Alice Sharpe - Hidden Identity

This time when she gazed out the window she glimpsed the unmistakable glitter of water winding its way through the trees.

Bobby’s voice came through the comm system again. “Remember to wait until I tell you to open the window. I’ll get down close, but first I’ll circle the area so you can check it out.”

“Sounds good.”

“I told you not to do that,” Jacob Smith interjected.

“We’ve been over this already,” Bobby snapped. “Like I said, this part of the flight is Chelsea’s.”

“You will go nowhere near that house, is that clear?”

“Why not?” Chelsea asked.

“It’ll...waste time,” Smith said, his voice tight.

“No, it won’t,” Bobby insisted.

“It’s okay, do as he says,” Chelsea told Bobby. She was looking for peace and closure, not arguments. “I’m fine.”

Smith’s grunt sounded smug. Or maybe just relieved. But the tension between the two men was palpable. What had gone on while she slept?

Within a few minutes, the trees began to thin and a small meadow appeared, just as Steven had described, right down to the wildflowers carpeting the ground and the old rock wall bordering three sides. She sat forward as a small cabin came into focus. Bobby headed straight for it despite Smith’s continued insistence that he stop. She tried to ignore their bickering. A curl of smoke drifted upward from the chimney and that surprised her for some reason. Silly that it should—Steven hadn’t been here in years and hadn’t known who owned it now or even if it was still here.

Broad stone decks surrounded the small residence while budding tree limbs brushed the roof. She could all but feel Steven sitting beside her, eagerly looking out the window, pointing out details, his breath warm against her cheek. Her hand pressed against the glass as her gaze swept over the meadow they once again circled. The river where Steven had caught his first rainbow trout glistened nearby.

The last time she’d seen him he’d asked her to marry him. After her enthusiastic yes, they’d made love and somehow it had been different, more profound, perhaps, more meaningful than ever before. Afterward, they’d talked for hours about the kind of house they’d build. Looking at this cabin, it was clear he’d channeled his vision from this very spot.

“Goodbye, my love,” she whispered with her fingers against the glass.

“It’s time, Chelsea,” Bobby said. She took off the headset, craving solitude. The chopper moved away from the cabin toward the river. Was someone inside the cabin, watching their departure and wondering why they’d been subjected to this noisy intrusion? No matter, the chopper would be long gone before anyone had a chance to complain.

She unclipped the straps that held her in her seat, scooting forward a little to slide open the window as the wind immediately whipped her long dark hair across her face. The river below flowed in endless rhythm and she pictured a young Steven, fishing pole in hand, walking the grassy banks.

Was she angry with him? Yes. He’d omitted key facts about himself, been cagey, maybe even dishonest, and that went against everything she’d thought she’d known about him. But mostly, she just felt alone and cheated and sad.

Loud voices yanked her attention back to the front of the helicopter. She could only see Bobby’s face and he looked livid. A sudden jerk was quickly followed by a distinct shudder, and now they made a slow turn back toward the meadow. Her stomach rolled. In her rush to find something to hold on to, the roses fell from her grasp and slid across the floor. Peering between the front seats, she saw Smith’s hand close around Bobby’s wrist as he clutched the control stick. The shouting between them continued while the chopper’s erratic movements became even more pronounced.

She scooted back in her seat, refastening the buckles with shaking hands. The headset slid toward the door with the roses. She hooked it with her foot before raising her leg and grabbing it. She pulled it over her ears and winced as the shouts became unbearably loud and heated.

“You just had to circle the damn house, didn’t you?” Smith roared. “You idiot.”

“Get your hands off me. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Land this damn thing,” Smith insisted.

“Now you want to land? I thought you were so hot to trot.” There was a moment of tense silence. Smith released his grip on Bobby’s wrist. A second later, Bobby swore.

“Are you kidding me? Put that gun away.”

A gun!

“Land the helicopter,” Smith said and now Chelsea, too, saw he held a dull black revolver and it was pointed at Bobby.

“You’re going to get us all killed,” Bobby bellowed.

“You’re overshooting the meadow,” Smith growled. “Land in the meadow.”

Chelsea glanced out the window. They were moving over the trees now. Green tops swayed just a few feet below but at least the chopper seemed stable. But why did Smith want to land? Wasn’t his whole point speed? And why in the world did he carry a gun?

Bobby suddenly lunged toward the armed man as though trying to grab the weapon. A shot reverberated in the small cabin, deafening, terrifying. Bobby grabbed his right arm as blood oozed through his fingers. “You—you maniac!” he yelled.

“Land this damn thing,” Smith repeated as he jabbed the air with the gun. As if sensing Chelsea’s horrified gaze, he turned to face her, pinning her to the seat, his once mournful eyes now cold and menacing. Chills raced along her spine as he turned his attention back to Bobby.

The helicopter moved sideways like a flying crab, tilting slightly on its left side. A sudden crash came from behind them, immediately followed by a rolling shudder that vibrated through the metal hull.

“We lost the rear rotor,” Bobby gasped.

“Land!” Smith demanded.

“It’s too late for that. Get that gun out of my face!”

The chopper spun, the nose lower now, and plummeted down through the greenery as Bobby obviously worked to accomplish a life-saving landing. His labored breathing played in her headset like a dirge. Seconds passed in blinding speed. Chelsea held on to the straps, her thoughts moving from the drama in the front, to the love she’d lost, to the future now slipping through her fingers.

A microsecond later, the skids hit the forest floor and all the cargo behind her shot forward like missiles, flying at her head and shoulders and at the backs of the two seats in front of her. She had a moment to assess the fact that she was still alive and then they were moving again, this time tearing through the underbrush, what remained of the blades crashing against tree trunks, skids catching on undergrowth, branches protruding through Chelsea’s open window then snapping and breaking, flying into the chopper, aimed at her. Everything came to a sudden, grinding halt. The windshield shattered as the forest invaded the front with the finesse of a bulldozer, pushing the passenger and pilot seats back toward Chelsea. The baggage that had bombarded her from behind now flew into her face, burying her.

Steven! her heart shouted as she lost consciousness without forming another cognizant thought.

Adam Parish took off his black-rimmed glasses and set them aside, pulled his shirt over his head and faced his image in the mirror. The bullet wound on his left shoulder looked better than it had. There would be a scar, but it wouldn’t be the only one on his thirty-two-year-old body, and at this point, who cared?

That sentiment— who cared? —had been his calling card for so long it had become a second skin. It had turned him cynical and suspicious—not suspicious enough as it turned out, but there was no denying his mother’s sweet, trusting little boy hadn’t made it into adulthood.