by Peter Parken
He knew he could easily swim by himself underwater again, underneath the nylon canopy to the outer edge, but there was no way Shelby had the energy for that. And he didn’t want to leave her alone to tread water while he swam for help.
So, they were stuck in this tiny opening, treading water, and Shelby was getting more and more tired by the second. Nate continued hacking away at the nylon—hard work because he had to use one hand to hold the material and the other one to wield the knife. All the while treading water with just his feet.
Suddenly, she was there—diving in from the shoreline.
He knew that Brenda had survived their fall. Shortly after they hit the water, she came out of her daze. The force and temperature of the water had snapped her out of it. Nate ordered her to swim to shore, which was only a forty yard jaunt, while he dove under the parachute to search for Shelby.
But now Brenda was coming for them. She reached the outer edge of the floating parachute and grabbed onto it tightly. She yelled, “Hold onto the edge you’ve cut! I’m going to pull you in!”
And she did—inch by painstaking inch, she dragged the cumbersome nylon sheet, swimming backwards with just her feet, both hands on the edge of the chute. The more progress she made, the faster they were traveling. Once she got past the ‘dead in the water’ inertia, the canopy moved faster and Brenda’s task became easier. Nate and Shelby just held on tight.
Once on shore, they had all just collapsed to the ground. And then they enjoyed a group hug. A jeep arrived along the shore and drove them back to the airfield; no one said a word about what had happened. No one even wanted to think about it. What almost happened to the three of them, but particularly Brenda, was too horrifying to consider. All Nate knew at this point was that he was never going to jump out of a fucking plane again—he didn’t care how much Shelby still enjoyed it or how much she begged him. He wasn’t going to do that again. It was a suicide mission.
But more than two hours had gone by, and now they had to think and talk about what happened. They had hung around for that very reason. Brenda and Shelby wanted to take a look at Brenda’s parachute sack once it was found. They had to know.
Nate saw the Jeep pull up out front and Brenda ran out to greet it. She came back in with the sack in her hand and dropped it on the floor in front of them.
“Are you up to this, Shelby?”
Shelby nodded and pushed the blanket off her shoulders. Then she knelt down on the floor beside Brenda. “Let’s go real slow, Brenda—unfold it very carefully, and let’s look at each fold.”
Nate got down on the floor beside them and watched as their expert hands went to work. They knew exactly how a parachute should be folded and packed, and from what Shelby had told him, even one fold out of place could cause catastrophic failure.
It didn’t take them long. Just three folds in, they saw it. One fold was going in the opposite direction, and the pilot chute was stuffed underneath this particular fold with two of the suspension lines wrapped around it. With the pilot chute disabled, there was no way the main chute would have opened—the little pilot chute’s job was to be first out of the sack, grabbing onto the wind and pulling the main chute out behind it. The pilot chute was trapped in a way that it would never have seen the light of day.
Brenda gasped. “I pack my own chutes—there’s no way I would have ever packed it like that! I would have had to have been stoned at the time to fold it that way!”
Shelby opened up the compartment for the reserve safety chute. These reserve canopies were much smaller and they didn’t have to have pilot chutes in order to open. But—this one had been clearly sabotaged, too. Folded in the opposite way from standard accepted practice, there was no wonder it didn’t open either.
Shelby’s face had gone completely white. She whispered, “Brenda, go get the tandem chute out of your locker. We’ll look at that one, too.”
Nate rubbed Shelby’s back. “You okay, hon?”
“No, I’m not. I feel a chill again.”
Nate reached behind him and dragged the blanket off the chair. He wrapped it around her shoulders as Brenda returned with the tandem sack.
The girls went through the same procedure for both the main canopy and the reserve chute. Once finished, they just sat back and stared at each other.
Brenda spoke first. “One parachute packed that way is tough enough to explain, but both parachutes? That’s almost impossible to fathom. Someone wanted me to die today.”
Shelby lowered her head into her hands and started crying. Nate pulled the blanket around her tighter and kissed the back of her head. “Shelby, thanks to you, no one died today. You were in control the entire time. We owe our lives to you.”
Brenda crawled over to Shelby and hugged her hard. “It’s okay. Let it out. Today was a shock for all of us. But Nate’s right—we both owe our lives to you. I couldn’t believe it when I looked up and saw the two of you diving toward me. I’ve never seen such a precision freefall before in my life—thank God you did the most perfect manoeuvre today instead of some other day. And even though you’re an expert skydiver, I doubt if you could ever pull that off again—it was amazing. I hope you never will have to do a stunt like that again!”
Shelby lifted her head and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“No one wanted you to die today, Brenda. It was me they wanted.”
Brenda and Nate just stared—mouths hanging open in shock. Nate broke the silence. “What do you mean? It was her chutes that were tampered with.”
“They thought they were tampering with my equipment. The locker Brenda uses is actually my locker. Locker number 213 is my locker. Remember, Brenda, you asked me to trade with you about three years ago. You’ve always been so superstitious about numbers, and the numbers in 213 add up to 6, which you said was your lucky number. So, I traded with you.”
Brenda’s hands flew to her mouth. “God, I’d forgotten! But, that was so long ago!”
Shelby nodded. “Yes, it was. But the official record still shows me as the renter of locker 213. And I pay that rental fee every month. And you’re paying the rent for the other locker: the one I use—the one that’s in your name.”
She wrapped the blanket around her chest and pulled it up just under her chin.
“I was supposed to die today. Not you.”
Chapter 40
It was another late night for John Fletcher. Why he was putting in such long hours at work, he didn’t quite know. There was really no point anymore. Maybe it was because he didn’t have Linda to come home to. Or that their beloved house had burned to the ground and all he had to return to now was a depressing rental. No sense of ownership or belonging anymore.
He almost always came home on time when Linda was alive. They rarely missed having dinner together. It was like a daily tradition for them—talking about their day, all the little things they did: the silly things, the important things, and all the things in between. There was always something to talk about. But, sometimes they didn’t even talk at all. They didn’t need to—just being together had always been enough for both of them, and once in a while silence was a special treasure, a comforting sense of tranquility.
Sometimes after dinner, accompanied by coffee and maybe a liqueur or two, they enjoyed a game of chess together. John was a really good chess player and it had always been hard to find someone to play with who could challenge him. So, ten years ago he’d reluctantly taught Linda to play—she begged him, he groaned, she begged him some more. He figured it was just a passing phase—that he’d spend hours and hours teaching her this difficult game, she’d enjoy it for a while, then give up. And he knew that after he beat her a few times she’d definitely throw in the towel. And, for John, playing chess with a rookie who would probably take five years to reach his level of play, it would be a boring experience every time she asked to play.
Well, was he ever surprised! After the teaching was over and the real games began, it only took Linda about twenty matches b
efore she started making him sweat. He knew his wife was clever, but he really didn’t think chess would be something she’d rise to. She wasn’t known for her patience and chess was one of those slow-moving games that required gobs of patience and endless waiting.
John smiled as he remembered the first time she put him in checkmate. He’d just stared at the board, not believing what had just happened. And there she was, dancing around the living room, happier than a child on Christmas morning.
She was thrilled that she beat him and, at the very moment of that victory, John developed new respect for the love of his life. And while he didn’t relish being beaten, he was delighted that he now had a chess partner who could give him a run for his money. It was no fun playing someone whom you could easily beat. There was no challenge or sense of satisfaction in that.
John turned onto his street and rubbed the cuff of his shirt across his eyes. Tears came easily these days—it didn’t take much. A scene in his mind, an image of her smiling face, the sound of her voice haunting his memory. Anything at all would bring the tears. He knew time would be a big healer, but he didn’t have much time so he figured that this was probably the way it would be for him the rest of his days. And that was okay. He had no reasons to be happy, so he might as well experience at least one emotion.
Well, there were actually two emotions that now dominated his being: sadness and anger.
The anger wouldn’t go away either. And now that he knew so much more—including the name of the NSA spook, a plan would soon formulate in his mind. He couldn’t wait too long because he just didn’t have that long.
John pulled into the driveway of his two-storey rented house, a far cry from the beautiful home that he and Linda had nurtured for most of their adult lives. She’d had the garden looking so lovely before she died—she was so proud of it, and John was proud of her for it. He was glad there was no garden to speak of at this house—he would only regret that Linda wasn’t wielding her magic.
He forlornly got out of his car, trudged up to the front door and inserted his key. Turned the handle and stepped inside. He sighed as he tossed his briefcase onto the bench in the hall and wandered down to the kitchen. A beer might be nice—it was still so hot outside, and inside it wasn’t much better. The rental house didn’t have air conditioning, so sleeping at night wasn’t pleasant.
They were waiting for him in the kitchen.
Sitting at his kitchen table with pistols in their hands aimed directly at his head.
They were big guys, both bald, with tattoos that marred their necks and even the tops of their heads.
John just stood in stunned silence. He stared at them. Funny, he didn’t feel afraid at all—in fact, it didn’t even really surprise him all that much. But he didn’t know what to say, so he just waited. And he couldn’t move—not with those guns aimed at his head.
One of the tattoo twins decided to speak. “Mr. Fletcher, we’re going to go down into the basement. We have things all set up for you. Please move.”
John turned around slowly and walked to the basement door. He flicked the light switch and began the steep walk down. This basement was just a storage room—nothing was finished down there and there was lots of junk left over from the last tenant.
He could hear their heavy footfalls behind him. When he reached the bottom he saw right away what had been ‘set up’ for him. A noose was hanging from a steel beam which ran across the underside of the ceiling. And a stool was positioned underneath.
So, he was supposed to commit suicide tonight. It occurred to him in that instant that Carl Masterson had finally discovered that John was dying. And that there was no motivation for John to remain silent anymore. So he was a danger that Masterson hadn’t foreseen. And he was right. John was a danger.
He also realized in that instant that these two men couldn’t leave any marks on him. They wouldn’t shoot him, they wouldn’t beat the shit out of him—those things would ruin the suicide angle. Just like the murder of Alexei Dragunov: twenty-four other people had to die that day on the rollercoaster to ensure the illusion of an accident instead of a murder. And the murder of John’s wife—disguised to look like an accidental gas explosion. They, whoever ‘they’ were, were going to great lengths to make murders look like accidents.
In his case, they’d decided to make his murder look like a suicide. Smart choice—his wife was dead, his house was gone, his son was estranged from him, and he was dying of a brain tumor. Suicide would be believable.
He walked into the middle of the basement room, followed by the two killers. He just stared up at the noose and, for one insane instant, he smiled. He looked back at the two of them, and said, “Isn’t that cute?”
One of the men said, “Let’s just do this the easy way, Mr. Fletcher. It won’t take long and if you don’t struggle, you won’t feel any pain.”
“Really? Have you ever had a noose around your neck? Do you know what it feels like?”
The other guy was getting impatient. “We’re wasting time. Just stand up on that stool and we can get this over with.”
John knew what he had to do. He was in his sixties, but was in excellent shape. And he had a hard head. He’d discovered that when he was a boxer in college. Had taken countless hits on the head that would have knocked lesser people unconscious. But not John—he’d become known as the boxer who no one could knock out. His notoriety as a boxer had gained national attention—qualified for the U.S. Olympic team, but had to drop out due to a knee injury. John still worked out at the local gym and even sparred once in a while. He wasn’t what he used to be, but he was still pretty darn good.
But that head of his was still very hard.
John shook his head. “No, I’m not getting up on that stool. You’ll have to drag me up.”
The impatient one stepped forward. But the other one put a hand on his shoulder. “Be careful. No marks. Be selective.”
John felt a burning rage in his gut. An anger was building inside of him such as he’d never experienced before. He could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins as it occurred to him that these might be the same guys who had driven off in the car the night that his lovely Linda died. The guys who blew up his house while Linda was calling down to him from the upstairs window. John felt his fists clenching, fingernails digging into his palms.
Then he just turned around and ran full tilt into the wall. Full force. His forehead connected with the wood joist and he bounced backwards and fell to the ground. He was slightly dazed, but not too much. That famous hard head had served him once again. He reached up and could feel the wetness of blood oozing out of his forehead.
“Jesus! Are you crazy, man?”
John got to his feet and stared at them. “Yes, I’m crazy. Come and get me. I challenge you to drag me up onto that stool. But, gee, how are you going to explain this lump on my forehead and all this blood? Kind of hard to get those if you’re hanging yourself, don’t you think?”
The impatient one moved toward him again, gun in hand. John met him halfway and grabbed the barrel of the gun. He rammed it up against his own forehead. Then he seethed, “Come on, you piece of shit! Pull the trigger! I dare you! Do it!”
The calm one lurched forward and grabbed his partner from behind. But not before John yanked the gun out of the stunned man’s hand. He figured that this was a new one for these guys—dealing with someone who wasn’t afraid of one single fucking thing, not even the barrel of a gun.
John had the gun by the barrel—he quickly flipped it around and pointed the barrel at the impatient guy. Then he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened—he wasn’t surprised.
He spun the cylinder out of its lock. Sure enough, each of the six chambers were empty.
John smiled at them. They looked back at him, stunned. “I can see that no one was taking any chances tonight. These guns of yours were just props—just to scare me. Couldn’t take the chance of one of them going off and actually causing this to look like a murder, could yo
u?”
The calm one stepped forward. “This is going to happen a different way, Mr. Fletcher. Now that you’ve abused yourself, we’ll have to make your death look like a different kind of suicide. Like off a bridge onto the expressway. That would leave severe bruises. So, don’t be too smug—we can leave all the marks we want now.”
“Go ahead. I don’t give a fuck.”
The impatient one rushed John. He sidestepped him and brought his elbows down on the back of his neck, crushing him to the ground. John could feel the rage surging inside him. He wanted blood, and these fuckers weren’t going to throw him off a bridge, that was for sure. In fact, they weren’t getting out of there alive.
The calm one threw a punch at his face which was easily deflected. John countered with a punch to the man’s gut. He doubled over. They’d clearly underestimated him. Clearly underestimated a man with nothing to lose. That wasn’t the kind of person they were used to killing.
John dashed over to a corner and hoisted up a large spade. He held it in front of him like a javelin and ran full speed at the impatient one who was just getting to his feet. The man screamed at the very instant that the spade pierced his abdomen. John kept his forward motion going and propelled the man back against the wall. He knew he was dead when he could hear the metal of the spade clanging against the wall behind. The spade had gone clear through him.
He whirled around. The calm one had assumed a karate stance. John laughed. “You don’t know who the fuck you’re dealing with, do you? They didn’t tell you that I’m not capable of fear, did they?”
The man started circling, with his hands curling slowly in the air, feet poised for just the right opening. John wasn’t going to give him one. In fact, he was just going to surprise him.
Instead of backing away from the threatening feet that were slightly raised at their heels, ready to spring like a cobra, John just growled and ran at the man. Once he was inside three feet, the man’s feet were ineffective. He tried, but it was a useless gesture.