by Mary Feliz
“Interesting.” Brian’s mention of sound led me to thinking about the way my kids listened to music on their phones. The thought of hand-held devices segued into contemplating the research that might be locked in Jake’s cell phone.
“I wonder if the police looked at Jake’s phone?” I said aloud. “They had to have looked at the GPS, right?”
“Whoa, Mom. Slow down. Or at least signal when you’re going to change the subject.” Brian was breathing heavily due to the unaccustomed effort of talking while maneuvering on the ungainly crutches. “My point is that there probably wasn’t anything wrong with Jake’s ultralight. He would have heard a change in the engine sounds and identified anything that was wrong before he left the ground. Susie thought Jake’s crash could have been caused by a problem with the gas. Or even, get this: Susie wondered if someone shot Jake down.”
“Shot him down? Who would do that? This is real life, not Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote trying to blow each other up.” I felt an itch at the back of my brain, as it struggled to remind me of something I’d recently forgotten. I ignored it.
“Susie couldn’t think of a reason for anyone to have done it either,” Brian said. “She figured a kid could’ve been using an airsoft gun, pretending to shoot him down, not knowing how far the pellets could shoot. That probably couldn’t have hurt Jake, but it might have distracted him enough for something to go wrong. Or maybe someone with a real gun could have been random and stupid, just firing into the sky. There was a headline in the local paper we saw in the café about bald eagles and some idiots shooting at them.”
“Huh?” I was having trouble keeping up with the plot jumps as Brian shifted gears from planes to guns to birds to newspapers. And he’d teased me about changing subjects without signaling. Humph. I decided to forgo a temper tantrum and waited for Brian to elaborate instead.
“Bald eagles. It was the headline. Birders have seen a bunch of them in the slough, but no one’s sayin’ where they are because they’re afraid some idiot will kill them.”
“There’s no imagining the level of stupidity in the world, is there? Those poor birds! Wouldn’t it be great to see them? I’ve never seen one in except on TV.”
“Mom, focus. My point is it’s possible someone hurt Jake, either accidentally or on purpose.”
“But why?”
Max and David caught up with us near the car before Brian had a chance to explain. By then, the wind had shifted and increased. Max’s curls were effectively straightened by the wind blowing them back off his forehead, making him nearly unrecognizable, even to me.
“Good flight?” he asked Brian.
“The best.”
“Let’s get you off those crutches and into the car. This wind will blow you off balance and you’ll hurt the other leg.”
A brotherly tiff nearly broke out in the back seat when Brian accidentally bopped his brother on the forehead with a crutch. Belle added to the confusion by taking the stem of one crutch in her teeth and tugging it, like a toy, evening the score when the armpit end bopped Brian on the bridge of his nose.
“We need padding for the crutches,” Brian said, rubbing his nose “Some kids at school have those lamb’s wool ones. Can we stop somewhere? My pits are killing me.”
Max peered over the back seat. “It’s probably not so much the chafing as it is using your muscles differently. We’ll get you some ibuprofen before bed.”
“But…blisters” Brian whined, uncharacteristically. Between the excitement of the afternoon, the energy output required to build new skin and bone, and the lingering pain, he was exhausted. It showed in his slightly gray and clammy face, and the circles under his eyes.
I nodded to Max. “Swing by the drug store and I’ll run in. If they don’t have them, we can check later online for a medical supply place and order them.”
Max reached over the seat to pat Brian’s knee, and we set off.
Max ended up running into the store, and in the short while he was gone, David filled us in on what they’d learned in the maintenance shed and at the flight school.
“One of the guys in the maintenance shed was there when NTSB took possession of the ultralight.”
“I still can’t believe NTSB is involved in this,” I said. “I thought they investigated big airline disasters—rebuilding planes from the ground up to figure out what went wrong.”
“We asked the mechanic. The T is for Transportation. That means NTSB investigates all sorts of accidents—trains, highway, ships, and ultralights. At least they do when there’s a death or it’s not obvious what happened. They have to, to keep statistics on safety and make recommendations for new rules to reduce fatalities and enhance air safety.” David sounded as though he was parroting words someone had recited to him.
“Interesting,” I said. “But isn’t it all hush-hush? On television, NTSB swoops in as if there were aliens aboard and make the plane disappear to some secret lab in Washington.”
“Hollywood over-dramatization,” said David, repeating a term I used frequently to separate real life from the silver screen. Did we still say silver screen in the modern age, or was that an anachronism dating back to the days of black and white movies? I wasn’t sure. I wrenched my attention back to the matter at hand.
“San José,” said David.
“San José?”
“Keep up, Mom. Joe Fowler, who manages the machine shop and maintenance shed, said the NTSB packed the ultralight into a semi-trailer and transported it to a federal hangar at San José airport.”
I thought for a moment, tracing the route as if I had a GPS system in my head. “That’s not that far from here. It’s what, under an hour in light traffic?”
Brian tapped his phone to confirm. “Siri says it’s fifty minutes right now. Roads are clear.”
Traffic on Highway 17 was highly variable. In rush hour, bad weather, or when a driver misjudged a turn or ran into a deer or mountain lion, travel slowed to a glacial pace. But during slack periods, it provided a swift connection between the beach and the bustle of Silicon Valley.
“But why wouldn’t the NTSB use a plane?” I asked. “They were already at an airport. Surely it would have been easier to put it all on a cargo plane?”
“I asked the same thing, but Joe didn’t know. He just threw up his hands and said, “‘Government? Policy? Who knows? Who cares?’”
“Well, I’m not sure it matters, anyway. Did Joe pick up any other leads when the feds packed up the ultralight?”
“One of the agents asked whether all the pieces had been found and whether anyone had done a sweep of the crash area for debris.”
“Had they?”
“Joe didn’t say. But Mom, I was thinking. There’s no reason we can’t go back to the crash site and do our own sweep, is there? It sounds like the federal investigators thought there was some essential part missing from the machine. Wouldn’t it be cool if we found the key that broke their investigation wide open and nailed the bad guys?”
As a mom, I felt it was my job to throw ice water on his enthusiasm. “Everyone I’ve talked to around here so far has made it sound like Jake’s death was a rare and unusual accident.”
“But Susie said there might be good reason for someone to want Jake dead,” Brian said, sleepily stroking Belle’s velvety soft ears. The golden was fast asleep, and Brian didn’t seem far off.
Max returned to the car and tossed a small white bag to Brian. “Last pair. You lucked out.”
Brian struggled with the overzealous anti-tamper packaging, slicing his thumb on the hard plastic. Occupied by dealing with the blood, we didn’t return to the matter of Jake’s death until much later.
Chapter 13
Forgot your charger? Check with your hotel’s main desk or concierge. They may have a stash of chargers left by previous guests.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Thursday, June 20 Afternoon
As soon as we got home, I made a few calls, and Max headed out to meet Kevin Rivers at his organic farm. He was itching to get a look inside the creepy barn that shared a border with Diego Baker’s neighboring operation. Though I ached to join Max and continue our investigation, I had to delegate. I sensed that the kids were still reeling from the events of the past few days and needed a parent nearby.
I phoned Nell to see where she was with our legal plans. The fact that we were supposed to be meeting with the media people had totally slipped my mind. I hoped they hadn’t come by while we’d been at the airport. Nell apologized, said there had been a scheduling glitch, and that she was now expecting them to arrive Friday. I checked my call log and told her I hadn’t missed any calls from journalists. Nell promised to call when she knew more.
I was finishing up the laundry when Max returned. Before I could debrief him, the kids roped him into watching the Giants trounce their archrivals in what should have been a fiercely contested pitching duel. Between innings, I heard a clank clank clank from the clothes dryer. It was a tell-tale sign that in my scrupulous checking of pockets, I’d missed something. I only hoped it was something that hadn’t been damaged by soap and water and that, conversely, hadn’t stained or ruined the entire load.
I rushed to pull out the clothes, but was unable to locate the noise maker. I dumped the laundry onto the coffee table and announced “social laundry folding”—a family tradition I’d recently created.
“Be careful,” I warned them. “There’s something in there that was clanking around in the dryer. Could be sharp.”
David winced. “My fault. I picked up something at the crash site.” He dug through the pile and pulled out a metal crescent with a nasty jagged edge that had to be disentangled from the inevitable hanging threads of bath towels. “Sorry. Did I ruin them?”
“The towels?” I held one up to the light and examined it. “Looks okay to me.”
Max pawed through the pile, which, thankfully, was devoid of easily snagged Lycra exercise clothes. “We were lucky. But let me look at that thing.”
David handed over the metal chunk, which fit neatly into the palm of Max’s hand. Max squinted at it, removing his glasses and putting them back on. “Do we have a magnifying glass?” he asked.
“At home. Far right drawer in the kitchen,” I said. Brian was more inclined to be helpful. He rummaged around in the condo’s kitchen drawers, and pulled out a scratched and cloudy magnifier with the bold logo of a local car repair shop. He peered through it at the grain of the granite countertop. “I can’t see anything.”
“Right.” Max ran his hand over one side of the object, and then scraped the edge with his fingernail.
He held the metal crescent up to the light and tilted it first one way, then the other.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I’m not sure…but…no…”
“Words, Dad. Use your words.” David said. “What are you seeing?”
“Maybe nothing.” Max tossed the piece up in the air and caught it again. “But I want to have a materials engineer take a look at this.” He leaned over and pointed to one edge that was bumpier than the others. “It’s an aluminum alloy. It looks like it could have broken off the end of a propeller.”
“But I found it right where Jake’s ultralight came down,” David said. “I don’t even know why I picked it up. If you’re thinking it broke off and caused an accident—”
“Good hypothesis,” Max said, though I had no idea what they were talking about. “You’re right. If a part broke off mid-flight, which it would have to have done if it caused the crash, it would be anywhere except near the plane. It would have broken before the crash and been flung far from the flight path. But still…”
“What?” Brian asked.
“Something’s not right,” Max said, scratching his head and glaring at the metal shard.
“Shouldn’t we hand it over to the NTSB investigators?” I asked. “If you really think it’s part of the engine or propeller or whatever?”
Max tilted his head. “Let me have my friend check it out. If he thinks the feds need to see it, we’ll make sure they get it.”
“Could it still have fingerprints?” I asked. “From someone who tampered with it?”
Brian looked at me as though I’d gone nuts. “It just went through the washer, Mom.”
Max was more tactful. “I doubt it. You picked this up in the sand, David?”
“That sandy soil on the hillside. Right near the crash. And the first thing I did was rub off the dirt so I could see it better. Habit. Sorry.”
“Not your fault. I’ll take it to Howard. He likes a good mystery.” Max put the metal lump on a shelf of the hall tree, next to his keys, wallet, and sunglasses. “First thing tomorrow. I’ll call and let you know what he says.” He stepped back and brushed his hands on his jeans. “So, do we have time for another walk before dinner? The paper said the blue whales were coming in closer to the beach. They’re after the krill.”
“Crutches,” said Brian. “You guys go.”
The disappointment in his voice echoed in the silence that followed. “Never mind,” said Max. “I’ll bet we can spot them from the balcony. “
“No,” I told Max. “If you’re really going back to the Bay Area so that your pal Howard will get a look at that part first thing in the morning, you’ll need a walk before you spend another hour in the car. Are you leaving tonight or in the morning?”
“Tomorrow morning, before the sun’s up and the traffic gets bad. Howard’s an early bird, and I want to catch him before he gets involved in anything else.”
“You and David head out. I’ll take the binoculars out on the deck while Brian ices his leg.”
David and Max were on their way out the door before I had a chance to remind Max that he still hadn’t reported on what he’d learned from his visit to the farm.
Brian perched in a chair on a balcony that made me nostalgic for the days when the boys were little and we would have pretended we were in the crow’s nest of a Victorian whaling vessel, or perhaps a pirate ship.
We spotted no whales, and between the ice pack and the marine layer, Brian grew chilled. We retreated inside. He offered to help with supper preparations, but his crutches took up too much room in the tiny galley kitchen.
“I’m putting you to work tomorrow,” I told him. “Sorting papers for Renée.”
Brian kept me company as I cut up onions for spaghetti sauce. When David and Max returned, David told us more about what Joe Fowler, the mechanic shop manager, had said about Jake. “He confirmed that Jake was a gearhead, and would have spotted anything wrong with the ultralight before taking off. In his own words, Jake was meticulous.”
“Did Jake have a regular schedule for taking his photos?” I asked.
“What difference would that make?” David spoke the words gently, making them sound like a polite inquiry instead of a challenge to his mother’s intelligence.
I thought for a moment, unsure how to answer. Max jumped in to help. “Are you thinking that, if he had a predictable schedule, and someone else knew that schedule, and had it out for him, they’d know when the ultralight would be left unattended?”
I nodded. “Or…Jake could have been keeping an eye on some activity that happened on a regular schedule, but that someone didn’t want him to document with his camera. If we knew that Jake always went up at the same time, we could narrow down what he might have seen on his flights.”
David was skeptical. “Wouldn’t he just go whenever he had a break in his work and school schedule? Or when conditions were good?”
“If he were basing his observations on the tides, he’d fly at different times every day,” I said, thinking out loud, still unsure exactly where my brai
n was flitting. I handed my oldest son a stack of plates and pointed to the table.
“In that case, his movements would still be predictable to anyone with a tide table,” David said. He placed each plate quickly, but then spun the dish so that the bottom of the blue willow pattern would be closest to the table edge. My mother had the same pattern on her china. As a toddler, David had found it upsetting when the birds flew upside down. I wondered if it still bothered him, or if he positioned the plates out of habit.
“Mom?” Brian’s question brought me back to the present.
“Sorry, what was the question?”
“Hand me the stuff to make the garlic bread or give me something to cut up for the salad. I can do it while we talk.”
“Easy on the garlic,” I said, handing him the tools and ingredients. Brian’s idea of enough garlic usually involved everything we had in the house. Enough to repel vampires and every other paranormal creature for miles around. As we worked, the homey scents of Italian spices filled the air.
“Backing up to brainstorming what trouble Jake might have stumbled into,” Brian began. “When we flew over the spot where the plane went down, Susie said there’d been some conflict between the organic berry farmers and the traditional growers.”
“What kind of conflict?” Max asked, frowning. “Should I warn you boys to stay away from those cliffs?”
Brian wrapped the garlic-butter-slathered bread in aluminum foil and carried on with his story. It contained far more detail than the bare facts he’d recounted to me when he was still enthralled by the excitement of the plane ride. “The organic farmers sell their crops for more money and claim the traditional growers are passing off their berries as organic when they’re not. And the traditional growers claim the organic guys are poaching their workers.”
I tapped my fingernails on the table, thinking. “If I were a farm worker, I’d feel safer on an organic farm than I would among some of those anti-fungal chemicals the traditional outfits use. Strawberry farming involves some particularly noxious materials.”
