Flight Risk

by Jennifer Fenn

  “Where is the footage kept?” Holt asked, attempting to steer the interview away from the missing lollipops. Walt sat back down, answering the rest of Holt’s questions petulantly but thoroughly, providing logs and phone numbers, computer passwords and keys. He continued to eye Bandit, but didn’t complain.

  An hour later, Holt stood in the open hangar door, gazing down the runway, absently scratching behind Bandit’s ears. He surveyed the view Robert would have stared down right before he took to the sky. Black tarmac reaching toward the horizon, spruces pointing skyward. Holt tried to imagine Robert’s mindset. Would the kid have been scared? Excited? Holt had come of age in Culpepper, a rural Washington town. As a teenager he’d made a general nuisance of himself. Smoking dope, firing his father’s guns, hot-rodding past the apple orchards. He and his buddies would smash mailboxes and get into drunken fights, until one night young Jimmy Holt got picked up by the cops and charged with drunk and disorderly, along with, to his mother’s horror, public urination. His parents had the good sense and savings to ship him to an East Coast military school, where he’d had the punk saluted and marched and drilled right out of him.

  He knew that a change of scene, pure and simple, could do a kid good. Why on earth would Robert have come back to Yannatok? Why hadn’t the kid flown east from North County, to Las Vegas or even St. Louis, as far away as that plane could carry him? He would have had such a huge head start, he might have actually stood a chance of getting away with the whole thing.

  Holt led Bandit down the runway, taking deliberate steps, closing in on where Robert had left the ground. What if the kid just wasn’t thinking? If Holt threw out any notion of Robert planning, then the first flight must have been a lark, a dare Robert Jackson Kelley had challenged himself to.

  Then maybe he got into trouble in the air; maybe he got scared. Maybe he just put the thing down wherever he could.

  But why try such a potentially dangerous stunt again? Why not get on the ferry and go, before he’d been identified? He could have been caught at Tomkins. He could have been killed trying to take off in, or land, another plane. Why take the risk?

  There was only one answer: because the kid loved it. Pure and simple.

  And if his theory was correct, Holt knew he would try it again.

  From the Pine Tavern’s dessert menu, February 12, 2010

  Oreo Cake 5.99

  Chocolate cake topped with Oreo cookie crumbles, vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, and whipped cream

  The Triple 5.59

  Three scoops of ice cream (vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate) topped with hot fudge, whipped cream, and a cherry. Gluten free!

  The Lollipop Kid 6.59

  NEW! Two scoops of vanilla ice cream floating in a frosty mug of root beer, topped with two Dum Dums. Flavors vary.

  Add cherry vodka 2.00

  FEBRUARY 12, 2010

  The walk back to the house had been long and painful. His crash-induced aches, along with his blistered toes inside his tattered, sodden shoes, slowed his pace, and he kept having to stop and rest. His thirst was painful. He’d decided to go back to the house. He’d take the chance that it was crawling with cops, and that he’d have to retreat to the woods. The prospect of a bed was worth the risk. The sun was melting through the pine branches by the time his destination came into view.

  When he’d thought about hiding out in the wilderness or imagined his dad on the run, Robert had never considered the long hours with nothing to fill them and no one to talk to. All the kids he went to school with were sitting at their desks, gathering around cafeteria tables, shooting hoops in the gym. As he trudged down the road, he wished he’d talked to Mira. Maybe she’d have given him a lift. He believed her when she said she wouldn’t turn him in. She was popular, sure, but she had never seemed like a goody-goody. He could have told her he liked her haircut.

  The screwdriver knocked against his leg, deep in his pocket. The tool was evidence now.

  If a patrol car had come upon him, he probably would have surrendered.

  Back at his home base, he showered until the water ran cold, leaving wet footprints on the tile as he searched for a towel. Robert once again pawed through a stranger’s bureau for a change of clothes. This time he could only dig up a polo rugby shirt, gray with maroon stripes, and black track pants. He swished downstairs.

  The adrenaline had drained from him like a dying battery, and now he was too exhausted to do anything other than watch television. He lifted the TV from its spot in the entertainment console, bear-hugging it and setting it gently on the floor. Now the light wouldn’t give him away. He flipped through the channels, landing on the Olympics’ opening ceremony. Robert hadn’t even realized the games were this year. The Parade of Nations was long, but Robert liked to see the waving flags, hear the made-up-sounding names of countries he hadn’t known existed. Of course he rooted for the United States, but he liked the small teams the best. From the leather sectional belonging to a family he’d never met, Robert clapped as the lone skier from Ghana took his lap.

  “Tonight brings both the pageantry of these opening ceremonies and tragic news from the Whistler Sliding Centre, where this morning Georgian luger Nodar Kumaritashvili was killed during a training run. The twenty-one-year-old athlete was—”

  And here was footage of men encapsulated in their sleek suits, ricocheting feetfirst around frosted corners. A hundred and forty miles per hour! One fifty! One fifty-three!

  Then Kumaritashvili flew off the track, his sled bouncing to the finish line without him. Robert suddenly had to abandon the TV to get a glass of water. He tried not to think about Kumaritashvili’s last moments. Whizzing, winging through the icy turns, the air rushing, the banks on either side a blur, and then panic rising like bile as the last twist came up too fast. The speed suddenly terrifying. The risk of launching down that icy track suddenly foolhardy.

  The opening ceremony continued, but the anchors interjected the news of Kumaritashvili’s death seemingly between every delegation, interspersing the parade with footage of the lugers shooting down the icy track. Robert flipped through his manuals each time, skimming a paragraph about engine maintenance here, about defrosting there.

  He thought about sleeping on the bed in the largest bedroom, on top of the covers. He paused over the green-and-white-checked comforter and finally decided to sleep on the couch. He kept the TV on, a second airing of the Parade of Nations flickering over his face.

  In his dreams, Kumaritashvili took off from the gate and careened down the icy track. The short sled hopped and then crashed down, but Kumaritashvili steered and braced, his body a streamlined shot of navy blue. He crossed the finish line, and Robert gave him a high five.

  FEBRUARY 13, 2010

  The town hall meeting was not Holt’s idea. The state attorney general’s office sent down word that Holt needed to quell the “public’s growing anxiety about fugitive Robert Jackson Kelley.” The meeting was staged in the same room where Robert Jackson Kelley had been expelled. His former principal was there. His mother wasn’t.

  The sheriff, over the phone with the AG’s second-in-command, had tried to explain. The chatty boy he’d arrested only a few months ago, who’d grinned for that mug shot, who’d asked him if he had kids—that kid might love being the subject of this much attention. The press might be egging the Lollipop Kid on.

  Holt stood behind the unfurled American flag. Someone from his office had also hung a large banner behind him, emblazoned with a replica of the star-shaped sheriff’s badge. Holt couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen that thing out of the storage closet. A microphone perched atop a polished wooden podium. All of the room’s fluorescent lights blazed. Holt was already sweating. Reporters representing all three network affiliates were there, as well as the Seattle Times and the Yannatok Tide. Holt recognized Sara Ortiz from Channel Eleven, and he’d been interviewed several times over the years by Channel Four’s Lisa Kennedy. But the younger guy with the coffee, the lady in the purple
blazer—Holt would have to ask around later to find out who they were. He’d be shocked to learn the man was working on a story for Outside magazine and the woman was a low-ranking Fox News correspondent.

  “Are we calling this a town hall or a press conference?” Deputy Hauser asked. He hiked a thumb back at the reporters. “Lady wants to know.”

  “Town hall,” Holt said quickly. Locals were filtering into the back. Gary Stanton. Kirk Oden, who taught flight school at Tomkins Airstrip. Holt nodded at Lorraine Simena, flanked by her sister, Renee Flores, who lived in a neat little house near the shore, not far from where the first plane had crashed. Gerri Kovach, arms folded stiffly across her chest, trying to catch him with her glare. And about a dozen others he knew by sight, though not necessarily by name: the butcher at Shipley’s, the guy who ran the ferry ticket window, the lady he saw power-walking down Dunes Road at sunrise most mornings. Frankly, people for whom he wasn’t sure what could be at stake in this mess.

  Hauser nodded. He leaned in closer. “Do you have notes?”

  “Notes?”

  “Do you know what you’re going to say, I guess,” Hauser said.

  “Of course.” Holt had never needed notes before. Why would he need notes now?

  Hauser slung a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s a guy out there I swear is from Vera Hunt. You’ve seen her show, right?”

  “I guess.” Holt shrugged, very much doubting a national cable news network had sent a correspondent from one of their top-rated shows to his town hall meeting. Tongues were definitely flapping all over the island, but surely there were bigger news stories nationally. Hadn’t the president just passed a budget? Weren’t the Olympics under way?

  “She sure nailed that bastard Jack Benson.” The deputy lowered his voice. “I’d watch that guy.”

  Holt nodded, straightened his badge, and approached the podium. He’d shined his shoes and ironed his uniform that morning. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Holt cleared his throat and began. “Good morning.” Immediately flashbulbs exploded. He paused until the lights died down. “At approximately two fifteen a.m. the Sheriff’s Department, including myself and Deputy Hauser, responded to a 911 call regarding a small aircraft crash on the beach near Dunes Road. Upon reporting to the scene, it was discovered that there were no injured persons.” He paused. “We believe the plane was stolen by Robert Jackson Kelley, the missing youth wanted in connection with the theft of another plane in North County. We are using all available manpower and resources to locate Mr. Kelley and bring him to justice. Island residents should report any suspicious activity and are encouraged to take simple steps to secure their property and homes, such as locking their doors. I would also like to emphasize, however, that Yannatok Island remains a safe place to live and work and residents should continue to go about their normal routines.” Holt eyed the clock on the room’s back wall. He’d said all he had to say in less than three minutes. He reluctantly added, “I have a few minutes to take questions.”

  Hands shot into the air. Holt didn’t recognize the first speaker Hauser handed the mic to. Odd-looking guy. Wiry, with a shaved head and a twitchy smile. Thin-framed glasses. Dressed in all black. He smiled when he said, “I’ll bring you your boy. Within forty-eight hours. Alive and well.”

  Holt leaned into the microphone. “We, too, intend to bring Mr. Kelley in alive. There is no call for the public to hunt for Robert Jackson Kelley.” He paused, then asked, “Would you care to introduce yourself, sir?”

  “Travis Tennant. Fugitive recovery specialist.”

  “You’re a bounty hunter?” Holt blinked. A few in the crowd chuckled. A flush warmed Holt’s neck. He hoped it wasn’t noticeable. “Are you a resident of the island, Mr. Tennant?”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Well, at this time, we have no need for your services.”

  The man smiled again. He was smaller than his profession might imply. “Certainly seems like you do.”

  Holt raised his voice. “Let me be clear that there is no call for vigilantism and citizens are not advised to approach Mr. Kelley—”

  “What are we supposed to do? Wait for him to crash into our living rooms?” a woman cried out. Holt cringed, recognizing her. He’d picked her son up for underage drinking out on the beach, though he’d let the kid off with a warning. Didn’t stop the woman from marching into his office the next day, claiming a detective had pushed around her boy.

  “Citizens are always advised to call law enforcement officials rather than take the law into their own hands like Mr. Tennant suggests.”

  “He’s on Facebook saying ‘Eff you!’” the woman continued. She shook her head, disgusted. “Did you know that? He’s turning you into a joke.”

  “We’re looking into Mr. Kelley’s Internet presence,” Holt said shortly, knowing full well that Robert Kelley had not had a Facebook page prior to his escape from Sea Brook, and that he almost certainly had not created one himself while he had been on the run. So who was posting under Robert’s name? That was something he’d have to investigate later. Holt turned back to Travis Tennant. “I’d also like to point out that Mr. Kelley has not violated the terms of any bail. Citizens, including yourself, don’t have the authority to arrest him or pursue him on private property. Next question, please.” He pointed to a glossy-haired reporter in a starched white shirt and a pressed gray suit punctuated with a bright blue tie.

  “Jonathan Richards, Hunt for Justice with Vera Hunt.” Whispers rippled through the crowd. Holt kept his face frozen, as if the TV program meant nothing to him. Deputy Hauser had been correct, for once. “How are you this morning, Sheriff?”

  Scattered laughter. Holt allowed a tight smile and replied, “I have certainly been better.”

  Richards nodded. “Fair enough. Is the Sheriff’s Department investigating Robert Kelley’s ties to terrorist organizations?”

  Holt paused. He was certain that if he said no, simply because Robert Kelley wasn’t a terrorist, someone would turn up a molehill to make a mountain out of. One unfortunate google on the kid’s hard drive would be enough. And there were the insinuations he’d made to the lab, a means to justify an end. The sheriff made sure to look Jonathan Richards in the eye. “At this time there isn’t any evidence that would tie Robert Kelley to a terrorist cell, but we are continuing to investigate all aspects of this case.”

  “Have you been able to access his computer?”

  “I’m not able to answer that at this time.”

  Richards grinned again. “Wouldn’t Robert Kelley’s computer be an essential piece of evidence in this case?”

  “That is not an aspect of the case I can discuss at this time.” Holt searched for someone else to call on. The reporter in the purple blazer raised her hand, waving her pen. Holt nodded to her.

  “Are you concerned about copycat behavior?”

  Holt couldn’t help but smile. “Most people would be pretty hard-pressed to copy what Mr. Kelley has done.” He had one more ace up his sleeve, a nugget sure to win the public to his side. “The Sheriff’s Department has also established a reward for any tip that leads to Mr. Kelley’s capture. Fifty thousand dollars.”

  * * *

  Once a price had been stamped on Robert Jackson Kelley’s head, calls to the tip line and the police department increased by 300 percent. Kelley had been spotted among a group of homeless kids crashing under a Seattle bridge, lounging on the beach in Los Angeles, exiting Las Vegas’s MGM Grand Casino. At airports in Portland, San Francisco, Salt Lake City. Fleeing a car break-in right there in Yannatok, making off with an iPod and a GPS. That time the real culprit left a Dum Dum at the scene, rolling around under the driver’s seat among some spare change and dry pine needles. But that guy got caught a few miles down the road, and Robert Jackson Kelley remained at large.

  * * *

  He’s on Facebook saying “Eff you!”

  After the town hall, Holt shut the door to his office and opened his computer.

>   Though he knew it was unlikely, Holt was just the tiniest bit hurt to think that maybe Robert Kelley, who’d been so impressed by his cruiser and his bear traps, could be mocking him online.

  He checked the Tide’s site. The paper was now reporting that their story on the Lollipop Kid had received more views than any other in their history. And embedded in the article was a link to Robert Jackson Kelley’s supposed Facebook page. His mug shot was being used as a profile picture, which was only the first indicator that Holt wasn’t going to take seriously anything he found here.

  And there was what that concerned citizen had been so loudly referencing. Robert Kelley’s status was a lyric from that controversial N.W.A. song, “Fuck Tha Police.”

  The status had received 2,598 likes.

  The kid hadn’t written this, but whoever had wasn’t doing Robert Jackson Kelley any favors.

  Holt sighed and pulled open his top desk drawer. Some joker in the department had been putting lollipop bouquets on his chair. One had been waiting for him when he returned from his trip to Tomkins. Five Dum Dums, all wrapped up with a curling, frayed ribbon. Something about this candy-chomping kid had made the deputies ornery. Like since Kelley was sticking it to the sheriff, they could get their kicks in, too. Someone more sympathetic to Holt’s plight had posted Kelley’s picture, the one with the smart-ass grin, in the urinal, but Holt ordered it removed. Couldn’t let it get around that his men were pissing on a kid’s face.

  Holt had always had a sweet tooth. A pudgy kid, he’d been the type to scarf all his Halloween candy in one sitting. And he’d never had the patience to suck a lollipop down to the end. He always bit them, let the hard candy pieces fly.

  He liked the green ones, but he’d lie under oath before he’d admit it.