Simon Wood

by Accidents Waiting to Happen

  Mark quickly established a glide descent that left him approximately four minutes of flight time. He looked out for a landing sight and focused on the field directly below. He would circle the damned thing until he ran out of altitude. He made his distress call to the Stockton Air Tower.

  "Mayday . . . mayday . . . mayday. Stockton Tower, this is November, two, three, seven, two, niner." Dread filled Mark's voice, his words slow, hindered by an inflexible tongue that clung to the roof of his mouth.

  Relieved the words had come, the safety procedure started; he knew he could do it. The practice attempts never prepared him mentally to deal with the real thing, but he was coping. Silently, he thanked God that his mind hadn't seized. Everything was going to be okay.

  A concerned air traffic controller at Stockton came back and allowed him to pass his message. Mark gave his details--the plane type, the nature of the emergency, location, plan of action, and who was on board.

  His monotone speech was textbook perfect--his instructor would be proud, although he probably would have complained about his slow delivery. But how many times had his instructor crash-landed? He gave cursory attention to Stockton Tower. He concentrated on landing the plane. They could do nothing for him. It was his bird to land. He just wanted them to know where to pick him up. Mark guided the plane on its downwind leg for landing.

  The Cessna's rate of descent increased, increasing airspeed as a result. Mark eased back on the column to get the airspeed under control. Nothing happened. The plane continued to fall at a faster rate. He pulled back on the controls even more. The column moved without resistance. Something else was wrong. Mark stared back at the tail and pulled back on the column again.

  The elevator didn't move.

  "No. This can't be happening."

  He stamped on the rudder pedals. The rudder didn't obey his inputs either. The tail-plane was dead. It was still there, but it wasn't responding.

  It can't all be going wrong. He'd kept his panic in check, but he couldn't prevent it from overwhelming him now. His aircraft was going down and he was just a passenger at its controls. He glanced at the altimeter-- four hundred feet. It would all be over in less than a minute.

  Mark fought to control the Cessna. The plane descended and the speed increased. Every knot in increased airspeed reduced his chances of survival. With a paralyzed tail, he'd never be able to bring the plane down for a soft landing.

  The airspeed indicator read seventy knots . . . seventy five knots . .. eighty knots .. .

  The altimeter read three hundred . . . two hundred and fifty .. . two hundred .. .

  Mark stared at the field rushing up at him with increasing velocity, pulling on controls that didn't comply while keeping his thumb on the radio transmit button.

  He screamed, "Mayday, mayday, mayday," over and over again.

  Josh peeled off the freeway to Bob Deuce's home. He listened to an alternative rock station pump out track after track from its latest playlist. He'd passed through Sacramento and was in the residential district of Laguna when the newsflash interrupted the next scheduled track.

  "Some tragic news. A small airplane has crashed between Sacramento and Stockton, not very far from Interstate Five. Rescue services have arrived and are at the scene," the disc jockey said.

  Josh stamped on the brakes, bringing the Dodge to a shuddering halt. Vehicles behind did likewise, but with angry hands on horns. Fortunately, nobody hit each other. Tires fighting for traction on the asphalt, Josh made a U-turn on the two-lane road. The minivan roared off in the direction of 1-5.

  Josh instinctively knew the downed aircraft was his and he had to see if Mark was okay. Not a believer in clairvoyance, premonitions or anything else found on the X-Files, he still knew the news report was linked to him. Without a care for himself and other road users, Josh tore along the interstate. He listened to the rest of the DJ's announcement for the approximate location site. He kept his eyes trained on the fields to either side of the four-lane highway. To his left he saw drivers rubbernecking out of their vehicles at something in the field.

  Josh veered off 1-5 onto the exit ramp at a steady seventy-five, ignoring the thirty-five miles per hour speed limit with impunity. He braked hard, the vehicle weaving under the stress. Without halting, Josh turned left onto the road, taking him over the highway and toward the spectacle in the field.

  He closed in on the field and the concentration of people and vehicles came into clearer view. All the emergency services were represented--police, fire and paramedics. In the field, people were gathered around an object.

  Josh's Caravan came to another shuddering halt, stopping with two wheels on the road and two wheels in the dirt. He saw it, recognizable from two hundred feet, the colorful tail of his Cessna C152 pointing skyward.

  It looked like a toy discarded by an angry child.

  The emergency services people and their vehicles obscured the rest of the plane from sight. He clambered out of the minivan and raced across the road without paying any attention to other vehicles.

  The policemen keeping everyone back from the scene closed upon him. "Where do you think you're going, sir?" one officer demanded.

  Josh ignored him and ran on. He didn't have time for questions.

  Two officers engaged him and swiftly halted his progress before he got to the three bar fence. They unceremoniously brought him to the ground. All three men crashed sprawling on the highway.

  "I'm Josh Michaels and that's my plane!" he shouted, as one policeman started to handcuff him. He repeated himself twice more before they listened.

  The cop uncuffed Josh and said without apology, "Next time have the presence of mind to approach an accident scene with more sense."

  The officer led Josh to the scene, but Josh half-ran, half-walked and it looked like Josh led the cop. He ignored the whining pain from the cuts he'd taken to the hands, knees and chin when the policemen had brought him down.

  "What makes you think this is your aircraft?" The cop's speech sounded choppy over the rough terrain.

  "That tail section." Josh pointed at the colorful design.

  "Those are our colors. And I left my flying partner an hour ago before he took off for Stockton Metropolitan."

  "How did you know the plane had crashed?"

  Josh ignored the cop's question as he made it to the constellation of people circled around the crash site.

  Men tried to stop Josh from getting too close.

  "Let him through. He may be the plane's owner,"

  the out-of-breath policeman said.

  The men parted to let him through. Josh came up on the rear of the plane, giving him his first sight of the Cessna. People were asking him questions. Josh didn't listen.

  His plane was buried nose-down in the ground, resting on its starboard wing. The wing had buckled and split, dumping its fuel load onto the plowed earth.

  There'd been no fire, but fire extinguisher foam had been sprayed over the spilt fuel. Josh moved around to the side of the aircraft. Everything on the front end of the plane had been destroyed. The undercarriage was bent and twisted, the nose wheel invisible. The propeller had embedded itself into the ground. Struts had been torn from fixings. A spiderweb of cracks speckled the Plexiglas window. A trickle of blood ran along the dashboard. The plane's artwork looked vandalized on its wrecked canvas. Josh read his and Mark Keegan's names on the door.

  "I'm Josh Michaels." He pointed at his name on the plane. "This is my plane."

  Josh saw Mark Keegan's body flopped over the control column like an unwanted doll. Over twenty men from emergency services were just standing around. He went to open the copilot's door. A paramedic restrained him.

  "Why aren't you helping him?" Josh demanded.

  "There's nothing we can do for him. He's dead."

  Mark was dead. Everyone could see that.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Again, Josh was talking to the police. He spent the next few hours at the aircraft crash site. For reasons of safe
ty, the police had manhandled him away from the wreckage.

  The site had to be cleared, the crash area staked off and the downed plane screened from prying eyes.

  Still in sight of the screened plane, he explained all he knew about Mark and the aircraft's history. He also identified Mark's corpse when it was finally removed from the Cessna. The questions asked seemed to be coming from a long way away, as if via an old transatlantic telephone line, and he answered in the same fashion.

  Images of Mark flooded Josh's mind, alternating from the pilot's dead body to their last conversation before he took off. He thought about the check he'd given to Mark still in his back pocket. The concept of profiting from the unpaid debt because his friend was dead plagued him. Mark had no wife and Josh wondered whom he should contact. He felt obligated to inform someone and repay the money he owed. The only person he could think of was Mark's sister.

  Eventually, the police told him to go home and expect an investigation from the Federal Aviation Authority and National Transport Safety Board. He didn't do as he was told.

  Josh drove back to Laguna and got to Bob's house just after five in the evening. Bob welcomed Josh in typical Bob weekend-wear--baggy shorts, a big T-shirt and Teva sandals.

  "Hey, Josh, I was expecting you earlier. C'mon in man." Bob ushered Josh into his house. "Nancy said you called this morning--what's up?"

  "Mark Keegan's dead," Josh said.

  "Dead?" Nancy asked, walking into the hall.

  "Jesus. How?" Bob asked.

  "He crashed our plane this morning, flying to Stockton.

  All I know is he radioed the tower with engine problems and he attempted an emergency landing. The last thing they heard was Mark screaming all the way into the ground."

  Nancy put a hand to her mouth. She walked up to him and put a comforting hand on his arm. "Oh, Josh, that's awful."

  "I heard about a plane going down on the radio and thought nothing of it," Bob said.

  "What did Kate say?" Nancy said.

  "I haven't told her. I was coming from the airport to here when I heard the radio report and I just knew it was Mark. Can I call her?"

  "Of course you can, man. You don't need to ask."

  Bob retrieved the cordless telephone from the living room and handed it to Josh.

  "Can I get you something to drink, Josh?" Nancy asked.

  "Anything cold would be good," he replied, and dialed his home number.

  "I'll give you a minute." Bob walked into the kitchen, where Nancy had gone moments earlier.

  Kate picked up the telephone on the fourth ring and Josh told her what had happened to Mark Keegan. The accident shocked and upset her. She was also upset he had not come home first. He apologized and promised to be home soon. He hung up and went into the kitchen.

  "How did she take it?" Nancy handed him the lemonade.

  "About as well as you'd expect. She's not too pleased I'm here when I should be at home." Josh took a sip from the lemonade. It was bitter, but good.

  "She's not wrong, is she?" Nancy said.

  "You make good lemonade, Nancy."

  "What are you doing here, Josh?" Bob asked.

  "Weren't you meant to be flying with Mark?"

  "Yeah, I was, but I wanted to see you about your colleague, James Mitchell."

  "What about him?"

  "Do you mind if we walk and talk? I just don't seem to be able to stay still." What Josh said was true, but he also didn't want Nancy hearing what he had to say.

  "Yeah, sure," Bob said.

  Josh took untidy gulps from his lemonade and placed the empty glass on the sink drainer. "Thanks for the lemonade, Nancy."

  "Any time, Josh." Nancy smiled, but her concern for her husband's friend showed through.

  They walked deeper into the housing development.

  To Josh, the street was eerily quiet. Sidewalks and front yards were deserted, but signs of recent life did exist.

  Freshly washed and polished cars sat in driveways. Discarded baseball bats and soccer balls lay strewn across freshly mowed lawns. It was like a neutron bomb had gone off and he and Bob were the only ones left alive.

  His nuclear test theory was swiftly dispelled when a couple of kids came running out of a nearby house. A year or two older than Abby, they resumed kicking a soccer ball in the street.

  Josh walked with his head down, staring at the oatmeal-colored concrete sidewalk. Bob walked alongside him looking forward with his hands behind his back. Neither of them had spoken for several minutes.

  Bob stopped walking. "Josh, what did you want to know about James Mitchell?"

  Josh took two more steps, stopped, turned and lifted his head to look at Bob. "What do you know about him?"

  Bob shrugged. "Nothing, really. He's an insurance agent with Pinnacle and is in California scaring up business. He's on the road with nothing to do most of the time. I've been there and I felt sorry for him, so I invited him to your party. What's wrong, did he piss somebody off?"

  "Yeah, me," Josh said.

  "Shit, I'm sorry. Bad idea--"

  Josh cut Bob off mid-sentence. "He drove me off the road. And you brought him to my home."

  Bob's expression changed in increments as he absorbed Josh's words. It was as though layers of surprise were torn off his face one by one until the pure expression of shock came through. Bob walked forward and took hold of Josh's wrist like he was a disobedient child.

  "What are you saying? That I knew this guy was the one on the bridge?" Bob demanded.

  "I'm asking you what you know about him. That's all."

  "That's all I know," Bob said.

  "Let's keep walking. I don't want the neighbors listening,"

  Josh said.

  They walked again.

  "What makes you think he's the one?" Bob asked.

  "When you were leaving last night you and he were talking and he made the thumbs-down sign to you."

  "That's it? That's what you've based this guy's guilt on? Oh, come on Josh, that's a little thin, don't you think?"

  "He made exactly the same gesture. No two people would do it that way."

  Bob frowned. "Josh, you're not convincing me, pal.

  It still seems you're reaching for something that isn't there."

  "And it was Pinnacle Investments that sent the wreath," Josh said.

  Bob shook his head in disbelief. "So you are saying James Mitchell ran you off the road, found out who you were, then sent you a wreath as some sort of sick joke. And by coincidence, you happen to be one of his firm's customers. Forgive me, Josh, but it doesn't sound plausible."

  "Who says that he's an insurance agent? Don't you think it's funny that just as all this shit happens, Bell comes back on the scene wanting money? It occurred to me today they might be working together. I saw them talking last night."

  "Jesus, Josh. You don't know that."

  "Neither do you."

  "No, I don't."

  "Then help me find out. Prove me wrong," Josh said.

  Bob looked down at his feet and kicked a small chunk of gravel into the road. He thought for a minute.

  "How do we do that?"

  "We'll pay him a visit. You picked him up from his hotel. You know where he's staying."

  "Yeah, but I'm sure he was making off for San Francisco today or tomorrow."

  "Well, we won't know if we don't try. Let's go now."

  "No, Josh," Bob said. "Your friend has just been killed and your wife is worried sick. Go home."

  "He'll get away."

  Bob sighed. "I'll pick you up first thing in the morning and we'll go to the motel and check out James Mitchell, together. But you're going home right now.

  Okay?"

  "Okay." Josh agreed reluctantly.

  "Good. We'll settle this tomorrow."

  Bob picked up Josh from his home before eight the following morning. They trudged across the city on commuter-clogged roads like blood struggling to flow through a diseased heart. Bob drove to the southeast si
de of the city, where he had picked up James Mitchell Saturday night.

  Bob found it difficult to strike up a conversation. So far, Josh had given him a collection of one-word responses.

  This wasn't like him. He and Josh never ran out of things to say. He would make Josh talk to him.

  "How are you and Kate?" he asked.

  "Okay."

  "No, really. And don't give another single word answer.

  Talk to me, damn it."

  Josh sighed. "Not good. She feels I'm a different person.

  She thinks this accident has gotten to me more than I think. We argued again. Even Abby and Wiener are treating me differently," he said.

  Bob guessed what it must be like living with Josh, if his friend's behavior was anything like his ramblings yesterday. Life must be hard for Kate, and it couldn't be doing the kid any good being exposed to Josh right now. Bob hoped their meeting with Mitchell would clear things up and Josh could move on. Of course, he still had the blackmail hanging over his head. Bell hadn't been worth it in his opinion. Jesus, Josh had screwed up and it was coming back at him tenfold. Bob pulled off the freeway and the motel came into view.

  Bob slotted the Toyota into a parking space at the River City Inn. The motel was positioned on a development that was home to the social security office, a Shell service station, another motel chain and very little else.

  Bob had stayed in places like these when he was a salesman on the road. He was glad he'd established roots and built up his own insurance business. Bob didn't envy James Mitchell's life. He locked the car and he followed Josh to the motel reception.

  "Let me do the talking," Bob said. "I don't want to freak anybody out if this turns out to be nothing, especially Mitchell. I still deal with Pinnacle Investments and I don't want to alienate them."

  Josh nodded in agreement.

  The motel receptionist, a pretty blond woman in her mid-twenties, all lipstick and cotton candy hair, looked up when Bob and Josh entered. Her name badge said tammy. She flashed a welcoming corporate smile. "Hi there, welcome to the River City Inn. Can I help you?"

  Bob leaned on the reception desk and flashed the same plastic smile Tammy gave. "Yes, I hope so. I was looking for a colleague of mine, James Mitchell, but I can't remember what room he's in."