Deadly Echoes

by Philip Donlay

  Donovan reached out with the hook, snared the steel ring on the buoy, and hauled it up to deck level. Dashing from the cockpit, Erica threaded two lines through the heavy iron ring and then eased it back over the side. The Irish Wake came to a gentle stop as the lines gathered up the tension. She checked that everything was securely tied off on either side of the bow before returning to the bridge to shut down the engine.

  Cloaked in fog, they’d easily sailed into Canadian waters and were now less than two miles from the Sidney, British Columbia, airport. As predicted, a small, slow-moving boat had drawn no attention from anyone. Erica had explained that where they were wasn’t the most popular or the busiest harbor, which suited their needs perfectly. Using the ship’s nautical charts, Donovan had calculated that from the airport, they needed a plane capable of flying two hundred miles northwest and then back again.

  “Help me launch the dingy,” Erica whispered. “You take this side. I’ll take the other.”

  Donovan began removing the straps from the inflatable run about while Erica climbed up and began to release the lines that secured the davit. Once everything was free, she hooked the davit to the harness, and with the electric winch, hoisted the smaller boat out of its cradle, swung it out over the railing, and lowered it into the water next to the hull. Donovan leaned over and released the winch cable, grabbed a bowline, and eased the dingy astern to the swim platform.

  Donovan had loaded the backpack with a few essentials. The pistol he’d taken from John’s house, as well as the extra ammo, binoculars, dry socks for the two of them as well as the rain gear, plus an assortment of energy bars and bottled water. The final item was a dark-blue baseball cap which he pulled low.

  “Let’s go.” Erica joined him and took the line from his hand.

  Donovan carefully stepped into the dingy and sat down. Erica yanked twice on the starter rope, and the small outboard sputtered to life. She spun them around and headed toward the fog-shrouded shore.

  Erica found the marina and pulled the dingy up to a section of the dock reserved for the boats moored in the harbor. She maneuvered them in close, cut the engine, jumped out onto the dock, and tied the dingy to a cleat. Donovan stepped onto the immovable dock and immediately felt a sense of relief wash over him. Only when the stress and tension were lessening did he realize how much fear had built up in his body. He shook it off, found his land legs, and together they walked toward shore.

  “It’s early. We might be the only ones around,” Erica whispered.

  “Which way is the main parking lot?”

  “Up this path to the left. Do you have any idea how to steal a car?”

  “Yeah, it’s a small town, you find the one with the keys inside.”

  On their third try they found an unlocked twenty-year-old Ford pickup with the keys stashed in the overhead sun visor. Once a light blue, the truck’s rundown appearance made it impossible to tell if it had been there a month or an hour. All Donovan cared about was that it ran. The engine turned over and started on the second try. When the radio blared to life, Erica cranked the knob to a lower level. Donovan put the Ford into gear, switched on the windshield wipers and headlights, and drove out of the parking lot. The first street they approached looked like it would take them south toward Sidney and the Victoria airport.

  They didn’t have to go far before Donovan turned the truck onto a road that fed into the airport property. They followed the road as it curved around the perimeter fence off the end of runway two-seven. In the distance, Donovan saw a collection of hangars, both large and small. The ramp held a few scattered airplanes. As they slowly cruised past the different buildings, Donovan spotted a parking lot down a side road. He made the turn, pulled into the small lot, and shut off the engine.

  “This weather doesn’t look like it’s getting much better. Are you sure it’s going to clear up enough to fly?” Erica asked. “Or should we be thinking about driving?”

  “The edge of the system shouldn’t be far away. The coordinates are at least a seven-hour drive each way, maybe more, plus we’re on an island in a stolen vehicle. We can’t afford that much exposure.”

  “How do you think Garrick got up there?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. Garrick must have found someone who knew all of the details about the transportation part of the operation. I’m thinking Garrick and his men flew in on a bush plane, one that was expected. Otherwise, there’s no way Garrick gets the upper hand with armed poachers.”

  “Listen,” Erica said as she turned up the volume on the radio.

  “Recapping today’s top story out of Vancouver. Police have released more information about the five people found murdered downtown. It’s unknown yet exactly when the murders took place, but witnesses at the scene said the smell coming from the apartment was what prompted a call to the police. The identities of the four men and one woman have yet to be confirmed. The five were found shot in an upscale loft in the Yaletown section of downtown. There have been no official reports of suspects or that any arrests have been made. Detectives on the scene did acknowledge that they couldn’t rule out a connection to this crime and a recently released video of black bear poachers being murdered for their alleged crimes against the environment by the global organization Eco-Watch. One unnamed source from the Ministry of Environment was quoted as saying that they’re still looking for the location in the video, and that evidence at the Yaletown murder scene may aid in that search. We’ll have more on this story at the top of the hour. Now stay tuned for today’s financial news.”

  “Garrick murdered those people, didn’t he?” Erica said as she turned the volume down.

  “Yeah, it sounds like they’ve been dead for a while. They’re probably the ones who knew where the poachers were and how to get to them. Garrick or someone working for him killed them.”

  “Are we too late? Do you think the authorities have the same coordinates we do?”

  “I don’t know, but we don’t have any choice but to find out.”

  “What if the place is crawling with police?”

  “Then we turn around and get the hell out of there.”

  “A judicious retreat might work, but first things first, how do we steal an airplane?”

  “Hand me the binoculars.” Donovan spotted some activity and wanted a closer look. He held out his hand as Erica reached into the duffel bag.

  Donovan adjusted the focus as he surveyed a hangar that was about a hundred yards away. The doors had just opened, and two men on a tug were getting ready to pull an airplane from the hangar. As Donovan inspected the equipment, he could tell it was a maintenance bay, various airplanes inside were in different stages of disassembly. The airplane they were about to wheel out was a Cessna 185, a rugged, high-winged tail dragger favored by many a bush pilot. Donovan estimated he had logged nearly five hundred hours in the 185 during his time in Africa. The Cessna would be perfect.

  The linemen pulled the red-and-white Cessna away from the hangar and parked it at the edge of the ramp. A mechanic ambled out and checked all the cowling fasteners. Then he did a slow careful walk-around before hauling himself up into the cockpit and starting the engine.

  As Donovan waited, the mechanic finished his run-up and shut down the Cessna. He climbed out, gave it one last walk around, then clipboard in hand, headed back toward the hangar. Next to the hangar sat several fuel trucks, Donovan memorized the operator’s information painted on the side.

  “Erica, give me your disposable phone. We need to make a call.” The moment the phone powered up, Donovan dialed the number.

  “Good morning, Victoria Aerocentre. How can I help you?”

  “Good morning,” Donovan said smoothly. “Is this operations?”

  “I’ll connect you, one moment.”

  “Operations. This is Brandy.”

  “Hello, Brandy, I hope you can help me. My boss’s Cessna is in for maintenance, and it’s scheduled to be finished this morning. He plans to fly later today, and wan
ted me to check on it for him, a Cessna 185, foxtrot-tango-papa-mike.”

  “Sure, let me check.”

  Donovan kept up a steady scan of their surroundings while he waited.

  “Hello, sir,” Brandy came back on the line. “It looks like they’ve just finished running the airplane. Once they complete the paperwork, it should be ready to go.”

  “Oh, perfect,” Donovan replied. “Can you make sure they top off both wing tanks and add that to the bill?”

  “Will do.”

  Donovan ended the call, powered the phone down, and turned to Erica. “One problem solved. Once they fuel the plane, we need to be ready to make our move.”

  Erica pointed to the north. “I’m starting to see some blue sky.”

  Donovan studied the horizon and through the patchy ground fog, he could see the sharply defined edge of the higher overcast, which meant as soon as the Cessna was fueled the weather may have moved far enough southeastward. He heard the heavy fuel truck growling through its gears before he saw it, but moments later the red-and-white Esso truck motored into view and eased to a stop in front of the Cessna.

  “I guess I should ask if you can fly that thing?”

  Donovan turned and gave her a look of disbelief, slightly annoyed that she’d bothered to even ask the question. He didn’t think she was really concerned, more like nervous chatter. She didn’t like giving up control any more than he did. “Keep in mind we’ve gone to a lot of trouble to get here. Do you really think I’d jeopardize everything by screwing up the part I do for a living?”

  “I know, it’s just that I thought the plane we’d steal would somehow be—bigger.”

  “It’ll be fine.” Donovan watched as the linemen pumped fuel into both wings and then reeled in the hose, climbed into the truck, and drove off the way he’d come.

  “See that dumpster over there by the fence?” Donovan waited until Erica turned, saw what he was looking at, and nodded. “The only security camera I’ve seen is on the building behind us, and none seem to be pointed in this direction. We’re using the dumpster to go up and over the fence. Then we walk out to the plane. No running, just act like you belong.”

  “What makes you think the keys are in the airplane? Airplanes have keys like cars and boats, right?”

  “It’s actually easier to hotwire a Cessna than a car. It’ll take me less than thirty seconds. Do you have anything sharp I could use to strip insulation?”

  Erica nodded, dug in her bag, and came up with some nail clippers. “Would this work?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Here, I almost forgot.” She pulled out a handful of thin latex gloves. “Put these on. I found them on the boat. In fact, before we go, let’s take a moment and wipe everything down. I don’t want to go to jail for stealing a crappy old truck.”

  Donovan pulled the gloves on, tested his dexterity, and then nodded that he was good.

  Erica unfolded two cloth napkins she’d taken from the boat, and they quickly wiped the truck clean of fingerprints.

  “Ready? Once this starts we’re going to move fast,” Donovan said.

  She leaned in and kissed him, her lips lingering momentarily before she pulled away. She took her knitted beret and slid it on, then tucked her ponytail inside. She put on her sunglasses and turned to face Donovan. “Let’s do this.”

  Donovan pulled his cap lower, slid on his sunglasses as well, and stepped out of the truck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Donovan went over the fence, then pushed free from the strands of barbed wire at the top, and landed harder than he expected. The force of impact resonated up through his bad leg and jarred his spine. Erica landed catlike from the top of the fence. He picked his bag off the ground, lowered his head, and they walked exposed across the ramp toward the Cessna, something he’d done thousands of times, but never with the intention of stealing.

  He opened the cockpit door. Erica crawled in first; Donovan followed, then closed and latched the door. He tossed his bag in the back, slid his seat forward, and took a moment to scan the ramp and make sure they hadn’t drawn anyone’s attention. Everything seemed normal.

  The controls and switches were identical to the 185s he’d flown before, but the radios in this airplane had been updated. He was relieved to see a GPS receiver. One last sweep of the switches and he was ready. Fourteen thousand hours of flight time gave him the confidence to understand what he faced, and more than one narrow escape gave him the wisdom to know he needed to stay sharp in an airplane he hadn’t flown in over fifteen years.

  “Can we go?” Erica broke the silence. “Or do you need a little more time to do whatever it is you’re doing?”

  Donovan ignored her, though he did appreciate that as her stress levels went up, so did her sarcasm, always a helpful mechanism against freezing up and becoming useless. He wondered if it was from her medical training. He probed under the panel until he felt the small bundle of wires that led to the ignition. One swift yank and they were free. He leaned down, and using the clippers, stripped the plastic insulation off the ends of the wires. He switched on the battery, pushed the mixture all the way in, double-checked the fuel, and then touched the ignition wires to ground.

  The propeller jerked to life and spun until the three-hundred-horsepower engine purred to life. Donovan twisted the leads securely together as the engine oil pressure climbed into the green. He flipped switches, adjusted the trim, set the flaps for takeoff, and picked up the microphone. He made one more quick check of the instruments then cleared his throat and prepared to alter his voice. All the transmissions on radio frequencies were recorded, and he preferred to remain unidentified.

  “Victoria ground, this is Cessna foxtrot-tango-papa-mike. We’re parked at Aerocentre, taxi for takeoff, VFR eastbound, over.”

  “Roger, foxtrot-tango-papa-mike, turn left out of Aerocentre, taxi to and hold short of runway three-one. Altimeter 1004, calm winds.”

  “Papa-mike, we copy, hold short of runway three-one.” Donovan slid the microphone back in its holder, released the brakes, and the lightly loaded airplane only needed a nudge of the throttle to begin moving forward.

  Donovan checked the flight instruments as they rolled to the hold short point for runway three-one. Each transmission from the tower, and Donovan expected the worst, that they’d been spotted and would be ordered to return to the ramp, or worse, airport security vehicles would surround them with guns drawn.

  Donovan switched the frequency on the radio, turned to Erica. “You ready?”

  She nodded.

  “Victoria Tower. Foxtrot-tango-papa-mike, ready for takeoff, runway three-one, request eastbound departure.”

  “Foxtrot-tango-papa-mike. Wind calm, cleared for takeoff runway three-one, right turnout after departure approved.”

  Donovan acknowledged the clearance, advanced the throttle, and swung the single-engine Cessna out onto the runway. He double-checked the flaps and trim settings, and satisfied all was good, he pushed the prop control to the stops and then eased the throttle forward. They surged forward and the Cessna quickly accelerated down the runway. Donovan’s toes lightly danced on the rudder pedals to keep the airplane on the centerline as the tail came up and then he eased back on the controls and the airplane lifted from the concrete. The 185 clawed skyward and out of eight hundred feet he began a turn.

  As he climbed, Donovan was relieved to see the backside of the weather front had slid a little more to the south. As far as he could see to the northwest, the horizon was free of clouds. Behind them was nothing but low clouds, fog, and rain. He leveled the airplane at fifteen hundred feet, announced to Victoria tower that he was departing the area, and then turned to the GPS and began to enter Garrick’s coordinates into the navigation system. Once the calculations were complete, Donovan put it up on the primary display. They were one hundred ninety-two miles southeast. At their present speed they would be overhead in one hour and twenty-two minutes.

  Donovan looked outside. To the eas
t, beyond Puget Sound, the snow-capped Cascade Mountains pushed up through the overcast into the sunshine. Vancouver Island was fifty or so miles wide and to the west was nothing but thousands of miles of open ocean. He reached around and found one of the navigation charts he’d taken from the Irish Wake. He opened it and smoothed it out on his leg. It gave him basic topographical information. Donovan eased the Cessna into a gentle bank and lined the airplane up to track their course.

  “How far away are we?” Erica asked.

  “One hundred eighty-nine miles.” Donovan pointed to the display.

  “Have you given any thought to this being a trap?” Erica asked. “One where Garrick is waiting for you, that this is where he intends to kill you and, by default, me as well.”

  “It’s crossed my mind, but I don’t think so. It’s not the grand finale that someone like Garrick would go for. He’s using these hints to maneuver and manipulate me.”

  “That part of his plan seems to be working pretty well.”

  “He’s also trying to split me off from the authorities while pushing my buttons. I think he hopes I’ll be reckless.”

  “He seems like a genius to me.”

  “That’s exactly what we want him to think.” Donovan shot Erica a rare smile. “He’s already made his critical mistake. He just doesn’t understand it yet.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He thinks he’s this anonymous voice on the phone, but, thanks to you, I know exactly who I’m dealing with. And maybe his biggest mistake of all is that he has no idea you’re still alive.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Donovan circled the coordinates, making a steep turn three thousand feet above the terrain. Below them were tree-covered hills, lakes, creeks, and a logging road that led from one clear-cut area of timber to another.

  “I don’t see anyone down there at all,” Erica said after she lowered the binoculars. “In fact, I don’t see a single sign that anyone was ever here.”