Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers

by Diane Capri

  I’d also begun having second thoughts about allowing Joshua to move into the guesthouse. The place gave me a bad feeling. I kept mulling over the photo of Creepy Dream Guy in the guesthouse bedroom and how Cass had been very reluctant to even step foot on the front porch. And then I recalled Lucas telling me about portals and how they could be found just about anywhere.

  I stopped breathing as a sharp pain hit my stomach.

  I knew where the portal was.

  I grabbed my crutches and hobbled down to the guesthouse. A U-Haul was parked in front.

  I stormed through the front door. Simone stood there in short shorts and a tight tank top. Her hair was pulled back and her face bare of makeup. She was stacking dishes.

  “Evie!” she squealed. “How the fuck are you?”

  “Um, uh, what are you doing here?”

  “Duh!” Her eyes widened. “I’m helping Joshua move in. I am so happy he’ll be here for you. Oh God, is he hot, or what!? I would love to hit that,” she said lowering her voice. “I’m working on it.” She winked at me. “And when you get better, I am taking you over to meet the Sony guys. I told them we needed to reschedule. But I promise.”

  I closed my eyes and counted to three. “Where is Joshua?”

  “In the truck.”

  “Okay. Um, it’s nice you’re helping out.”

  She came over and hugged me. “It’s nice to see you on your feet. And look at me! No makeup! Hurry up and get better.”

  I think she meant it. In fact, I know she did. All of it. “You look great.” And I meant it too. She did.

  “I kind of like the au naturel thing, but I need you. I do!” she whined.

  “I’ll be back in no time. I need to go talk to Joshua now, though.” I hobbled back outside to the U-Haul. I found him unloading a box.

  “Um, hey.”

  Joshua turned, his brows furrowed in concern. “Evie! What are you doing out of bed? You need to be resting. I told you to call my cell if you needed me.”

  “I know, but I had to talk to you. Face to face.”

  “Okay.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead and waited patiently.

  “You can’t move in here.” Yes, I felt like an ass.

  He laughed.

  “No. I mean it.”

  The smile dropped off his face. “What? Why? It’s not because of Garbo, is it? You said I could bring her.”

  This wasn’t going to be easy. “Oh my gosh, no! I love dogs. You know that.” I eyed Garbo sunning herself on the front porch. “It’s just … I don’t know. There’s something about this place, something … not right.”

  He frowned and set the box on the ground, placing his hands on his hips and shaking his head. “We have a deal. Sixty day trial.” He shot me a pleading look, “I have nowhere else to go.”

  “Go to Simone’s,” I snapped, instantly regretting it.

  His head popped up and he glared at me. “Is that what this is about? She’s being helpful. I can use all the friends I can get right now.” He looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on my crutches. “You could too, for that matter.”

  I felt like a complete loser and didn’t know what to say for a minute. I gave it one last try, “I’m sorry. Look, I’m tired and still recovering. But I keep feeling like you moving into this place is a mistake. It’s not that I don’t want you here … it’s just—”

  He interrupted me, clearly having lost patience with the conversation. “We have a sixty day contract. If you want to kick me out when it’s up, then fine. But can I get all my ducks in a row first?”

  I nodded. Defeated in more ways than one. “Yes, of course.”

  I turned on my crutches and headed back to the main house. When I got to the top, I looked back down at the cottage. Simone came out and gave Joshua a hug and then grabbed another box, albeit a small one, out of the back of the truck. He looked up at that moment and caught my eyes. I mustered a smile. He turned away and headed back into the house.

  I went inside my house and plopped on the couch next to Cass. I sighed heavily, “The only way I am ever going to find out what happened to Hannah is to find a way through that portal.”

  Cass lifted her head and then started to lick my hand.

  And the only way I was ever going to see Lucas again and possibly save him from living an eternity in the Black Tier was to find a way there. But I had no clue how that was going to happen. Lucas had been my teacher. He’d taught me all I knew about the tiers, the portals, and consequences … everything. I closed my eyes. Two words came to mind.

  Guardian angel.

  That was the answer. I knew it. I had to find out who my guardian angel was. Once I did, I was positive that I would have the answers I needed.

  The answers that would lead me back to Lucas.

  THE END

  #

  Look for DEAD CELEB #2 coming soon in 2014!

  Suggested Play List While Reading

  Dead Celeb

  Waiting on a Friend (Rolling Stones)

  Rumor Has It (Adele)

  Beautiful Day (U2)

  Buffalo Soldier (Bob Marley and The Wailers)

  Just a Girl (No Doubt)

  No Woman No Cry (Bob Marley and The Wailers)

  Positive Vibration (Bob Marley and The Wailers)

  One Love (Bob Marley and The Wailers)

  Lights (Ellie Goulding)

  Fade Into You (Mazzy Starr)

  Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door (Johnny Cash)

  Edge of Seventeen (Stevie Nicks)

  Careless Love (Janis Joplin)

  Piece of My Heart (Janis Joplin)

  A Note From Michele

  A note to my readers:

  Readers are the lifeblood of what fuels a writer’s career. They graciously spread the word when they love a book, and I am so grateful to have some amazing people who read my books. They send me e-mails letting me know they enjoyed reading my work and also sharing their lives with me. Readers make my passion as a writer that much more sweet. It is always my goal when I start a new book that that book will be a touch point of joy–a book that will entertain and allow a bit of escape from everyday life.

  I hope you enjoy DEAD CELEB. I loved writing it and have been excited to see it get out into the world.

  I also love hearing from readers, so please e-mail me at Michele@michelescott.com and share with me!

  Cheers,

  Michele

  FINAL VECTOR

  ALLAN LEVERONE

  Third Edition

  © 2013 by Allan Leverone

  Cover design by Scott Carpenter

  To be notified of new releases, as well as to gain access to exclusive content and qualify for free stuff, please sign up for Allan’s semi-regular email newsletter via the “Contact” tab at

  www.AllanLeverone.com

  DEDICATION

  For my beautiful wife, Sue, who, luckily for me, took that whole “for better or worse” thing to heart, who has believed in me every step of the way, and who is my best friend.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Hello?”

  “Uh…hello…is this—?”

  “No names! You know damn well who this is, and you know you are prohibited from calling this number except in an emergency.”

  “I know, I know, but this is an emergency.”

  Silence.

  “Well, get on with it, then. What is the emergency?”

  “She…uh…she knows.”

  “How much does she know?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe everything.”

  “She doesn’t know everything, you idiot. If she knew everything, you would be in jail right now, and I would be residing in Guantanamo. The place isn’t closed yet, you know.”

  “Nevertheless, she knows enough, I’m certain of it. I tried to gain us some time, though. I told her it was all a misunderstanding and that I could explain everything. I begged her not to turn me in to her superiors until I had the opportunity to do so.”

  “Okay. How much t
ime did she give you?”

  “Until Monday.”

  “This coming Monday? That’s all?”

  “Yes. I…I’m sorry…”

  “You’re sorry. Right. Of course you are. I’ll take care of it, you untrustworthy fool.”

  “Are…are we…still on?”

  “Of course we’re still on. Nothing has changed. And don’t call this number again.”

  “But…”

  The line went dead.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Boston Approach Control, this is Atlas 317. We’ve, uh, we’ve got a bit of a problem here.”

  Nick Jensen swore lightly under his breath. “Great,” he mumbled to no one in particular. “A problem. Just what I need to hear when I’ve got airplanes out the ass.”

  It was Thursday night in the BCT—the Boston Consolidated Tracon—in Merrimack, New Hampshire, and the weather had been steadily deteriorating all afternoon. A massive low-pressure area was sweeping up the East Coast, carrying moist, unstable air and bringing high winds and heavy rain along for the ride.

  The dark room hummed with the murmured voices of eight air traffic controllers sitting side by side facing eight separate radar scopes. Each controller was working a piece of the airspace immediately surrounding Boston’s Logan International Airport, with each responsible for maintaining a safe and orderly flow of the airborne traffic transiting his or her sector.

  Nick was working Boston’s Final Vector position, so he was responsible for sequencing and spacing all of Logan’s arrival traffic, being fed to him by the surrounding sectors. For the hour and a half or so that he would be assigned to the position, his job was literally to get all his ducks in a row. Using altitude separation, speed control, and unique headings assigned to each pilot, called radar vectors, Nick was systematically turning each arrival onto the ILS—Instrument Landing System—that served Runway 4 Right at Logan. The Final Vector controller was tasked with maintaining the minimum separation legally permissible, but absolutely no less than that, in order to get all the traffic on the ground with the least possible overall delays.

  With the low overcast ceilings and reduced visibility caused by the wind-driven rain, every arrival into Logan as well as all the arrivals into the smaller airports in Boston’s airspace were being vectored for the precision approach guidance provided by the ILS system. At the moment a dozen airplanes clogged Nick’s tiny chunk of airspace, and the last thing he wanted to hear was that one of those planes was experiencing some difficulty. The strained urgency in the voice of the Atlas Airlines pilot, though, told him this wasn’t your garden-variety equipment issue—this might be serious.

  Nick pushed the foot pedal to the floor, keying the mike on his headset allowing him to speak to all the airplanes on the discrete radio frequency assigned to his sector. “Atlas 317, go ahead. What’s the nature of your problem?”

  “Ah, we’ve got smoke in the cabin.” The pilot’s voice came back professional but clearly tense. “And it’s getting thick in here very quickly. We are either on fire or are experiencing a serious electrical problem. We need to get this crate on the ground. Now.”

  Nick half turned in his wheeled swivel chair and yelled across the room to the watch supervisor, Earl Washington, seated at a desk behind the row of controllers manning the radar scopes. “Hey, Earl, I’ve got an emergency here, and I think it might be a bad one.”

  He pressed the foot pedal again. “Roger, Atlas 317. We’ll get you right in. Descend and maintain three thousand, and turn right heading three-one-zero.” He was turning the Atlas Airlines Boeing 757 directly at Logan’s final approach course and would be forced to break out at least two other airplanes already established on the final, which at the moment extended nearly thirty miles to the southwest of Logan Airport.

  As Earl coordinated with the supervisor on duty in the Logan control tower—the facility located right on the airfield responsible for separating the traffic on the surface of the airport—Nick rapidly issued a series of turns to all of the airplanes affected by the unexpected emergency, taking them off the final approach course and explaining the situation as he went. Time was a valuable commodity if the Atlas flight really was on fire. “Rapid Air 400, cancel your approach clearance, turn left heading two-seven-zero and climb immediately to maintain four thousand. I’m giving your spot to an aircraft inbound with an emergency.”

  “Rapid 400, roger. Left to two-seventy and hurry on up to four thousand.”

  “North American 28, cancel your approach clearance and maintain three thousand. Turn left heading two-seven-zero. This is a vector off the final for inbound emergency traffic.”

  “North American 28, roger. Left to west and we’ll maintain three thousand.”

  By now Earl had positioned himself directly behind Nick’s chair. The normally chaotic buzz of voices in the TRACON—Terminal Radar Approach Control—had dropped to an almost reverential, churchlike quiet as the other controllers in the room recognized that a serious situation had developed on the Final Vector position. The sectors feeding arrivals to Nick immediately began “spinning” their airplanes, turning them away from Nick’s airspace and holding them in their own sectors. They knew Nick was juggling far too much traffic now to take any more until the emergency situation was resolved.

  Earl bent down and spoke quietly in Nick’s ear. “When you can get it, we’re going to need”—

  “I know,” Nick replied. “Souls on board and amount of fuel remaining. I’m getting to that.” Standard emergency protocol dictated that the number of people on board the aircraft and the amount of fuel remaining in its tanks get passed to the emergency response personnel on the ground as soon as possible. The rescue crews needed to prepare for the potential worst-case scenario—a plane crash at the airport.

  Nick keyed his mike. Despite the skyrocketing stress level and the chaotic situation unfolding on the radar scope in front of him, he maintained a calm demeanor on the frequency. Sounding in control meant being in control. “Atlas 317, you’re only about eight miles from the ILS final approach fix. Will you be able to get down from there?” Turning the plane toward the airport too soon and then finding out the pilot would not be able to descend rapidly enough to land would be the worst thing Nick could do.

  “We’re doing our best,” came the answer. “It’s getting really hard to see the instruments in here with all the smoke. Yeah, we’ll make the descent because we have to.”

  “Atlas 317, roger. Turn right heading zero-two-zero and intercept the Runway 4 Right localizer. I know you’re very busy up there, but when you can get to it, we need souls on board and fuel remaining.”

  “Zero-two-zero to join the localizer, and we have … let’s see … one hundred seventeen people with a little over two hours of fuel.”

  “Roger that, Atlas 317. You’re doing great with the descent. Your position is five miles from the final approach fix. Descend and maintain two thousand until established on the localizer, cleared ILS Runway 4 Right approach.”

  Nick inclined his head slightly toward Earl without taking his eyes off the scope. “One hundred seventeen people and two hours of fuel.”

  He didn’t wait for a response from the supervisor; he was already busy formulating a plan to deal with the other arrivals, all of which were now completely out of position thanks to the emergency. Hopefully Atlas Air 317 would be safely on the ground soon, but Nick’s work was just beginning. “Liberty Air 5, you’re now going to follow a Boeing 757 on final. Caution for wake turbulence.”

  “Liberty 5, roger, we’ll be careful.”

  “North American 28, continue your left turn heading two-three-zero. I’ll get you right back in as soon as I can.”

  “North American 28, left to two-thirty. We understand.”

  “Swift 400, you can also turn left heading two-three-zero. Thanks a lot for the fast climb to four thousand feet.”

  “Left to two-three-zero. You’re welcome.”

  “Atlas 317, how are you doing, sir?” />
  “We’re struggling, but I think we’ll be able to make it.”

  “Okay, Atlas 317, contact Boston Tower now on frequency 123.7. Good luck to you.”

  “Tower on twenty-three-seven. Thanks a lot for the help.”

  Behind him, Earl said, “Nice job, Nick.”

  Nick didn’t answer; he had already turned his attention to the mess he had yet to sort out—the nearly one dozen airplanes whose sequences had been disrupted by the sudden emergency and who were now nowhere near where they should be in Nick’s airspace. There was a lot of catching up to do.

  Nick took a deep breath and started barking out commands as the control tower supervisor called on a landline to tell Earl that Atlas 317 had landed safely and the aircraft was being evacuated on a taxiway.

  The traffic kept coming. The controllers kept talking. The Thursday night shift continued.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lisa Jensen blinked rapidly, attempting without any measurable level of success to maintain her concentration as she navigated the rain-slicked highway. Alone and overtired, she had already tried every trick she could think of for remaining alert while traveling late at night, including cranking her music up to earsplitting levels and rolling her window down. She was fading fast, though.

  Rain slanted at a forty-five degree angle out of the coal black sky, pelting the area as it had been doing virtually nonstop since Lisa had left D.C. The headlights of the passing traffic cast the landscape surrounding Interstate 95 in a shimmering, almost surreal muted glow. Hours ago, she had reached the conclusion that the sensible decision would have been to stay the night in the city and drive back to New Hampshire tomorrow morning after the storm passed through the area. But her time with Nick was already limited enough, and Lisa couldn’t stand the thought of spending even one more night away from her husband. Hell, she thought, we don’t see enough of each other as it is.

  Lisa gazed longingly at the Styrofoam coffee cup perched in the holder directly in front of her Toyota’s gearshift, its emptiness taunting her, and blinked again, hard. Her scratchy and bloodshot eyes began to water. She forced herself to sing along with the radio.