16 SOULS
Page 1
16 SOULS
New York Times Bestselling Author
John J. Nance
WildBluePress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
16 SOULS published by:
WILDBLUE PRESS
P.O. Box 102440
Denver, Colorado 80250
Publisher Disclaimer: Any opinions, statements of fact or fiction, descriptions, dialogue, and citations found in this book were provided by the author, and are solely those of the author. The publisher makes no claim as to their veracity or accuracy, and assumes no liability for the content.
Copyright 2017 by John J. Nance
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
WILDBLUE PRESS is registered at the U.S. Patent and Trademark Offices.
ISBN 978-1-947290-13 Trade Paperback
ISBN 978-1-947290-12-9 eBook
Interior Formatting/Book Cover Design by Elijah Toten www.totencreative.com
Acknowledgements
As always, this work required my reliance on a cadre of people for help from the technical to the lyrical. First and foremost, of course, is Kathleen Bartholomew, without whose love and support and editing, Marty’s story would not have seen print. I am very appreciative of the contributions and encouragement of two of the earliest fans and progenitors of this story, Bianca and Dave Vanderwal. I also greatly appreciate the time and effort expended by Arna Robins, Arthur Ferreira, Curt Epperson, and especially Debbie Haagensen, and the excellent assistance of Annie LeFleur, JD, in helping this Texas lawyer navigate Colorado’s legal system.
And thanks especially to Steve Jackson, Michael Cordova, and Ashley Butler at WildBlue Press.
This work is dedicated to the memory of a great literary agent and friend, the late George Wieser of New York’s Wieser and Wieser Agency, who started it all 35 years ago.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER ONE
August 14th
Marty Mitchell awoke and pulled himself up to peek over the ancient slab of granite that had concealed him all afternoon. Strange he’d slept so long. A glance at his watch told him it was half past five. To his relief, the gaggle of climbers who’d been milling around, celebrating their summit, had long since moved on. Now there was no one left on the 14-thousand foot plateau to wonder why he hadn’t departed.
He’d be gone soon enough anyway.
Marty filled his lungs with the crisp, rarified air as he took in the cobalt blue sky overhead and the gentle breeze. For his last afternoon on the planet, the conditions couldn’t be better. In a weird way, this place felt like a launching pad – his own Kennedy Space Center from which to soar safety home.
His eyes instinctively tracked an inbound jetliner descending toward Denver International, fifty-five miles distant, and the mere sight roiled his stomach. It was a 757, the same model he’d been flying last January when his world imploded.
Marty struggled to ignore the Boeing and ditch the negative thoughts as he looked east, focusing on the edge of the boulder-strewn plateau where the path back down the mountain began, the so-called Keyhole Route. He assumed that all the other climbers had heeded the park rangers’ warnings about getting off the summit of Long’s Peak by one. Even experienced climbers were eager to pick their way down the steep rock face along the “trough” before any freak afternoon thunderstorms had a chance to pop up out of nowhere – lightning-charged storms which too often flailed the rocks with sixty knot winds and stinging rain, raising the stakes by making each footfall exponentially more slippery and treacherous. Beyond that, a mile distant, there was a narrow, challenging trail laterally along the southern rock face which climbers had to traverse to get back to the Keyhole, the jagged and natural passageway leading back to the north side of Long’s Peak.
The dangers along that backside path were very real – a major stumble could mean a seventeen-hundred foot plunge down the mountain. And, truth be told, he’d originally considered that an option.
But this is better, he thought. Much more elegant to go out on top. And, he thought with a rueful chuckle, a rather classy way to get the last word without fear of contradiction.
The morality of his fury had already been decided. If, by some galactic miracle, he could teleport the Denver District Attorney to the rock next to him, Marty would have absolutely no hesitation and even less remorse about tossing Richardson off the edge of the vertical east face of the mountain. The sound of the shyster’s body splatting on the granite below would be the equivalent of a symphonic masterpiece.
I’m entitled to a few impossible daydreams, he thought. I’m alone and doomed, but in complete control!
But the word “control” triggered an icy flash through his bloodstream and a feeling of loathing. He’d never lost control…control of himself, or control of his aircraft, and for that very reason, Richardson wanted him in an orange jumpsuit and caged like an animal for doing his job.
After several minutes, the anger that had masked his pain began to subside with the setting sun, and his heart ached in sorrow. His entire life had been marked by an intense determination to do the right thing. He’d grown up with a sense of integrity and an unquestioned intent to contribute something good to the world. How could it have come to this?
A brief coughing spell distracted him, and when it had passed, Marty reached down to rummage through his backpack, reviewing the plan, searching for the small vial of pills and the unopened bottle of his favorite bourbon alongside a bottle of wine…
And, there was the varietal cigar he was anticipating – a real Cuban.
First a snack and a little wine, then – as the sun went down – there would be time for the last cigar accompanied by the liquor, and then the deepest of sleeps. He regretted the fact that the rangers would be forced to clean up after him, but
that couldn’t be helped. Despite his best logistics planning, that detail remained unsolvable.
Marty stood and stretched, keenly aware the thin air at 14-thousand feet was contributing to his lightheadedness. It was easier to look outward, then inward. To the north, he could see almost all the way to Laramie, and at night, the town would be clearly visible from such a high vantage point. Back to the west and northwest were the sister peaks of Rocky Mountain National Park, familiar even from this angle of dominance. Hallet’s Peak in particular triggered a fond memory of standing on its summit with a girl he hadn’t thought of in years.
What was her name?
He shook off the memory. The Never Summer range was off to the northwest, and, of course, the sprawl of Denver to the southeast.
For a reason he could neither explain nor ignore, the more contemporary thought of Judith Winston popped into his consciousness. It wasn’t her image, or the memory of her voice that caused him to tense. It was what Winston represented: The do-good lawyer dutifully trying to save a client she obviously detested. A tough broad when crossed. He could see the cynicism in her eyes the first time he’d refused to play the game.
More accurately, when I tried not to, he thought.
A caution light went off somewhere in the cockpit of his mind as he realized he’d missed a basic courtesy. Winston hadn’t done anything to deserve complete silence, yet among all the other notes he’d carefully placed on his dining room table, he’d forgotten to leave one for her.
Marty knelt by his pack and rummaged until he found the small, leather-bound diary he’d been counseled to fill and hadn’t. Oh, a few items were inscribed, like his grocery list, last minute chores, and a feeble attempt at recording his feelings which carried all the passion of an engineering log. But now, for a brief moment in time, that little book would have center stage.
He pulled out a pen and wrote the goodbye note he should have left for her back home. At least there was no doubt she’d get it. Anything he wrote would find its intended recipient.
(Broomfield, Colorado – 5:40 pm, August 14th)
Punching off her smartphone for the fifth time in fifteen minutes, Judith Winston paced back and forth across her veranda almost knocking over the planter on the western wall of her condo.
Where the devil is he? she wondered. Despite the fact that it was Sunday afternoon, Marty Mitchell had agreed to a conference call and she absolutely had to wring out some very specific information from him before they got too close to the trial. Somehow the fact that he was out on personal recognizance – thanks to her impassioned intervention – gave a proprietary feel to her irritation. If not exactly waiting for her command, he at least should be locatable.
Judith was feeling like a fidgety six-year old, sitting, then jumping to her feet to pace some more, stopping to examine the contents of the fridge before continuing her holding pattern and sitting again. The idea of driving to the ungrateful pilot’s house was rising past the level of silly to the status of potential intent.
How dare he not answer! If she could disrupt her weekend to work on his case, he could at least have the courtesy to keep the appointment, Judith thought, toying with the idea of attacking a pint of unopened ice cream in the freezer.
The sliding door to her north-facing deck was open and she stepped into the pleasant temperatures for a moment, feeling the light silk blouse she was wearing flutter in the breeze, her eyes drawn to the stark clarity of the front range some thirty miles distant. There were still times she longed for someone to share such moments with, although the solitude these days was good – especially after the last relationship had collapsed with such a deafening roar. Deciding now to be alone was more a capitulation to reality than a choice, but she knew it would still be painfully reviewable from time to time, and usually without warning.
The vista was timeless and awesome. On the west side of Boulder the Flatirons – giant slabs of near-vertical granite – defiantly stabbed the sky, as if guarding the entrance to the high mountains beyond. Further west she could see the sheer, vertical east face of Long’s Peak – the so-called “diamond” that rock climbers loved – a vertical granite wall thousands of feet high.
Judith’s mind snapped back to the dilemma of locating her truant client, and just for a second, the destabilizing thought that Marty Mitchell might not be answering because he couldn’t flitted across her logic circuits.
His house was ten miles distant, in Boulder itself and not far from her office. Given her growing unease, it was probably worth the drive to motor over and pound on his door. But what worried her the most was the realization that he hadn’t been a second late in any of their past encounters, a fact she attributed to his military training.
No, this was too uncharacteristic. Something had to be wrong.
(Denver – 5:40 pm August 14th)
Scott Bogosian had been thinking about fate lately, but not the fate that had almost become fact.
Now, as he stood alongside his aging Volvo, his legs shaking, the concept of fate was taking on a far more personal and sinister meaning. That stop sign he had raced through was right there, right behind him, clearly marking the intersection, its command to “STOP” big and red and undeniable.
But he’d never seen it until now. Why? Sun in his eyes, not concentrating, sleepy, what?
Scott realized he was panting, not exactly like an overheated hound, but not far from the analogy, feeling desperately short of breath.
What was it, two minutes ago? he wondered.
The minivan approaching the same intersection at a ninety-degree angle had barely registered in his peripheral vision, but the automatic assumption that any car approaching from the side was going to stop was automatically unquestioned. After all, no transportation authority would design an intersection in which traffic was allowed to approach from four directions at once without a stop sign or a stop light or something. Yet his path had been clear of signs or signals, or so he thought, as the part of his consciousness assigned to driving presumed an unchallenged right of way, right up to the moment of impact that hadn’t occurred.
Fate had written a different script, and the screeching, gut-wrenching four wheel emergency skid into the intersection to avoid the minivan had been a success measured by millimeters.
Mom’s taxi had sped on, miraculously untouched, the startled, unforgettable faces of two tiny passengers staring at him from the back seat through the very windows he would have crushed. Those faces were now etched in his memory as permanently as those impacted by the midair collision of Regal Airlines Flight 12 and Mountaineer 2612, an incredible accident he’d spent the better part of the past six months researching.
Scott looked down at his shaking hands. Limping through the empty intersection afterwards and pulling over to the curb, he wondered why everyone else’s world – and heart – hadn’t stopped as completely as his.
No one had come running to scold, condemn, or support. The McDonald’s customers across the street continued waiting for their Big Macs, the do-it-yourself gas station across the way was filled with oblivious customers, and even a police cruiser motored by without a second glance, flush in the uninterrupted flow of this alternate reality.
What almost happened in his universe hadn’t, and therefore life moved on, only Scott was now awash in a flood of unbidden adrenaline.
He forced his aging body back behind the wheel and studied the ashen image in the little mirror on the visor. No question he’d been getting rougher around the edges and, to admit it, somewhat seedier since the Rocky Mountain News folded in 2009, almost taking his career with it. A year of struggle had landed him a part time position with the Denver Post – a permanent probationary toehold which kept him breathing, and eating. But essentially the door to being a mainstream, byline newspaper reporter had slammed shut without jarring another open, and Scott, the fadin
g newspaperman at age 58, was experiencing an eerie mix of fatigue and anxiety.
Of course, working now meant making rent with magazine articles, local professional journal writing, and a growing involvement with a digital news service started by other furious Rocky Mountain News alumni, in addition to his new part-time position with the Post. But he’d been spending an inordinate amount of time digging hard with a determination to tell the story of Mountaineer Flight 2612 and Regal Airlines Flight 12. Yes, it was possible he was becoming myopic – fixated on the story, a crowd of one who thought it could support a book. But the story was so incredibly multi-dimensional, and those faces in the windows of the other airplane were indelible, too. Like all airline accidents, there were so many contributing causes it was hard to put in perspective, especially when an out-of-control headline grabber like Grant Richardson seized the opportunity to prosecute an airline captain for murder – the same DA who’d pursued several nurses recently for an entirely innocent but fatal system mistake.
There was a key still missing in the Regal Air crash, something just out of reach that no one had yet discovered or put together. Call it a hunch. Several nights he had awakened with a startling idea of what might have contributed to the crash, but each time it had slipped away as the fog of sleep lifted – if, in fact, there had been anything there to begin with. Maybe it was a reporter’s instinct for an incomplete explanation, or perhaps it was nothing more than wishful thinking. What was propelling him forward was the certainty that an accident that convoluted couldn’t possibly arise from a single mistake.