Killer Summer (Walt Fleming)

by Ridley Pearson

“I think Kevin’s on that plane. If and when that jet lands in another state, he’s looking at a felony. Transportation of a minor. We need to contact the pilot and turn that plane around for everyone’s sake.”

  “I understand.”

  “Call me.”

  “Done deal.”

  The phone rang less than five minutes later. It was Teddy Sumner. Fiona was proving herself invaluable.

  “What’s this all about, Sheriff ?”

  Walt could hear the auctioneer prattling in the background.

  “Your plane,” he said. “I need you to tell your pilot to turn it around.”

  “My pilot’s at the Best Western, running up movies and room service on an expense account, Sheriff. What do you mean, turn it around?”

  Walt held the receiver to his ear but said nothing. The bidding price in the background was up to seven thousand dollars.

  “Your Lear took off from the Sun Valley Airport less than ten minutes ago. I believe your daughter and a companion are on board.”

  “Summer’s due . . . Oh, shit—”

  There was a long pause on the other end. The bidding had reached eight-five.

  “I suppose it’s possible William needed a maintenance run,” he continued. “I don’t always hear about those things. Maybe Summer talked him into a joyride.”

  “We need to reach the pilot.”

  “I can call.”

  “Anything you can do to confirm the location of your plane and whether your daughter and a friend are on board would be appreciated.”

  “To confirm you’re mistaken?” Sumner sounded dubious.

  “Yes.”

  “That would be a first. What kind of cop are you?”

  “Elected,” Walt answered.

  Sumner barked a laugh.

  “One other thing, Mr. Sumner. Can you tell me how much a plane like yours costs?”

  “The general rule is, if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”

  “Millions.” Walt made it a statement.

  “Seventeen-five.”

  “Get back to me as soon as you can. And thank you again for your cooperation.”

  The bidding stopped at nine thousand five hundred. Going once . . . going twice . . .

  Walt grabbed his cell phone from its charger on his way out the door.

  Seventeen-five.

  He stopped in front of Nancy’s desk.

  “Call Myra,” he said. “Get the details of how to track Kevin’s cell phone. We’ll need her user name and password.”

  Nancy reached for the phone.

  Walt moved around to behind her desk. Within a minute, she had accessed the website and had the GPS location for Kevin’s phone, which was north of Ketchum.

  Walt checked the map’s time stamp: seven minutes earlier.

  “Oh, crap,” he said, his eyes jumping between his watch and the time on the screen.

  “Click ‘History,’” he said.

  Nancy moved the cursor and clicked. The screen refreshed to Kevin’s location of ten minutes earlier.

  “The airport,” Nancy said. “That can’t be right. Hailey Airport to Ketchum in a couple of minutes? I don’t think so. No one can drive that fast.”

  “He isn’t driving,” Walt said.

  47

  As the call went dead, the plane shook, and to the left Kevin heard a series of loud pops followed by silence. The roar now came only from the right.

  He checked his bars: zero. He powered down the phone, saving the battery for when they landed.

  He looked at the phone cradled in his hand. If they caught him—and they would—they’d confiscate it. The trick was to hide it, come back for it later. He tried slipping it under the pad he was lying on, but it made an obvious bulge. Just outside the sliding partition, he spotted a hand-towel dispenser. With the pilots busy and Summer and her captor facing forward, their backs to him, Kevin reached out of the storage compartment.

  His finger deciphered the dispenser’s front panel and he opened it, slipping his phone inside.

  The challenge was to think like his uncle. For all he knew, these guys were planning a 9/11-style suicide flight into some skyscraper in Seattle or Salt Lake. Or maybe they were hijacking the Lear to pick up some criminal, like on Prison Break.

  He relived all that he’d seen on his brief tour of the jet: a fire extinguisher next to the galley, knives and a corkscrew in the drawer, a flashlight above the toilet, a first-aid kit.

  He assumed there would be cleaning supplies, possibly beneath the sink or in one of the larger drawers in the galley.

  The wiry guy had taken down Summer with one hand. Kevin wasn’t going to let that happen to him. He’d seen enough movies to know the good guy never got a second chance. He’d get one shot, if he was lucky. He was Bruce Willis in Die Hard, Matt Damon in Bourne, Daniel Craig as 007. He had plenty of reference material to draw upon.

  But could he actually stab a guy? He convinced himself not to think about it. Just do it, all the Nike ads told him.

  One factor in his favor was the element of surprise. His Uncle Walt was not a hunter but was an expert marksman and one of the best trackers in the country. Kevin had been on overnights with Walt when he would locate an animal or herd and then see how long and how far he could stay with them. Hours, sometimes days, and many, many miles. What he’d learned on those outings came less from watching his uncle track—although he picked up some pointers—and more from the late-night stories told around the campfire. It was then that Walt had talked about Kevin’s father. And he learned about the use of the element of surprise.

  Remaining hidden made him feel like a coward. What would Bruce or Matt or Daniel do?

  He pictured himself going through each motion. Then, with some sixth sense alerting him, he sneaked a peek out into the plane’s main compartment.

  The wiry guy was coming up the aisle straight for him.

  Trapped, Kevin thought it better to show himself than to surprise a guy like that.

  He reached to push the partition back just as the creep stopped and opened one of the window shades that was pulsing yellow and orange. The man pushed his face against the window, turned around, and ran toward the cockpit, shouting, “WE’RE ON FIRE!”

  Kevin slid open the partition. He climbed down into the galley, his back to the emergency exit. The door’s small window revealed the source of the guy’s anxiety: the engine was on fire.

  Kevin’s heart leaped into his throat.

  He peered around the panel to see Summer looking back at him. Her face was blotchy. He wasn’t sure she saw him. She was staring off into space. She seemed to be in shock.

  He undid the clasp that secured the fire extinguisher and pulled the ring pin. To him, it felt like pulling the pin on a hand grenade. Time began counting down in his head.

  If Kevin was going to take a run at the wiry guy, it was now or never.

  What if he was the last line of defense between them and another 9/11? What if these guys planned a suicide dive into the Sun Valley Lodge or the wine auction? A guy once had tried to bomb the Cutter Conference. Anything was possible.

  The cabin went dark, and the jet banked to the left. His eyes adjusted to the green glow from an LED on the flashlight.

  His inner ear crackled, telling him the plane was descending rapidly.

  He had to get himself strapped into a seat. He had no choice about that. He raised the fire extinguisher, rounded the corner, and charged.

  The guy, facing forward, was swearing a blue streak at the top of his lungs. The pilots didn’t seem to hear him. Kevin continued down the aisle. The guy looked much bigger up close, strong and dangerous. He had a birthmark or tattoo on the side of his neck.

  “Ahhhhh!” Kevin shouted.

  The guy’s head came around, his hands lifting defensively.

  Kevin pulled the trigger.

  48

  It took Walt three minutes to reach Sun Valley Aviation. Pete was already there, speaking to a woman that a counter
plaque identified as REBA.

  “No kids,” Pete said as Walt entered. “Just a flight crew of three.”

  “T-A-nine-five-nine?” Walt said.

  “Yes,” the woman said. Her upper lip was moist. “It wasn’t the same flight crew that flew it in, but that’s not all that unusual.”

  “Video?” Walt said, pointing to a camera high in the corner.

  She led them into the back office, where a dedicated computer screen showed four camera angles. It took her only minutes to match a time stamp on the fuel receipt with the time stamp on the video and play back the images of the flight crew.

  The first two guys wore crew caps down low, obscuring their faces. The third guy wore a baseball cap backward, and managed to stay off camera most of the time. Finally, he happened to look up.

  “That’s Salvo,” Walt said.

  The receptionist froze the image. Matthew Salvo was looking right at the camera.

  “And Salvo is . . . ?” Pete said.

  “A person of interest,” Walt answered.

  Cantell was no longer after the wine. He’d stolen Sumner’s private jet worth seventeen million dollars.

  “I want to confirm T-A-nine-five-nine is not on this ramp,” Walt said.

  He walked briskly to the FBO’s door and pushed out into the cool evening air, taking in the large number of jets and the gaping hole in the back line where Reba was pointing.

  “See?”

  But Walt didn’t see. His eyes were fixed on the beat-up Subaru parked outside the chain-link fence.

  49

  A spray of noxious yellow powder huffed from the fire extinguisher’s nozzle, coating the man’s face. Kevin swung the extinguisher at him, striking him with the butt end in a roundhouse blow that sounded like a ripe melon hitting concrete. The man went down, bouncing off one of the seats and convulsing to the carpet.

  Freed, Summer kicked the man twice, before Kevin pulled her away and wrapped her in his arms.

  The pilots, consumed with the complexities of landing a damaged jet, were unaware of anything going on in the back.

  Kevin and Summer stood there several long seconds, their uncertain faces flashing green and orange, frozen in place, unable to speak.

  Kevin finally blurted out, “We’ve got to get buckled. This thing’s going down.”

  “His cap,” she said, bending down and feeling around in the dark. She found it and handed it to Kevin. “In case they look back here . . .”

  Kevin moved the man so his legs didn’t stick out in the aisle. Summer took her seat again, while Kevin donned the cap backward and sat in the unconscious man’s seat. Facing toward the back of the plane meant the pilots wouldn’t see his face, if they bothered to check.

  Kevin glanced over at Summer in the inconsistent light and caught her looking back at him inquisitively. He had no answers for her, wondering if he should make a move for the galley’s knife drawer. But the jet was losing altitude fast, wobbling as if dangerously out of control.

  White light washed the cabin when the landing lights came on at the last moment. Kevin bent forward and grabbed his knees. Summer followed suit.

  In a flash of absolute certainty, he knew what came next. It was as if his uncle were telling him what to do. He signaled Summer, motioning aft and to the left, to the emergency door.

  She nodded.

  He pointed at her.

  You go first.

  She nodded again.

  Progress, he thought. Now, the knife, the flashlight, the phone—in that order—while we’re still moving.

  He and Summer could do this.

  The Learjet landed hard, bounced, bounced twice more, then shook hard as if about to break apart.

  With the impact, the man at Kevin’s feet shifted and groaned. He was coming to.

  Everything suddenly went dark.

  Kevin signaled Summer.

  It’s now or never.

  Summer released her seat belt and ran for the back of the plane.

  50

  Walt should have been looking at a team of twenty trained deputies at his spanking-new Incident Command Center. Instead, he was looking at four, two of them civilian clerks. Five on-call deputies were on their way, but still twenty to thirty minutes out. Overhead displays, satellite links, the Ethernet—all seemed to be laughing at him in almost empty space.

  The Subaru was Kevin’s. The Learjet was gone. They had a para-sailor’s 911 report that a low-flying jet had hit a flock of geese and, when last seen, its engines were smoking or on fire. The timing of the sighting matched the cell-phone-following GPS program that placed Kevin over the town of Ketchum.

  Walt attempted not to show the despair he felt, but this last bit of news had sent a wave of panic and dread through him—recalling the US Airways jet that had taken less than two minutes to crash-land in the Hudson. He caught himself staring at the phone, expecting it to ring. He’d lost his brother several years earlier. He couldn’t bear to lose his brother’s son. He reached to loosen the top button of his uniform, but found it unbuttoned already.

  He was not a man to shrink from responsibility, yet, for a moment, he just wanted to walk out the door and keep going. No more phone calls, no more bad news. He watched the clock on the wall’s second hand jerk around its face.

  Walt caught Fiona staring at him from a seat in the otherwise empty front row. She grimaced and cocked her head silently, checking that he was okay. He returned an indifferent shrug, his eyes revealing the dead space inside. He so did not want the phone to ring.

  “Okay,” he said, getting the attention of the four other people in the room, including Fiona. “Pull together Search and Rescue. Apprise Joaquin up in Stanley of the situation. Update the Challis sheriff. And we’d better at least notify the Forest Service to prepare for a fire response. If the plane goes down . . . well, it’s mostly forest up there.”

  The speakerphone beeped.

  “Sheriff ?”

  Walt steeled himself, resolving not to fall apart in front of this group.

  “Go ahead.”

  “The MC has a Theodore Sumner trying to vid-chat with you. Do you want to take it?”

  Walt worked the laptop. The screen came alive, as did an overhead monitor. Walt didn’t want the man’s face overhead but didn’t know how to shut it off.

  Teddy Sumner’s stress could be measured by the sweat on his upper lip and the pain in his eyes.

  “I’ve got it,” Walt said, punching the phone and slipping on a headset. “Go ahead, Mr. Sumner.”

  “Good evening, Sheriff,” Sumner began. “As I suspected, my pilot is in his hotel room, watching television. But I asked him to call for the plane, and, of course, you’re also right that it’s gone. It took off right around the time you said it did, which, I can assure you, it did without my permission. The only conclusion to draw is, my jet’s been stolen. Why? I have no idea. With proper notification, it will be seized the moment it lands anywhere, although, fully fueled as it is, it could reach Mexico. If that happens, I’ll likely lose it. I asked my pilot about the key—there are only two—and he has his. When I looked for mine—I’m loath to admit this—it was missing. As is my daughter, which, I’m told by Mr. Webb, you’re aware of. Putting two and two together, my daughter took my key and got someone to fly my plane, though, for the life of me, I refuse to believe it.”

  “That’s not how it went down,” Walt said.

  He briefed Sumner on the Sun Valley Aviation security video, and allowed how they had three suspects, all known for participating in major robberies, though he did not name them.

  “It’s possible that one of the three convinced or coerced your daughter to take your key,” Walt continued. “It’s also possible—probable—that your daughter and a companion are on the jet. Circumstantial evidence supports that theory: a phone call made to this department.”

  Sumner’s reaction was immediate: stunned breathlessness. Then a father’s fury filled his eyes, and he choked out, “Not possible . . . Th
at can’t be right.”

  “In the spirit of full disclosure, her companion is assumed to be my nephew, Kevin Fleming. Kevin’s employed by the Sun Valley Company and works in the lodge, where, as I understand it, you’re staying.”

  “Your nephew?”

  “And your daughter, yes. Believe me, I want them to be anywhere but on that plane. We have a report, sir, that it may have suffered some damage while in flight.”

  “Come again?”

  “Geese . . . a flock of geese. We have an eyewitness report that both engines were smoking and on fire. We’re organizing a Search and Rescue.”

  “Good God, on fire? My jet? How certain are you Summer’s on board?”

  “It’s not all speculation. We’ve got the phone call, some mapping software. And the times match. The evidence is fairly conclusive but not definitive. I would like to stress that point.”

  “What’s she doing on that jet?” He looked as though, if he could have reached through the screen and grabbed Walt by the collar, he would have. “Your nephew put her up to this! Christ Almighty, I’ll have his hide.”

  “We know nothing about what led up to this. What little we do know, we’re acting on by deploying Search and Rescue. Beyond that—”

  “Beyond that . . . ?”

  “We’re of the opinion that the theft was not an act of terrorism. We have, however, notified the proper federal authorities, as mandated by law. They will scramble fighters and force the jet down—”

  “Jesus, stop!”

  “Unless this was meant to be a robbery, as I believe, likely an insurance scam, in which case the thieves never intended to fly very far. The mountains block tracking radar, Mr. Sumner. And seventeen million makes for a very attractive target,” Walt added.

  “And they lured Summer into this scheme somehow?”

  “We can’t confirm your daughter’s or my nephew’s involvement, only that the evidence suggests they’re aboard that plane.”

  “What a cock-up!” Sumner shouted. His spittle flecked the camera lens and Walt’s screen. “On fire?” His face seemed to melt down to his chin as belief slowly registered.