The policeman glanced at the car pulling out of the lot and smiled at her as he laid down the exact change for a bag of potato chips. “I’ll catch him and give it back, darlin’. Probably be a new experience for him—cop stops you to give you money. Don’t see that every day.” He laughed and she looked properly pleased.
It took six blocks of Alexandria’s main drag to catch up with the man, but the officer was grinning and looking forward to scaring—then pleasing—the man behind the wheel. He reached over and flipped on his rotating blue-and-white beacons, then hit a burst on the electronic siren just for good measure, his foot poised over the brake for the inevitable shocked slowdown before he pulled over.
Instead, the sound of squealing tires and massive acceleration just ahead caught him by surprise as the cream-colored Camaro burned rubber southbound. Officer Lansing hesitated a second in shock, then fell into established procedure, flooring his patrol cruiser in pursuit and radioing to his dispatcher to report a developing high-speed chase.
“That sumbitch is going to try to outrun me!” he said out loud as the speedometer passed 80, still accelerating. The Camaro was weaving now around slower traffic, and Lansing had to anticipate his car’s reaction to do the same. The city limits were coming up fast, and once again he radioed, reporting position, direction, speed, and the request for state help.
A confused county sheriff’s car on a different frequency had pulled up to a stop sign leading onto the highway as the Camaro flashed by.
“Thank God he looked left first and saw me coming!” His speed was pushing 100 now. If the sheriff’s car had jumped in front, the results would’ve been fatal. Instead, the deputy pulled in a distant third and slammed his pedal to the floor.
“Thirty-four, we’ve notified the state, they’re on the line and relaying. Keep after him and we’ll let you know when to break off.”
“Thirty-four, ten-four.” His voice was an octave higher now, it seemed. Chases were always adrenaline pumpers, though this one was basically straight and level—a speed contest the Camaro seemed to be winning.
Lansing’s car was topping out at 120, bouncing and trying to become airborne, the slick road threatening to release the tires to an uncertain, high-speed fate, and he backed off a little. The Camaro was having the same trouble, and Lansing had already watched him fishtail around one tight curve in the distance as he continued to pull away. There was yet another curve coming up, but the brake lights on the Camaro told the story—the driver had seen it in time and was around and off again, still pulling away.
Walter Calley had never taken a high-speed, high-performance driving course, but he knew he had a well-tuned fast car, and he was going to use everything it could give.
So they had found him! How wasn’t important. Getting away was. He didn’t know police procedure, but there would surely be someone waiting up ahead, a roadblock or whatever. But if he got off on a country road that they knew and he didn’t, he’d be fried.
“Lord, Lord, Lord … what do I do now?” The words were yelled into the empty interior of his speeding vehicle as he watched the oncoming police car in his rearview mirror. The only answer, he concluded at last, was lying beneath the seat—his .357 magnum.
Calley slammed on the brakes, slowing below 40 before throwing the wheel to the left against an empty two-lane road, reversing course just like a Hollywood stunt driver—and nearly breaking his neck in the process. The Camaro staggered onto the shoulder, threatening to careen off into a deep ditch. Calley fished for the gun as the police car bore down on him. The cop wouldn’t be expecting this, he thought, but where was the gun? “Where the hell is that gun? Oh God! Oh God, no!”
The police car was less than a quarter mile away now. The cop had spotted him and was braking, fishtailing as he decelerated, trying to figure out what was going on.
He felt the gun’s handle, then lost it. Mere seconds left! He had to have time to aim. There wouldn’t be a second chance!
Finally! The butt was there, he clawed at it, bending a fingernail back to the quick and not caring, finally grasping the weapon and coming up, opening the door, and leveling the barrel at the oncoming car at the very last minute, sighting through the crack in the door jamb where the oncoming cop couldn’t see what he was trying to do.
The front and rear sights aligned with a point in midair in front of the police car as Calley forced himself to wait the few split seconds until the car was in the right position and still going fast enough.
He had already cocked the hammer. All that remained was a steady pull on the trigger, keeping the sights aligned, waiting for the narrow target to come into view.
“There!”
The trigger seemed to travel back for an eternity before the kick of the .357 shoved his hand up, the raised barrel of the lethal gun obscuring the sight of the police car, which was still traveling at over 60, a new squealing noise now betraying the instantaneous loss of the right front tire—which had been his target. As he had figured, the policeman had no time to do more than fight the car for control, fight to keep it out of the ditch, which was a battle he was losing. Calley jammed his accelerator back to the floor and flew past the out-of-control cruiser as it hit the shoulder of the highway, kicking up an enormous cloud of dust and debris as it went over the side and into the ditch. Only then did he see the county sheriff’s car also in a four-wheel skid, trying to avoid hitting the police cruiser as he too decelerated.
There had been several crossroads about a mile back. If he could reach one of them before he was spotted again, he had a fighting chance. The road seemed clear behind as his speed shot up to 110 again, his eyes searching the highway back toward Alexandria for oncoming police units and the rearview mirror for signs of the sheriff’s car. For some reason it wasn’t back there. The deputy must have stopped to help his colleague.
Jamming the brakes to the floor again, he wrestled the car around the 90-degree turn to the side road, almost losing control, hoping against hope he could disappear around a bend and behind a grove of trees before anyone spotted the maneuver.
The road ahead was little more than a country lane, winding among fields and bayous, and he looked frantically for someplace to run, someplace to hide. Down a small draw and across a creek the open entrance to a hay field and a ramshackle barn with its roof half-gone seemed the best hope. He raced through the gate and bounced across a pasture right through the door of the structure, aiming for a compacted haystack in one corner and driving full bore into the middle of it.
Calley wrestled the door open, carrying the gun, and worked against time to finish covering the car with the moldy, rainsoaked hay, climbing then amidst creaking timbers to an upper loft where he could lie on his belly out of sight and watch the road. There were no farmhouses or farmers around he could see. Maybe, just maybe, his wild entrance had gone unobserved.
Thank God he had sent the tape. The old place seemed light years away now. There was little chance he would ever see it again. He knew that instinctively. Whoever was really after him—whoever was determined he wouldn’t live to tell what he knew about Friday night, the crash, and what he had seen in his employer’s plant in Leavenworth—wouldn’t silence him as long as Forrest got the tape.
Unless, of course, Forrest was part of it too.
As officer Jimmy Lansing felt his cracked nose and sloshed from the wreck of his patrol car to the proffered hand of the sheriff’s deputy, six hundred miles to the north in Kansas City NTSB investigators Joe Wallingford and Andy Wallace made their way to the parking lot of Truman Medical Center just as North America vice-president John Walters was leaving room 940-E in a barely contained state of agitation.
Walters was convinced he knew where the investigation was drifting already. Pilot error. Pilot error or mechanical malfunction. The questions those two investigators had asked were obviously designed to build a case. Either the captain negligently flew back into windshear, or their airplane was screwed up, possibly by radio interference. Either
conclusion would be a blow to the jugular of North America, and North America was already waging a battle to stay afloat.
Andy was driving when Joe’s portable cellular phone rang, which was fortunate as Joe had to struggle to get it out of his overcoat.
“Joe?” The voice belonged to Walt Rogers, powerplant group chairman, who was back at the airport.
“Yes.”
“We’ve got a problem.” There was fright in Walt’s voice. Joe was instantly tensed, sitting up suddenly in the right seat of the minivan.
“What?”
“Barbara … uh … fell while working in the wreckage. She broke through a floor panel, and she’s hurt.”
“How bad?”
“She’s on her way to the hospital by ambulance right now. She got cut, Joe, right up the chest, by a sharp section of metal. It looked like she’d been in a knife fight. She’s in a lot of pain, and I think she’s lost a lot of blood.”
“Oh Lord. Which hospital?”
“Truman Medical.”
“We were just there.” Joe saw Andy’s questioning look. “Stand by a second.” He looked up at Andy. “Barb’s been injured, cut badly falling in the wreckage. Turn around. We’ve gotta get back to Truman.”
Joe spoke into the phone again. “Okay, we’ll meet her. How long ago did they take her away?”
“Five minutes. She’s worried about transfusions, Joe. We all are. You know, whether its safe blood and all.”
“I understand. We’re going back.”
“Joe?”
“Yeah.”
“The flight recorder printout has arrived. I’ve looked at it. You want me to tell you …?”
“Not right now. Later, when things are calmed down. Keep everyone out of the wreckage until I get back, and get a report started. Call Washington and make a formal accident-injury report, tell them I’ll check in from the hospital.”
Joe punched the disconnect button as Andy negotiated the off ramp and prepared to swing under an overpass to regain the southbound lanes.
“She got too eager, Joe. Barb does that.”
“Yeah. And I pushed her.” Joe watched the maneuver in silence, feeling positively ill.
The ambulance was unloading when Andy brought the minivan to a halt outside the emergency room. Joe jumped out, making his way to the stretcher as the two paramedics rolled her in the door. Barbara’s face was very white, he noted, but she was breathing and her eyes were open and moving. Joe paced the group as they showed their federal ID cards and were directed immediately down a hallway and into a trauma operating room, where a doctor and two nurses were waiting—alerted, Joe figured, by radio.
“How is she?” Joe asked one of the departing paramedics as he turned to leave.
“Spunky and conscious. Ask her yourself. She’ll survive.”
Joe moved to Barbara’s side, shocked at the crimson mess her clothes had become, ignoring the sight of her breasts as the nurse pulled away her torn blouse and bra, leaving only the emergency bandages.
“Joe! Sorry about this. I …”
“Hey, don’t.” He held up a hand to stop her apology. “What happened? Walt said you fell through the floor of the wreckage?”
“Stupid mistake. At least I had my hard hat and gloves on.” She smiled weakly, looking behind Joe and adding, “Hello, Doctor Kelly.”
“Susan.” Joe was surprised. He hadn’t seen her in the entryway.
“I followed you in, Joe. I had to get Barbara’s things from the ambulance.”
Joe looked at the doctor as he worked to assess the gash, which seemed to run from Barbara’s navel to a spot between her breasts.
“A clean cut, and no muscle damage, I think,” he announced, peering at her. “What’d you do, tangle with a scalpel?”
“Is it that clean?” Barbara asked.
“A nice, clean cut. If you had to do it, at least you did it right.”
They talked while the physician began his work, Joe trying to keep Barbara’s mind off the pain as local anesthetics were injected and stitches begun. There was no need for a transfusion. The blood loss looked worse than it was.
“I still can’t find the CVR, Joe. I’m about to the point of figuring … ouch … ow …” She closed her eyes and fought tears of pain with gritted teeth for a second.
“Sorry, Miss Rawlson. That’s as bad as it’ll get.”
Barbara swallowed hard and opened her eyes, taking a tentative breath, eyes roaming to the doctor. “I’m beginning to think someone stole it, Joe. That sounds impossible, but the damn thing’s nowhere.”
“You completed the search?”
“I was just getting into the last section, so to speak. Guess I did it too literally … ouch! THAT … HURTS!” Her eyes closed again, her hands rolled into fists, and tears streamed down her face.
“Hang in there, Miss Rawlson.” The physician hadn’t batted an eye as she reacted, looking through his half glasses at the wound as he stitched her up.
“You’re lucky, young lady,” he said at last. “This is clean enough so that, with a little cosmetic surgery, I don’t think the scar’ll show. Your cleavage will remain intact.” He looked up at her. “In fact, it may end up more pronounced.”
Barbara tried to laugh, wincing at the pain. “For a girl with no boobs to speak of, that’s reassuring—I think.”
Everyone, including Susan Kelly, laughed at that. All except Joe, who cleared his throat at last, aware he was being watched by Susan with some amusement. “I’ll have your team continue the search, Barbara, with a little more respect for the wreckage.”
“Yes. Please.” She rolled her eyes while Joe continued.
“But, if the CVR doesn’t show up, I may have to agree with you and declare it stolen, though I can’t figure out who’d want to steal it. God, I’d hate to lose that tape. The captain gave us next to nothing this morning.”
Susan elected to stay with her while Joe and Andy headed back to the airport, leaving Barbara to at least a couple of nights in the hospital at government expense, with promises to keep her in the investigatory loop. Susan said she would take a cab back. It was on the way out that Dr. Mark Weiss spotted the two NTSB men, and vice versa.
“You must be Joe Wallingford.”
“That’s right.”
Andy motioned to Weiss. “Joe, this is the man I told you about.”
Joe looked at the psychologist with a mixture of sympathy and uneasiness. What do you say to someone who had lost so much? Especially when the only news you could give him was negative. He seemed calm and collected, if somber, but his eyes were flat and lifeless, and though his clothes and hair were neat in appearance, Joe saw his face was rumpled and worn, especially for a man of his age, barely thirty-five.
“Have you had a chance to consider my request, Mr. Wallingford?” His voice was quiet and even.
Joe nodded and glanced down before engaging Weiss eye-to-eye. “Yes, I have, Doctor. I must tell you I sympathize completely, and I recognize your qualifications …”
“But you won’t do it because I’m too close and too interested.”
Joe sighed and bit his lip before nodding. “Not only that. Parties of record in an NTSB investigation are representatives of companies and organizations, not individuals. What you’re suggesting would set a very dangerous precedent.”
“I knew that’d be your objection. Future crash victims’ families would want in. Can’t you admit me based on professional expertise?”
Joe shook his head, realizing his hands had gone to his hips out of frustration; he wanted to help but knew this wasn’t the way. “Your type of expertise isn’t involved here, Doctor. This will most likely be a very complicated accident involving systems failures and perhaps procedure problems, and yes, as Andy reminds me, perhaps some human failure. I know you’ve been working with an airline that has badly impacted the psychological balance of its pilots, but that airline isn’t involved here.”
“You don’t know that yet.”
; “Well, we’ve already met with the captain,” Joe began, slightly upset with himself for gearing up to throw a half truth at Weiss but intending to hint they had the cause somewhat narrowed down, “and he gave us indications we could be dealing with weather or system failure.”
“I know, I saw him too,” Weiss replied. Joe must have looked startled, because Mark Weiss raised his hand to allay Joe’s concern. “I just dropped in on him a while ago. I … needed to hear it for myself. What he remembered, I mean.”
Weiss’s voice caught on the last word, and he looked away for a few seconds, taking a deep breath and trying to stay in control.
“What did he tell you, Doctor?”
Weiss looked back at Joe suddenly. “That he flew it right, but it didn’t go where he aimed it.”
“Well, that’s what I mean.”
Weiss shook his head. “But it’s too early for what he says to be reliable. This is a complicated man who’s scared stiff.”
“Scared?”
“Of course. He’s a tough administrator and pilot. He’s obviously worried about losing his job. I deal with men like this all the time. They’re very complicated and need professional evaluation.”
Joe saw Andy’s head nodding to one side and gestured to him. “That is Andy’s field, human factors. I just don’t see it here as anything but an interesting sidelight.”
“So far, Joe,” Andy reminded him.
“Yeah. So far.”
“I could help with that,” Weiss said.
Joe shook his head again, looking Weiss in the eye and placing his right hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Doctor, I can’t know all you’re feeling. I grieve with you for your loss, and you’re showing remarkable restraint and composure to even be discussing this. But I cannot do it. I have more than your feelings to deal with. I have to get to the bottom of a technological mystery. If there’s a hidden technical flaw, we have to find it rapidly. I can’t afford distractions.”
Weiss looked back impassively, finally nodding. Joe offered his hand and Mark took it warmly, which was a surprise. Joe had expected hostility. “I’d like to stay in close touch. I’d like to see you in Washington later,” Mark said.
Final Approach Page 15
