by CJ Petterson
Deadly Star
cj petterson
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2013 by Marilyn A. Johnston
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6489-2
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6489-5
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6490-6
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6490-1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com; istockphoto.com/befehr
For Jeff, Johanna, and Maggie Rose
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
About the Author
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Also Available
Acknowledgments
This book is a consequence of my sons, Mark and Jeff, having no doubt I could write the story and my determination to not let them down. The idea came from a “what-if” comment that Jeff made. It took him all of about a minute and a half to ask a question that sent me on a year’s long quest to research and develop the story line. Although the science in the story has a bit of basis in fact, it is much more a product of my imagination than reality. I hope.
I owe a debt of gratitude to Mahala Church and Linda Busby Parker, who labored with me to keep the story lucid. Special thanks to Rebecca Barrett for volunteering her reading skills and for her encouragement. Thanks also to the wonderful Mobile writers who critiqued the many drafts and to Sisters-in-Crime Guppies Steve Liskow and John Gordon.
Thank you Jennifer Lawler, Jess Verdi, and Katreina Knights of Crimson Romance for making the publishing process an enjoyable experience.
And to Tracy Hurley, my critique partner whose brilliant star blinked out way too soon, I say, Woo Hoo! Here it is, girl.
CHAPTER ONE
I am not going to die. I am not going to die. Mirabel squeezed her eyes shut as the plane’s wheels lifted off the tarmac of the small landing strip on the outskirts of Mendocito, California. Her throat worked, but she couldn’t swallow her fear of leaving the ground with nothing but a thin slice of sheet metal beneath her.
“Nothing personal,” she said. “I mean, your Cherokee is beautiful, but couldn’t you get something bigger than a four-seater?”
Dan stripped his headphones off one ear. “Sure, but first we’d have to drive to Sacramento.”
“If I weren’t such a procrastinator, I’d have driven all the way to Las Vegas.” She rubbed her fingers across a deep crease between her eyebrows. “Didn’t you, uh, make some kind of unplanned landing not long ago?” she asked, her voice straining over the thunder of the engine.
“The engine’s been completely overhauled since then. It’s mint.” He patted her hand. “Relax. It’ll be a smooth flight. You won’t have to hike out of the desert. I promise.”
Mirabel watched the ground fade away and gulped down a wave of nausea rising at the same rate as the plane. She dropped a wintergreen antacid button on her tongue and mumbled, “I’ll hold you to that,” as the plane leveled off. She released her grip on the seat belt, flexed her long fingers, and watched the blood return to warm her white knuckles. “Besides, who’ll take care of my cat if I don’t come back?”
“You don’t have a cat.”
“I’m planning to get one.” She watched Dan’s eyes slide from her auburn curls to her white camp shirt then down to her khaki shorts and hiking boots. “What? Did I spill something?” She brushed at the front of her shirt.
“No. Just curious. You going to hike Red Rock Canyon?” he said.
“There’s an idea, but no; I’m flying comfortable.”
“Okay, you don’t play the tables, so what’s a scientist like you going to do for fun in the gambling capital of the U.S.?”
The pitch of the Cherokee’s engine vibrated in her eardrums, and she had to lean forward to catch his words. “Not much this go-round. I’m going to deliver my final report on genome research to the International Research Conference Saturday morning, then there’s an amateur astronomers’ convention I want to visit. I’m hoping someone can ID a new starry twinkle I spotted a few nights ago. After that, maybe I’ll see a show. I might even drop a few coins in the slots.”
“Sounds too thrilling for words.”
Mirabel chuckled. “Try to contain yourself. It’s Vegas, and when you hook up with your old pal Sully, you won’t be bored, I’m sure.”
“You got that right. Why don’t you join us? Put a little excitement in your life.”
“Research is exciting.” She watched the corners of his mouth curve down. “Okay, sometimes it’s exciting, but I like my life just the way it is, thank you very much. Unlike some people I know,” she said and nudged him, “pipettes don’t give me any grief.”
She slumped back down in her seat as the drone of the motor filled her head and made conversation problematic. Mom was right, she thought. People are like cats; they tend to get weird when they stay alone too long. I’m living proof of that. She jerked up with a gasp when the engine hesitated and then coughed out a billow of smoke.
Dan touched a knob, and the engine evened out to its reassuring loud hum. He leaned back in his seat and grinned at her.
Tension drained out of her shoulders. I’d love to be a fly on the wall when you and Sully get together. The men shared a special friendship she envied. Twenty-five years divided the two, yet they were so close they sometimes finished each other’s sentences, filled in punch lines with over-the-top laughter.
When she’d divorced Sully, she worried that she’d chased Dan away, too, but that hadn’t happened. She examined Dan’s profile. High cheekbones, strong chin, coppery hair cut military short. Handsome in a weathered way. A true and faithful friend is a treasure above all others, she thought and wondered who’d said that.
“Hey,” Dan said. “You over there with
that Mona Lisa smile. What’re you thinking?”
“Just wondering if I should alert the local constabulary that you and Sully will be together and on the loose Saturday. Do me a favor. Don’t call me for bail money.”
“Used to be you were right in the thick of things.” He sent a concerned look her way.
She shook her head and looked away. To be honest, she thought, I do miss Sully. He was fun to be with. Or maybe I just miss people. After I left that Irish whirligig, I let my social life spin down to zip, nada. Not that Mendocito even has a social scene.
“You can’t hide away all of your life, you know. One day you’ll take a look around, and whoosh! Everybody will be gone … passed you by.”
“If you’re referring to Sully, he didn’t pass me by. I divorced him.”
“Yes, and then you buried yourself in your work.”
“Don’t you start — ”
An explosion and a burst of dark smoke shocked Mirabel into open-mouthed silence. She watched the propeller spin to a halt. “What happened? What just happened?” she yelled.
“Sounded like the engine blew,” Dan answered calmly. He knocked his fingertip against the circles of glass on the instrument panel. The needles clung to zero on the dead gauges. He pushed and pulled on the knobs as he worked to restart the engine.
Mirabel pointed a trembling finger toward the immobile prop blades. “You … you said you rehabbed the engine,” she stammered. “You said it was in mint condition.”
“It is … was. Why don’t you push your seat back and tighten that belt.” He sounded calm, as if he had just told her to get ready for a bit of air turbulence, and then called, “Mayday! Mayday!” into the mic. “This is November Six Niner Seven Alpha, heading — “ He stopped and tapped his earpiece at the same time Mirabel fixated on smoke seeping from the instrument panel. “Radio’s dead,” he said and peeled off his headphones.
The plane was losing altitude. As Dan worked to deadstick the Cherokee down, he talked to Mirabel, explained what he was doing when he twisted the trim control knob. “I’m turning the plane into a glider. Keep us from going in nose down.” The plane wobbled, wanted to roll. Dan wrestled with the stick to keep the wings horizontal. His legs pumped the left and right rudders.
“We’re not going to make it, are we?” she said in a breathy voice. Oh, God, please. I’m not ready.
“Not much wind. Our best chance is to come in straight, not crab in sideways,” he said, scanning the array of gauges with unmoving needles in their faces.
She nodded as though she understood what he meant. “Good thing I have on clean underwear.” Her laugh caught in her throat like a sob.
He turned off the fuel and electrical systems then jammed his door ajar. He squeezed her hand for a brief second. “Wish us luck.”
“Luck,” she rasped and breathed a silent prayer as the desert floor rose in horrific slow motion to meet them.
The tires blew when the wheels hit the ground. Mirabel gurgled out a scream when something snapped with a loud crack. The plane lurched to one side.
“There go the struts,” Dan yelled as he wrangled with the stick.
A wing and the tail section splintered off the fuselage. One propeller blade sheared off; the other dug its own grave. Sand battered her window as the prop plowed a ragged furrow in the sand. Mirabel crossed her arms over her face.
The impact buried the plane’s nose in the sand. The windshield shattered. The glass in the doors popped out.
Her body slammed forward against the seatbelt. Air whooshed out of her lungs, then she submarined under the belt she hadn’t pulled tight enough.
The plane shuddered to a stop. Smoke plumed out of the engine. The acrid smell of overheated engine oil stung her nostrils. She clawed open the seatbelt buckle and pounded her shoulder against her door. Wedged shut in the crush of metal, it wouldn’t budge. When no fire erupted, she fell back in the seat. A low whimper escaped her throat as relief swept over her. “We made it,” she whispered and turned to Dan.
His head lolled forward. A drool of foamy blood spilled over his lip and terminated in a widening red stain on the military-press creases in his ice-blue shirt. Like the horns of a bull, the control stick yoke was buried in his chest.
“Dan! No, no, no, no, no.” She clawed the cellphone off her belt, stabbed her finger across a string of buttons, then hurled the chunk of dead electronics to the floor.
She tried to push out of her seat and realized she couldn’t move her leg. A shard of metal was impaled in her left thigh just below the hem of her hiking shorts. It was too soon for pain, but she knew it was coming. Mirabel gritted her teeth and with a sound that was half moan, half yell, yanked the strip of molding out of the flesh. Her body quivered as pain rushed in, and grayish muscle tissue filled the hole left by the stake. Blood oozed from the edges of the wound, while the bulging muscle acted like a plug and stemmed the flow. “Oh, God.” She started to pant. Breathe, Breathe.
The pain ebbed a notch, and, when she could move, her fingers struggled with Dan’s seatbelt until it fell away. A growl escaped her throat as she pushed forward against the control stick that refused to move. Desert winds drove superheated air into the cockpit. She wiped her sweaty hands on her shirt and tried again.
Dan halted her with a touch. “Stop … please,” he whispered. “Toolkit backpack. Take yoke off.”
She dragged the backpack around, found a screwdriver, then worked to fit the tip into the screw heads on the yoke. Some had sheared off, and she didn’t have the strength to ratchet out the others. “I can’t get it off,” she wailed, but Dan was out again.
Mirabel flung the tool to the floor then held onto his arm, watching him breathe. Each shallow, barely perceptible breath sent red bubbles drooling out of the corner of his mouth. “Hang on, Dan. Please. You’ve got to hang on.” She fell back in her seat and, for the first time, looked at the devastation around them. The cabin was a tangle of scrambled wires, metal, and glass — horrifying and awesome at the same time. How did we end up in a pile of plane wreckage baking in the desert sun? It’d been two short days before that she’d asked her old friend Dan Harbin to fly her to Las Vegas. She wanted extra time to work on her presentation for the conference, and Dan was willing to fly on short notice.
“Well, Miz Campbell,” the retired Navy captain had said, “as long as you pop for the gas, I’m happy to be in the air. And a weekend in Lost Wages is long overdue.”
“Thanks,” she’d said and sealed the deal with the prerequisite handshake. As she tilted up on her toes to kiss him, she murmured, “And that’s Doctor Campbell to you, you old jet jockey.”
Dan chuckled. “Actually, this is perfect. I planned to meet Sully at the Bellagio on Sunday, and now I get my trip paid for.” He fended off her slap at his shoulder. “Just kidding, just kidding. I don’t want your money. Just having you along for the ride will be payment enough.”
“You are such a BS-er.”
When Dan had turned over the engine that morning, he’d said the weather was perfect for flying — good visibility, almost no wind. Yet, two hours later, they were sitting in a pile of hot metal half buried in sand. So much for not having to hike out of the desert, she thought.
Mirabel rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands until she saw stars then took a shuddering breath. “Dan, come on. Wake up and tell me what to do.” She began to pant. “I can’t sit here and watch you die.”
Her hands scrubbed unseen debris out of her hair then pounded against the cabin ceiling and the dead gauges on the IP. Her voice lifted in a scream made harsh with fear. “I have to get out! Let me out!” She pushed against the door that wouldn’t budge. Her heart raced up into her throat, choking her. She squeezed her eyes shut and rocked. Her chest hiccupped with stuttering breaths. “I want out,” she mewled. The sound of her own voice forced her ey
es open. She realized she was in the midst of a panic attack.
“Think, Mirabel. Think!” She dragged air into her lungs. Her breathing evened out. When her pounding heart slowed, she whispered, “Okay. I’m okay. I can do this.” She studied the destroyed equipment. “Do what? Check the supplies. I need to check the supplies.”
Her eyes moved around the cabin, searching until she spied a small, tan backpack with two strips of crisscrossing red tape on it wedged under Dan’s seat. She wriggled it loose, fingered through the contents: gauze, antiseptic salve, a handful of sterile pads and bandages, a pocket-sized Swiss Army knife, scissors, tweezers, and a small bottle of aspirin. Then she spied a single thermal blanket folded into a four-inch square still in its vacuum-sealed plastic baggie.
Biting into an edge, she tore open the packet and gathered the silvery folds of the wafer-thin sheet around Dan. A half dozen water canteens and three flares littered the floor of the back seat. She reached around, hefted the canteens, and looked inside each. Two were empty, one nearly so. “Three, maybe four days if we’re really stingy.” But she knew that was more a prayer than a guess and also knew food would have to be the snacks she’d packed in her overnighter.
She patted her fingertip around the hole in her throbbing thigh. The bulging muscle was still doing a good job of stemming the flow of blood. She slathered a gob of antiseptic salve across the top of the wound, gritted her teeth against the sting, and wrapped her leg in layers of gauze.
“You okay?” Dan mumbled.
“’Bout time you woke up.” She sniffled and swiped at the wetness on her cheeks. “I’m okay, doing good. How about you?”
“Hurting some.” His voice was strained, tight with pain. “Water?”
She held the canteen out in front of him then pulled it back. “There are bubbles in the blood on your mouth. You’re bleeding inside. Could be some broken ribs have punctured a lung. I don’t think I’m supposed to give you a drink.” She moistened a piece of gauze and squeezed the cloth, sending water droplets into his open mouth, then cleaned the blood from his lips and chin.