Golden Legacy

by Robert James Glider

  “All right, Jac, I guess it’s time to get this flying over with. I’m ready.”

  Nikki waved from the deck. “Good luck, guys!”

  Jac grinned and waved back to her. His body tingled when she smiled at him. He shook his head when he saw the men onlookers with their gazes transfixed on Nikki.

  Jac snapped his harness belt and checked the straps.

  “You ready?” asked Peri.

  It’s time to get this show on the road, Jac thought as he remembered his and Peri’s solo flight at the ultralight flight school in South Carolina last week. They had spent three days in the classroom before the first flight. And then the day had come for the solo. Blue skies with little white puff clouds, and sixty degrees. A perfect day. As they’d gone through the equipment, checking off the list of preflight protocols, Jac had seen that Peri was nervous.

  “You go first. I’ll take notes,” Peri had said.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be ready to go when I land.”

  “Of course I will!” Peri said with a sheepish grin on his face.

  Jac had flown a by-the-book solo flight, and landed the ultralite as if he had been doing it all his life.

  The instructor complimented Jac and said to Peri, “You’re up, Mr. Schmoond!”

  “Peri, it was really easy,” said Jac while unbuckling his harness. “You can do it. Just remember what you learned.”

  “I’m not feeling good, Jac. I’m not a bird!”

  Jac had watched as Peri snapped his harness buckle and pointed his power pack up so as not to fill the canopy draped behind him with air.

  “Okay … here goes.” The ultralight’s engine kicked over and sputtered.

  Jac yelled, “Push the throttle forward to full!”

  Peri had signaled a thumbs-up. He closed his eyes, pushed the throttle forward, and pressed the start button. The engine coughed, sputtered, and hummed.

  Jac winced.

  Peri pulled the throttle back, killed the engine, and gazed up toward the sky.

  Jac said a prayer, flashed a thumbs-up, and watched the big guy run into the wind. When the airfoil popped up and centered above Peri, Jac muttered, “So far so good.” He crossed his fingers behind his back and held his breath as Peri restarted the engine and gunned the throttle. Jac let out his held breath and smiled as he watched Peri’s feet leave the ground. Peri let out a big whoop as he gained altitude.

  Watching through binoculars, Jac had observed Peri execute several of the required turning maneuvers. But as Peri entered into the long sweeping turn that would bring him back to make his landing, Jac moaned. “Uh oh! Damn it! You misjudged your glide and killed the engine too soon!”

  Losing altitude, Peri had finally crashed into a huge haystack.

  Jac watched as Peri’s blue-and-gold chute settled on top of the stack, twenty feet above the ground. Saying a prayer, Jac sprinted across the meadow, jumped on the haystack, and burrowed inside. He could hear Peri’s booming laugh somewhere above him. “Peri? You okay?”

  “Jac? Yes … I’m fine.” Peri had chuckled “Good God, I flew like a bird. But now I won’t be able to eat chicken—or for that matter, any fowl. I’d feel like a cannibal!”

  Upon their return home to Malibu, California, from South Carolina, Jac had secured plans and bought the equipment necessary to build three ultralight models with special lightweight harnesses that would enable the pilots to attain maximum speed and control. Jac and his dad were the same height—six foot three—and both weigh two hundred ten pounds. That made it easy to customize the seat harness and nylon airfoil canopies. Peri, at six-foot two, outweighed them both by at least sixty pounds, making the task more difficult.

  “I can’t believe it! You’re going to try and land on a moving boat?” Peri said.

  “Once we get the hang of flying on a chute, maybe we both will,” said Jac. “Dad’s building a platform from the specs I sent him. He’s fitting the Golden Adventurer with a net at the stern to catch us if we go too far. Our sloop is sixty foot.” Jac smiled. “Don’t worry it’ll be a piece of cake.”

  “Yeah,” Peri grumbled. “Devil’s food!”

  Now the early morning sun on the horizon dipped behind a lone cloud drifting lazily across an indigo sky.

  Jac and Peri made their final check of the equipment.

  “Come on, Peri.”

  “Jac, I’m built like a cannon ball. I could sink our ship!”

  “The power chutes will enable us to fly high enough over the water to pick up any anomalies detected from the subscanners and bottom profilers on the boat,” Jac said as he snapped the buckle on his harness and tightened the strap on his headgear. “I’ll go first.”

  Jac turned on the radio that was built into the helmet. It would enable him to talk to Peri when they were aloft. He stepped into position on the sand runway and began running into the wind. When the airfoil filled behind him, he gunned the engine and soared out over the water. He turned back and looked down. Peri had lined up in position. Jac smiled as he watched Peri looking like a large bomber aircraft as he lumbered down the sand runway, pulled up his feet as if he was retracting the landing gear, and soared out over the water.

  Minutes later, flying side by side, exhilarated by the bird-like sensation of conquest over the sky, both men let out a whoop.

  Suddenly, an event from Jac’s past burst into his mind: He was in a bed looking into the face of Abigail Chance. He shook his head to clear the image, but it lingered. He closed his eyes and it vanished.

  Guilt remained.

  CHAPTER 3

  University of Miami Medical Center, Miami, Florida

  March 20, 2017

  Doctor Abigail Hathaway-Chance and several friends were celebrating her thirty-fourth birthday and the end of her surgical residency in the doctors’ lounge of the University of Miami Medical Center. The crowd sang the traditional “Happy Birthday to You” and ended with a roar of cheers. Abigail sucked in a big breath, and with a mighty exhale blew out thirty-four candles on the large sheet cake beautifully iced in blue, pink, and white. Several of her friends called out for a speech. Abigail knew they were seeking an answer. Was she going to stay at the university, or was she going to take one of the many offers she’d received to join successful surgical practices? She figured it was time to answer the question. No one was going to like the answer except her. She had decided to go home and set up her own practice, just as her father and her grandmother had done before her. She was not a city girl—never had been. Sure, she had toyed with the idea of staying when she’d been in a relationship, but that hadn’t panned out. Abigail raised her hands in a motion for the crowd to calm down.

  “I want to thank all of you for your friendship these past years, and for caring enough to give me a party!”

  The sudden tremor and buzz of the iPhone in her pocket caused her to stop. It crossed her mind that it may be an emergency. She’d learned as a doctor that she was always on call. Abigail asked for a moment to answer and reached into her pocket for the phone. The screen told her the call was from her sister-in-law. She looked at the smiling faces that had gathered around her cake. “I’m sorry, guys, I really have to take this call. I’ll be right back.” She stepped out into the hallway.

  “Hi, Roni.”

  A long pause with no answer.

  “Roni?” Abigail heard a voice in the background on the other end of call say, “Oh, my god!” She heard her sister-in-law sob. “Roni? You’re crying. What’s wrong?”

  “Abigail … I’m sorry … It’s Momma. Oh, Abi … she … she’s dead!”

  “Roni … what? … dead? Oh, God! Momma!” Abigail’s eyes welled up, and tears streamed down her face. Stunned, she mumbled, “I … need a moment.” She dropped the phone on her lap and gave herself over to deep sobs and grief. Realizing she had to pull herself together, she reached into the pocket o
f her scrubs and took out a tissue. Then she sucked in a deep breath, wiped her eyes, and picked up the phone from her lap. “Roni … I can’t talk now. I’m coming home. I’ll call you when I’m on my way.” She hung up, covered her eyes with her hands, and sobbed once more.

  A doctor and two nurses came out into the hall to see if she was all right. Not knowing what had happened, they silently offered their comfort and support.

  Her thoughts were jumbled—so many questions—but she had to get home to make funeral arrangements. Abigail wiped her eyes. She hugged and thanked the colleagues who had come out to help her. She gave them a brief explanation, forced a smile, and returned to the lounge. She waved to the other doctors and nurses as she took her leave. She had to go home, and she didn’t want to take the time to explain.

  In the doctors’ locker room, Abigail changed from her green scrubs into a dark gray business suit with a white blouse. She slipped into black low-heeled shoes. She always kept three changes of clothes in her locker to fit any occasion. She removed several personal care items from her locker and put them in a small bag. As she closed the locker door, she looked in the mirror on the wall behind her. Tears fill her eyes. She felt like cuddling up in bed in the fetal position to have a good cry. She took several deep breaths to compose herself. Then it hit her—What had caused Momma’s death?

  She started to call Roni, but decided to wait. The thought stayed with her. She called Delta and secured a first-class seat to Dulles on a plane leaving in three hours. Then she picked up her bag and headed for the office of the surgical medical director.

  Her mind reeled with the same thoughts. Something was not right. It had been just two weeks ago when her mother had called expressing relief after passing a stress test as part of her physical exam at the University of Virginia Medical Center. “I passed with flying colors,” Momma had said. Uncle Jonas, a renowned cardiologist, had performed the tests. Uncle Jonas told Momma she was in superb health for her age. Could he have missed something?

  Abigail dropped her bag next to the empty receptionist’s desk in the surgical director’s outer office and gently knocked on the interior door. She heard a familiar voice say, “Come in.”

  Abigail sobbed as she tried to speak. “My … my mother … passed away.” She paused for a moment to fight back the tears that filled her eyes. “I’m leaving now to go home to be with my family and make the funeral arrangements. Please take me off the surgical schedule. I’ll just have to let the board know my final decision regarding my future plans in a few days.”

  “I’m so sorry, Abi. Take all the time you need.” Robert Freedman took a tissue from a box and stepped from behind his desk and wiped away the tears streaming down her face. He hugged her. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  Even though they had mutually agreed to end their relationship several months ago, Abigail knew he was still her friend. “No, I’m okay.” She gently pushed him away from her. “I need to deal with this myself. I’ll let you know more later.”

  Four hours later, Abigail’s plane landed at Dulles International Airport in Washington DC, and fifteen minutes later she was shivering in the cold wind as she stood in line with her carryon suitcase waiting for the rental car bus. She had meant to call Roni from the plane, but exhaustion had set in. She remembered closing her eyes. The next thing she remembered was waking up and hearing the pilot direct passengers to fasten their seatbelts for the landing.

  Abigail drove the car out of the rental lot and onto the highway. She picked up her cell phone and pressed the redial and speaker buttons.

  “Abigail … you all right?”

  “Yes. Thank you for calling me right away, Roni.”

  “She was my mother too. You know how much I loved her.”

  Abigail remembered the week after she and Reg Chance were married. Roni Chance, Reg’s kid sister, had come to live with them after their parents were killed in a tragic automobile accident. Reg, a major in a US army special ops unit, had just received orders to report to Ft. Campbell, Kentucky, before deploying to Iraq. Abigail and Roni moved in with Abigail’s mother. A year later, Abigail had just begun her second year of a five-year residency in neurosurgery when two army officers came to the door to inform her that Reg had heroically given his life saving others.

  “I know you loved her, Roni, and she loved you. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply …”

  “It’s okay, sis. I’m a little shook up.”

  “Roni, I need you to do something for me.” Abigail knew the sheriff’s office would be handling the investigation. Hathaway House, as her house was called by the residents in the valley, was well outside the city limits of Winchester, Virginia, and in the jurisdiction of the sheriff’ department.

  “Anything … what?”

  “I need you to call the sheriff. Tell him I’m on my way from the airport and should arrive at his office in the next hour. His cell number is in momma’s phone book.”

  “Abigail? I feel something is not right about Momma’s death.”

  “I … I agree. Something is not right. Momma just had a complete physical. That’s why I want to talk to the sheriff.”

  “Abi, someone is at the door. The neighbors have been filling the refrigerator with casseroles since yesterday. I’ll make the call, and I’ll see you soon. Love you, sis.”

  When Abigail turned into the parking lot of the public works building, the sheriff, an old friend of the family, was waiting for her at the doorway. He stood six foot six and weighed in at over three hundred pounds. He’d played football for the same high school and college Abigail’s mother had attended, and would have gone to the pros if he hadn’t blown his knees. When Ray Dixon spread his arms to give Abigail a hug, it was as if he had crashed through the line and was hunting a quarterback. He said he was sorry for her loss, and as they walked inside the building, he signaled the deputy at the front desk to buzz them through the secure door that led to his office.

  The office was painted in the austere green-and-white colors that graced so many public buildings, yet it felt homey to Abigail because, across the walls, like a rogue’s gallery, were pictures of his family, friends, and him dressed in his football uniform with ninety-nine emblazoned across his shirt. And there was a picture of her mother and father standing on the football field with the sheriff and his wife, all smiling. They looked to be about Abigail’s age. They were dressed in the orange and blue colors of the University of Virginia.

  “We had just beaten West Virginia,” Dixon said. “I look at that picture a lot. It reminds me of our lifelong friendship.”

  “You all look so happy.”

  Abigail turned away from the picture and sat in front of the sheriff’s large oak desk. He looked at her with sadness showing in his eyes as he opened the top drawer and pulled out a manila envelope.

  “Here is a copy of the investigation report.” He handed it to her.

  Abigail thumbed through the pages until she found what she was looking for. The medical examiner’s preliminary cause of death was listed as natural from a myocardial infarction. But as she read the narrative, she discovered the medical examiner and the sheriff were not convinced. They both suspected foul play.

  “The expression of fear frozen on your mother’s face threw me,” said Dixon. “I had to treat the investigation as a homicide. And when we categorize the death as suspicious, our protocol dictates that I call in the state homicide investigator.”

  “Do you still have doubts as to the cause of death?”

  “You know, Abi, your mom and my wife and I were old school chums, and maybe because I knew her so well, my doubts were raised before I even saw her. But … when I saw her, I felt sure there was foul play.”

  “May I see the pictures?”

  Abi caught the hesitation in Dixon’s body language. She knew he was unsure about allowing her to view the pictures.

  After
a pause, he made up his mind and reached into the top drawer of his desk. “I didn’t want to show these to you because I didn’t want you to remember your mother this way. I imagine you’ve seen worse, but …”

  “I know.” Abi leaned across the desk. “But not of my mother.”

  He handed her five eight-by-ten glossy color pictures.

  Abigail tried to remain clinical as she scanned the pictures, but her eyes filled with tears that threatened to spill. She put the pictures down on the desk and moved one away from the others. She studied the picture for a long minute. “I just can’t buy it. A nightmare couldn’t have caused this look on my mother’s face.” She handed the pictures back to the sheriff. “She was fearless. You know as well as I do that nothing on this earth could scare her.”

  “When I arrived at the house, I thought it must have been an armed burglar that scared your mother. The priceless antiques in the house might entice someone to take the risk to burglarize the house.”

  “Was anything missing?”

  “Nothing! Not a thing.” Dixon paused. “That’s what I was told by your neighbor, Mrs. Birch. She found Victoria. She was pretty shook up, and it took some time to make any sense out of what she said.”

  “Oh, God … Birchy.”

  “Yeah, that’s what she said you all called her. She knows your house as well as you and your momma, and she and I thoroughly checked it out, including the places where your mother told her she hid her valuables.”

  “Momma and Birchy go back as far back as I can remember. Birchy has a key to the house, and Momma had a key to Birchy’s. They knew everything about each other; they were like sisters. Every other week they would trade off and have morning coffee at each other’s house.”

  “I know Ada Birch as well as I knew your mother. She’s good people. I had Ada take a second look, hoping we overlooked something. She took her time and went over the whole house again. She looked at all the antiques, looked in all the drawers, and any place she thought your mom might have hidden something valuable. She couldn’t find anything missing. She showed me where your mother kept the strongbox with her valuables and important papers. Your mother had given her a key and told her what to do in case something happened and you weren’t here. We found the strongbox locked, and when Mrs. Birch opened it, Victoria’s jewelry and papers—including the deed to the house, a copy of her will, bank books, and thirty-seven hundred dollars in cash—were inside.”