Killer Summer

by Ridley Pearson

  The copilot flicked his head, and suddenly a pair of arms wrapped around her. The third guy had her.

  “Go!” the copilot instructed the pilot.

  The jet rolled forward. It swung left, taxiing north onto the runway.

  The engines screamed up to a high-pitched whine.

  “No!” she said, kicking and trying to break free. But the man holding her was seriously strong, and his hands were all over her.

  Kevin caught pieces of the confrontation. At first, it appeared that, true to form, Summer had taken charge, or tried to. Hands on her hips, back arched, she’d tried to come off older than she was.

  He heard her ask-demand, was more like it-to be taken back to the FBO.

  But then it went wrong. The small, wiry guy had grabbed her, and Kevin’s first instinct was to run to her defense. The man pinned her arms behind her back and held them at the wrist with just one hand, pushing her to the floor with the other. He did it like he’d done it a hundred times before. He tied her hands with a seat belt, then touched her face in a lecherous, disgusting way. He glanced hotly toward the pilots, saw they were occupied, and ran both hands over her chest.

  Kevin sat up furiously, thumping his head against the plastic ceiling.

  The guy looked back. Kevin hoped he’d backed his eye away from the opening in time. He reached for his cell phone as the jets screamed louder, his thumb searching out the correct string of numbers.

  43

  Walt pulled the borrowed Prius up to the reserved parking at the Blaine County Sheriff’s Office. It was his prize, this long-sought-after, newly constructed headquarters and county jail. It had taken him three failed referendums to raise the bond before finally convincing the public of its necessity. Erected in the light-industrial zone adjacent to the airport, it was thirty-six thousand square feet of state-of-the-art law enforcement, and he was as proud of it as he was of his daughters.

  “The airport’s right there,” Fiona said, pointing out the obvious. “Let me just run over there and look for him.”

  “If you want to, sure,” he said, climbing out of the car. “Check with Pete.” He tossed the keys into her lap. “I’ve got to stay on point.”

  “Happy to do it,” she said.

  “Hey!” he said, stopping her as she hiked up her dress to climb behind the wheel. “Pick-up sticks. That was a good call.”

  Caught!

  She nodded, wiggling and tugging her dress down.

  He shoved the car door shut and headed for the entrance.

  His cell phone vibrated.

  The caller ID read KEVIN CELL.

  Walt pressed the CALL button.

  “Where the hell are you?” he said by way of introduction.

  The line crackled and spat.

  “Unc… alt?” Kevin’s voice was nearly unrecognizable.

  A roar erupted in the background.

  “… got… her,” he thought he heard. He missed everything else.

  He didn’t want to hear the true confessions of a teenage conquest. Playing Kevin’s surrogate dad required they both walk a fine line.

  The roar grew ever louder. It dawned on him that it wasn’t static but background noise.

  A plane-a jet-took off to the north, and he glared at it.

  Maybe the background noise hadn’t come over the phone after all.

  It took him several seconds to connect it with the jet. Even allowing for the delay over the phone, the two were inseparable. It meant Kevin was close by. Maybe at a hangar party, some rich kid throwing a rave.

  “Where… are… you?” Walt hollered into the phone.

  “I’m on-” Kevin’s voice stopped midword.

  Walt checked the phone. It had lost its connection.

  On? he wondered. It was the operative word that lodged in his thoughts.

  He waved for Fiona to hold up, rushed to the car, and motioned for her to lower the window.

  “Kevin just called. Have Pete check the north hangars. And see if Teddy Sumner owns or operates a private jet, and, if so, have Pete check that out as well. I think Kevin’s right here, somewhere ridiculously close.” He realized he was ordering her around like he would a deputy. “That is… if you wouldn’t mind?”

  “I wouldn’t mind at all,” she said.

  He looked up. The jet’s lights blinked in the gray of the evening sky.

  “Aren’t you glad I came along?” she said.

  “If I’m overstepping… There are people here…”

  “Shut up, Walt. I’m happy to do it. This, and… more.”

  She backed up the car. Her hair caught in the window when she put it up.

  Amused, Walt stood there a moment wondering how long it had been since anyone had told him to shut up.

  44

  Dave McCormick’s gloved hands gripped the parasail’s plastic handles, sensing the amazing control he maintained over the ribbed fabric overhead. Before him, an astonishing waterfall of red-and-orange light cascaded into the craggy horizon. Without referencing the altimeter on his wrist, Dave could tell by his shortness of breath and the sudden bite to the air that he’d exceeded eleven thousand feet. He didn’t want to go any higher or stay aloft too much longer, it being far darker on the ground than in the air, making for a difficult landing.

  He spilled some wind from the sail and began a descending spiral. He spotted a dark V, coming from the north, aimed directly for him. It was several hundred geese.

  He glided lower, hoping to join the formation, and descended into the twilight incredibly fast. He arrived within yards of the lead goose, startling the formation and scattering their symmetry. The V quickly reformed, Dave McCormick suddenly a hundred yards in its wake.

  A blinding strobe won his attention.

  A jet. Coming fast, at an absurdly low altitude.

  He saw what the pilot could not: the jet was on a collision course with the geese.

  And quite possibly with him.

  He tugged on the parasail’s controls, trying to drop down and outrun the jet’s blowback. The plane hit the geese like a dart, the V scattering as orange flares rose from the jet’s engines.

  Smoke streamed thickly from the port jet.

  He reached for the portable two-way radio strapped to his chest just as a blast of engine thrust hit him, driving him upside down and away from the plane like a seed. He struggled to control the fall.

  45

  Bird strike!” McGuiness called out, leaning back to look at the wing, his right hand searching out toggles overhead.

  Cantell grabbed for the dash.

  “Mac,” Cantell said, “tell me we’re all right.”

  McGuiness studied the instruments.

  “Starboard’s producing three-quarter… check that… fifty percent power.”

  “Mac?”

  “Not good.”

  McGuiness reached for the buttons on the GPS.

  “I’ve got that,” Cantell said.

  “Known airports,” McGuiness said.

  “Known airports,” Cantell acknowledged. “Mac…”

  “The GPS can show us all-”

  “Nearby airports. I got it. But we can’t put down at an airport, Mac.”

  “Fuck that! We’ve lost our port engine. Starboard’s currently on fire.”

  “So put out the fire,” Cantell said, eerily calm.

  “I hit the extinguishers and I extinguish combustion. We go down like a rock.”

  “Fix it.”

  “We’re not going to reach the Nevada field. We need to put this thing down now, and it can’t be some grass strip. We need length.”

  He’d worked the GPS without Cantell’s help.

  “Stanley. That’ll work. Fifteen miles. Look it up in the book. How long’s the strip?” He kept his eyes on the instruments. “I need the length of that runway.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “I need it now! And here…” He tossed a set of laminated pages at his copilot. “Emergency landing checklist.”

&nb
sp; Cantell had not moved.

  “Read me the goddamned checklist!”

  “We’re not putting it down in Stanley,” Cantell said. “We do that, we walk away.”

  “We don’t do that,” McGuiness said, “and they’ll be shoveling us into body bags.”

  “We’re flying. It’s flying, right?”

  “It’s on fire. Forget about everything else, damn it.” His eyes searched the various instruments. “Forty-five percent and falling. We are losing that engine. We are going down. We need to put this bird down! I am not trained for this. This is not good. Now, are you going to read the goddamned checklist or not?”

  “What’s that?” Cantell asked, pointing to a black-and-white screen on an instrument labeled MAXVIZ, a night-visioning system designed to help spot deer on runways, among other things. At this altitude, the screen showed the whole of the Sawtooth Valley before them-mostly black, representing cold, but intersected by a thin white ribbon, heat emanating from the warm asphalt of Highway 75 running north from Galena up through Stanley. The streets of Stanley showed as well. The highway then curved right toward Challis.

  Cantell was pointing to a perfectly straight white line about an inch long in a sea of black well northwest of the spotty glow of Stanley.

  “That’s nothing, an anomaly. It’s in the middle of nowhere,” McGuiness snapped. “Now, read the goddamned checklist, Chris!”

  “But if it’s white like that,” Cantell countered, “it’s asphalt.”

  “I doubt it. The signature is weak. See how faint it is?”

  “No, no, it’s almost the same heat signature as the highway. It’s got to be asphalt. A private strip.”

  “Out there? Starboard engine’s at forty percent and still burning.”

  “That’s where we land,” Cantell said. “That strip. We can make that.”

  “You’re suddenly the pilot?” McGuiness stole another look at the MaxViz. He glanced over at Cantell.

  “We can do this,” Cantell said. “We put it down there. We make the call. Not so different than what we had planned.”

  “The checklist,” McGuiness shouted.

  The nose of the jet slowly moved away from the lights of Stanley and pointed northwest.

  “Thata boy,” said Cantell.

  He then flipped the laminated sheets and began reading aloud.

  46

  The periodic updates from his dispatcher began to weigh on Walt. He put two patrols on the armory. He had his deputies there in vests and with shotguns.

  Connected with the MC from the Incident Command Center, using a video uplink, he was apprised of the damage and informed of the overwhelming response from law enforcement-eighteen officers in twelve patrol cars were currently on the scene. Including his own deputies, that put the number at well over twenty. By his estimate, that left four or five officers total in the Hailey area, four his, two already guarding the armory.

  It was another screwup of epic proportions by valley police departments.

  He had finally identified George Clooney. He’d popped out on a federal sheet of “known associates” of the wheelman, McGuiness. A picture of one Christopher Cantell was in the upper-right-hand corner of the OneDOJ sheet that lay in front of him. It listed arrests, not convictions, and noted that Cantell had a reputation for creating feints for his heists. He was “a master of deception, calm to the point of sociopathic,” and “a person of interest” in four open investigations.

  Whatever Cantell’s plan had been for the wine, Walt now believed it too was a feint, a second robbery attempt planned south of the blocked bridge. His patience stretched thin, still reeling from Cantell’s success with the Roach Motel bait-and-switch tactic, Walt took a call from Fiona.

  “Not north of the terminal,” she said. “South. Sumner’s jet, a Lear. No one’s seen the kids.”

  “Okay.”

  But it wasn’t okay, and they both knew it.

  “The Lear… Sumner’s Lear? It just took off. That was the plane you saw. Tail number T-A-nine-five-nine.”

  “What?” His head spun. “Hillabrand’s at the auction dinner?” he asked.

  “What has he got to do with anything?”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Yes, but-”

  “Call him, please. Tell him it’s an emergency, that we need him to find Teddy Sumner in the crowd. Sumner needs to call my office ASAP. Can you do that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is Pete there with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put him on please.” Walt waved off Nancy as she entered his office to tell him something. She leaned over and passed him a note. Armory clear. Standing guard.

  He acknowledged it with a nod.

  A gruff voice answered the phone.

  “Pete! Have you got a flight plan for the Lear?”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  “I think Kevin’s on that plane. If and when that jet lands in another state, he’s looking at a felony. Transportation of a minor. We need to contact the pilot and turn that plane around for everyone’s sake.”

  “I understand.”

  “Call me.”

  “Done deal.”

  The phone rang less than five minutes later. It was Teddy Sumner. Fiona was proving herself invaluable.

  “What’s this all about, Sheriff?”

  Walt could hear the auctioneer prattling in the background.

  “Your plane,” he said. “I need you to tell your pilot to turn it around.”

  “My pilot’s at the Best Western, running up movies and room service on an expense account, Sheriff. What do you mean, turn it around?”

  Walt held the receiver to his ear but said nothing. The bidding price in the background was up to seven thousand dollars.

  “Your Lear took off from the Sun Valley Airport less than ten minutes ago. I believe your daughter and a companion are on board.”

  “Summer’s due… Oh, shit-”

  There was a long pause on the other end. The bidding had reached eight-five.

  “I suppose it’s possible William needed a maintenance run,” he continued. “I don’t always hear about those things. Maybe Summer talked him into a joyride.”

  “We need to reach the pilot.”

  “I can call.”

  “Anything you can do to confirm the location of your plane and whether your daughter and a friend are on board would be appreciated.”

  “To confirm you’re mistaken?” Sumner sounded dubious.

  “Yes.”

  “That would be a first. What kind of cop are you?”

  “Elected,” Walt answered.

  Sumner barked a laugh.

  “One other thing, Mr. Sumner. Can you tell me how much a plane like yours costs?”

  “The general rule is, if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”

  “Millions.” Walt made it a statement.

  “Seventeen-five.”

  “Get back to me as soon as you can. And thank you again for your cooperation.”

  The bidding stopped at nine thousand five hundred. Going once… going twice…

  Walt grabbed his cell phone from its charger on his way out the door.

  Seventeen-five.

  He stopped in front of Nancy’s desk.

  “Call Myra,” he said. “Get the details of how to track Kevin’s cell phone. We’ll need her user name and password.”

  Nancy reached for the phone.

  Walt moved around to behind her desk. Within a minute, she had accessed the website and had the GPS location for Kevin’s phone, which was north of Ketchum.

  Walt checked the map’s time stamp: seven minutes earlier.

  “Oh, crap,” he said, his eyes jumping between his watch and the time on the screen.

  “Click ‘History,’” he said.

  Nancy moved the cursor and clicked. The screen refreshed to Kevin’s location of ten minutes earlier.

  “The airport,” Nancy said. “That can’t be right. Hailey Airport t
o Ketchum in a couple of minutes? I don’t think so. No one can drive that fast.”

  “He isn’t driving,” Walt said.

  47

  As the call went dead, the plane shook, and to the left Kevin heard a series of loud pops followed by silence. The roar now came only from the right.

  He checked his bars: zero. He powered down the phone, saving the battery for when they landed.

  He looked at the phone cradled in his hand. If they caught him-and they would-they’d confiscate it. The trick was to hide it, come back for it later. He tried slipping it under the pad he was lying on, but it made an obvious bulge. Just outside the sliding partition, he spotted a hand-towel dispenser. With the pilots busy and Summer and her captor facing forward, their backs to him, Kevin reached out of the storage compartment.

  His finger deciphered the dispenser’s front panel and he opened it, slipping his phone inside.

  The challenge was to think like his uncle. For all he knew, these guys were planning a 9/11-style suicide flight into some skyscraper in Seattle or Salt Lake. Or maybe they were hijacking the Lear to pick up some criminal, like on Prison Break.

  He relived all that he’d seen on his brief tour of the jet: a fire extinguisher next to the galley, knives and a corkscrew in the drawer, a flashlight above the toilet, a first-aid kit.

  He assumed there would be cleaning supplies, possibly beneath the sink or in one of the larger drawers in the galley.

  The wiry guy had taken down Summer with one hand. Kevin wasn’t going to let that happen to him. He’d seen enough movies to know the good guy never got a second chance. He’d get one shot, if he was lucky. He was Bruce Willis in Die Hard, Matt Damon in Bourne, Daniel Craig as 007. He had plenty of reference material to draw upon.

  But could he actually stab a guy? He convinced himself not to think about it. Just do it, all the Nike ads told him.

  One factor in his favor was the element of surprise. His Uncle Walt was not a hunter but was an expert marksman and one of the best trackers in the country. Kevin had been on overnights with Walt when he would locate an animal or herd and then see how long and how far he could stay with them. Hours, sometimes days, and many, many miles. What he’d learned on those outings came less from watching his uncle track-although he picked up some pointers-and more from the late-night stories told around the campfire. It was then that Walt had talked about Kevin’s father. And he learned about the use of the element of surprise.