by Tim Washburn
Martin puts the crayon on the tray table and squirms in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position. Something hard to do for a man who is six-four and weighs well north of two hundred and fifty pounds. Martin silently curses the makers of the 737 as he kicks his carry-on bag around beneath the seat in front of him, trying to stretch out his legs. He and his daughter had already colored five pages in Camille’s coloring book and the plane can’t get on the ground fast enough for Martin. He pulls out his phone. “How about you listen to some music on my phone?”
Camille shakes her head. “Your music sucks.”
“I downloaded some movies to my iPad,” Martin offers.
“Uh-uh. I want to color with you.”
Martin sighs and glances across the aisle at Lilly and Chloe. Both have earbuds in, their seats reclined. He waves at his wife to get her attention. When she looks over, he pantomimes trading places, and his wife smiles and shakes her head. A few choice curse words zing around Martin’s brain as he shifts around in his seat, again. He accidentally bumps Camille’s elbow, creating a big yellow smear across the page of her coloring book.
“Daddy! Look what you made me do.”
Martin sighs. “I’m sorry, honey. Why don’t we start on a new page?” He grabs the red crayon in anticipation then spots a female flight attendant collecting garbage and waves her over.
She steps down the aisle. “Yes, sir?”
“How much longer until we land?”
The flight attendant glances at Camille and her coloring book then at the crayon in Martin’s hand. She smiles and puts a hand on his shoulder. “We should be on the ground in about thirty minutes.” With a wistful look at Camille, she says, “Enjoy them while you can. They grow up so quickly.”
“I know. How about I pick up the trash and you color?” Martin asks.
The flight attendant laughs. “I’d take you up on it if I could. My baby girl is off to college this fall.” She gives Martin a pat on the back and continues down the aisle.
Martin spends a moment studying his daughter. She’s a redhead like her mother. The tip of her tongue is sticking out between her lips as she concentrates on her coloring. She glances up. “Daddy, you can color Squidward.”
Martin smiles. “Okay. He’s red, isn’t he?”
“No, Daddy,” Camille says, giggling. “That’s Mr. Krabs. Squidward is turq . . . turq . . .”
“Turquoise?”
“That’s it, Daddy.” She digs through her box of crayons and hands the correct color to her father. Martin and Camille color until the flight attendant returns to instruct them to close the tray table and lift their seat backs.
* * *
Inside the cockpit, the pilot and copilot were informed about the possible breach of the aircraft’s computer systems early in the flight, but at 35,000 feet, there’s not a hell of a lot they can do about it. Now only three miles from touchdown, the copilot says, “Looks like we’re going to make it.”
“We’re not on the ground yet,” the pilot replies. “Flaps, thirty-five degrees.”
“Flaps, thirty-five degrees,” the copilot repeats as he shifts the flap selector to the required setting.
Two miles from touchdown, the plane’s engines begin to decelerate. The pilot grips the wheel and shouts for the copilot to add more thrust.
* * *
Passengers inside the cabin scream when the plane suddenly loses altitude. Martin wraps an arm around Camille and reaches across the aisle for Chloe’s hand. Camille is crying and Martin is praying when the plane slams into the ground, bursting into flames.
CHAPTER 10
Dulles
Hank chirps the locks and pops the trunk and he and Paige dump their Windbreakers into the back before climbing into the Shelby. “Back to the office?” Hank pulls his pistol and puts it back in the glove box.
“Hell, no. If we’re going to be hacking, we’re sure not going to do it at the office.”
“Okay. Where?”
“My place.”
“Okay. Which way am I going?” Hank asks.
“Head toward Tysons Corner mall and I’ll direct you from there.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Hank threads his way through more emergency vehicles and heads for the airport exit. He digs his phone out of his pocket, pulls up his contact list, and touches his grandmother’s picture before putting the phone to his ear. “Hi, Nana,” Hank says when the call is answered. “Yes, I’m okay. Promise.”
As his phone conversation continues, Paige takes a moment to eyeball her new partner. Hank has a headful of raven black hair and, looking at his face in profile, his broad nose has a slight bump right in the center. His high cheekbones pair well with his deep-set, dark eyes and, mixed with his olive complexion, it’s difficult for Paige to determine his origins. Hank glances over to catch Paige staring and she can feel her cheeks warm.
“Yes, Nana, I will,” Hank says into the phone. “One last thing, you might want to have Jerry pull the generator out of the barn and get her gassed up. Talk to you soon.” Hank kills the call and drops his phone into a cup holder.
“Your grandmother?” Paige asks.
“Yes. My paternal grandmother, Ida Goodnight.”
“I take it you two are close.”
“We are. She’s seventy-five and still going strong.”
“Where does she live?”
“She lives on a hundred and sixty acres just outside of Ada, Oklahoma. Heard of it?”
“Can’t say that I have. I know where Oklahoma City and Tulsa are, but Ada, not so much. Is that where you grew up?”
Hank nods. “Yep, lived there until I was seventeen and went off to college. It’s about eighty miles south-east of Oklahoma City. The last time I checked the population was 17,143. Could have swelled some since then, though. The town’s calling card is that it’s the seat of government for the Chickasaw Nation.”
Paige snaps her fingers. “That’s it. So you’re Native American?”
Hank nods. “I’ve got a good dose of Indian blood running through my veins. My grandmother, on the other hand, is full-blood Chickasaw.” Hank flips on his blinker and moves into the right lane. “What exit do I need to take?”
“International Drive. My condo is just off the highway.”
“Which building?”
“One Westpark.”
Hank whistles. “Pretty rich digs.”
“Have you been there?”
“Yep, dated a gal that lived there. Her condo was much nicer than she turned out to be.”
Paige chuckles. “Not a good relationship?”
“You could say that,” Hank replies.
“Goodnight is not a name you hear often.”
“My grandmother married one of the Goodnight clan from out in the Texas Panhandle. I guess that makes Charlie Goodnight one of my great-great-somethin’s.”
“And who was Charlie Goodnight?”
Hank glances at Paige, his brows raised. “Western history not your thing? Charlie Goodnight was a big cattle rancher who developed the Goodnight-Lovin’ cattle trail to drive longhorns north to the railheads. You can Google him if you’d like to brush up a little on your history.”
Paige shows Hank her middle finger as he exits off the highway. At the stoplight, he makes a left on Westpark Drive then another left and pulls into the condo’s visitor lot. A high-rise, the nineteen-story tower dwarfs the surrounding buildings. Hank finds a vacant parking place, pulls in, and kills the engine. Reaching across Paige, he pops the glove box and grabs his pistol.
“We’re going upstairs to my condo. How dangerous could that be?”
“I’d rather have it handy and not need it, than to need it and not have it.” Hank shrugs. “Could be somethin’ passed down by my Native American ancestors.”
They climb out of the Mustang and Hank holsters his weapon and grabs his backpack from the backseat before following Paige into the lobby, a handsomely decorated space that would be at home in any five-star hotel. The low
-slung furniture is grouped into seating areas to encourage conversation and the walls are paneled in mahogany, stained a honey brown color. Hank eyes the furniture and the custom-made light fixtures, wondering if he could afford just one of the wall sconces. He nods to the doorman as he follows Paige down the hall to the elevators. Paige punches the button and the car closest to them opens. They board and Paige swipes a card key before touching the uppermost button.
“Well, hell,” Hank says. “Here I thought maybe you could eke out a one-bedroom, maybe. But no, it has to be the fuckin’ penthouse?”
Paige laughs as the elevator ascends toward the nineteenth floor. “I did some video game programming for a couple of buddies in college for a percentage of the profits. They sold the company three years ago for something like five hundred million dollars. I got lucky.”
“Why the hell are you slavin’ away at the FBI, when you could be island-hoppin’ through the Caribbean?”
“That’s boring. I like catching bad guys.” The doors open onto Paige’s condo, a wide-open space with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the Virginia landscape.
“Damn,” Hank says, scanning the interior space. The living room and kitchen are one open space with a vaulted ceiling soaring high overhead. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Thank you.” Paige puts her messenger bag on the entry table and Hank follows her deeper into the condo. “Would you like something to drink?”
“I’m good for now.” Hank steps over to the windows to take in the view. “How many bedrooms?”
“Three. I converted one of them into a home office.”
Hank turns away from the view. “Let’s put it to use.”
Paige leads Hank down the hall and into her office. Six computer towers are lined up on a credenza positioned along the far wall and six large video monitors sit atop a sleek steel-and-glass desk the size of most conference room tables. Paige steps behind the desk, waving to the two rolling chairs fronting her workspace. “Have a seat.”
Hank sits and sinks into the soft leather of a chair that probably cost more than he makes in a month. He shakes his head as he pulls out his laptop. He places his computer on the desk, asks Paige for the Wi-Fi password, and logs in.
“Where do we start?” Paige asks.
“The aircraft manufacturer might be a tough nut to crack. Let’s start with the power companies.”
CHAPTER 11
Lees Ferry Campground
Marble Canyon, Arizona
The thirteen-mile stretch of the Colorado River that runs from Glen Canyon Dam to the Lees Ferry Campground provides some of the best trout fishing in the country. The cold, clear water is a consistent 50 degrees Fahrenheit year-round, making it a perfect breeding ground for one of the largest wild trout populations in the western half of the nation. Ranging in size from one to five pounds, the population of mostly rainbow trout along this stretch of the river number in the thousands per mile and many are awaiting the arrival of that wily fisherman with the perfect bait.
Two of those trying their luck today are best friends Tommy Thompson and Dale Schaefer. Retired from Fire Station 16 on the South Side of Chicago, the two friends have talked about this fly-fishing trip for the better part of twenty years. Though it was planned numerous times, their efforts to make the trip were often thwarted by work, family issues, or financial difficulties. Two months ago, they said screw it and booked the trip. Now they’re on day two of their scheduled five-day trip. Yesterday, both caught their limit (four) and they’re hoping for more of the same today.
“What fly are you using?” Dale asks as they huddle on the bank, preparing to wade out into the stream.
“Same one I used yesterday, the orange midge.” Tommy makes a couple of practice casts, waiting for Dale to tie on his lure. Both were disappointed to discover they weren’t going to have the river all to themselves. The campground is filled to the gills, and people of all shapes and sizes line the river, casting for the elusive rainbow trout. “You about ready?”
“Just about.” Dale finishes tying on the fly and sticks a box of extra flies in the bib pocket of his waders. “I’m going to head upstream a bit and fish those riffles. You fishin’ the deep hole you fished yesterday?”
“I think so. Hot as it is, they might be in the deeper water.”
“Be careful. That current is a lot faster than it looks,” Dale says.
“That coming from the man who worked on the water rescue team. I’ll be careful, Mom.”
Dale laughs and it echoes around the canyon. This stretch of the Colorado River is walled in on both sides by part of the original Glen Canyon and the ragged cliffs soar nearly a thousand feet overhead. The upper part of Glen Canyon is now underwater, flooded with the completion of the Glen Canyon Dam, thus creating Lake Powell. And it wasn’t done without protest. Many along the river want the dam removed so that the Colorado River will return to a more natural flow, helping to reduce the sediment that builds up along the bottom, choking off some of the native wetlands. Dale doesn’t care one way or another as long as there are trout to catch. He walks upstream a hundred yards and ventures out into the water.
Though the waders are insulated, he can feel a chill as the cold water swirls around his calves. The spot where he really wants to be is occupied by a man and a young boy who looks to be about ten years old, so Dale drifts toward the middle of the river where the water is waist-deep and begins casting. He glances over his shoulder to check on Tommy and finds him midstream, casting into a deep pool that hugs the far bank.
Dale has been fly-fishing exactly twice in his life—including day one of this trip—and it’s not long before his line becomes a snarled mess. Muttering a string of curse words, he strips the line from the reel and slowly reels it back in, using his left hand to apply some tension to the line. Once he has everything squared away, he begins casting again.
“Wrist firm, up, out, and follow through,” he mutters, mimicking the instructions from a fly-fishing YouTube video he had watched endlessly before the trip. It’s not long before he’s in a rhythm, landing the fly in the exact spot he wants and letting it drift, hoping a trout will charge to the surface and swallow his lure. Dale is so focused on his technique that he’s unaware the current is growing swifter and the water level is rising. Slowly, he realizes he’s exerting greater effort just to remain upright. He stops casting and looks around. The water is now chest-deep and a tiny tingle of apprehension begins to nibble at the edges of his brain. He turns to look for Tommy and spots his friend floundering in the middle of the stream. “Tommy,” he shouts, “are you okay?”
“No,” Tommy shouts, struggling to maintain his balance. “Waders are full of water.”
“Can you make it to shore?”
“I’m trying.”
Before Dale can decide what to do about his friend, the man fishing with the young boy screams, “Ethan!”
Dale whips his head around to see the young boy drifting downstream, his arms churning. After twenty years of training, Dale’s instincts kick in. He drops his rod and reel and lunges through the water, racing to grab the boy. The water level continues to rise, eventually filling Dale’s waders with ice-cold water. He turns to find the boy and spots him drifting farther away. He shouts to Tommy, “Grab the boy,” as he slips the suspenders over his shoulders, allowing the current to pull the waders free. Now unencumbered, Dale starts swimming, his stroke powerful and efficient. He swims toward the middle of the stream where the current is faster, hoping to shoot past the boy so he can grab him farther downstream. Screams echo around the canyon as others are swept away in the swift current.
Tommy is struggling mightily and is still a long way from shore. “Strip your waders,” Dale shouts, now a hundred feet from his friend. Both had slipped since retirement—too much easy living and too many beers—and Dale can see Tommy fighting to catch his breath. He glances to his right. The boy is twenty yards ahead, but still afloat, his arms pinwheeling.
A sudden di
lemma hits Dale like a slap to the face—save his friend or save the boy?
Dale focuses on controlling his breathing while his mind flips through scenarios he’d either been involved in or had trained for while part of the water rescue team. Now twenty feet from Tommy and closing fast, Dale is out of time. He takes two, huge, lunging strokes, snags Tommy by the shirt, and aims for the boy, dragging Tommy along with his left hand. “Hang on, Tommy, I’m going for the boy.”
Screaming continues to echo off the walls of the canyon, yet lurking underneath that noise, Dale can just make out a low sound that sounds a lot like a locomotive rumbling down the tracks. He glances over his shoulder, but doesn’t see anything. He turns his focus back to the boy, who is still about ten yards away. Dale can’t seem to make up any ground stroking one-handed and, to make matters worse, his right shoulder feels like someone is stabbing him with a hot poker. He glances toward the shore, praying someone will step in to help. Instead, he sees people running toward the road that leads out of the campground.
With a sinking feeling Dale looks back upriver and his heart nearly seizes: A wall of water and debris is jetting around the bend of the narrow canyon only three hundred yards upstream. He turns and swims for the boy, burning through his last reserves of energy as he churns his feet and stabs at the water, pulling with everything ounce of power he has left. He and Tommy are fifteen feet from the boy when the enormous wave engulfs them, pinning them to the bottom of the river and pummeling their bodies with debris.
CHAPTER 12
Detroit, Michigan
Paul and Irene Betkowski have been agonizing over this decision for weeks. Paul lost his job in automobile manufacturing last year when the parent company opened a new plant in Mexico. Irene lost her job two years ago when the auto parts manufacturer she worked for downsized. Fearing the companies would find some way to shirk their pension liabilities, their financial advisor, son Paul Junior, convinced both parents to take a lump-sum pension payment upon termination. Their son’s advice proved golden when both companies filed for bankruptcy months later. But now, after locking their money up in a one-year certificate of deposit that paid a paltry 1 percent, Paul and Irene are struggling to find other investment options.
