Night Flight

by Donna Ball

  NIGHT FLIGHT

  By Donna Ball

  E book edition copyright 2011 by Donna Ball Inc.

  Published by Blue Merle Publishing

  A version of this book was previously published in print under the title “THE DARKEST HOUR”. It has been extensively revised for content, style and contemporary detail.

  **********************************

  ON THE RUN

  Cathy didn't know where she was driving. She didn't know where she was. She couldn't think back; she couldn't bring up a picture of two men sprawled on the pavement and the sound of gunfire ringing in her ears, or she'd start screaming. She had to drive, just drive, she had to get away . . .

  Bad things just didn't happen to Cathy Hamilton. She knew small troubles and minor challenges and the everyday victories that went along with them. The car that wouldn't start, the credit card payment that got lost in the mail. Her world was uncomplicated and predictable, and she kept it that way almost by force of will. People did not call in the middle of the night to say that her brother had been in an accident. People didn't threaten her with guns or try to force her into strange cars or send her fleeing for her life down a strange highway in the middle of nowhere.

  But the man in the red hat had pointed a gun at her. He had wanted to kill her. Two men were dead. She'd seen it with her own eyes. She hadn't wanted to, she hadn't meant to, but it had happened . . . and she had no idea what to do.

  ******

  Praise for the work of Donna Ball:

  “A maelstrom of suspense… gripping, intense”

  --Rendezvous

  “[Ball] knows how to keep a story moving”

  --Kirkus Reviews

  “A major talent of the genre”

  ---Publisher’s Weekly

  “A must read”

  --Examiner.com

  *******************

  Chapter One

  The last thing Jack said to her was “Don’t forget your phone.”

  He had been half way out of the driveway, the kids happily absorbed in a DVD in the back, and he had pulled up with her cell phone in his hand and a dry you’d- loose-your-head-if-it-weren’t-screwed-on look on his face. Cathy shrugged and blew them all another kiss as she tucked the phone in her pocket—it had probably fallen out of her purse the last time she had run errands in Jack’s car—and promptly forgot about it. She never used it, anyway. It wasn’t as though she had anyone to call. She didn’t even remember it was in her pocket until she undressed that night, at which point she tossed it in a drawer and forgot about it again.

  Jack was only three minutes older than she, but he had always taken his big brother role seriously –maybe a little too seriously, some people thought. He took care of her. But Cathy also took care of him. And that was why, standing in the middle of the noise and laughter that was supposed to be his birthday party—their birthday party—she was sick at her stomach with fear.

  There is something about the relationship between twins that no ordinary person can fully understand—nor, in fact, even believe, as much as he might want to. Cathy Hamilton tried to keep her anxiety to herself, but she knew something had happened to Jack. She had known it since five-thirty that afternoon.

  "Come on, Cath, you know how men are." Her friend Ellen tried to sound comforting but in fact came off as a little callous. "He got a better offer, that's all. He'll come breezing in here at three or four o'clock in the morning with this hangdog expression and some lame excuse, and—"

  "I'll wring his neck," Cathy muttered.

  Ellen grinned. "You'll throw yourself at his feet and forgive him anything, you know you will."

  "Yeah," Cathy agreed reluctantly. "But first I’ll wring his neck."

  Against her will, her eyes moved across the crowded room, over the heads of laughing party-goers, toward the door that was open to the warm California night. Ellen followed her gaze and squeezed her arm sympathetically. They both knew that Jack would have called. If he possibly could have, he would have called.

  Jack and the kids had been planning the trip to Canada for three months. It was the first real vacation Jack had had since his wife Lydia had left him—and her twin children—three years ago. He had asked Cathy to come with him, and she supposed she should have gone. Two five year olds on a camping trip were a lot for a man to handle, but she had genuinely felt it was important for Jack to spend some time with his children alone. And then there was the orchestra that she had worked so hard to organize all year, making its summer-season debut tonight. . . . She had been selfish, Cathy admitted now. She should have gone with him.

  But she had talked to Jack only last night, and they were on their way home. They should have arrived by mid-afternoon today, at the latest. Where were they?

  Jack had promised to be there in plenty of time for the concert. He would never have missed her concert, if he had had a choice. And the concert had ended two hours ago.

  Glen Ellison, having overheard the last part of the conversation, turned toward Cathy with an encouraging lift of his glass. "Cheer up," he said. "Some of the best surprise parties I ever attended were those where the guest of honor didn't show up. And it's a great party. Of course," he added modestly, "we deserve it."

  Cathy smiled, not because anything Glen had said was funny, but because he always had that effect on her: his natural warmth and easy manner relaxed her whether she wanted to relax or not. An accountant by day and a virtuoso—for Lynn Haven, that was—double bassist by night, Glen was single, fairly good looking, and considered by most to be one of the few good catches left in Lynn Haven. Cathy liked him in spite of all that, and in spite of the fact that he had never abandoned the effort to try to make more of their relationship than there could ever be.

  And he was right about two things—it was a good party, and they did deserve it. The party had a twofold purpose: to surprise Jack with a welcome home birthday party, and to celebrate the newly formed Lynn Haven Orchestra's first concert of the season. The concert — Bizet's Symphony in C and Bach's Concerto in D for Two Violins—had been a resounding success. For Cathy, in fact for all of them, it was the culmination of a two-year-old dream, one she had almost given up hope of ever having come true.

  There had been a time when her dreams were much bigger—the London Symphony, the New York Philharmonic—but long ago she had learned the futility of allowing her reach to exceed her grasp. She was content to teach music at the local high school and, tonight, to have made her debut as concert mistress of Lynn Haven's first community orchestra. Small goals, small triumphs—that was all she needed, or wanted. And tonight's triumph, though insignificant by some standards, was the most important of her life . . . which was why Jack would have never considered missing it. Not if he was able to do otherwise.

  Forcing the smile to linger on her lips long after the pleasure had begun to fade, Cathy reached for Glen's arm. "We were good, weren't we?"

  "Better than that," Glen agreed, "we actually sold tickets! We might be the first community orchestra in the history of the world to show a profit in the first year, and if you can do that you don't have to be good. But we were good," he added, grinning down at her.

  Cathy laughed again. Linking arms, they walked toward the open door, where the night air on the front porch was marginally cooler. Others were there before them, sitting on the steps and the rail, looking like overdressed birds in their concert black and stiff tuxes, flitting from one conversational group to the other and chattering excitedly. Just looking at them, Cathy felt a surge of warmth so intense it almost blotted out the dark shadow of worry that haunted the back of her mind. These were Cathy's closest friends, and tonight they shared a bond that was as strong as family.

  Almost.

  Elliot Roberts spotted
her and raised a glass. "And there she is. The woman of the hour—and perhaps the only musician, male or female, ever to turn down an offer to audition for the Boston Symphony."

  "How did you hear about that?" Cathy demanded, but she spotted Ellen, just coming outside, and the expression on her friend's face was entirely too innocent.

  At the chorus of, "Are you kidding?" and "Cathy, you didn't!" and "How could you!" Cathy shrugged uncomfortably and tried to grin.

  "What can I say? It was an honor just to be asked. Besides, can you see me in that Boston traffic?"

  There was some good natured laughter and a few exaggerated groans. "I can't even see you trying to get yourself from here to there!" someone joked.

  And someone else said, "Not to mention getting back. All things considered, I think we're all a lot better off if you just stay put."

  "Besides," Cathy replied brightly, raising her glass, "I might just get the job. And then what would you do without me?"

  "And who would take care of Jack and the kids?" Ellen murmured in passing.

  Cathy frowned a little, unwilling to admit just how much that consideration had had to do with her refusing the audition-and a little annoyed with Ellen for reading her so easily.

  She found an empty spot at the rail and leaned against it, returning the smiles of those who raised their glasses to her, trying to let the good feelings overcome the dread. It had been a triumph, the best night of her life. Why wasn't Jack there to share it?

  "You know something?" Glen's voice was casual, and quiet enough to be heard by only her. He looked around the crowd. "You probably could have."

  Cathy glanced at him. "Could have what?"

  "Gotten that job. You're better than this. Better than all of us."

  Cathy made a deprecating noise in her throat, which he ignored.

  "So how come?" he insisted. It was not the first time he had asked the question. "How did a big fish like you end up in such a little pond?"

  "You sound like Jack."

  "Jack happens to be right. Not about much, of course, but about this."

  He was trying to make her smile again, but this time he didn't succeed. That knot of pain just behind Cathy's forehead started to tighten again, dread and certainty clenching like a fist, and she said softly, "Where is he, Glen? What could have happened to him?"

  "He's stuck on the highway somewhere," Glen replied promptly, "with a burned-out bearing or a broken timing belt or a thrown rod. You know what kind of care he takes of his car—he thinks it's like a horse, and will keep on running as long as he feeds it."

  Cathy shook her head. "He would have called."

  "And he will. As soon as he realizes he doesn't have a prayer of fixing it himself and decides to go for help. I know Jack, and I can see him now, standing on the side of the road beating on the engine with a lug wrench."

  "Stuck on the highway, with two children . . ." She shuddered elaborately.

  "It'll be good for his character."

  "I should have gone with them," Cathy worried. "If I was with them-"

  "You'd be stuck on the highway, too, and would have missed what will no doubt be the single most memorable cultural event in Lynn Haven history."

  Cathy smiled weakly. She wanted to believe Glen was right. Jack was careless with his cars and was constantly suffering breakdowns. But he was also a mechanical genius, and she could not imagine any problem developing that Jack couldn't fix, any more than she could picture him wasting time trying to make repairs that were beyond his skills. He would know at first glance whether or not he needed professional help, and he wouldn't take any chances with the children in the car. Cathy did not believe mechanical failure had caused the delay. On the other hand, Jack was an excellent driver and had never had an accident in his life. There was no reason for her to think . . .

  "It was great, Cathy." Reva Lyons leaned forward to brush her cheek with a kiss. "Concert and party. I wish it could go on forever, but tomorrow's a working day. Happy birthday, kid, and the same to Jack."

  "Do you have to go?"

  Cathy's dismay was not feigned. Somehow it seemed that as long as the party was going on, as long as people were waiting, there was a chance Jack might still arrive. He might be late, but he wouldn't be absent. But it was eleven o'clock on a Thursday night, and all of the members of the orchestra had day jobs. One by one they began to take their leave, parting with comments like, "We owe it all to you, Cath," and "That Jack doesn't know what he missed," and "Many happy returns, sweetie."

  She watched them go with a smile frozen in place and despair sinking to her feet, until at last only Ellen and Glen were left. Glen took her hands, looking at her with concern in his eyes. "Do

  you want me to stay?"

  She shook her head, glancing around the room cluttered with glasses and half-empty bowls and paper plates, and she tried to make her voice bright. "Just send back a cleaning crew, okay?"

  His expression was sober. "He's okay, honey. Don't worry."

  Swallowing the lump in her throat, Cathy nodded.

  He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. Then, belying his reassurances, he added, "Call me if you need anything."

  Ellen came in from the kitchen, carrying a trash bag in each hand. She waited until Glen was gone to thrust one of the bags toward Cathy and inquire, "You want to tell me again why you're letting him get away?"

  Cathy smiled weakly and began to stuff paper plates into the bag. "I don't know. Holding out for a hero, I guess. Jack says . . ." There was a funny little catch in her voice that surprised her, and she had to clear her throat to go on. "Jack says my expectations are too high."

  Ellen muttered, bending to empty the remnants of a bowl of popcorn into her bag, "Well, Jack should know, I guess."

  Cathy looked at her sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  Ellen's expression was immediately apologetic, underscored with guilt. "Look, I'm sorry. I know you're worried about him and I don't mean to criticize. I mean, I know how it is with twins, and after your folks died I guess all you had was each other. But Cathy, you do kind of hero-worship him, you know. I just wonder if . . ."

  She let the words trail off, and this time Cathy's smile was tired, but genuine. "If I'm subconsciously measuring every man I meet against the standards set by my twin brother?" She shrugged. "Maybe. Jack has been taking care of me all my life, and there is a bond between twins that I can't explain. Of course, it seems like every man I meet wants to take care of me . . ." She gave a self-deprecating shrug. She was a small woman, and her fragile appearance had inspired men's protective instincts throughout her adult life, which was, if she was perfectly honest with herself, a situation Cathy rather enjoyed. "But who needs it on a permanent basis? I like my life the way it is."

  Ellen opened her mouth as though to reply to that, but then apparently changed her mind. She busied herself scooping up paper napkins and emptying ashtrays.

  Cathy smiled gratefully and reached for the trash bag. "You don't have to stay, you know. I can do this."

  Ellen shook her head. "I thought I'd bunk with you tonight, if it's okay. I've had a little too much to drink to be driving ..." And then she looked at Cathy. "Besides, you don't have to be a twin to know Jack should have called by now. I'll stay."

  Once again Cathy had to swallow back the lump in her throat. "You're a good friend," she said huskily.

  * * *

  The call came at a quarter 'til twelve. Cathy had just showered and changed into her nightshirt, though she had no intention of sleeping, or even trying. Ellen was making up the sofa bed for herself. When the telephone rang Cathy knocked over a lamp in her haste to answer it, and Ellen caught the lamp before it hit the floor.

  Her heart was pounding so hard she didn't, at first, understand the voice on the other end. "What?" she demanded hoarsely.

  "- - Mercy Hospital in Albany, Oregon," the woman's voice repeated. "Is this Cathy Hamilton?"

  "Yes." She felt the blood drain from her c
heeks. Ellen touched her shoulder.

  "Do you have a brother named Jack Hamilton?"

  "Yes." Barely a whisper now. "What-"

  "Miss Hamilton, I'm afraid there's been an accident. We found your name in his wallet—"

  "How bad?" Her voice sounded calm now, amazingly so. Her knuckles were white on the receiver and her arm ached from the pressure, all the way up into her shoulder muscles. "How badly is Jack hurt?"

  "His condition is listed as critical, but I'm afraid I don't have any details. He is in surgery now . . ."

  She was sitting on the edge of the sofa and she didn't know how she got there. Ellen was gripping her shoulder, her eyes stunned and anxious.

  Cathy managed, "The children . . ."

  There was a slight pause, just long enough for Cathy to think, No. Please God, no . . . Then the woman said, "The children were treated for minor injuries and, pending notification of next of kin,are being kept overnight for observation."

  The relief that went through Cathy made her light-headed, and she missed some of the next words.". . . scheduled for release in the morning. Is there a closer relative we could notify? Otherwise, Family and Children's Services will be granted temporary custody . . ."

  "No," Cathy said hoarsely, urgently. "I am. I'm their nearest relative . . ." She tried to take a breath, dragging her hand through her hair, but found it nearly impossible. "I mean, their mother . . . she's in Europe somewhere, no one knows where. They have a maternal grandmother in Cincinnati. I don't —I can't remember her number—but it doesn't matter, she's too far away. I’ll be there before morning. I'm leaving now."

  "Excuse me, but if you could give us the number of the grandmother . . ."

  "I told you, I don't-"

  But Ellen was thrusting an address book in front of Cathy. She stared at it blankly for an endless moment, then began to thumb the pages with shaking fingers. Of course the hospital needed to know. She was the children's grandmother—someone had to call her.