Simon Wood

by Accidents Waiting to Happen

  CHAPTER TEN

  Shock paralyzed Josh's vocal chords. A cold wave washed over his body, as if a transfusion of ice were being pumped into his veins. He'd entertained the man who'd tried to kill him. Mitchell had drunk his alcohol, ate his food and probably pissed in his toilet.

  He had insufficient strength to stand unassisted. Josh slumped against Kate.

  "Josh, are you okay? Do you feel sick?" Kate's expression was a mask of concern.

  "That's him," Josh said, staring at the vehicles leaving.

  "He was here."

  "Who?" Kate looked at her husband, then at their friends' disappearing cars.

  "The man on the bridge." Josh became agitated and his voice rose in volume.

  "Who? Where?"

  "James Mitchell," he barked, his impotent frustration spilling over.

  "The guy Bob brought?" Kate said, incredulous.

  "He did that thumbs-down thing, the same as he did on the bridge." Josh's frustration turned to rage. He jabbed a finger into the empty street. "James Mitchell tried to kill me."

  "For Christ's sake, Josh. Calm down and come inside."

  Kate

  dragged Josh, still babbling like a madman, into the house. She got him into the living room, sat him down in an armchair and knelt in front of him.

  With considerable effort, she held his flailing arms against his knees.

  "Josh, you've got to get a hold of yourself. I'm not having you blow up at every little thing that reminds you of the accident. I know it must have been frightening, but I won't accept that behavior. You shouted at those cops in the hospital, you scared the shit out of that poor kid with the flowers and now you're accusing a man you've just met of being a killer. Listen to yourself.

  This is not the way Josh Michaels acts."

  She scolded him like she did their daughter. But it worked. Josh felt his hysteria pass.

  Before he could respond, Abby called from the top of the stairs. The arguing had upset her.

  "I'm coming, honey," Kate said, and got to her feet.

  She looked down at Josh. "I'm going to settle Abby down. I suggest you do the same yourself. Gather your thoughts. When I get back, tell me calmly why you think James Mitchell tried to kill you." Her words were soft and comforting.

  He watched her go. He sniffed and ran his hands through his hair. "Get a grip," he murmured. He started to think through all the events leading up to the car crashing into the river. The images were all too vivid. Josh unpacked the jumble of events and repacked them in a neat order. He heard Kate returning from upstairs.

  She took a seat on the arm of the chair and slipped an arm around his shoulders. "Do you want to start?"

  Josh took a deep breath and started. "I know I didn't see the guy's face at the river, but he did the thumbs down thing like I was a vanquished Christian or something.

  Just like I told you in the hospital."

  "Yeah, but I've seen lots of people do that. It's nothing special."

  "I know, but not the way he did it. His way is different.

  And trust me, baby, when I say it was identical to what James Mitchell did. I was there, in that car thinking I was going to drown and I saw the guy standing on the bridge. He was my only hope for survival and he did that." Josh repeated Mitchell's action.

  Tears spilled from Kate's eyes. She reached out and wrapped her delicate hand over his thumbs-down fist.

  She pulled his outstretched arm to her mouth and kissed the knuckles of his clenched hand. "Oh, Josh."

  Josh's love intensified for her. For days after the incident, preoccupied with his own problems, he'd ignored his wife. Her support gave him the strength to get himself out of the briar patch he had fallen into. He drew her to him and hugged her tightly.

  He spoke over her shoulder. "I'll never forget what he did."

  "Nancy said Mitchell works for an insurance company.

  What sort of an insurance guy would do that?"

  "I don't--" It struck Josh like an oncoming truck.

  "The sort of insurance agent that works for the same insurance company that sent the wreath."

  Kate pulled away from him and stared at him incredulously.

  "He works for Pinnacle Investments?"

  "That's what he said. I've only just realized."

  "What are you saying, Josh?"

  "Mitchell forced me off the road and had his

  company send me a wreath. Maybe he thought I was dead and has a sick sense of humor. It really doesn't make sense to me. It's like he's zeroing in on me, but why?"

  "I don't know why and I don't care. It's not your job to find out. Talk to the cops. The ones from the hospital told you to contact them if anything develops, and it has."

  "They don't believe me as it is. They think I was having a biggest dick competition with some idiot or I fell asleep at the wheel."

  "It doesn't matter, Josh. You can give them something to go on. If this guy is a psycho, he might come back for more."

  "I'll talk to Bob. He knows this guy."

  "Josh, don't call tonight. Bob's already asleep by now. Don't wake him."

  Josh frowned.

  "For me, please. Sleep on it. Talk to him if you feel the same tomorrow, but call the police." Kate emphasized the word "police," reinforcing that it was their job to track down criminals, not Josh's.

  Kate stood up and took Josh's hand. "Let's go to bed."

  "Happy birthday to me," he said bitterly.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Josh picked up the cordless telephone in the hall of his home and hit the speed dial.

  "Hello?" Nancy said.

  "Hi Nancy, is Bob there?"

  "Hi Josh. No, he's still sleeping off last night. I can wake him if you like."

  "No, it's okay. I've got to go off to the airport, but can you tell him that I called and that I'll drop by later?"

  "Yeah, no problem, Josh." Nancy paused. "Is everything okay?"

  "Yeah, just boys stuff," he said, injecting a smile into his response to allay her suspicions.

  "See you later, Josh," she said, the concern gone from her voice.

  Josh put the phone on the charger.

  He went to pick it up again. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the handset. He wanted to scream through the phone to the cops that he'd found the bastard who ran him off the road, but the seeds of doubt had been sown. He couldn't be sure James Mitchell was his man. Kate had made him realize he'd been acting irrationally over the last week. He pulled his hand away from the phone.

  He had to plan his actions instead of running head on into the situation. He had to do the sensible thing-- find out from Bob what he knew about Mitchell. If Mitchell's credibility was suspect, then he'd bring the cops in.

  "I'm going now," Josh called to Kate.

  She came to the doorway from the kitchen, where she was making Abby's breakfast. "How long will you be?"

  "I'm only dropping the check off."

  "I don't want to be clearing up on my own," she said and smiled.

  "You've got Abby."

  "You are just going to the airfield?" Kate insisted.

  "Yes, I am. Trust me."

  Taking a moment, Josh watched his wife from the doorway, going about her life. He loved her so much.

  He feared losing her. She caught sight of him staring at her and she smiled, but it didn't last. Her worried face was a reminder of last night. He smiled back and picked up the keys to Kate's '99 Dodge Caravan and closed the door.

  Inside the minivan silence prevailed, but inside Josh's head his thoughts shouted. The car wreck, Belinda Wong clawing for more money, Pinnacle Investments's funeral wreath and James Mitchell consumed his mind.

  He wondered if all the events were connected and if they were, what it meant. He tried to make some semblance of order from it all, tried to make everything fit into little boxes, but he failed miserably. He switched on the radio to block his thoughts.

  Josh stopped the car in the parking lot of the small airp
ort. The sound of a piston aero-engine spluttering into life greeted him as he got out of the vehicle. He headed toward the planning office where the club pilots mapped out routes, flight times and calculated fuel requirements.

  The unkempt outbuilding posing as an office consisted of charts of northern California and the type of plain-looking wooden design tables found in drawing offices forty years ago.

  Mark Keegan wasn't in the planning office, but Nick Owen, an instructor with the flying school, was with a student. Nick was a young pilot with his eyes set on a commercial pilot's lifestyle with a major airline.

  Josh leaned through the doorway with his arms outstretched, his hands supporting his weight against the doorframe. "Hi, Nick. Have you seen Mark Keegan today?"

  Nick turned to Josh while his student busied himself with his route planning. "Yeah, I saw him talking to Jack Murphy earlier. If he's not with Jack, then he's probably checking out the Cessna."

  "Thanks, Nick."

  "You flying, Josh?"

  "No, I have some business to deal with."

  "Shame, it's a good day. You'll be missing out." Nick sounded like a car salesman with a "You'd be a fool to miss this bargain," pitch.

  "It can't be helped," Josh said.

  Nick returned his focus to his student and Josh went to the apron. He spotted Mark walking toward their Cessna from the workshop hangar, called out and jogged over to him.

  Mark smiled and put his hands on his hips. "Hey, you're late--we said ten o'clock. What time do you call this? You turn up after I've done all the work. Too much celebrating last night?"

  "Hey, sorry, man. You're going to have to go without me. Something's come up and I've got to deal with it,"

  Josh said.

  "Nothing serious I hope?" Mark's smile disappeared.

  "No. Life crap. Nothing exciting." Josh dismissed his problem with a wave of the hand.

  He and Mark were flying partners and their friendship was one of camaraderie rather than bonding. Neither man confided deep truths to the other, and Josh was not going to start now.

  "What are you planning to do?" Josh asked.

  "Oh, I'll still fly to Stockton, probably doing some exercises on the way. It never hurts to keep in practice."

  Mark offered an encouraging smile to show Josh there were no hard feelings.

  "Sorry, Mark. Maybe next weekend." Josh removed the check from his back pocket and handed it to Mark.

  "Here's my half of the service bill."

  Josh said good-bye and trotted back toward the parking lot, but Jack Murphy intercepted him by coming out from his workshop.

  Damn. The aircraft mechanic was the last person to whom Josh wanted to speak. It wasn't that Josh didn't like the man; he did. Murphy was a conscientious mechanic and paid loving detail to the aircrafts he maintained.

  He nurtured the machines like prize blooms, and like all keen gardeners, the product of his labors was evident on his hands. Engine oil and grease were always caked under his fingernails and the same cocktail of fluids stained his meaty hands. Though not obvious at first glance, his hands had the delicate control of a surgeon's. Josh knew the mechanic would want to meticulously tell him every minute detail of the overhaul, but he didn't have the time or the desire to talk about his aircraft; he wanted to know what James Mitchell was after. "Hey, Jack," Josh said.

  "Josh, I suppose you've spoken to Mark about the overhaul, but I wanted to let you know what I found,"

  the mechanic began.

  Josh feigned interest for about ten minutes before he managed to get a word in and made his excuses. Murphy seemed a little upset by Josh's brush-off, but he would have to live with it. Josh would make it up to him and let the mechanic bore him for an hour when he had his life back in order. Finally, he got back to the Caravan and set off to Bob's house to get some answers.

  The professional cursed from the protection of the sun bleached brush. Where's he going? Goddamn it. He saw his plans trashed, again. Michaels had survived the drowning in the Sacramento River and it looked like he was going to escape death again. He watched Michaels's minivan drive out of the parking lot.

  His target wasn't doing what he was supposed to do.

  From his undercover work at the party, he'd discovered Michaels was meant to be flying this morning, but the view from his binoculars told a different tale, one that didn't follow the plot. How could something so good go so bad?

  Getting invited to his target's barbecue had been the perfect example of serendipity. He'd only gone to Bob Deuce for background information, but finding out the insurance agent and Michaels were friends was fortuitous to say the least. He could have been knocked down with a feather when Deuce asked him to the party. And it got better when his target and his flying buddy blabbed about their plane--their pride and joy.

  The plan that came to him was so simple, so obvious.

  He'd come out to the airfield after the party and gone to work. The plane was easy to spot with its ostentatious paint job. All it needed was a sign: "I'm Josh Michaels's plane. Cripple me." The lack of airport

  security made his deed simple. There were no gates or rent-a-cops. He had all the time in the world to do what he wanted.

  The professional ran over to the aircraft with a few simple tools in his hands. He stared into the nose of the aircraft. It was child's play to tamper with a light aircraft.

  All its sensitive parts were exposed. It had pathetic door locks, no immobilizer, no alarm system, nothing. The professional got to work.

  He disconnected the unions to the oil cooler in the aircraft's nose with a pair of wrenches. He snipped the split pins to the nuts on the elevator and rudder and loosened the nuts, just for luck. His work done, he slipped back into the night.

  All had gone to according plan until he watched his target rendezvous with his partner, then walk away, get in his car and leave. The professional wasn't upset because the wrong person was about to fly the unsafe plane, but because it ruined his good work. Nothing could be done now. He couldn't remedy the situation.

  He watched the multicolored airplane trundle onto the runway, wind up its engine, roar down the runway and lift off for the skies. He took the binoculars from around his neck, wrapped the leather neck strap around them and returned to his car. Michaels hadn't been aware he'd parked next to his predator. The closeness of their vehicles amused him. He got into his car and drove off to plan another accident.

  As Mark Keegan roared down the runway, he failed to notice the oil dripping from the Cessna's cooler hoses.

  The plane climbed slowly. Mark leveled out at 2500

  feet and saw the world below him. It was certainly a perfect day for flying--the crisp spring day brought with it an endless view of the San Joaquin Valley. He had to take advantage of days like these as often as he could. When the long California summer began, a yellow layer of smog smeared over the landscape would blight every flying day.

  Josh will be kicking himself when I tell him what it's like up here. He enjoyed the solitude flying gave; the world and its problems stayed below while he rode above it all. Once he was in the air, his heart rate seemed to slow by five or more beats. This was therapy, not a hobby.

  Thirty minutes into the flight, Mark didn't like the Cessna's performance. This was the third time he had to apply more throttle to maintain the engine revs and air speed. The aircraft has just been serviced. Nothing better be wrong with it, Mark thought. Even an aircraft as small and as simple as the C152 cost a lot of money to keep in the air. To Mark's and Josh's credit they took every precaution, but something was wrong with this airplane. Nervousness held him like the three point harness that fixed him to his seat. He checked his coordinates and ETA to Stockton.

  Mark's agitation made him cautious. He made a safety sweep of the instruments for some clue to his plane's poor performance. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a breath and let it out with a curse. He didn't want to believe what the oil pressure and temperature gauges told him. His nervousness chang
ed to fear.

  The two indicators were in the red. The oil pressure had disappeared and the oil temperature was too high.

  The dangerous levels meant this was an emergency.

  Mark had an agonizing decision to make. Did he shut the engine down and make an emergency landing or did he chance it and fly on to Stockton? He checked his position through the Plexiglas window. He had passed over Sacramento and was over empty fields, a good sign. Mark wiped a clammy hand over his dry mouth and tried to swallow.

  96

  Simon Wood

  "Murphy, what have you done to this plane?"

  He wanted to blame someone for the fear he felt; today, it was his mechanic. He avoided the decision, hoping for a miracle. Mark stared at the pressure and temperature needles--they weren't returning to green.

  He knew they never would. He had to get with the program and follow his training. His training would save him. He murmured the steps for landing an aircraft without power.

  Made keen by fear, Mark's oversensitive hearing heard every missed beat of the engine. He swore he heard the pistons binding up with every passing second.

  The plane jolted like a sledgehammer had struck it from beneath as it rode a thermal. Mark's heart skipped again. For a moment, he'd thought it was the end.

  With a shaking hand he initiated the safety procedure.

  He pulled back the throttle to idle, the mixture to lean, switched off the fuel pump and turned the magnetos key to the Off position. The prop slowed and shuddered to a halt. The plane began to fall from the sky.

  The silence was eerie. As a pilot, his ears had become accustomed to certain sounds in flight. Now, the whistle of the air flowing over the wings was the only sound to be heard. Mark's heart raced. His sweat chilled him and his clothes clung to his flesh.

  Rapidly losing altitude, the plane fell at more than six hundred feet per minute. Mark saw the increasing rate of descent on his gauge. He focused on the crash landing simulations he'd practiced so many times, but this wasn't practice, it was for real. Josh had always ragged him about his compulsion to plan for the worst.

  Josh would be thanking him if he were here right now.

  Mark wished he was here to share the burden of this task, the most frightening of events. A crash landing.