by Karen Harper
“In like Flynn,” Jace whispered, hardly moving his lips because they’d talked about the possibility of security cameras monitoring them.
“Yes,” Pink Hair said, emerging from behind the curtain, “if you wouldn’t mind stepping back into our private showroom, my associate Roger Bassett will discuss what might suit.”
Jace took Brit’s elbow as they went behind the curtain Pink Hair held open for them. Brit’s arm was shaking, but, damn, his was too.
* * *
Claire actually had an extra day to prepare her initial theory about the possible relationships among the Black Bog trio of Hunter, Reaching Woman and Leader, because the Monday meeting had been canceled and moved to Tuesday late morning. More than once she glanced at the clock on the meeting room wall, one of those old schoolroom types with big numbers that went tick-tock if there was a moment of silence.
Kris had said the reason for the rescheduling was that Andrea and Brad were closing on the sale of their house on the beach, one of the earliest mansions built in the upscale Port Royal neighborhood, though they’d done much to renovate it. Today, Yi Ling had left the bog site early because of terrible tooth pain. Brad had said he’d called their dentist to take her in right away. He himself looked the worse for wear. He said he’d cut his arm and his cheek—Claire thought of Hunter’s slashed face again—on broken glass when he’d tried to change a window of their new house here at the bog and had dropped it.
“Which just goes to show,” Andrea had said, “he can fix most of the problems around here, but he should leave the Mr. Fix-It domestic work to someone we hire.”
“Every dollar,” Brad said, gingerly fingering the large bandage on his cheek which also showed the gauze wrap on his arm, “needs to go to Black Bog. It’s all input right now with no profit, but just wait until we can sell magazine articles, book and TV rights. We’ll make it up.”
“Speaking of making things up.” Andrea smoothly took over the meeting again, “Claire says she has put together some possibilities of relationships among the bog trio—fiction based on fact.”
“A good way to say that,” Claire said. “In a way what I’m doing is what Alex Haley, the author of Roots, the groundbreaking book on African heritage, called faction. Much research but then some fictionalized accounts. I wasn’t going to just read these three self-portraits of the trio, but I think I will start that way and then tie what I’ve written to the facts—and artifacts.”
She looked across the table at Brad. He stared back, not budging, not commenting. Finally he said, “Slides will be available,” as she lifted her paper to read the first person statement she’d written for Hunter.
“And, of course,” Andrea put in, “the bodies themselves can be studied in more detail. And someday perhaps someone will find a way to download what’s in those stored brains.”
Claire thought of a smart remark about needing to use their own brains—by studying the artifacts themselves. And that she couldn’t tell enough just from looking at the bodies. But, due to the sudden unspoken tension at the table, she said neither and started to read.
* * *
“So it went really smooth?” Mitch asked Jace and Brit as they walked the roof of the parking garage toward the chopper for the flight back. They’d be flying into a sinking sun so they wanted to head out as soon as possible.
“It seemed to,” Brit said. “First we saw some chunky bead necklaces and a bracelet. And a dagger, which we’d kind of set up with the story about my father being a connoisseur of old swords and daggers. The so-called artisan jeweler called that the pièce de résistance. The dagger was kind of crude-looking but it had chiseled designs on it, strange ones. Animals and a woman holding up both hands like she was blessing them. At least that’s what we thought it represented.”
“So you sprang for how many hundred thousand dollars?” Mitch teased as they neared the chopper.
Jace saw a man had emerged onto the top floor of the heliport where they had landed the chopper, but he evidently knew to keep back from the wash or the rotor blades before Mitch started the engine. The man was covering his eyes with both hands in the sunlight. Mitch turned his head to look at Jace and Brit in the back seat.
“We told them we were going to think it over, maybe even ask my father and be back soon,” Kris said. “Our supersalesman did leave us to make a phone call he had scheduled, but since we saw a camera and tiny microphone mounted in the room we made sure our conversation while he was gone was all about how Daddy would love to have that.”
“Way to go,” Mitch told them and gave both a fist bump. “And speaking of that, the helo’s gassed up, so strap in and let’s get going.”
“I loved the view of the Glades from the air on the way over,” Brit said.
It was a windy early evening, perfect for a flight into the sunset with the island hammocks and patches of water beneath them, the sight of gators catching the last of the sun, the flocks of ibis and egrets taking flight below—though the pilot had to watch out for those. Birds near airports in general were bad news.
Jace was content to be in the back with Brit, though he’d rather be at least in the copilot seat if she weren’t here. Man, he missed flying, but jets, not helos. He couldn’t wait to start training for the hurricane flights. The whap-whap of the rotor overhead became a blur of noise.
“Homeward bound,” Jace told Brit and took her hand. He had to raise his voice. “And someday we’ll say that about our own home, too. Soon. I promise.”
As they flew westward from Big Cypress National Park, they could spot the Western Florida coastline with its mangrove islands of all sizes. The sun was sinking, throwing a blaze of crimson across the water. Mitch had notified Marco Executive Airport that they were coming in to be sure their landing would be clear of jets. He would put the chopper down near the hangar where they had left their car.
Mitch put the helo’s lights on. As they sliced through the evening dusk, holding hands, Brit and Jace looked down at the jigsaw puzzle pieces of small islands and water. Some lights on heavily populated Marco Island were already lit. He spotted the bridge to the mainland. If she wasn’t busy putting Lexi to bed, he would have insisted on stopping by Claire’s to tell her about today.
“A small jet is going to land and gets precedence,” Mitch told them, repeating what the airport control radioed back. “Going to go around, then put down.”
“Ever heard about the sunset explosion?” Jace asked Brit, raising his voice over the sound of the rotor and rush of wind.
“Isn’t that just a myth, a tourist look-for thing?”
“Absolutely not. When the sun sets over the Gulf of Mexico, if conditions are just right, there’s a split second when the human eye sees what appears to be an explosion of extra color, sometimes even movement.”
“Have you seen it?”
“Twice, but I think you have to be at beach level. Another exciting experience I promise to my beautiful fiancée.”
Jace knew Brit wasn’t a nervous flier as long as she had something to distract her, but she hadn’t flown that much, except with him. He’d like to do more of that, fly them off into the sunset of happiness someday. He had to grin at that poetic thought. Should he tell her that too?
“Our turn to go in,” Mitch said, maybe to himself.
Jace saw they were over either Addison Bay or East Marco Cove. The water here was darker, shadowed by the low mangrove islands as the bright ball of sun slanted even lower.
A jolt wracked the chopper. Brit screamed and grabbed his arm.
“Rotors!” Mitch shouted. “Bird strike? I saw something!”
Jace flashed back to the scene at the country club reception. Chaos. Cuts. Broken glass.
They tilted almost sideways. Despite his seat belt, Jace bumped into Brit.
“No control. Going down! Brace!” Mitch shouted. “Still got some gas on board, so
pray for water instead of land!”
The chopper rotated, went into a spin. Jace was suddenly so dizzy he almost threw up.
“Brace,” he told Brit, reaching for her arm. “Feet flat on floor! Head down! I’ll get you out.”
If I get out, he thought, as the impact of the water crashed into the side of the chopper and their spinning downward stopped.
The last horrible sounds stabbing his brain were bird and brace and Brit’s endless scream.
29
Claire had just put Trey down and read a story to Lexi, who was a very good guess-some-words reader for her age and now wanted to help “read” her own big-girl books at night. Nita and Bronco were here for another day or two, until a still-shaky Nita could feel good about moving to their new house again. Every time they went there to clean the place out, something awful happened.
Claire sank on the couch, more than tired. Well, so what, because she had more Black Bog work to do. She was not allowed to bring any photos or detailed descriptions of bodies home with her but she was making some notes about the corpses she’d seen from earlier excavations. If she could see some sort of pattern, it might throw more light on her trio.
She’d just spend a few minutes on this, then check on Nick in his home office where he’d been making lists of assignments for himself and law firm associates in preparing Dale’s defense. He was agonizing over whether to advise Dale to explain his Nazi connection to the police or just wait to see if it came up. Nick was also worried whether he, as lead lawyer, would be withholding evidence on that, in which case he could face disciplinary hearings before the Bar Association. But wouldn’t people sympathize with someone who wanted to obliterate his great-uncle’s ties to Hitler and his horrible regime by destroying Nazi memorabilia on his own property?
Nick had also shared with her that he was wondering who else of Marian James’s associates might have been told about Twisted Trees, even perhaps the Hitler connection. Could word of that leak to the media or the police through a source, a contact of Marian’s, now that she was dead? Nick had said he was tempted to research the silent partners on her Endangered Properties Committee to interview people who knew her. Claire had told him she’d gladly help—but not tonight.
She kept her phone close by, waiting for Brit or even Jace to call with what they’d learned across the state today at the Vances’ other Art for Art’s Sake shop. Maybe Brit would even stop by, since both Jace and Heck were hoping the drone attack at the country club had been perpetrated by the wacko family in the dispute over the price of golf course land. That would mean it had nothing to do with them, and they were just innocent bystanders.
Nick came in stretching and yawning before she even started her project. “Not heard from them yet?” he asked. “It’s dark. They won’t just show up here, will they?”
“Brit said they’d call. I’d sure like to know what they found before I go to the bog tomorrow. I’m going to really press ‘the Senator’ for even brief looks at the artifacts I haven’t seen, including one special item.”
“Claire, if you’re thinking he might be selling copies of—or the real—artifacts from those graves, be damn careful. I suppose it’s partly finders keepers in the law, but I’d have to look into it—in my spare time,” he said with a roll of his eyes.
“Remember, I didn’t tell you any of that. I’m just fascinated by all this archaeology of the ancients. It is important, and I want to keep this job.”
“Okay, I know.” He yawned again and flopped down on the couch beside her. “Don’t tell me any more so you don’t have to shoot me, Mata Hari.”
“Pick someone else to joke about,” she said, leaning her shoulder against his. “She was shot to death by the French for being a German spy. I wish Brit and Jace would check in.”
As if she’d willed it, her cell phone sounded. She reached for it and looked at the caller ID. Marco Island Fire and Rescue?
“Hello.”
“I would like to speak with Alexandra Britten or Claire Markwood please.”
“Alexandra’s my six-year-old daughter. I’m Claire Markwood.” Her voice trembled. She swallowed hard. Nick leaned closer, listening.
“This is the Marco Island airport patched through from our fire and rescue unit. A helicopter has gone down on approach to the Marco Island Executive Airport. I’ve called the contact name of Jason Britten left by the pilot Mitchell Blakeman, who filed a Fort Lauderdale flight plan, but Jason Britten doesn’t answer, and from earlier flights from here we cross-referenced his contact number to this one.”
Claire could tell by Nick’s frown that he could hear.
The woman on the phone went on, “We know the approximate site from where the blips went off the radar screen. Help is on the way.”
Claire’s hand began to shake. She could hardly hold the phone. Couldn’t breathe. That time they were in a plane that ditched near Cuba—raw nightmare.
“We know the people,” she said, finally in full voice. “Three aboard. Went down where?”
Nick had put his arm hard around her and was leaning close to hear, maybe to prop her up. This was all her fault. She had sent them. How could this have happened with Mitch at the controls? Jace had said Mitch was a great helicopter and jet pilot.
“Our squad has gone out to search, and we’ve advised local Fire and Rescue also. We don’t know their status at this time. We’re sending another helicopter with search lights and the beach rescue patrol. We believe it was a water landing but—”
“If we come to the airport, can we get to the site from there?”
“Please don’t come at this time. It may hamper the efforts of—”
Claire ended the call. “I’ll tell Nita we’re leaving,” she told Nick, pulling from his embrace and springing to her feet. “You heard?”
“I’ll get our jackets and flashlights, but we can’t get in their way.”
“It’s my fault,” she insisted, feeling sick to her stomach but also angry and energized. “I have to be there, have to help. If they are hurt or gone—any of them—I’ll never forgive myself, and Lexi won’t either.”
* * *
Jace wasn’t sure where he was. Swimming? No water near the base in Iraq. His head hurt, his soul hurt. Had he ditched his jet in the Persian Gulf?
Then reality returned. Chopper crash. Had to get out. Had to save Brit.
“Mitch? Mitch?”
Damn dark here, water rushing in through shattered Plexiglas. Not in the Gulf, but one of the waterways between the mangrove islands.
Brit. Where was Brit? Oh, strapped in right beside him. He unhooked his seat belt. The power of the water pouring in scared him. She was still in her seat belt, bent over in the brace position. Unconscious or dead? How long since they’d crashed? With this deluge, they were going under, going down to drown.
He unhooked her seat belt and hauled her up into his arms, sopping wet. She sucked in air, panting, clinging to him so hard her fingernails bit into his skin. Thank God, she was alive and conscious.
He tried to sound rational, calm. How large was this pocket of air? “Brit, we’re going out through that hole in the dome, but it’s sideways now.”
“Can’t see. Dark.”
“Listen to me! We have to wait until the water comes up to a good level so we can swim out, hold our breath. Hang on here. Got to find Mitch.”
He half swam, half dove toward the pilot’s seat. Mitch must have hit his head bringing them down in a somewhat upright position. Thank God, his head was above water but he wasn’t responding. Was he even breathing?
Jace unhooked his friend’s seat belt, and, still fighting the driving force of fairly warm salt water, keeping his head above the rising level of it, he dragged Mitch into the back seat, nearer to the broken window. He was terrified at how limp he was.
“Mitch? Mitch!”
He shook him
and hit his back between his shoulder blades as hard as he could manage in the water. If he stayed in here to give him breaths or CPR, the chopper would fill with too much water, and they’d all drown.
But Mitch spit out water and coughed. Two for two, Jace thought, but if they didn’t move fast and just right, all three of them could be gone.
And then, made heavier with the air bubble gone, the entire chopper shifted and settled lower.
“Gotta go now!” Jace shouted but swallowed a mouthful of water.
He spit it out, grabbed Brit’s arm and thrust her ahead of him, shoving her toward where he was certain the opening had been. Water wasn’t pouring in anymore. He let go of Mitch and pushed ahead of Brit, feeling in the darkness for the jagged opening. If it had settled on the bottom of the bay, they were goners.
But no, there was a space, just at a different angle. He surfaced and told her, “There is an opening. Get a big breath. Go down my body, feel my leg. It’s where my foot is. Go! I’ll be right behind you! I love you. Go!”
She sucked in a breath and went under, grabbing his leg, kicking, fighting her way down. And then, thank God, she let go, must have gone out and surfaced. Please, God, let her be all right. Let her make it, whatever happens to us.
He could sense the tide or the moving water was going to shift this baby again. Glad he never flew these birds, only his beloved jets. Got to go now, drag Mitch out to fly another day.
He had trouble pulling Mitch under. Were his lungs full of air? They weren’t going to make it, but he sure as hell wasn’t leaving Mitch behind. Never leave a fellow soldier or pilot behind, not even their bodies.
His lungs were bursting as he held his breath to shove Mitch through the opening. His arm got cut along the edge of the shattered plastic bubble. So damn dark here. He wriggled through the opening after Mitch, still holding to him. His ankle snagged something hard—a broken rotor?—and he shot toward the surface with it clinging to him.