by Brad Murray
“There!” he exclaimed. He had to unbuckle his seatbelt so that he could lean forward into the cockpit. Jenny followed his pointing finger to the small white dot that was the Porter home.
“Down there. That white farmhouse surrounded by trees.”
“Got it,” said Jenny. She steadily lowered the nose of the airplane. The starboard wing dipped towards the ground and another enormous boom of thunder shook through the cockpit. As they descended towards the farmhouse, a red light flashed on one of the glass cockpit flight display screens.
“Do I want to know what that means?” asked La’Roi.
“Like I was saying,” Jenny said casually, “fuel is a problem.”
La’Roi looked at her incredulously. “Should we be putting on parachutes?”
Jenny ignored him. Her forearms and shoulders tensed and her jaw clenched - the picture of concentration. While the others shuddered and started at each bolt of lightning and each crash of thunder, she remained fixated on her target – the open green field adjacent to the farmhouse below.
Despite the storm, the descent went smoothly. There had been little rain thus far, just a smattering of droplets here and there. But ahead, the dark curtain that extended from the heavens to the ground foretold their luck was on borrowed time. She had La’Roi extend the landing gear as she lined up the Baron’s nose perfectly with the middle of the field. The approach was going more smoothly than any of its four occupants could have hoped.
And then the winds hit.
The plane was shoved hard to the right, as if an invisible fist had punched the port side of the aircraft, knocking it off kilter.
“Shit,” said Jenny under her breath.
She calmly guided the nose back towards the field but before she could get it to center another gust knocked it off course. Jenny knew this final two minutes of the flight would be, by far, the most challenging of her piloting experience. The unstable air made landing the plane like guiding a boat into a narrow dock in the raging seas of a hurricane. Negotiating through the squall meant a continuous stream of adjustments and counter-adjustments. It was non-stop twisting and rolling, blowing port and starboard; snaking, curving, rising up and then spilling down. The trees surrounding the perimeter of the field whipped back and forth, and brown clouds of dirt and sand swept upward from the earth below with startling force.
La’Roi kept his eyes open during the entire approach. But it wasn’t courage so much as it was Jenny’s constant badgering that willed him to do so. The plane dropped like a rock as it passed through a pocket of turbulent air and La’Roi felt his stomach rise into his throat. He gripped the sides of his leather seat like a vice, as if his grip would help keep him planted any more securely than the seatbelt would.
To Jenny’s credit, she kept the wobbling aircraft in line and just a few hundred yards before touchdown they were met with the grey torrent of rain - one last challenge in the gauntlet before they could safely reach the finish line. Each raindrop crashed against the metal airframe, exploding like a firecracker. Water surged onto the windshield but its steep slope and the airplane’s speed blew it off and kept Jenny’s vision relatively clear. Suddenly, just a few feet above the ground, the port-side wing dipped downward harshly. Jimmy instinctively shot his hand to the ceiling to brace himself, but in a flash Jenny had corrected and brought the wings level. A split second later, the wheels touched down on the prairie flatland – first one side, then the other.
“Woohoo!” yelled La’Roi. “Never had a doubt in my mind!”
They roared across the field, chewing up weeds and wild grass as they went. Rain plastered the aircraft as the deluge reached its peak. Jenny brought the throttle the rest of the way down and hit the brakes. She had miraculously guided the little plane to the ground, but had touched down far closer to the field’s end than she had desired. In the distance, a line of black walnut trees marked the end of the field, and the end of their path. Bending and buckling against the storm’s gusts, small branches snapped and dark green foliage blew helplessly in the air. As Jenny and La’Roi eyed the fast approaching tree line, a dark blur on the makeshift runway shot underneath them. A fraction of a second before impact, Jenny registered what it was.
Tree stump.
Standing about two feet tall, the stump had been partially concealed by thick grass and wildflowers. It was the very same stump on which Cooper had sat that snowy day spent shooting clay pigeons.
They might as well have struck a boulder.
The nose gear sheared off just under the airframe, violently pulling the nose into the ground and sending the tail skyward. The nose and underbelly trenched into the earth; metal crumpled and screeched as it was torn away from the airframe.
In the cabin, the plane’s four passengers lurched forward with such ferocity they nearly ripped the buckles from their seatbelts. The propellers from each engine peeled backward in the dirt, leaving a deep, dark trench line of lacerated soil trailing behind. Bits of metal and chunks of the landing gear marked the aircraft’s violent path.
The wind howled. Thunder boomed overhead. Rain splattered hard against the cracked windshield. Mother Nature played its somber death knell; a solemn funeral toll over the dead airplane’s corpse.
25
Today - May 29, 2011
Emma sat pensively on the living room sofa, hands folded in her lap. Her house had been infiltrated a few hours earlier by a motley crew of intruders. They appeared to be led by the elderly couple dressed in white. Across from her, the woman sat broodingly in a wheelchair and adjacent to her, the man sat in the Porter’s raggedly upholstered armchair. The old couple had said little over the past hour, rather, they sat impatiently and glanced at their watches every minute or so. The shockingly crass Irish twins, who had accosted her earlier in the afternoon, stood at the foot of the stairs, a pair of crumpled bodies at their feet.
“The Sisters,” as they were referred to, were vile beings. There was simply no better word to describe them. On the exterior, they were as innocent as a couple of foals; red and gangly, welcoming and naïve. But lurking underneath their innocent surfaces were a couple of demons. Anger stewed inside of them – bubbling like a chemical compound in a beaker – waiting for the slightest catalyst to trigger a violent reaction.
The Sisters had quickly and easily overpowered Emma’s attempt to escape earlier in the afternoon. Emma had instinctively given up resistance, sensing the futility in grappling with either of the pair. But Emma also sensed the Sisters weren’t intent on harming her. They could have pummeled her to death, but they seemed to pull their punches and instead had focused their energy on detaining her.
“Just ye settle down,” one Sister had said.
“Aye, we ain’t gonna hurt ye none,” said the other.
And, save for the swift backhand across the brow when Emma had tried to warn Jimmy on the phone, the Sisters had held to their word. But now, as they loomed over the Russian man and the pretty blonde who lay in heaps at the foot of the stairs, Emma’s instincts about the Sisters’ wickedness were confirmed.
“Don’t move again, ye bald prack,” said one Sister. For no good reason at all, she reared back and kicked the Russian in the gut. He wheezed and curled up in the fetal position. Judging by the looks of their victims, the Sisters had been using them for punching bags for quite awhile – toying with them like cats with a half-dead mouse.
“Leave Dr. Minkowski alone,” barked the old woman in the wheelchair. She glanced at Emma and sighed.
“I’m sorry to have brought the Sisters into your home, Miss Porter,” she said. “Unfortunately it was a necessity…”
“Mrs.,” Emma interrupted.
“Excuse me?” asked the old woman.
“Its Mrs. Porter, not Miss.”
“I’m sorry, it was my understanding that your husband has been out of your life for quite sometime and presumed dead.”
“He’s not dead,” said Emma sharply. “Something happened to him. But I don’t know w
hat exactly.”
“What do you mean?” asked the old man.
“I mean,” sighed Emma, “one day he was here and the next he wasn’t.”
“You’re saying he just disappeared? You never heard from him again?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Sherriff’s Department, state investigators…even the FBI couldn’t find a trace of him. He just…vanished.”
The elderly couple locked eyes for a moment.
“Brumeux,” they said in unison. They searched Emma’s expression for a reaction, but received none.
“Is that supposed to mean something?” Emma asked.
“Benoit Brumeux,” said the old man. “Does the name mean anything to you?”
“No. Who is he?”
“Very likely the man behind your husband’s disappearance,” said the old man. “He’s someone who doesn’t understand the proper order of things. He’s a very dangerous and manipulative man.”
“And he has taken a great interest in your family,” continued the woman. “Oh, there’s no doubt in my mind that Benoit Brumeux was behind your husband’s disappearance. The most likely explanation is that your husband somehow ran counter to one of his plans. I’m sorry to say, Mrs. Porter, it is most likely that Benoit Brumeux murdered him.”
Emma’s head spun. She had no logical reason to believe anything these people were saying – after all, they were holding her hostage in her own home. But, for the first time in over a decade, someone had provided a theory behind Andy’s disappearance. And a culprit. Benoit Brumeux.
It was more than just words; it was clear to her the couple believed what they were saying. But then again Emma thought, perhaps she simply wanted closure all too much and was willing to believe just about anything. All the nothingness - the lack of one single, solitary shred of truth - was enough to drive her insane if she thought about it too much. And now, finally, sitting here in front of her were two people convinced they knew something.
Her heart latched onto the idea. Someone evil and ruthless had killed him. For reasons only explained by the mind’s need to protect itself, the notion that Andy had been murdered was easier to accept than the thought he had simply grown tired of his family and left them all behind. At least with the murder scenario she could hate someone else for taking him from her, and not spiral down the never-ending torturous path of questioning what she had done to make him want to leave on his own.
“How do you know this?” asked Emma. “How do you know this man is behind Andy’s disappearance?”
The woman sighed and glanced at the old man briefly before replying. A low rumble of thunder shuddered mutedly in the distance.
“Mrs. Porter, allow me to begin again - to start anew with you. We have been so focused on the danger Brumeux currently presents that we have forgotten our manners. I’m afraid we owe you a sincere apology. To force ourselves into your home and hold you against your will in the manner in which we have is…well, there simply aren’t words to properly characterize our regret. But all of this was necessary. We couldn’t be too careful.”
“Too careful about what?” asked Emma.
“Allow me to properly introduce ourselves. I am Letta. And this is my brother Lars. We are here today because of Benoit Brumeux. We are here to protect you from him.”
Emma studied Letta intently, as if searching the old woman’s face for a crack that would expose the truth.
“Didn’t feel like you were protecting me when those Irish thugs of yours forced me to call my son. Didn’t feel like you were here to protect me when they told him they’d slit my throat and then slapped me when –“
“Our apologies for that. I will admit, the Sister’s decorum leaves a little to be desired,” said Letta with a sheepish grin. “But they mean well. And you must understand we believe your son to be in danger. The safest place for him is with us, and the Sisters used the most effective means they knew of to get him here and out of harm’s way - as quickly as possible.”
“Why is Jimmy in danger? My Jimmy’s done nothing to this Brumeux guy…”
“Mrs. Porter, our organization has been tracking Benoit Brumeux for years,” said Lars. “We’ve watched as he has built quite the empire for himself. But it’s the means by which he’s built this empire that is so concerning. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, he wouldn’t do to accomplish his goals, no matter how perverse they may be. He uses people up and discards them like yesterday’s trash once they are no longer of use to him. He’s imprisoned and tortured those who’ve run counter to his initiatives. He’s killed many people who have stood in his path – your husband likely included.”
“Why?” asked Emma. “What does he want?”
“He wants to control everything,” said Letta. “He wants to rule the world.”
Letta turned her head and nodded to the crumpled up pair of bodies lying at the foot of the stairs.
“We captured a couple of his people a few days ago. The Sisters have been able to extract very valuable bits of information from them. Including the fact Brumeux has been stalking your family for years.”
“Stalking?”
“Mrs. Porter, are you familiar with the name Roger Ramstein?”
“Of course,” said Emma her brow furled with concern. “He’s our neighbor and one of our closest family friends and –“
“And an employee of Brumeux,” said Lars.
Emma’s face twisted in a mixture of different emotions. From confusion, to shock, back to confusion.
“The man lying on your floor is Dr. Dmitri Minkowski – one of Brumeux’s most trusted confidants,” said Letta. “It was through his interrogation that we discovered the truth surrounding Brumeux’s interest in your family. Ramstein’s real name is Traugott. Are we correct in stating that the man you knew as Roger Ramstein became your neighbor a short period of time after you moved into this house?”
Emma’s mouth hung open, trying to find words that wouldn’t come. “Roger – he – he – yes, he moved in a few months after we did. But I can’t – “
“And would we be correct in assuming Mr. Ramstein has always seemed to make himself available to you – never seeming to stray further away than the proximity of his house; your family never going long without seeing him? And can I presume he even made himself more engrossed with your family after your husband disappeared?”
“Roger was there for us!” barked Emma, tears beginning to form in her eyes. “He’s always been there for us when we need him.”
“Exactly,” said Lars. “Mrs. Porter, I regret to inform you that Roger Ramstein is, in effect, a spy; reporting your every movement to Brumeux. He is stationed here – just down the road – to keep a watchful eye on you.”
“According to Dr. Minkowski,” said Letta, “Brumeux believes your son possesses unique qualities in his blood that would be extremely valuable in his possession. He wishes to extract and replicate those qualities in order to further build his empire. Brumeux believes your son holds the keys to ruling the world.”
Emma rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger in contemplation. She then moved to rubbing her temples as if relieving a migraine. The only sound in the room was the droning background noise of the living room television.
“I can only imagine how difficult all of this is to take in,” said Letta.
“I’m not taking it in,” barked Emma. “I’m not listening to a word of it. Do you honestly expect me to believe you? You break into my house, hold me hostage, and then try to convince me that my husband’s dead. You tell me my son is being hunted by a power hungry madman, and to cap it off, that one of the people I trust most in the world isn’t who he says is? I’m just supposed to believe that? ”
Emma rose to her feet and pointed angrily, defiantly towards the pair. She hoped that Ram was standing outside peering through the windows taking in the whole scene. She hoped he was picking up on the fact that the strangers in her living room had invaded her home and were holding her against her will. Sh
e hoped he’d see her little defiant fit of anger and would come busting through the back door to save the day.
“If you so much as touch my Jimmy, I swear I’ll kill both of you!” She could hear the lack of confidence in her voice as it cracked; the authoritarian presence she had in mind had come up woefully short.
The Sisters were at Emma’s side in an instant, as if sprung from coils simultaneously at the inception of her outburst. Letta gave them a stern look; a heed for them to stand down.
“I understand your desire to protect your son,” Letta said coolly. “We only want to help you in that endeavor. We hope –“
“Look!” said one Sister. “The accident on the interstate.” She pointed at the television.
“Turn it up.”
A young platinum blonde reporter on the local television news station was chirping eagerly about a major accident on Interstate 44, as overhead shots from a news helicopter surveyed the carnage. The other Sister fiddled with the remote, turning up the volume.
“…an unidentified toxin that has baffled authorities. Reports are coming in that emergency response teams were also affected by the toxin cloud, which not only hindered rescue efforts but added to the number of casualties. Tests have concluded the toxin cloud has dispersed and air quality has returned to normal. Authorities continue to route interstate traffic around the accident scene, as the site will be investigated over the coming days.”
“Brumeux’s handy work, no doubt,” Lars nodded to his sister.
Emma scoffed. “You really make this guy out to be capable of terrible things,” she said with the clear hint of cynicsm. “He sounds like the second coming of Hitler.”