How did Anna’s mother know there was a van? Intuition, that’s how. Anna’s mother had been around long enough to have it floating around in the back of her head how predators operate, and one of the ways predators operate is to ask a girl for help. It was kind of genius, really, because who’d be afraid of someone needing help? The van part, well, it was a natural leap. Almost all serial killers had vans on account of how they made excellent combo kidnap/murder workshops on wheels.
A day later a young woman from a few neighborhoods away disappeared. Anna and her mother called the tip line and their subsequent interview with the police helped apprehend the culprit. Unfortunately the girl was found dead. See, she should not have ignored her intuition.
Jacksonville, my intuition screamed at me.
First, why would Otis want to keep me from seeing the contents of the casket? Especially since I’d gotten a glance and seen it wasn’t Malcolm in there? Why would Otis be so concerned for my feelings? Especially when he had more confidence in my ability to withstand trauma than I did myself? Why treat me with kid gloves all of a sudden?
I knew the answer. “Really, you two, I can handle it.” My voice was calm but my heart jumped around inside my ribs. Officer Ned and Otis looked at each other with uncertainty. “I swear, I’ll be all right,” I assured them. Silently and reluctantly, the two men stepped aside and allowed me through.
Despite my assurances, as I came closer to the casket, I felt more tears begin to flow. Inside the crate—hands peacefully placed across his chest, funeral makeup now garish against the sunken and dried flesh on his skull, the small rose I had placed under his fingers now aged into a perfect seashell of dried leaves—was my sweet and beloved grandfather Roy Coleman.
Jacksonville was the nearest major airport to St. Augustine, Florida, where until recently he’d been buried next to my grandmother in the peaceful and scenic grounds of Tolomato Cemetery. He died nearly five years ago in his garage while restoring a vintage Ford Rambler. The jack had collapsed, which caused the car to fall on top of him and crush his chest. I remember that when my mother got the news, she cried as hard as she did when my father died. I sat for hours at her feet that day, hugging her legs, while Ash admonished us cruelly. “Get up,” he shouted. “Get over it. The guy was old anyway.”
A tag on the zipper of my grandfather’s body bag matched one clipped to a band on his wrist. They indicated that the remains were to be delivered to the forensic department of the Fulton County coroner’s lab.
“That’s your grandfather?” LaVonda asked. Otis had updated her as I gazed at the casket. “You poor child. Here, take Beefy Cakes.” She handed me the dog and I buried my face in his sweet fur. “What on earth is your poor dead granddaddy doing on this plane?”
I had a feeling it had something to do with the federal subpoena to exhume his remains in order to prove my paternal lineage. I discussed this with the other three, taking care to sound composed since they were all staring at me like I was two seconds from collapsing into a laundry pile saturated with sobs. Officer Ned supported my theory, explaining that the body would have been shipped to Atlanta because the chain of custody required by the subpoena specified the DNA sample to be extracted by the jurisdiction requesting the sample.
“Yeah, that explains why he was in ATL,” Otis said, “but why is he here, on this plane? He should have been picked up from the cargo area last night.”
Yes, why was he on this plane? To Grand Cayman. The four of us thought deeply for a minute. My intuition started squawking again. That bastard, it said. I didn’t know why or even how, but I knew Ash Manning had something to do with this.
Otis broke the silence. “Let’s close him back up for now.” The second he replaced the lid, we heard the aircraft rumble to life around us.
“There’s the engines!” Otis, the true machine enthusiast, perked up. “Where’re we headed?”
We informed him of the flight plan to Grand Cayman. He rubbed his hands together and grinned. “The Caribbean, nice.”
“I see it differently,” I said. I’d been there with Flo a few times. She had a friend who worked the beach bar at the Marriott and got us discounted rooms and free cocktails (for Flo, anyway; all I drank was ginger ale). “Who could ask for more in a vacation?” she said. Actually, I could. The island was hardly more than a haven for big conglomerate banks, designer shops, and staggeringly expensive restaurants that catered to pale Western executives on expense accounts. There was no local flavor like you’d find in other Caribbean islands. For example, Jamaica had an amazing culture in comparison. Even Cancún, a complete armpit taken over by bad frat bars and 20,000 renditions of the exact same T-shirt shop, offered a more colorful atmosphere than Grand Cayman. To me, the island was as fun and welcoming as an expensive toilet. The average Forbes Global 2000 company accountant would probably differ with me, though, since the island had become a magnet for hefty offshore bank accounts ever since Switzerland ceased to be an outlet in that regard. I knew these things from my brief stint on the WorldAir board. It was amazing what files the officials let me look at when they themselves had no idea what they contained.
I felt the portable jet stairs nudge the aircraft. The ramp worker maneuvered them into place at the right-front door above us. We all hushed as we heard the aircraft door open and the footsteps of the pilots, cabin crew, and smattering of company wonks walk onboard.
Officer Ned asked to see the pairing summary again and I handed it to him. “This plane is going to be practically empty,” he observed. Yes; I explained to him about how the plane had been purchased by Peacock Airways and the transfer was set to occur at GCM airport. “I’m going up there to talk to the pilots, then.” He stepped toward the elevators. Out of habit, I moved to stop him by placing my hand on his arm. I had an inherent distrust of authority while Officer Ned, being an authority figure whose father was an authority figure, had the opposite sentiment. Our views often clashed because of this, which since we’ve known each other has helped keep us from being too stagnant in our views. Still, I didn’t want him to just barge on upstairs without a plan.
He turned to me. “What?” he asked. I was having a hard time voicing my apprehension. “We have to tell the pilots about this.”
“Why do we have to tell anyone just yet?” I countered. No one knew we were onboard. It was a perfect situation if you asked me. “Please . . .” I began, but he gently pulled his arm from my grip and turned back toward the elevators.
“April, we have to send someone to check on Flo, for one thing,” he reminded me.
Otis straightened with sudden attentiveness. “What about Flo?” he asked. “What happened to Flo?”
LaVonda filled him in on the coded distress signal we received from Flo during our cellphone conversation with her earlier, as well as the MacGyver reference. “Season four, episode eleven,” she said, nodding solemnly.
At that Otis headed for the elevators himself. “Now where are you going?” I asked. He didn’t answer, as just then there was loud clamoring that signaled the elevators were coming to life. LaVonda, now accustomed to concealing herself, rushed to the jumpseat area so she’d be out of the sight line of the elevator window. Otis and I ducked behind the caskets while Officer Ned, worrisomely, stood his ground before the elevator door so that whoever opened it would encounter him before anything else.
At just 16 inches wide, the elevators on an L-1011 are little more than dumbwaiters, really. They can accommodate just one meal cart or two people front-to-back at a time. Either/or, not both. To operate from the inside, two toggle switches on each side of the interior need to be pressed simultaneously, making it impossible to control it with just one hand. This design was intentional, as a legacy of earlier-model, differently designed L-1011s had a propensity for people to get their limbs ripped off. As a mechanic, Uncle Otis was especially knowledgeable about these types of injuries to cabin crew on the aircraft, as he was often dispatched to create adjustments to the machinery to circumven
t similar accidents in the future. Otis himself was further testimony that air travel is just a giant ongoing human experiment. Accidents like the Tenerife disaster always result in studies that identify glitches in the system that can be corrected to make flying safer. In that instance, the miscommunication between air traffic control and the KLM pilot centered around the phrase “stand by for takeoff,” which was misunderstood as “cleared for takeoff,” to horrific consequence. Today, the universal rule during taxi is that the word “takeoff” cannot be spoken in the cockpit during taxi unless it’s to inform and confirm that the aircraft is cleared for the runway.
On my mother’s refrigerator, she kept a list Otis had made for her benefit, detailing his “top six” most common workplace injuries that occur inside an aircraft cabin. Here’s the list:
OTIS’S TOP 6 LIST OF MOST COMMON WORKPLACE INJURIES THAT OCCUR INSIDE AN AIRCRAFT CABIN
Loss of Limb. In 1976, a stewardess got her hand cut off in the service elevator of an L-1011 when it got stuck between the fuselage and the downward-traveling elevator.
Loss of Eye. Example: One Uncle Otis Blodgett. ’Nuff said.
Third-Degree Burn. Until the mid-nineties, when airlines banned inflight smoking, flight attendants commonly ignited like Roman candles thanks to the combination of alcohol, lit cigarettes, and, worst of all, the synthetic fibers that made up their uniforms. (“You might as well wear clothes made out of exploding aerosol cans,” Otis said.)
Stab Wound. And I don’t even mean the kind created by knives. An aircraft in the sky is far from a stable environment. Accidental stabbings by Bic pen, umbrella, broken cane, chopsticks, and the like are common.
Head Injury. Those flying soda cans pack a punch once the plane hits turbulence.
Broken Leg. Just make sure the beverage cart is secured during takeoff. And if it’s not, don’t stick your leg in the aisle to stop it from careening toward the passengers. It weighs 700 pounds. (Flo added this one.)
Every time I heard the grinding of the L-1011 elevator gears, I thought of this list. As the elevator descended I could see a set of legs, first. They were clad in the slacks option of the WorldAir flight attendant uniform. This must be one of the cabin crew members, I realized. Even though the flight was being ferried at near-zero passenger capacity, there would still need to be at least two flight attendants to man the front doors. These were the kinds of trips the FAs at WorldAir loved, because they were paid the same for ferry flights as they were for working a plane full of whiney passengers. Ferry flights tended to come available at the last minute, and if you were quick at the employee interface, you could pluck one up for extra time. And if you were lucky you’d get a captain who let you fly the plane, too. Totally against the law, but it happened.
The clamoring stopped once the elevator had fully descended. Officer Ned obstructed my view of inside the car as he stood between me and the elevator. Then, curiously, he held out his arms and let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, my God,” he said, his voice thickening with relief, “am I glad to see you.”
“Likewise, Thor,” Flo said, and walked into his embrace.
CHAPTER 18
“Flo!” I clambered to her side to join in on the hug. She turned toward me and then caught sight of Otis, who had sprung forth from behind the nearest stack of caskets.
“What the hell?” she shrieked. “You’re dead, you bastard! I heard the ambulance driver say so!” As if to prove to herself that she wasn’t hallucinating, she picked up the crowbar from the floor and threw it at him.
Otis turned and winced when it hit him in the butt. “Ouch. Watch it. I’ve had enough trouble with crowbars lately.” Flo wailed with relief and threw herself into his arms.
We explained to her how she wasn’t the only one who thought Otis was gone, as we found him in one of the travel caskets just like any other cadaver. “I wasn’t dead, I was just rebooting,” Otis said, which was as good an explanation as any. LaVonda called for assistance getting free from the jumpseat again, and as I turned to help her I caught sight of someone else in the elevator. He had his back to me—a tall man in an expensive suit—but when he turned around the recognition hit me. I wanted to throw myself through the small door and stick to him like a squid, but I could do little more than just stand there like an idiot, staring at him.
“Hi, April,” Malcolm emerged from the elevator and smiled shyly at me.
CHAPTER 19
Finally my motor functions returned and I went to him, blinking back tears of relief. Captain Beefheart flung his pudgy self against his chest, where Malcolm held him close. Beefheart had always been Malcolm’s dog, after all. Officer Ned led us into a huddle, where we debriefed each other on the events since yesterday. Was it really just 24 hours since I saw Malcolm get abducted outside his dad’s office? I marveled.
“Actually, they took me four days ago, not just yesterday. The driver mistook me for my Dad.” That driver was Ash Manning, of course, who, as part of the grift, had gotten hired as a driver by Malcolm’s mother. (Evidently her background check consisted of one question: “When can you start?”) When Hackman realized they got the wrong Colgate, he must have decided to use Malcolm in a ploy to get to his father.
“What did they want with your father?” Officer Ned asked.
“The money he took,” Malcolm lowered his head, “—that he stole.” They told him his father refused to bend to their demands, even at the risk of Malcolm’s own welfare. “Finally they asked me to impersonate him, and I said yes. It’s the least I could do.”
“What do you mean they asked you?” I cried. “It didn’t look like they were politely asking you from my perspective. And they shot at us.”
“Those were just blanks,” he shrugged. “They would never hurt any of you. They promised me.”
We stared at him, agog. All except Flo, who asked Malcolm to take Beefheart through the bulkhead and down the catwalk in case he had any business to take care of. “And make sure he craps under the pilot hatch so the boys in the cockpit can enjoy the aroma,” she laughed.
When Malcolm was out of earshot, she turned to us and lowered her voice. “They got in his head, Crash,” she told me. “He thinks he’s going to Grand Cayman to get the money and give it back to the people his father stole it from—not just the shareholders, but the pensions of all the employees, and the people who invested their life savings in the stock of Colgate Enterprises. The kidnappers convinced him he’s doing the right thing—restoring his family name.”
I realized this meant Malcolm thought his father refused to talk even when Hackman threatened his family. Malcolm was under the impression his dad valued the money over him, when the likely truth was the opposite—if his father had given Hackman what he wanted, there would have been no reason for them to keep Malcolm alive. Now here the stupid thugs have killed Mr. Colgate and still didn’t have the bank account information. But obviously they thought they no longer needed it, since they’d convinced Malcolm to fly to Grand Cayman and impersonate his father in an attempt to access the funds.
Flo explained that, for her part, she had been able to convince the criminals of her usefulness by suggesting she schedule herself as part of the cabin crew for their flight to Grand Cayman. Malcolm backed her up and that was why she’d been escorted home and back, to change into her uniform.
“And guys,” Flo continued, “Malcolm doesn’t know his dad’s dead.”
I gasped and covered my mouth. Poor Malcolm! They must have spent days brainwashing him. “Yeah,” Flo said. “They laid it on pretty thick.”
Malcolm called to us from the behind the bulkhead to apologize for taking so long. “Beefheart doesn’t want to poop.”
“That’s okay, you take all the time you need,” Flo called to him, then turned back to us and lowered her voice.
The two airport ambulance drivers, she explained, were also part of the smuggling scheme. After she hopped in the back of the ambulance with Otis, they brought Flo straight to Hackman’s safe house a
cross from the Cheetah strip club, where Malcolm was holed up with Ash and little Miss Chesty GargantoBoobs from the getaway car. It’s also the reason the woman didn’t kill Flo the second she was dragged through the door by the drivers, because it would have blown her cover as a compassionate do-gooder trying to reunite people with their lost pensions. No matter how brainwashed Malcolm was, I doubt he’d have remained her ally if she killed his friend right in front of him.
“Who is that woman?” I asked.
Flo lit a cigarette and eyed me with reluctance. “You’re not gonna like this . . .” She shook her head and decided on a different approach. “Okay, they call her Dr. Lullwater. I don’t know her first name.”
“Dr. Lullwater! She came to my office this morning,” Officer Ned exclaimed. “She had documents. Here, I kept a copy of her credentials.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a square of printer paper and unfolded it. “This is her badge.”
“Right,” Flo snorted. “I bet it is.”
I peered at the grainy image on the paper. The name on the badge read “Lena Lullwater, Forensic Psychologist, ABPP.” The face in the picture, though, read something different altogether. The hair was platinum blonde and the double chin was gone, but I recognized her. I pointed to the image so hard I nearly punched the paper from Officer Ned’s hand.
“That’s Molly Hackman!”
“I said you weren’t gonna like it,” said Flo. She was right. I was furious.
“I told you, Thor!” LaVonda piped up. “Did I not TELL you? And here you were ready to hand over our April with a birthday bow.” We realized she was still stuck in her seat. Flo reached over and with one twist undid the jumpseat harness so LaVonda could stand, but instead LaVonda remained seated, her hands clasped, listening to us eagerly.
Officer Ned protested. “I wasn’t about to hand April over until I heard her side of the story.”
We Will Be Crashing Shortly Page 13
