Escape from the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “Damn. You’re asking me to tell her, aren’t you?”

  “It would be easier coming from you,” Kingsley insisted.

  Merrill shook his head. “It’s not going to be easy no matter who it comes from,” he said.

  “Wait, I have an idea,” Kingsley said. “Why don’t we call the Parkers’ sister?”

  “Carrie?” Merrill said. He nodded. “Yeah, yeah, that’s a good idea. Peggy might take it a little easier if the news came from another woman. Especially if it came from Carrie. They are a close family.” He reached for the phone and paused for a moment before he picked it up.

  “What’s wrong?” Kingsley asked.

  Merrill sighed. “Nothing. It’s just that I’d rather take a beating than do this,” he said.

  “Yeah, I know,” Kingsley said. “But it has to be done.”

  Merrill dialed Carrie Parker’s number.

  The one-piece black jumpsuit Carrie Parker was wearing molded itself to every curve, showing off her body to perfection. But she wasn’t wearing the suit as a fashion statement; she was wearing it to minimize any interference that normal dress might have with her physical activity.

  Carrie was a martial arts expert and, at the moment, she was on a pad, working out with both a speed bag and a heavy bag. With a yell, she drove her elbow into the speed bag, then pivoted on her left foot while lifting her right leg, high over her head, to kick the speed bag.

  The phone rang and, with one more swipe at the speed bag, she picked up a towel and dried her face as she walked over to the bookshelf to answer the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Carrie, this is Greg Merrill.”

  “Hi, Greg, what’s up?” Carrie asked brightly.

  “We may have a problem with Edgar and Gerald.”

  “A problem?” The brightness left her voice, to be replaced with a twinge of anxiety. She wiped her face again. “What sort of problem?”

  “It may be nothing,” Merrill said. “It’s just that we don’t know where they are.”

  “You mean their flight plan hasn’t been closed?”

  “It wasn’t closed, it wasn’t even opened,” Merrill said, explaining the problem with the computer.

  “Can’t you call to where they were going and find out something from them?”

  “That’s just it. They must’ve left before seven this morning, because no one here remembers seeing them. We don’t know where they were going. I was sort of hoping you would know.”

  “No, I don’t know,” Carrie replied. “Peggy might know. Have you asked her?”

  “Uh, no, and that brings up another point,” Merrill replied. He was quiet for a moment before he spoke again. “Would you, uh—”

  “You want me to ask Peggy,” Carrie said, interrupting Merrill.

  “Yes, if you would, please,” Merrill said. “I’ll be honest with you, Carrie. I think she would take the news a lot easier if it came from you.”

  “What news?” Carrie asked. “I thought you said didn’t know anything.”

  “No, we don’t know anything officially,” Merrill said quickly.

  “Officially,” Carrie said.

  “Here’s the thing, Carrie. We have checked with every clearing facility within one thousand miles. Even if the flight plan didn’t get up on the Internet when they opened it this morning, closing it would have triggered a response. But there is no record anywhere of the flight plan being closed.”

  “Oh, I see,” Carrie said. “You are worried, aren’t you? You are really worried.”

  “I admit we are concerned. And Peggy is going to get concerned too when she doesn’t hear from Gerald.”

  Carrie sighed. “You’re right about that.”

  “And while you are at it, see if she knows where they were headed.”

  TEN

  “Aunt Carrie!” Five-year-old Jerry Parker ran down the sidewalk toward Carrie as she climbed out of the Jeep she had parked in front of her brother’s house.

  “Hello, Jerry,” Carrie said, smiling at him with her arms open wide. “Come give your Aunt Carrie a kiss.”

  Jerry allowed his aunt to pick him up. He kissed her, then put his arms around her neck.

  Holding him, Carrie realized that there was a very real possibility this child had just lost his father. Filled with sorrow for her own loss, and pity for what Jerry would have to go through for the rest of his life, she returned Jerry’s hug, squeezing him so hard that he protested.

  “Ow, Aunt Carrie, you are hugging me too hard!” he complained.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” Carrie said, putting him down. “It’s just that I love you so much! Is your mama inside?”

  “She’s washing dishes,” Jerry said. He grabbed her hand and started pulling her with him toward the house.

  Carrie reached the kitchen just as Peggy was closing the dishwasher door. Smiling, Peggy looked up at her sister-in-law.

  “Carrie, what are you doing here?” she asked. “Oh, have you had supper? We had lasagna. I saved some for Gerald, but there’s enough for you too. Let me warm it up for you.”

  “No, I’ve eaten,” Carrie said.

  “Oh, well, you want to come into the living room and . . .” It was at that moment that Peggy noticed the expression on Carrie’s face. She made a painful little gasp, and raised her hand to her mouth. Instantly, it seemed, her eyes filled with tears. “He’s . . . he’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked in a quiet, strained voice.

  Carrie shook her head. “We don’t know yet,” she said.

  “Oh!” Now the sob rose to her throat. “You don’t know . . . yet?”

  “There was a computer . . .” Carrie started to say “computer crash,” but didn’t want to use the term because she was afraid “crash” would be the only thing Peggy heard. “There was a computer malfunction,” she said, starting the sentence again. “And because of that, there is no flight plan on file for Gerald and Ed. We don’t know where they went.”

  “They were going to Edson,” she said.

  “Edson? What time did they leave? Nobody at the airfield seems to know.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Gerald got a telephone call at around three this morning. His passenger, whoever he was, wanted to get under way by seven,” Peggy replied.

  “Do you know who the passenger was?” Carrie asked.

  Peggy shook her head. “No, he didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

  “Well, we’ll find out. What you have given will help.”

  “Carrie, Edson is no more than a three-hour flight,” Peggy said. “They’ve been gone for eleven hours. That means they’ve had plenty of time to get there and back, flight plan or no flight plan.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions yet,” Carrie said, trying to be reassuring.

  Peggy shook her head slowly. “He’s dead,” she said. She looked into the living room where Jerry was playing with a toy airplane. “Oh, my poor children. My poor, poor, fatherless children.”

  Base Camp One, Louisiana

  Jersey brought the earmuffs down, put on the clear, plastic glasses, then raised her .44 magnum pistol. She fired six rounds, firing them so quickly that the muzzle flash was a continuous flame, the sound a sustained roar. She put the pistol down and turned to press the button that would bring the target up to her for a closer examination, but before she could do so, someone else pressed the button. Turning to see who it was, she saw Coop.

  As the target reached the end-stop, Coop reached out to stick his fist through a hole in the middle of the face of the target silhouette. The gaping hole was the result of a perfect shot grouping. Those who knew Jersey would have expected nothing less.

  Jersey began reloading her pistol. “Fancy seeing you on a shooting range,” she said. “Or anywhere else where there is a chance you might improve yourself.”

  “Funny you should mention that,” Coop said. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that very thing.”

  Jersey looked up from her pistol, a quizzical smile o
n her face. “You’ve been wanting to talk to me about improving yourself?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Ha! That’ll be the day.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll need to talk about that as well,” Coop said.

  Now the quizzical expression turned to total confusion. “Coop, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “The day,” Coop said.

  “The day?”

  “Yes.”

  “What day?”

  “Well, any day is fine by me. You can set the date,” Coop said.

  Jersey let out a long, audible sigh of confused frustration. “Cooper, I am going to slap you silly if you don’t start making sense. What the hell day are you talking about?”

  “Why, I’m talking about the day we get married,” Coop said. “You pick the date. Today, tomorrow, two days from now? It’s up to you.”

  Now confusion gave way to shock as Jersey stared at Coop in openmouthed wonder.

  “Coop,” she said in a quiet, awestruck voice, “are you asking me to marry you?”

  Coop chuckled. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I guess I am. What do you say, Jersey? I mean, when you talk about me improving myself, that’s the quickest fix I can think of.”

  The shocked expression on Jersey’s face changed to one of bemused irritation. “Son of a bitch, Coop! Is that the most romantic thing you can come up with? You want to marry me because it is a quick fix to improvement?”

  “Well, no. There are other reasons.”

  “Other reasons? Not one reason in particular?”

  “Yeah, I guess, there is one reason in particular.”

  “What is it?”

  “Come on, Jersey, you know what it is.”

  “Goddamnit, Coop, when I am proposed to, I want all the ribbons and bows.” She opened the cylinder to her revolver, emptied all the shells she had just loaded, then closed the cylinder and held the gun in the flat of her hand. “Now, you make this fucking marriage proposal romantic, or I’m going to smash in your face.”

  By now, others on the firing range had overheard the conversation and a small crowd was beginning to gather. Coop looked around in embarrassment.

  “Come on, Jersey. You know . . .” he said.

  “Do it, you bastard, or so help me . . .” Jersey said, raising her hand.

  Coop cleared his throat, then looking around again, got down on one knee. He reached for Jersey’s free hand.

  “Uh, Jersey. Uh, I love you, and I am asking you to be my wife.”

  Jersey smiled broadly, put the pistol down, then reached down to pull Coop to his feet.

  “Cooper, that is absolutely the most romantic thing that anyone has ever said to me,” she said. “I would be pleased to marry you.” She pulled his face to hers for a deep, lingering kiss.

  * * *

  “Whoa,” Mike said. “You two are going to get married? I mean, actually take out a license, say the words, take the vows, and get married?”

  “Yes,” Jersey said, smiling broadly. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Mike laughed and looked at Coop. “Why, Coop, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “Sure,” Coop answered. “I can be a real romantic guy when I put my mind to it. Just ask Jersey.”

  Jersey laughed. “You have no idea how romantic he can be.”

  “Have you heard anything from the general?” Cooper asked. “I’d like him to be my best man.”

  “He can’t be your best man,” Jersey said.

  “What? Why not?”

  “Because I plan to have him give me away,” Jersey insisted.

  “Well, can’t he be both? I mean, can’t he be my best man, and then when the preacher says, ‘Who is giving this woman away?’ why, he can just sort of lean over and say, ‘I’m doing that too’?”

  “Jesus, Coop, you have all the social skills of a baboon,” Jersey said with a frustrated sigh.

  “Well, at this juncture, it is a moot point,” Mike said. “We still haven’t heard from Ben.”

  Coop and Jersey stopped their bickering and looked at Mike.

  “What do you mean, you haven’t heard anything from him? Not a word?” Jersey asked.

  “No.”

  “I thought he was going to check in with us,” Coop said. “Surely he is on the ground now.”

  “Yeah, I thought he was going check with us too,” Mike replied. He sighed, then ran his hand through his hair. “And I don’t mind telling you, I’m getting a little concerned.”

  “Have you tried to reach him on his satellite phone?” Jersey asked.

  “Several times. And I’ve gotten his voice mail every time.”

  “So what do we do now? Anyone have any ideas?” Coop asked.

  “For the time being, I think the best thing to do is just sit tight,” Mike Post said. “Ben is very resourceful. If he is in any kind of trouble right now, our attempt to help him might just exacerbate the situation.”

  “What if it is more than trouble?” Jersey asked.

  “More than trouble? What do you mean?” Coop asked.

  “What if he is . . .” Jersey paused for a moment, not wanting to say the word. “Dead,” she concluded.

  “What if he is?”

  “I think we should try and find out, don’t you?”

  “No,” Coop said. “Not yet.”

  “What do you mean, not yet? Aren’t you worried about him?”

  “Yes,” Coop answered. “But I agree with Mike. Suppose he is in trouble and our trying to find out about him does, somehow, exacerbate the situation by exposing him in some way. That would make the situation even worse, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, I suppose it could,” Jersey agreed.

  “On the other hand, if he is dead, there is nothing we could do about it anyway, so delaying doesn’t hurt anything.”

  “Yeah,” Jersey said. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

  Jersey walked over to the office window and looked out. The street lamps were on and she could see light reflecting from the fountain. “Why the hell didn’t he let one of us go with him?” she asked of no one in particular.

  Point Hardy, British Columbia

  Because it was late spring, the hours of daylight and dark were almost perfectly balanced. Therefore it was dark when Carrie returned to her apartment, but she didn’t turn on the lights. Instead, she used the ambient light from outside to go to the cabinet above the refrigerator, where she took down a bottle of brandy.

  Splashing the brandy in the glass, she went into the living room, where she sat in the dark. She reached out to turn on the lamp, decided against it, then just leaned back in the chair. Lifting the glass to her lips, she drank it in one gulp, feeling the controlled fire of the brandy as it burned its way down her throat.

  She had tried to bolster Peggy’s spirits by claiming that Gerald and Ed could still be alive, but she knew, as surely as Peggy knew, that they were dead. She couldn’t explain how she knew, but she knew. And while the loss of a husband might be more difficult to take than the loss of a brother, Carrie was faced with the fact that she had just lost both of her brothers.

  Carrie set the empty glass on the table beside her chair, leaned her head forward, pinched the bridge of her nose, and cried.

  ELEVEN

  Northwest Canada

  The aroma of grilled bear steak filled the cave. Ben sat near the fire, enjoying both the warmth and the aroma of cooking meat. As he waited for his meal to cook, he worked on the bearskin, scraping the inside so as to make a bearskin robe. Several narrow strips of meat hung a bit farther back from the fire than the steak. This would become jerky, a portable food source that would do him for the long walk back out of the woods.

  He figured to do thirty miles per day. At that pace, he should be able to make it back to Port Hardy within two weeks. He was pretty sure that Port Hardy wasn’t his home, but it was obvious from the pilot’s log that the flight had originated there. That being the case, he was reasonably certain that once he got ther
e, he would be able to find out who he was.

  The steak done, Ben removed it from the fire, then tossed it from hand to hand a few times until he could hold it. When it was sufficiently cooled, he took a bite.

  “Whoa, I’ve never tasted anything any better,” he said. “But then, how the hell would I know? I can’t even remember anything I’ve ever eaten.” He laughed out loud at the macabre joke.

  With the inside of the bear scraped clean, Ben laid the skin on the ground, fur side up, rolled himself up in it, and went to sleep.

  Ben walked out onto the front porch. There was something strange in the air, something foreboding. For a moment he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was; then he realized it was the smell. He had smelled this odor before. It was the stench of death.

  What was it? What was going on?

  Ben hurried back into his house to turn on the TV, but there was no electricity. Going outside, he started his emergency generator, then tried the TV again. There was no picture. Cursing the cable company for being down, he turned on the radio but got nothing, not even a carrier wave. Picking up the telephone, he discovered there was no dial tone.

  “What is this? What’s going on?” Ben asked aloud.

  Driving into town, Ben hoped to find out where the smell was coming from. He wanted to get to the bottom of the nagging sense of apprehension he was feeling, but instead of answering his questions, the drive to town only deepened the mystery.

  Cars and trucks were overturned, burned out, smashed up. Even the undamaged vehicles added to the mystery, for they stood there, some in the middle of the street, others half on, half off the sidewalk. All were empty.

  At first he wondered where the people were, but that question was answered soon enough, for within a few hundred feet he saw them. Some were burned into charred piles of residue, barely recognizable as human remains. Others were twisted into grotesque positions, while some lay as unblemished as if they were just sleeping. All were dead.

  Ben drove through the town, honking the horn and shouting.