Ridley Pearson - Killer Summer

“That’s at least a mile or two past where the math puts them,” Walt said. A yellow circle had been drawn around a sizable area on the map. “The trajectory would put them here.” He indicated the center of the circle.

“And if they crashed, that’s probably right,” Garman said. “Listen, we’re always hearing about pilot error. What no one talks about is pilot terror. No one wants to crash. You’d be surprised what you can get out of a plane when it gets hairy up there. Given their rate of descent and the fact that Mountain Home’s radar lost track of them somewhere in here… If they had a bead on a private strip out here, they could have been skipping right along the treetops,” he said, his voice excited: he was enjoying this! “They bank it into the canyon”-his big hand, thumb and pinky extended, became the plane-“and now they’re off radar, keeping maybe a hundred feet off the water. Full power, because that engine’s down to thirty percent or less. All they have to do is squeak out another mile or mile and a half.” His finger now followed the river’s twists and turns. “They’re down inside the canyon, having executed this final turn and put it down hard. Hope for the best. Whether it’s in one piece, I don’t know. But I’d start my search somewhere here.”

“That’s miles off of where we’re planning,” Walt said.

“All I’m saying is, a pilot doesn’t follow math, he tries to stay alive. I’d have tried for Mitchum’s. Anything short of that, with a full load of fuel, you’re in a thousand pieces and burning. No thanks.” He added, “And that’s another thing: the national forest is full of people this time of year. If that Lear crashed, it would have produced a massive fireball. You’d have heard about it by now.”

“I’d like to take that to the bank.”

“Send up a chopper.”

“I’m trying to avoid that,” Walt said. “If this is a hostage situation, God forbid, the last thing we want is to broadcast that we know their location. We want this done as quietly as possible until we know what we’re dealing with. Keep that in mind when you’re up there.”

“Okay, but let me tell you something: we have to face facts that the odds of hitting a strip are not good. First and foremost, we need to search for the wreck and for survivors. Thinking we’ve got a hostage situation here, I’m afraid, is nothing short of optimistic.”

Walt anxiously checked the clock, dreading his father’s arrival.

“So if you were conducting a ground search ahead of first light…” Walt said.

Garman nodded thoughtfully. “Mitchum’s Creek was their best shot.”

“The wireless repeater will tell you if there’s a phone logged on?”

“It will. But I’ll need to be well past Stanley to eliminate any touristos who’ve left their phones on.”

“You can contact me on either of these numbers,” Walt said, scribbling them down and handing them over.

The room phone beeped, and a woman’s voice filled its speaker.

“Sheriff? I have Special Agent Barlow for you, line one.”

The news of a call from the FBI won the attention of everyone in the room. Walt’s office was to be gently pushed aside in the name of national security. All eyes turned to him. He hesitated before answering.

“Tell him I stepped out for a minute.”

Summer stuck her nose to the jerrycan’s cap and sniffed. She couldn’t tell the difference between gasoline and diesel, but the can clearly contained some kind of fuel, so she dragged it out of the garage, having spent less than a minute inside. A moment later, she faced the large pile of split firewood. She circled the pile, dousing the wood, then drizzled a fuse of fuel some twenty feet away.

She wasn’t sure how big the fire would be, but big enough, she hoped, to bring them running. And, if all else failed, she at least would have created a signal that might be spotted by planes, although she hadn’t seen or heard any.

She stood there, with the empty jerrycan in one hand, the lighter wand in the other, thinking she wanted the can well away from her before she lit the soaked ground.

She screwed the can’s metal lid down tight and ran it back to the woodpile, launching it up on top.

She hurried back into the grass and found the lighter where she’d left it. The grass stank of fuel.

A trapezoid of light played across the lawn in the distance. Voices!

She fumbled with the wand, its safety feature requiring both thumb and index finger working in concert to light.

She pulled the trigger: click, click.

A silhouette stretched across the light-painted lawn as a man filled the doorway.

The wand sparked, a tiny blue flame dancing at the end of its chrome barrel.

She lowered the wand to the grass, expecting the flame to creep along. But what happened was nothing like that.

Whoosh!

In a fraction of a second, the woodpile ignited, black smoke spiraling up from it. She fell back, off balance, and then scrambled to her feet and made for the woods.

“FIRE!” she heard someone shout.

She raced down the mountain, dodging tree trunks and tearing through bramble and shrub.

Behind her, the men were shouting frantically now as the woods glowed yellow from the fire.

Then there was an explosion, as the jerrycan blew up, sounding like a bomb going off. She stopped and turned around in time to see a ball of orange flame rising forty feet into the smoke-black sky. Sparks rained down like fireworks.

She continued her way down the mountain, made easier by the light from the fire. She reached the level airstrip, the sound of the river not far off. Turning to admire her handiwork, she saw the orange glow now lighting the rocky face of Shady Mountain.

Keeping to the trees, Summer hurried toward the jet at the far end of the strip, its wings and tail covered with pine boughs.

Feeling in her pocket, she took the Learjet’s key firmly in hand.

Jerry Fleming, all business from the moment his son had picked him up at the airport, looked straight ahead out the Cherokee’s windshield as he spoke, as if it were twenty years earlier and he was teaching his son to drive.

“How certain are we?” Jerry asked.

“At this point, I’m convinced. Until something comes up to suggest otherwise…”

“Is Sumner prepared to play along?”

“With a ransom call?” Walt asked. “No. He’s in denial. Says kidnapping is out of the question.”

“Nothing strange about that.”

“No. He seems able to reconcile someone stealing the jet but not kidnapping his daughter.”

“What happened to your mentoring the boy?”

“Well, that didn’t take long,” Walt said, adding sarcastically, “This is all my fault, you know.”

“Myra has no control over the boy. We’ve discussed it.”

“We’ve discussed nothing, Dad. Not since Robert.”

“Don’t bring that up.” Jerry stared out the side window, Hailey’s amber streetlights flashing across his face. “I knew you would. Why aren’t we going to your shop, this new shop I’ve heard so much about?”

Walt had not told him about the new headquarters. Either Myra was playing both sides or he’d read about it in the paper.

“Since when do you keep up with anything I’m doing?”

“You’d be surprised,” said Jerry.

“Believe me, I am.”

“I thought you’d want to show off.”

“Yeah, that’s me all right.”

“No need to get defensive.”

“We’re not going back to the office,” Walt said.

He’d stopped at his house and was loading in some extra camping gear for his father while his father remained in the passenger’s seat, never offering to help.