t identify. Hauled away, as John painfully knew, so that no one else could look at the track and see that the steel had clearly been melted. Not snapped. Melted.
And the entire mess was due to be dumped into the sea in just a matter of days, somewhere off the coast of Florida—most likely closer to Cuba. No one would ever have the chance to see the atrocity. The evidence would be gone forever. The innocent people at Flying Machines Inc. wouldn’t stand a chance. And John knew in his gut that something very sinister had happened—this wasn’t mere sabotage. There was something else going on. That spook from the NSA was too smug, too arrogant, too unconcerned.
Once again, the memory of TWA Flight 800, from way back in 1996, tugged away at John’s conscience. He had kept his mouth shut then. It was, even back then, the wrong thing to do for the right reasons.
And here he was doing the same thing again. History was repeating itself. The wrong thing for the right reasons. And with only one pathetic year left in his life.
At least when he’d sent his son to prison, it had been the right thing to do for the right reasons.
John reached down and pushed the power seat button—brought himself back into an upright position and then switched off the ignition.
He squeezed the temples of his forehead as he got out of the car. Pounding today, just pounding. He walked up to the front door, inserted his key and opened the door. Linda was in the front hallway adding some water to flowers she’d picked and lovingly assembled in a vase. She ran over to him and gave him a big kiss. A lingering one.
“I was worried about you. You’re late.”
“Had some things to do, hon. Everything’s okay. Actually, can you go with me somewhere for just a few minutes?”
Linda looked at him suspiciously. “Is this a good thing?”
“Yes, indeed. It is most definitely a good thing, the right thing. I’m just going into the study for a second—need to write something down. Be right back and then we’ll go.”
John was back in a flash with a piece of paper in his hand. “Okay, let’s go, hon.”
John drove for only about five minutes—enough time to get them to a nearby mall where one of the few remaining phone booths still stood in ancient glory. A monument to a simpler time. A friendlier time.
He parked, and then turned his head to face Linda. “We’re going into that phone booth and I want you to do the talking.”
Linda squinted her face. “Darling, we have cellphones.”
John shook his head. “Can’t use a cellphone. And we can’t use our landline. Has to be a phone booth.” He handed her the sheet of paper. “When the man answers, I don’t want you to identify yourself—just read these words.”
Linda scanned the page and her mouth opened in shock. “John, what’s going on? And why don’t you talk to him yourself?”
“I can’t. He might recognize my voice. And if the call’s being listened in on, someone else might be able to identify me.”
Linda’s hand was shaking as she stared at the single sheet of paper. “I don’t understand these words. They look ominous. Why will I be saying them? Why are you being so secretive?”
“Linda, do you trust me?”
“Yes, of course I do!”
“Then, just do this for me. Please?”
Linda paused for just a second, and then leaned in close to John and kissed his cheek. “I’ll always do anything for you, you know that.”
They both got out of the car and walked up to the phone booth. Before they went in, John glanced around to make sure no one was watching them.
The coast was clear.
He pulled the handset out of the cradle, dropped several quarters into the slot, and started dialing.
Linda grabbed his hand and stopped him. “What if it’s a message machine that answers?”
“Just hang up if that happens.” He continued dialing.
When it started ringing, John handed the phone to his wife.
Then he listened as she read out his written words in a halting, shaking voice. “The wreckage has been hauled to Key West, Florida. It’s at the main landfill Transfer Station. And it will be dumped at sea in a few days.”
John took the phone gently out of her hand and hung it back in the cradle.
Chapter 15
“I’m here to see Nathan Morrell. Would he perhaps have a few minutes for me?”
The pretty receptionist glanced up from her computer and smiled. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I just took a chance and dropped in, hoping he’d be free.”
“I’m sorry—this is such a busy time right now. He only sees people by appointment.”
“Maybe if you give him my name, he might make an exception?”
“I doubt it, ma’am—but I can try. What’s your name?”
“Shelby Sutcliffe.”
The receptionist’s mouth hung open for a brief moment. “I thought I recognized you from the News.” The girl sto
od up and held out her hand. “I’m Cynthia. I’m so pleased to meet you. You’re so brave.”
Shelby smiled politely. “Thank you—but not as brave as your boss.”
Cynthia came around from behind the desk. “I’m going to check with Mr. Morrell. Be right back, okay?”
Shelby nodded and watched the girl hurry down the hall. She then took a seat in a plush leather chair in the reception area. Looking around, she could tell that the company was very successful—she wasn’t surprised. And the artwork on the walls was very unique—all abstract paintings of amusement devices, including Ferris wheels, roller coasters, cable cars, carousels, racecars, and waterslides. No photos; just artwork, probably commissioned by Flying Machines specifically for their offices.
The floors looked like Italian marble, and the walls were adorned with a very subtle grass cloth wallpaper. Hanging from the ceiling above the reception desk, secured by heavy chains that penetrated through the ceiling—presumably anchored right into the concrete above—was an antique rollercoaster train, with five rows of seats. It was bright red with white stripes down the sides. The padded seats were black vinyl and Shelby could see that all these seats had for protection were lap belts—not bars—but actual belts like in a car. She felt a shiver run down her spine. The sight of this train suspended in the air was both frightening and ironic.
“We’re having that removed. I’m sorry you had to see that, Shelby.”
Shelby looked up at the tall, dark-haired man—the one with the voice of a news broadcaster. Her blue-eyed hero was looking down at her for the third time—the first had been from atop the Black Mamba’s second hill, and the second time was while she was lying in a hospital bed.
Shelby stood up and smiled. “It’s a shock to see an ornament like that in an office in the first place, but it does bring back some horrible images. I can see why you’d want to dismantle it now.”
Nate looked up at the suspended train. “Yeah—too bad it has to go. That one has some real history to it—the first rollercoaster at Cony Island. It’s about eighty years old.”