Deadly Errors

by Allen Wyler

  “I’ll die if I have to ride on that thing. I can’t Tyler.”

  He took her hand, gently pulling her toward the Jet Ski. She resisted. “No. Tyler, please, I can’t …” He gently pulled again. She didn’t move.

  “C’mon, Nancy. You can do it. Just keep hold of me.” He felt her move forward tentatively, a soft whine coming from her throat as if she were going to cry.

  He managed one-handed to wrestle the Jet Ski parallel to the dock again, the other firmly holding her hand. He put a foot onto the Ski, threw the other over the seat, sending the craft rocking side to side with the sudden weight.

  “Oh God,” she gasped. “I’ll drown, Tyler. I’ll drown!”

  He tugged her hand. “C’mon. We’re running out of time and luck.”

  She resisted. He tugged again, felt her lurch forward and realized, to his horror, he’d pulled her off balance. For what seemed like eternity she teetered on the dock edge, her free hand windmilling, struggling for balance. He released her hand hoping to give her more balance. Too late. She screamed, and fell forward toward the water right behind the Jet Ski. He watched in frozen horror as she hit the surface with a resounding belly flop slap, her arms thrashing wildly. He watched, paralyzed, as she sank.

  “Jesus!”

  Her head broke surface, her mouth gasping for air, both arms thrashing water. “Tyler,” she screamed as she sank beneath the surface again.

  She vanished. He leaned over, prepared to dive in but she was gone now.

  “Nancy!”

  He grabbed the line holding the Jet Ski, the last place he’d see her, and leaned further over.

  Her hand broke surface.

  Holding a dock cleat with one hand, he reached down, grabbed her hand, pulled her toward him. Her head broke surface. She gasped for air.

  “Here, grab hold of me. Let me pull you out.”

  From above, “Fuck!”

  He glanced up, saw the monster from the underground gawking over the second floor railing at him.

  He tugged Nancy’s arm but could only pull her shoulder out of the water. “Here, grab hold of the boat.”

  She screamed, “I can’t. I’m stuck. My jacket’s caught on something.”

  Tyler glanced over his shoulder. Monster was hobbling down the stairs, anger and retribution glowing in his eyes. Tyler forced Nancy’s hand to the smaller Jet Ski cleat. “Here, hang a moment.”

  “No, don’t leave me.”

  With her hand now firmly gripping the cleat, Tyler rolled onto the deck and jumped up to his feet. Across the deck, in the corner, a short canoe paddle leaned against the wall. Just then he heard the heavy thump as Monster’s feet slammed the deck and his huge body appeared between him and the paddle. For a moment they half crouched across from each other like Sumo wrestlers, waiting for the other to commit a move. An old basketball juke instinctively took over Tyler’s limbs, causing him to feign right, then break left, with Monster buying into it, allowing him a fluid drive to the side of Monster’s lunge, driving for the oar instead of a two-point slam dunk.

  Monster caught himself in time, corrected, and spun around, his left leg obviously in pain. Tyler had the oar now, pulled back like a baseball bat. “Out of our way.”

  Nancy was still gasping for air, her mouth barely above water, he realized. He’d filtered the sound from consciousness just as he’d done on the court with spectators’ roars.

  “Fuck you.” Monster’s arm was reaching behind his back.

  A gun, Tyler realized.

  Without thinking, Tyler swung the oar toward Monster’s leg, the same spot as last time. It connected with a solid, satisfying whack. Monster yelped, fell to his knees, but with his arm still behind his back reaching for the gun. Tyler swung from the other direction, connecting to the man’s right temple, felt the wood connect with a solid impact, then watched as he crumpled to the ground.

  He rushed to the deck edge, reached down. “Here. Grab on with both hands.”

  Nancy clamped her hand onto his wrist, fingernails digging into skin, then wrapped her left hand around his other wrist. Using his legs to lift, his injured ankle screaming with pain, he willed every ounce of strength into a pull, felt resistance, then release. Without letting her go, he struggled onto the rocking Jet Ski and jockeyed her up onto the passenger seat.

  “Hang on.” He settled into the driver’s seat, fired the ignition.

  Gasping, she pressed fully against his back, both arms locked so tightly around his neck it was almost impossible to breathe. He leaned forward and to the left, pulling her with him, stretching out until his left fingers could barely fumble with the rope. He slipped the loop over the cleat, freeing the small craft just as he caught a movement with the corner of his eye. He forced his head left against Nancy’s arms. Monster was up on one knee now, shaking his head groggily, trying to clear it.

  He triggered the ignition, heard it catch. The engine coughed to life. He cranked the accelerator, shooting the Jet Ski forward, crashing into the side of the speedboat. The impact threw him into the small windscreen, cutting his lower lip. He straightened up, turned the craft right and cranked the accelerator again.

  “Hang on,” he croaked, then realized Nancy was sobbing hysterically. Her grip around his neck tightened. He tried to loosen it but her death grip did not yield.

  “You’re choking me,” he tried to yell, but just then a thunderclap drowned out his voice. He yelled it again but she continued to sob, both arms locked around his neck.

  The craft shot out into open lake as a sheet of rain started pouring out of the dark sky. A moment later, he backed off the gas intent on calming the situation. First order of business was to set a direction, but where to go? Did it matter, just as long as they were free? Directly across the lake loomed Kenwood Air Service. Most likely there’d be people there to help. Maybe he could make a phone call, get hold of Ferguson and settle things so Nancy would be safe. His shoulders sagged with relief. He’d rescued her and that was the most important thing. Later he could focus on getting the rest of this mess straightened out.

  Nancy finally let go of one arm and punched his rib, yelled, “Tyler!”

  Realizing her voice had taken a different tone; he turned to hear over the engine roar.

  “He’s coming after us! And closing fast.”

  Tyler glanced over his shoulder and in the process, unwittingly turned the craft right. The speedboat was bearing straight toward them now, the gap surprisingly short. His heart seemed to flat-line then kick in again at a gallop. He gunned the accelerator and turned parallel to shore. No way he could reach the safety of Kenmore Air before being overtaken.

  He yelled to Nancy, “Now you tell me.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Then, she yelled, “Tyler, watch out!”

  He looked up. Directly ahead came the spinning prop of a seaplane touching down. Tyler cut left, missing the plane by no more than twenty feet but the Jet Ski hit the pontoon wake, shooting them airborne. Tyler gripped the controls and braced for impact. “Hang on.”

  The ski slammed down, throwing Nancy to the right, pulling him with her. He fought to maintain balance but at that angle he couldn’t steer the small craft straight, causing it to turn in a short arc, giving the speedboat an advantage. Straining against the weight he pulled them both upright.

  “Tyler, he’s gaining.”

  He glanced directly ahead. No more airplanes. Another quick glance over the shoulder. The speedboat bore down on them.

  He scanned the lake ahead of them, searching frantically for a boat or someone to flee to for help but saw nothing out there that looked useful.

  He yelled, “Lean forward,” and scrunched down below the windscreen hoping to lessen wind resistance. He cranked another millimeter out of the gas and the craft seemed to accelerate slightly, but he knew it wasn’t enough. How long could they go before the boat came along side? Then what?

  By now the finger of land protruding into the lake, Gasworks
park, lay dead ahead. Soon he’d be forced to turn right or left. Since they were closer to the west shore, he chose left rather than cut across the larger expanse of open water and make a run for Portage Bay, figuring the closer to the boat moorages, the better chance of ditching the Jet Ski at the last minute—maybe just aim for a populated moorage, run the ski aground, jump off and yell bloody murder and hope like hell help would materialize. He saw nothing but marine supply shops, dry docks, and boat moorages along the shore.

  They shot under the Aurora Bridge. That’s when it dawned on him; they were heading into Salmon Bay, which would very quickly dead end at the locks—the equivalent of a dead end street. Just then the engine began to cough and sputter. He glanced at the gas gauge. Empty.

  “Tyler!”

  “What?”

  “Behind us!”

  Tyler swiveled his head around. A police boat bore down on them, blue lights flashing, Benson’s boat no longer in sight. Tyler cut the throttle but the engine had already died.

  A moment later the shore patrol boat pulled along side. A frowning cop yelled down, “You Tyler Mathews?”

  Something in the cop’s voice alarmed Tyler. “Yes”

  “Put your hands in clear sight. You’re under arrest.”

  40

  THE COP TIED the Jet Ski bowline to the starboard stern cleat, then helped Nancy climb aboard. With her safely on deck, Tyler followed and sat down next to her on a hard bench lining one side of the small cabin. After eagerly accepting thermal blankets from a second policeman and wrapping themselves snuggly, they huddled together, Tyler hugging her but saying nothing. A moment later the idling engines clunked into gear and the bow started cutting a wide circle back to Lake Union.

  Nancy wrapped her arms around Tyler’s chest and placed her head against him.

  “You want to talk about it?” he asked.

  “No. I just so thankful it’s over.”

  He squeezed her a little more. “You’re safe.”

  She squeezed back.

  The trip segued into a haze of engine noise, disbelief. Under arrest? For what?

  And somewhere during the trip Toby Warner crept back into his consciousness. He’d forgotten completely about him.

  The engine rumble cut back and the boat bumped to a stop, jarring Tyler back to the present. As the second cop lashed the vessel to dock cleats the other cop tapped Tyler’s shoulder. “Out.”

  Tyler glanced up. On shore stood two uniformed officers and one gray haired stern faced man in jeans and a navy Gortex raincoat with yellow block SPD on the left breast.

  Tyler followed Nancy onto the dock. The gray haired man approached, said, “Mathews. I’m Detective Jim Lange, Seattle Police.” He held up a badge. “This your wife?” with a nod toward Nancy. The two uniformed officers approached.

  “Yes. Why?”

  Lange said to Nancy, “Go with these two officers, Ma’am. My partner needs to interview you.”

  She shook her head. “I’m staying with Tyler.”

  Lange’s face grew stern. “No, you’re not.”

  One of the officers moved forward, touched Nancy’s arm. “This way, Ma’am.”

  “Just a goddamned second,” Tyler said stepping forward. A cop held out an arm to block him. Tyler said, “This is a joke, right? Being under arrest?”

  Nancy said, “I’ll be all right, Tyler. We just need to resolve this … this misunderstanding,” and headed to the patrol car with the two officers.

  Lange nodded toward an idling unmarked blue Caprice sprouting two VHF antennas from the roof. “Do I look like I’m joking? In the car.” The two harbor cops edged closer as if expecting trouble.

  Tyler didn’t move. “What are you charging me with?”

  Lange shoved him toward the car. “Accessory to murder and fleeing the scene of a crime. Now get moving.”

  Tyler stepped to the waiting car. “Where are we going?”

  “If I say downtown it’ll sound like a cliché, but that’s your answer.”

  “Can I at least stop and get my clothes?”

  Lange pulled open the thermal blanket. “That’s the first smart thing you’ve said so far.”

  DRESSED IN THE clothes he’d stashed by the lake, Tyler returned to the back seat of Lange’s car. Lange shut the door behind him and climbed into the driver’s seat. They were parked alongside Benson’s Mercedes.

  “Look, since you seem to know everything about me, you know I’m a doctor, right? I need to call the hospital. It’s important. Can I use your cell phone?”

  “No.”

  “Hey, this is ridiculous. I’m serious. This is an emergency. A kid’s life is at stake here.”

  “Stow it, Mathews. I’m not listening.”

  “This is bullshit. If you know anything about the shooting you know an FBI agent, Gary Ferguson, was there. He knows what happened. He’ll vouch for me.”

  “Wrong, Mathews. He’s the one put out the warrant for your arrest.”

  Shocked, Tyler slumped back against the seat.

  Lange drove around the south end of Lake Union, down Broad to Second Avenue, then south toward the down-town core.

  Minutes later Tyler sat up to attention when, instead of heading to the Public Safety Building, Lange nosed into the Federal Building basement garage. The car stopped, Lange popped the door locks. “Out.”

  Two surly men with close-cropped hair and shoulders the width of a billiard table stood waiting. They ushered him, via elevator, up several floors to an obvious interrogation room: a mirrored window in one wall, a battleship-gray steel table with two mismatched chairs. “Inside,” ordered the agent who seemed to be in charge.

  “Hold on, I’m a doctor. I need to call the hospital. It’s urgent,” Tyler pleaded again.

  The door slammed with a solid THUNK.

  Within seconds it opened again and Gary Ferguson entered followed by a tall slender African American woman in a tan pantsuit. He was scowling. She didn’t look all that happy either.

  Tyler threw both hands up in surrender. “Hey look, Ferguson, if I wasn’t supposed to leave I apologize but what the hell was I supposed to do? I mean, Jesus, they had Nancy, you refused to help me and I sure didn’t have time to wait for the police. And like you said, what were they gonna do?”

  “I’m glad she’s safe Tyler, but this isn’t about her or you. It’s about this.” Ferguson waved a shiny CD platter in front of Tyler’s face. Tyler recognized it immediately. The one from the storage bin.

  “So? What about it? That’s the goddamned evidence you wanted from me. That was the deal. Our agreement should be finished now.”

  Ferguson’s jaw muscles rippled. “No, no, we’re not done yet. This fucking disk is worthless. It’s as blank as that wall behind you.” He threw the disc onto the table. It hit on its edge, bounced into the air, and fell.

  Tyler watched the CD spin around twice before settling on the floor. “But it can’t be. I—” He flashed on Jim Day verifying the disk’s contents. “Wait a second! Jim Day … he must’ve erased it. If so, it’s still there. All you have to do—”

  “No, Mathews, it’s not there. Who do you think we are,” Ferguson’s face grew more crimson, “a bunch of old ladies? Think we don’t know shit about data recovery? Think again. And when you do, wipe that condescending tone out of your voice. The fucking disc was formatted. It’s been leveled.”

  Tyler glanced at the large mirrored window and wondered if whoever was watching was recording his words. Did it make any difference? “I burnt it off my office computer. I have a copy there,” he said hopefully, thinking maybe this would mollify Ferguson enough to allow him a phone call.

  “No it’s not. Someone wiped the hard disk too.”

  Khan. Tyler finally seemed to notice the other person in the room. “Who’s she?”

  Ferguson turned to her. “Ms. Hamilton, meet Tyler Mathews.” Then to Tyler, “She’s with the King County District Attorney’s Office.”

  Tyler looked from Ferguson to
Hamilton. “Oh for Christ’s sake, c’mon, I need to call the hospital. You know how important this is.”

  Ferguson shook his head. “You’re not calling anyone until we get this settled.”

  Tyler looked directly at the mirrored glass. “I demand to call my lawyer.”

  “It’s not going to happen, Mathews. Not until you agree to a couple things.”

  The pressure in Tyler’s head increased. “Hey, what about my constitutional right to a lawyer?” He wasn’t certain if this was true, but it sounded good.

  Ferguson spread his stance a little, interlocked both arms across his chest. “Not under the Patriot Act you don’t. You don’t cooperate with me, you’re aiding a terrorist organization. In that case I can keep you here as long as I want and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  Tyler blew an exasperated breath between pursed lips, threw his arms in the air and turned a tight circle. “Everything I had was on the computer and that disk. What do you want from me?” He thought of the disk he’d mailed to Nancy. He decided not to mention it yet.

  “A couple things,” Ferguson replied. “I want everything you have against Med-InDx and I want you to go public with it in a press conference.” He turned to the ADA. “Owita?”

  The woman cleared her throat. “Your buddy Benson survived and was taken to Harborview a few hours ago. Just before they rolled him into surgery he asked for his lawyer. You ever heard of Mel Tomkins?”

  “No.”

  “Well he’s the local equivalent to Johnny Cochran. Now, with what we got so far my boss is thinking murder. Whether we’re talking murder one or two we haven’t decided. Not until we get more information.” She shrugged and rocked her hand back and forth suggesting ambiguity. “But whatever we decide on, your testimony’s going to be crucial. You following this, Mathews?”

  Tyler sighed and shook his head at Ferguson. “Why can’t you be the one to blow Med-InDx out of the water? I do it and my professional career will be toast.”

  “That should be obvious, Mathews. Because you’re a doctor and the software killed one of your patients. You’ll have much more credibility. Besides, my boss and I will see to it that you’re protected from any reprisals from Maynard. You have my word on that.”