by Rachel Brady
It solved one problem. I’d use the parachute to get off the plane before I was found. The question was when to do it.
The Otter wasn’t pressurized, so we wouldn’t exceed twelve or thirteen thousand feet. It wasn’t how high we might fly that worried me, it was how low. Lower jumps meant less room for error. Without an altimeter, my GPS offered the only way to know how high we were. Right now, Trish was flying at eleven thousand feet. A momentary sensation of heaviness against the floor told me she was still climbing.
The drop conditions had been said to include four to six foot seas. That meant open water—a perilous skydive in daylight, a deadly one at night.
There was no way to know if the drop would occur in minutes or hours. Either way, I’d have to bail before we got too low or went over open water. The trick would be timing an exit as close to the drop as possible before conditions got any worse. If I could manage that, at least I could get the authorities in the ballpark of Trish’s rendezvous point.
I shifted to my knees, careful to stay low, and stared out the window into blackness below. Distant lights, small as crumbs, were aligned in alternately random and ordered patterns, and as I took in what little view the night offered, I felt an adrenaline surge—the bad kind. The kind that told me I’d really screwed up.
Only five night jumps were under my belt, all planned in advance and executed under controlled conditions—full moons, bright landing fields, and lighted altimeters. I’d carried a flashlight to check my canopy, and worn a strobe light to make myself visible to other skydivers and planes. Tonight, every factor I could think of was against me, right down to the unfamiliar rig.
If I could eavesdrop, I might learn something about the drop. Maybe I could determine how much time was left. Maybe they’d talk about the dubious cargo.
On hands and knees, I crawled through the passage I’d used as a hiding place. It opened in a tight space behind Kurt’s seat on the right side of the plane. He was directly in front of me, but all I could see of him was the green band of a headset spanning a patch of dark hair.
Beside him, Trish was at the controls, speaking into a microphone attached to her own headset. When her mouth stopped moving, Kurt nodded and moved forward in his seat, reaching for something, I supposed. They were talking all right, but I wouldn’t hear any of it.
A duffel bag was wedged in the narrow space between their seats. It was the bag I’d seen on the portable steps leading into the fuselage. I asked myself what sort of things criminals might carry in a bag like that. Drugs? Weapons?
Hell, maybe a clean shirt and stick of deodorant. In any case, I wanted a peek inside the bag. Its contents might clue me in to whatever I’d unwittingly signed up for. But the duffel was too close to them for me to risk taking it, so I backed into my hiding spot again and debated what to do.
Was it more important to figure out what was in the crates, what was in the bag, or to learn the drop location? The way I saw things, I could only do one. Opening a crate or snatching the bag would give me away and I’d have to bail immediately; there’d be no time to search both. If I jumped, I’d never find out where the plane was headed. If I stayed on board until the plane started its descent, I’d have an idea about the drop location, but no idea what Trish was hauling. The questions were infuriating.
Staying onboard seemed riskiest. Kurt might unbuckle anytime and head my way to make the drop. The longer I waited, the closer we got to whatever body of water Trish had in mind. My anxiety over an unplanned night jump was nothing compared to that of opening over water.
I backed my way out of the little corridor. In the tail of the plane, I tried to organize. I zipped the jacket pocket that had my cell phone. Then I maneuvered into the rig, pulling its shoulder straps over my jacket and trying to smooth fabric that wanted to bunch at my sides. No telling what sort of aerodynamic nightmare the unconventional attire would cause in freefall, but I didn’t suppose it mattered.
I checked our altitude again. Twelve thousand feet. It occurred to me I could grab a duffel bag in seconds, but had no idea how long it might take to wrestle the lid off a crate. So I decided to go for the bag.
I squeezed through the narrow space that led to the front of the plane. Passage was more challenging with the rig on my back. Each time my foot flexed, no matter how slightly, shooting pain radiated from my calf and I imagined my wound stretching and tearing. I breathed deeply to work through it.
In the cockpit, Trish was watching something out the window to her left. Kurt craned his neck to see, and then, apparently frustrated, turned to the right to look out his own window. His shoulder was only a few feet in front me, and I watched the top of his head press into the window glass. He was looking for something below.
I leaned into the open space behind their seats, closed my hand around the nylon strap of the bag, and eased it backward. I pulled the bag into my hiding spot and pressed backward through the corridor as quickly as I could.
In my spot in back, I double checked my chest strap, cinched my leg straps, and hooked the duffel’s nylon handles into the crook of my elbow.
I ran a hand along the crates and let them lead me to the door. My fingers passed over a metal latch, and I hesitated. It was the latch on the lid of the crate I’d opened before take-off. Through the clearance between the tops of the crates and the ceiling of the cabin, I could barely make out Trish and Kurt in the cockpit. I set the duffle bag at my feet and felt along the edge of the lid for the remaining latches. Cupping my hands over them one at a time, I popped them all open.
Kurt shifted, but didn’t turn around. I pressed the bottom ridge of the lid upward with the heels of my palms. The wood flexed, but didn’t budge. I felt along the perimeter until I found additional latches on the right and left sides and then I flipped those open too.
This time when I pressed upward, the lid rose. I lifted it seven or eight inches, until its ridge touched the ceiling of the cabin, and peered inside. It was too dark to see anything. I held the lid with one hand and reached inside the box with the other, patting its contents with outstretched fingers, trying to figure out what I was touching. Plastic. Plastic wrapped around something hard.
“Hey!”
I looked over the lid. Kurt was out of his seat, sliding toward my passageway.
“Who the hell are you?” he shouted.
Without warning, the plane lurched downward, sending Kurt and me to the ceiling. My shoulder barreled into the corner of the crate lid I’d been supporting. Kurt was unfazed by our sudden weightlessness. He pushed off the ceiling, continuing toward me.
The plane leveled.
My feet found the floor again and the wooden lid collapsed into position, wedging my upper arm. I jerked it loose and grabbed the duffel, pushing its straps into the crook of my elbow.
Kurt rounded the corner to my hiding spot as I struggled to raise the jumpers’ door. It was a tough pull at first, but once I started it moving, it rose swiftly. The onslaught of wind stopped Kurt in his tracks. Trish didn’t try another drastic maneuver either, now that her buddy had the open sky to contend with.
My face and shoulders were out the door when Kurt’s hand closed over my arm and tugged me back. He grappled for the bag.
I crossed my arms over my chest and clenched my shoulder straps, locking the duffel in place. When I leaned out again, I dropped my head and felt Kurt’s grip loosen as I somersaulted into the night.
Chapter Twenty-five
It was a wild ride.
My freefall was clumsy because of my awkward body position protecting the duffel bag. After my third or fourth flip, I reached for the pilot chute and tugged it from its pouch on the bottom of Kurt’s rig.
The wind grabbed it, extending the bridle, and an instant later the closing pin was out. It was the point in the opening sequence when I’d normally reach for my risers to lessen the opening shock. But this time, I only had one arm to use. My left hand was clenched around my right shoulder strap, locking the duffel in the c
rook of my arm. Grabbing the right riser alone wasn’t enough. When the parachute snapped open, I thought I heard every bone in my back crack. It felt like I’d been jerked halfway back to the plane.
At least the chute had opened.
With the parachute flying level, I released my left hand and raised it overhead. The bag slid to my shoulder. Two-handed again, I reached up and unstowed the toggles, the handles to my steering lines. A quick steering check verified the canopy was good.
The quickest way down would be a hard, continuous turn to one side that would spiral the canopy toward the ground and bleed off altitude. I spotted a reasonable landing place, and when I was approximately over it, I buried my right toggle near my hip and spun toward Earth, round and round toward what looked like a rock quarry. When I got dizzy, I brought the toggle up again and let the canopy fly straight for a while, then spiraled again. Enormous mounds of stone were brightly lit beneath me. Nearby spotlights illuminated a giant American flag that I checked for wind direction. I focused on a wide patch of gravel bordering several mountains of various grades of stones. It would have to do; I turned into the wind and prepared to land.
When my feet touched, I skidded a little on the gravel but didn’t fall. The parachute fell behind me with a soft whoosh, and the first thing I did was look to see if anyone was around.
The quarry was empty. It was almost three in the morning.
I unfastened my chest strap and loosened the leg straps enough to step out of the gear. Taking off the rig was a physical relief. Under the quarry’s bright field lights, I was finally able to get a good look at my leg.
My calf was stained from the back of my knee all the way to my foot. Even the heel of my sneaker was dark red. I removed the belt I’d knotted there and adjusted my pant leg. How did such a small cut produce that much blood? The knife must have gone in deep. I squeezed the sides of the wound together and applied pressure, wondering for a moment whether I could find medical attention. How would explain myself if I did?
The sensible thing would be to call the police. I eased myself to the ground, reapplied my makeshift tourniquet, and considered how to tell them my story.
Kurt’s duffel bag started ringing.
I turned and stared at it. It rang again and I pulled it to me.
When I opened the zipper, I found myself staring down into blocks of cash. Thick stacks of hundred dollar bills—more money than I’d ever seen.
Another ring chirped, and I plunged a hand into the sack and shoved them aside, feeling for a phone. My hand closed over it. I pulled it out and flipped it open. Engine noise droned in my ear.
She came straight to the point.
“Where are you, Emily?”
I listened, waited.
“You have something that belongs to me. I’ll send someone.”
“Did you kill my husband, Trish? My daughter?”
She breathed into the phone, the kind of disgusted sigh that proved my heartache was only a fleeting nuisance to her.
“Make this easy on yourself,” she said.
I snapped the phone closed.
Almost instantly, it rang again. Somehow, I wasn’t surprised.
She asked again where I was.
“You’re starting to sound like a broken record, Trish. Get over yourself. You’re not getting this money back.”
“Why don’t you call your little friend? Ask her what she thinks you should do.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
This time, she hung up on me.
Chapter Twenty-six
I immediately dialed the motel. When the desk clerk forwarded my call, I closed my eyes and muttered “please-please-please-please” under my breath while I waited for Jeannie to pick up.
Instead, a man answered. My eyes opened.
“Sorry,” I said. “I was trying to reach room one-fourteen?”
“You have the right room,” the speaker said. “Blondie’s room. When we get our money, you’ll get your friend.”
I was speechless.
“Thing is,” he continued. “You don’t have a lot of time.”
“Look—”
“Bring the money to this room by eight this morning. The key’ll be under the parking block in front. Put the bag on the bed and leave. If the money’s all there, your friend’ll be back here by nine.”
“But how will I—”
“One more thing,” he said. “Not a word to the police or Richard Cole.”
Christ. Who were these people?
“Cole’s son, Tim?” the man said, “Has his swim team practice in a few hours, before school. Be a shame if something nasty happened on his way there.”
“At least let me talk to her,” I said. “How do I know you haven’t already done something?”
His voice faded as he muttered to someone else, “Bring her here.”
There was rustling, and Jeannie said, “Em?”
Her voice was strong.
“Jeannie, are you—”
“Edward Kosh,” she said plainly, “I saw it on a receipt.”
I heard a whack and a moan, followed by more rustling. Something bumped the receiver on other end.
From some distance away, I heard Jeannie shout, “K-O-S—”
Bumping and scuffling came next, then the original voice.
“Eight a.m.” he said, and the line went dead.
I dropped Kurt’s phone into his bag. My hands were shaking when I zipped it. Just when I’d thought things couldn’t get worse.
I’d nearly been killed. Clement was shot and left for dead. The people responsible were the ones who’d murdered Jack and Annette. I didn’t feel smart or strong enough to tackle Trish and her gang of lowlifes alone, despite their instructions. Outnumbered and overpowered, I felt as small and insignificant as the little stones piled all around me.
Police would have more questions than answers. So using my own phone, I dialed Richard. My call ended in his voice mailbox again. I summarized everything I knew. Then I sorted the few facts I had.
When Trish had called, she’d addressed me by name, even though she’d never seen me in the plane. Kurt had seen me, but he had no idea who I was.
Then there was Jeannie. I’d only had the sack of cash for fifteen minutes, twenty tops. It wasn’t enough time to pull off a kidnapping and arrange a trade.
They must have been watching us. Maybe Scud or Trish got suspicious and sent a goon to follow me. I thought of the beachfront bar Jeannie and I had drinks at earlier and wondered if one of Trish’s henchmen were there spying. Was it someone who’d sat with Jeannie at the bar? Bought her a drink? Maybe when I’d left Jeannie, I wasn’t alone on the beach like I’d thought. Or, maybe I’d walked past someone hiding in a car in the motel lot.
However they’d done it, it still didn’t explain how Trish knew I was on the plane. I chewed on various scenarios and kept returning to the simplest explanation: Scud.
The men who’d loaded the plane would have found him after we left. If he were still alive—and I cursed my naïve, amateur self for not checking—he’d tell them I shot him. Trish would call to explain what happened to the money. They’d realize I was their stowaway, and I’d puzzle over the predicament in a gravel pit in God-knows-where at three o’clock in the morning with a battle-scarred body and so much cash I could spare a few bills for toilet paper.
I palmed a fist of gravel and hurled it into the night. Scud.
Headlights approached. I wasn’t keen on hitching a ride, but I had no idea where I was, and couldn’t exactly call a Yellow Cab. I grabbed the duffel, abandoned the parachute, and struggled up a mild embankment to the roadside, where a beat-up El Camino stopped along side me, exhaust rumbling. I was relieved to see a woman behind the wheel.
Inez, a nineteen-year-old Latina with a disturbing eyebrow piercing, drove us through a series of poorly marked farm roads. We commiserated about her go-nowhere bartending job and the fictitious low-life who’d abandoned me roadside because
I wouldn’t put out on our second date. Four cigarettes and a king-sized Snickers later, she agreed to sell me her cousin’s dumpy, piece-of-crap car for twice its worth. I paid her with Trish’s money, and her only reaction to the large stack of bills I counted was a smile wiser than her years. We’d each have explaining to do, but no one could argue either of us got a bad deal.
At the curb in front of her house, she got out of the car and patted its roof as I slid behind her sticky steering wheel. I tried not to stare at her garage door, which was so run down its panels sagged on one side. I offered another hundred-dollar bill for whatever money she had on her, and she dug in her purse and thrust forty-seven bucks through the driver’s side window. I took note of her address as I pulled away. If I didn’t end up dead or incarcerated, Inez could have the car back later and keep Trish’s filthy money.
A few miles up the road, I parked the El Camino in front of a pump at a twenty-four hour gas station where I topped off and found a map. Turned out I was two hundred miles away from Houston, outside Corpus Christi. A flight path from the Houston area over Corpus Christi suggested Trish might have been heading to Mexico. I bit my lip and thought it over while I filled the largest size coffee cup I could find. I took the coffee black, paid with Inez’s small bills, and got back in the car to head for Jeannie.
By quarter after five, highway traffic was picking up, but there was still no hint of sunrise. I glanced at drivers I passed, and at those who passed me, and felt like a social outsider. They were listening to morning talk shows on their way to respectable office jobs.
Finally, Richard called me back.
“Clement’s alive,” he said. “The shooting’s all over the news.”
A car coming up behind me blinked its headlights and I moved out of its way.
