Flight Risk

by Jennifer Fenn

  He’d called the lab, in fact, spoken to the technician. “This match, here. This is for a juvenile runaway. Are we sure on that one?”

  He could practically hear the technician’s shrug. “The computer doesn’t lie.”

  “Does it make mistakes?”

  “Not often, sir. Not often.”

  The other possible matches linked the prints to a thirty-four-year-old already doing twenty years for armed robbery, a twenty-two-year-old convicted of a DUI three years ago and living in Detroit, and a forty-two-year-old fugitive wanted for assault, whereabouts unknown, but arrested for a prior assault in Dallas. All of whom had probably never even heard of Yannatok.

  Which left Kelley. Which meant Holt was issuing a warrant for the arrest of a high school student, accusing him of stealing a plane. Which was undoubtedly the most unbelievable event of Holt’s entire term as sheriff, which had otherwise consisted of visits to the schools, arresting drunks, and issuing tickets.

  Holt wanted to bring the kid in quietly and avoid embarrassing Sea Brook, whoever was in charge of North County Airport’s security, and of course, his own department. Sheriff O’Shay had lost his job over another Robert Kelley who’d known how to run and hide.

  But Holt knew that was the extent of the similarities between father and son. Robert Jackson Kelley was a kid. A kid who, despite a thin tough-guy act, couldn’t disguise how hurt he’d been when his mom had decided to let him spend the night in jail. A kid who’d gawked at the cruiser’s console and practically had to sit on his hands to refrain from fiddling with the tantalizing array of buttons and levers. A kid who, every single time Holt saw him, asked him about a bear, a bear who had in fact never been caught by the sheriff but had surely by now migrated away or been hunted down, a bear that hadn’t been spotted in over a decade. Did you catch that bear yet? Did you? Did you?

  Robert Kelley had lit up like a puppy greeting his master every time he’d bumped into Holt, including when the sheriff was booking him. Holt wanted to find him before his luck ran out.

  A lean little dog meandered over. The old guy was slow, but his tail wagged like a much younger pup’s. Holt reached down to scratch his head.

  He pocketed his sunglasses and rapped on the door.

  Deb answered so quickly that Holt had to assume she’d been watching from a window, and she stayed behind the wobbly screen. He recognized her, of course. He was the lucky one who always got to haul in her men. The dog scratched at the door.

  “Can I help you?” she asked flatly.

  “Ma’am, I’m Sheriff James Holt.” She knew who he was; he wasn’t sure why he was being so hesitant. Maybe it was the bags beneath her eyes or her knotty, unwashed ponytail. She looked like a walking headache. “I need to talk to you about your son. I suspect he’s in a bit of trouble. May I come in?”

  “Trouble like what? Did you find him? Is he okay?”

  “I’d really like to come inside to discuss the specifics.”

  Deb snorted. She lit a cigarette. “You know, I have a feeling that if he was one of those kids driving around here in a Beemer, he’d have been home before breakfast.”

  “Ms. Kelley—” Holt bristled. No matter what he did for the community—all that work he put into the aquatics program—he couldn’t shake the islanders’ scorn.

  “Ms. MacPherson. Never was Ms. Kelley.”

  He knew that. Something about this case had him off his game. “Ms. MacPherson. Could we continue this conversation inside?”

  She glared, exhaled, and opened the door. The dog scampered in after him.

  The trailer was small and cluttered. Shoes scattered near the door, dishes and ashtrays littering the table. Eat-in kitchen, living area. The curtains were drawn over every window. Holt peered down a short hall. “Where’s your son’s room?”

  “I don’t want you back there.”

  “Ms. MacPherson, your son is accused of some very serious crimes—”

  “I don’t give a damn what you say he did.”

  Holt raised his voice. “Ma’am, we have physical evidence that links your son to a plane theft. A plane. The one stolen from North County? About five miles down the road from Sea Brook? He’s lucky he didn’t get himself killed.”

  Deb laughed shortly. “A plane? My son doesn’t know how to fly a plane. What’s next? He’s Al Qaeda?”

  Holt looked around. He didn’t tell her that the possibility that Robert Jackson Kelley was a budding jihadist had already been brought up, namely by loudly concerned citizen Conrad Porter. “Is there a computer in the house?”

  Deb narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

  “We’d like to see what’s been searched. What’s on the hard drive. See if there’s any clues to where Robert might be.”

  “You want my computer—because it’s mine, not my son’s—you’re going to need to come back with a warrant.”

  Holt held up his hands. “We both want the same thing: your son to be found before he hurts himself. Isn’t that what you want?” Her face didn’t change. He tried another angle. “Look, you work dispatch. I consider the operators part of the department. The last thing I want to do is come back here with a warrant against one of our own.”

  She paused, just enough for Holt to note her hesitation. He added, “We have his prints. A match on a bag of candy he left in the plane. We have him. The question is whether or not we’ll catch him before he gets hurt.”

  Deb spread her hands and smiled. “Look. He’s off the island. I put him on the ferry myself. Drove him and watched him get on. He was heading for San Francisco.” She exhaled a thin stream of smoke. The dog padded over and curled up at her feet. “So start looking there.”

  FEBRUARY 11, 2010

  Tomkins Airstrip was just down the pine-lined road. He’d spied it from the school bus for years. Now the building seemed to greet him like an old friend, its window winking, an American flag waving hello from atop the hangar roof.

  The flight to Seattle was only twenty minutes. Robert had stayed airborne that long on his first attempt. He could be landing on the coast by four thirty, before sunup. He wished he could simulate the trip on his computer—impossible now, of course—but he had a little experience under his belt. He’d be fine. The only question was where to land. Ditching in the evergreen forests was certainly dangerous, and loud. The beach would probably be safest, but so out in the open.

  Might have to decide on the fly. Wherever looked good.

  Robert waited in the woods until long after nightfall, for as long as he could stand it, hoping it was at least one or two a.m. Then he emerged from the trees, pushing back branches, and sprinted for the hangar.

  Security was tighter at Tomkins than North County Airport. No unlocked doors welcoming him here. Robert hopped the fence without any trouble, but pacing the squat building’s perimeter didn’t reveal any openings. He pulled on door handles and ran his hands along window ledges without any luck. Even the dilapidated shed at the back of the property was padlocked. Robert tugged at the tarnished lock, frustrated. The splintering door looked flimsy; he wondered if he could kick it in.

  Three tries and the door swung open, the hinges breaking and falling to the dirt floor. Rusty flakes sprinkled the grass. Inside was a mower and an assortment of dusty tools: hammers, pliers, saws, screwdrivers. Tin cans filled with nails. He grabbed a hammer and swung it like a baseball bat, like he was Thor. Robert wouldn’t have known what to do with half the tools, but a crowbar was easy enough to operate. He traded the hammer for it, tossing it from hand to hand, enjoying its heft.

  Prying open the back door wasn’t so painless. Sweat dampened his shirt and his arms ached by the time it swung open. The crowbar clattered to the floor, and Robert waited, his heart thumping in his ears, for an alarm to sound. But soon his blood slowed and the silence calmed him, and he went inside, hefting the crowbar, like he was ready to brain someone. He wasn’t.

  Tomkins was laid out much like North County Airport: the warehouse look, the planes in t
he hangar, the roll-up doors. A lounge with plush couches, a bathroom with a shower, a foosball table and three computer stations, though, seemed to cater to a different breed of pilot. Robert could upload a flight simulator, try his planned run, scope out a landing site, and practice the whole flight a few times before he took off.

  He searched for keys, opening desk drawers and checking shelves. He found manuals, binders filled with various logs and time sheets, atlases. Boxes of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Snickers bars, gum, and lollipops were stacked on another shelf, along with a can labeled Honor System. That he could snag a meal here along with a ride hadn’t occurred to him, but now his stomach gurgled. He didn’t want any distractions in the air. He found a back office with another bathroom, a small TV, and a mini-fridge. He slid his sleeve over his hand and opened it. Bread, lunch meat, cheese, a few apples, some cans of Pepsi. Robert slapped together two sandwiches, passing on the mustard, not wanting to dirty a knife. He awarded himself an imaginary Green for attention to detail. He devoured the meal right there and brushed the crumbs into the trash. He took a Pepsi for the road.

  Then he remembered the crowbar and the prints he’d left there. He was on his way to wipe it down as well when the candy beckoned. He shoved a Snickers bar, two peanut butter cups, and a fistful of Dum Dums into his pocket. Dessert.

  That’s when he saw the camera’s roving eye in the corner above the desk. A beady red light blinked steadily. Robert cursed under his breath. He should have thought of this, should have checked the whole hangar.

  Just one more reason to get out of town. Since he was already caught on film, Robert winked. Then he retrieved the crowbar from the floor, stalked back to the camera, and took a swing. Glass and metal sprinkled the floor. A busted piñata of wires and parts remained.

  But he still didn’t have keys, and now he knew he might have been seen. What if they kept the keys in a safe? He spotted a toolbox and took a screwdriver instead. He thought about Dalton’s stories of stealing cars.

  He decided on a TTx, N1980TT, a sleek plane, lime-green paint sweeping across the top half and down the wings. Robert walked the wingspan before opening the cockpit hatch. Unlocked. Butterscotch leather interior. The plane seated four. Fewer buttons and knobs peppered the control panel. Robert wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing, but the Garmin was close enough to what he’d used on his last flight. The console’s cup holder cradled a paper cup printed with golden arches, full of melted ice and watery Coke. Robert threw it in the trash on his way to the hangar doors.

  He buckled up. Safety first.

  This time Robert’s stomach lurched, knowing what he was about to do. His hands shook as he jammed the screwdriver into the ignition. The resulting metallic crunch made him sure he’d broken something. He rattled the screwdriver and tried to turn it, but it wouldn’t budge.

  He looked wildly around the hangar. What else could he use to start this plane?

  He desperately jimmied the screwdriver a final time, and suddenly the handle turned. The engine revved. He was half-thrilled and half-terrified. Now he had to go through with it. Robert unwrapped a Dum Dum and shoved it in his mouth, biting down on the hard candy. The cherry lollipop cracked into candy splinters, sharp as glass shards, which he worked furiously with his teeth as he taxied out of the hangar.

  Stars twinkled over the airstrip and sharp pine branches pierced the horizon. On one side was the ocean; on the other were the trees. He’d swoop over them, skip across the bay, and land back on Washington’s shore. The cover of night would last long enough for him to distance himself from the plane.

  He told himself he had a plan. He told himself he was ready.

  The plane’s speed increased and Robert wrenched the throttle. N1980TT jerked into the air, punching up through gravity. He waited for the adrenaline rush to boil down. For that feeling of control to steady his hands. His first flight had been pure impulse, but now all he could do was think. Am I doing it right? Am I following the directions? Am I doing everything in the right order? Am I paying attention to the gauges, the meters, the signs?

  The altitude meter lurched and dove, as though the air itself had become bumpy. Wind tossed the plane left and right. Robert tugged at the throttle again. He yanked on the elevator control, and the nose came up too sharply. The runway danced across the windshield as he pushed the rudders and overcorrected. Too late he thought to lower the flaps, a worthless move now. He did it anyway. I thought I was good at this, and now I’m screwing the whole thing up.

  At around 100 feet, the altitude meter stopped climbing, and the needle hung suspended. If he couldn’t gain any more altitude, the plane could tangle in the trees’ ancient tops like a stuck kite. He could end up impaled on a branch.

  Something wasn’t right. Something was engaged that should be disengaged, something was down that should be up, on that should be off. Maybe he’d broken something during the rough takeoff. Maybe he’d broken something with the screwdriver. Robert’s eyes skimmed the windshield and the control panel. He tried to pull up on the throttle but it might as well have been sunk in concrete. All his computerized flights that had ended in flames flared before his eyes. One more time he jerked the elevator.

  The beach narrowed.

  Seattle might as well be the moon for as close as he was going to get to it. He had to land, and the place least likely to kill him was the sand. He threw down the wheels, extended the flaps, and trimmed the elevator quickly, quickly. He closed the throttle, kept the nose up, and shut his eyes, bracing himself for impact.

  A blooming cloud of grit coated the windshield as the plane gouged the shoreline, cratering the sand. Waves broke against the wheels, and salt water sprayed the windows. The carriage thudded, bounding along the beach. The plane finally skidded to a stop, leaning on the right wing. The left was bent, a broken bone in the plane’s metal skeleton. The engine sputtered and died. The nose wheel was crushed beneath the plane; the landing gear had snapped off and lay a few feet down the beach, among the shell shards and smooth stones. The propeller spun frantically, whirling up a small sandstorm, until it, too, lost momentum and was still.

  He’d crashed only a few miles from Tomkins. A few lousy miles.

  Robert pushed against the pilot-side door, smashing his shoulder against the frame until he realized the bottom was blocked by a six-inch-deep trench gashed in the sand. He climbed over the controls and beat on the passenger-side door until it finally lurched open. Robert scrambled from the plane, lost his balance, and fell into the sand. Grit filled his mouth and coated his nose and chin. He rolled over and blinked at the stars and the full, round moon before blacking out.

  ACT III

  BRACE FOR A CRASH LANDING

  From The Beginning Pilot’s Flight Guide (p. 36):

  A flight is not considered finished until the engine is shut down and the airplane is secured. A pilot should consider this a critical part of any flight. After engine shutdown, the pilot should complete a postflight inspection. Any parts that need to be checked or repaired should be noted.

  FEBRUARY 12, 2010

  He wasn’t dead, but pain shot through his neck when Robert tried to get up. The seat belt had carved an angry burn across his chest to his shoulder. His top lip was torn. He rose to his knees and spat blood-speckled sand.

  How long had he been lying there? Robert scrambled to a stand. He had to go.

  When the cops eventually stumbled across this scene, they’d question how he made it out alive. Maybe they’d spend days searching for his body, assuming he’d been mortally wounded and had crawled into the trees to die.

  Maybe that was a good thing.

  He wrenched the screwdriver free of the ignition and slipped it into his pocket. He kept the candy, smashed and flattened as it was, for later. His halting, limping footprints disappeared into the dunes.

  Transcribed from the Steve and Mac in the Morning Show, KRAW, February 12, 2010

  Steve:

  So for our listeners who haven�
��t tuned in to the news yet, let me be the first to share this gem, making headlines in both Yannatok and in Seattle this morning.

  Mac:

  Beep, bah-beep-beep-beep. Beep, bah-beep-beep-beep. Breaking news. Dateline, Yannatok.

  Steve:

  Enough. So everyone already knows about the plane stolen from North County Airport and then brought down ever so gently in the middle of the damn forest over on this side of the bridge. Well, the intrepid reporters at the Tide have confirmed the rumors running wild all over this island that indeed the same culprit—

  Mac:

  The Red Baron.

  Steve:

  Hold that thought, because you’ve already been outdone in the nickname department.

  Mac:

  The Jesse James of the sky.

  Steve:

  This Jesse James of the not-so-friendly skies filched another aircraft from Tomkins and managed to smash it to bits on some oceanfront property and—

  Mac:

  Wait for it.

  Steve:

  Walked away again! Survived the crash and skedaddled fast enough that he’s still at large. So who is this master pilot, you’re asking? Who is this renegade flier, this Houdini hijacker with nine lives? This master of escape, who can crash two thousand pounds of metal without being seen by a single person? Who has the sheriff running through the woods in the dark, begging for somebody, anybody to come forward with a tip that will save his ass come the November election?

  Mac:

  Wait for it!

  Steve:

  Eighteen-year-old Robert Jackson Kelley.

  Mac:

  Who?

  Steve:

  Exactly. A kid. A kid without any type of flight training. And apparently he’s been leaving a sugary parting gift at the scene of his crimes, and so, the oh-so-clever Seattle Times has dubbed him the—