Chapter 13a

Los Angeles, California
June 12, 1989
10:48 PM

Jake and Helen emerged from the main door of the Century theatre complex in Westwood, two people in a crowd of around fifty who had just watched the 8:45 showing of Driving Miss Daisy. They walked hand in hand out into the parking lot of the multi-plex, heading for Jake's car, which he'd parked out toward the back, away from other vehicles to prevent dings, and beneath a light pole to discourage break-ins. Gradually, the crowd thinned out as those in it headed off in different directions. By the time Jake unlocked the BMW with the remote control on his keychain and opened the passenger door for Helen, they were alone. She sat in her seat and Jake went around to the driver's side and sat in his.

As soon as Jake's door was shut and he started the engine, Helen sighed contentedly. "That was absolutely wonderful," she said.

"The movie?" Jake replied. "Yeah, it was pretty good. They say it's a shoe-in for the best picture Oscar next year."

"Oh... yeah," Helen said. "The movie was good too. I was talking about the fact that we made it through a complete dinner and a movie date and not one person made reference to the fact that you're Jake Kingsley. It was almost like we were normal people on a normal date."

"You see?" Jake said. "It can happen."

"Well, it wasn't quite like normal," Helen qualified. "All those people at the steakhouse were staring at us."

"Yeah," Jake agreed. "Flamers is where people go to see celebrities. That's why they seated us in the middle of the room. There is an unwritten rule there that they're not allowed to talk to us, though. That's why they left us alone."

"So that's why we went there," Helen said. "You knew no one would bother us."

"Yep," he said. "And the food's pretty good too."

"What about the movie?" she asked. "The counter girl recognized us. That's for sure."

"Yeah," Jake said. "It would seem so." The girl who had sold them their movie tickets had indeed recognized them. She had stared, awestruck, at Jake for almost thirty seconds from behind her wall of bulletproof glass, and then she had been so tongue-tied it had taken another two minutes or so to complete the transaction. Her hands had been shaking as she'd passed the two tickets and Jake's change through the little slot.

"But other than her," Helen said, "no one seemed to know who we were. It was almost weird."

Jake knew that the counter girl was not the only person who had recognized them at the movie theater. He was quite attuned to being the center of attention and, as such, had been able to see things that Helen had missed. Several groups of people had been pointing at them and whispering to each other as they'd made their way across the crowded lobby. He had even been able to lip read one person saying, "That's Jake Kingsley and his girlfriend." But, for whatever odd reason, everyone had chosen to keep his or her distance from them. Not a single person that night asked for an autograph, or volunteered domestic violence hotline numbers to Helen, or told Jake he was a hell-bound sinner, or even told him that he fuckin' rocked, man.

"Sometimes it happens that way," Jake said. "I've learned not to question it, not to try to figure out why it happened, just to enjoy it."

"It was heaven," Helen said. "The perfect date. No WEAVE pamphlets shoved in my hands, no boobs belonging to nymphomaniac sluts shoved in your hands."

"I only wish it could always be that way," Jake said sincerely.

"I'll take it when I can get it," Helen replied.

"That's pretty much my motto in all things," Jake said, earning himself a playful punch on the arm.

"That's domestic violence," he told her. "What was that number those women are always yelling at you? I think I need to call them."

"Oh shut your ass," she said. "I'm going home with you tonight, ain't I? What more do you want?"

Jake laughed and squeezed her leg with his free hand. He was indeed heading for his own house instead of traversing the onramp that would point him in the direction of Ventura. The reason Helen was staying at his house tonight was not simply for sex, but for practicality. Celia's wedding was in two days and they were flying out of LAX the next morning at 7:35, their destination: Boston. From Logan International, they were renting a Cessna 172 and flying it to Martha's Vineyard where the ceremony was to take place at 1:00 PM on Thursday, the 15^th of June. They were arriving early because Jake was part of the wedding ceremony and needed to be present for the rehearsal on the 14^th.

"I want it all, baby," he told her. "I want it all."

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Are you trying to circumspectly bring up the subject of me moving in with you again?" she asked. "Because if you are... we've been over this a dozen times. I've told you, Jake. I'm not ready for that yet."

"Actually... I was just making a joke," he said.

"Oh... sorry," she said, mistrust evident in her eyes. "Are you sure you weren't hinting just a little bit?"

"Not even a little bit," he told her.

Jake had asked her several times to move in with him over the past month, not because he thought it was time to take their relationship to that level — he was just as uncertain about that as she was — but because of the frightening letter he'd received from Jenny Johansen, a.k.a, the woman who dreamed of stabbing Helen over and over again in that "ugly, slutty face." He was terrified for Helen's safety. She lived in a fairly rural part of Ventura, an area where houses were situated on two to three acre lots and neighbors would not be able to hear one's scream for help. And her address was public record. It would be absurdly easy for Jenny Johansen to drive from her house in the Canoga Park section of LA, stroll up Bennington Lane in the middle of the night, break into Helen's house, and "burn the flesh right off her body" as she threatened to do in her letter.

Unfortunately, Helen didn't seem to take the threat of the letter as seriously as Jake did. He had called her up immediately after reading it for the first time and tried to get her to drive out to his house and stay with him. She had refused, telling him that she didn't want to have to drive forty miles to get to work in the morning. She had similarly refused every further offer to move in with him on the same basis — the commute would be horrible — and because she wasn't sure they were quite ready to "cohabitate in a non-legally sanctioned manner".

"Helen, this woman is dangerous," Jake had told her time and time again. "She could show up on your doorstep any time with a pair of handcuffs and a blowtorch."

"She's just a whacko," Helen insisted whenever the subject was brought up. "You have all that information on her, don't you? Does she seem like she's bright enough to figure out how to look up my address?"

Helen did have somewhat of a point there. The day after receiving the letter, Jake had shown it to Pauline, who had, in turn, showed it to her friend Steve Marshall, head of investigations for Standforth and Breckman, the corporate law firm Pauline had worked for before signing on as Intemperance manager. Steve, using a variety of methods, legal, quasi-legal, and downright illegal, had performed a complete background check on Jenny Johansen and provided Jake with a dossier on her within two days. Johansen was twenty-eight years old, five feet, eight inches in height, and weighed two hundred and sixteen pounds. She worked as a certified nurse's assistant, or CNA, at a skuzzy Los Angeles convalescent home. She had never been married and lived in a rented house in one of the declining LA neighborhoods. She was a high school drop-out with a tested IQ of 87. She had been diagnosed as bi-polar two years before but had never been suspected of being schizophrenic. Her only trouble with the law had been a speeding ticket two years before, which she had promptly paid. She was habitually late with many of her bills but eventually paid them all. She had five credit cards in her name, all of which were either maxed out or close to maxed out. She had never filed for bankruptcy and had never been in jail or in a mental institution. It was true that she did not seem to be the brightest bunny in the forest, but it was also true that in matters of one's life, one could not be too careful.

So far, the only precaution Jake had succeeded in getting Helen to take had been to lock her doors when she was at home — something that the rural setting of her home had never encouraged her to do in the past. And even in this, Jake wasn't quite sure she was one hundred percent faithful. More than once he had gone over to visit and had found her front door standing wide open, with only the unlocked screen door barring entry.

Jake suspected that her attitude might become a little more serious regarding the Jenny Johansen matter tonight. He had received another letter from Jenny the day before. He intended to show the letter to Helen when they got back to his house. But for now, he wanted to keep the discussion on more pleasant things.

"Now that I'm done with my instrument rating," he told her. "I need to start working on something else." He had, in fact, finished up his instrument rating the week before. Though Helen had not been his instructor due to their relationship, he had still been able to take the classes and fly the required hours with Brent Cassidy, one of the new instructor pilots Helen's dad had hired to help fill the increased demand for his school.

"What else is there to work on?" Helen asked. "You can fly your plane day or night, good weather or bad now. Unless you're planning to get your commercial license, you're pretty much done."

"Actually, I'm not," he said. "I need to get certified in multi-engine aircraft and pressurized aircraft."

She looked at him strangely. "Why?" she asked.

"I love the 172," Jake said, "but it's not big enough and it's not fast enough for my needs. I'm looking into purchasing a 414."

Her mouth dropped open. "You want a 414? Are you serious? Do you know how much those things cost?"

The Cessna 414 was a twin engine, propeller driven aircraft that could hold up to eight people, cruised at 200 miles per hour, could be pressurized, and could fly as high as 30,000 feet above sea level. "Yes," Jake said. "I've had Jill looking into it for me — much to her disgust. A mid-seventies model in good condition goes for around $150,000. I think I'd want a newer one though, something early 80's. The 1982 model is particularly nice. With all the avionics I want, they go for around $220,000."

"That's pretty steep, Jake," she said.

He shrugged. "It's only money," he said. "I could finance it on a fifteen year loan. Payments would be around two grand a month. Insurance, storage, maintenance, and other upkeep would run another thousand a month. What's three grand?"

"Three grand is what dad and I clear in about two weeks these days," Helen said. "And we think we're rich."

"I'm not trying to come down on anyone," Jake said. "I make enough money to support this, so why shouldn't I have a 414 if I can afford it?"

"Why should you is a better question," she said. "Our school isn't able to certify you in multi-engine or pressurization. You'd have to go elsewhere for that. You're talking at least five grand, not including plane rental or fuel during the process. Is it really worth it, Jake? You have a very nice plane right now."

"Yes," Jake said. "Like I said, I love the 172. It's just too small for my needs. Take tomorrow, for instance. We're renting one in Martha's Vineyard and because of that, we're limited in how much luggage we can take."

"I don't think two hundred pounds of luggage apiece is all that limited."

"Okay," he admitted. "Bad example. But remember when we went to Bodega Bay with Matt and Kim? Since we had the weight of two other people to deal with, we were only allowed to have twelve pounds of luggage apiece. That's not enough for any sort of trip that involves dressing up."

"So you want to spend a quarter million dollars on a plane just so you can carry enough luggage?" she asked. "Wouldn't it be easier and cheaper to just fly commercial for those situations?"

"Probably," Jake admitted. "But I don't want to have to fly commercial. I like flying myself and my friends wherever we want to go. With a 414 I can fly home to Heritage in about two hours. And I can take you, Nerdly, Sharon, Pauline, and all of our luggage with us. But even that's not the most important reason."

"What is?" she asked.

"I need to get out of LA," he said. "I can't stand it here. I hate living here. I hate everything about it. I hate the smog, I hate my pious, hypocrite neighbors, I hate the traffic, I hate the crowding, I hate the tiny little lot I live on."

"Tiny little lot? Jake, you live in a damn mansion!"

"With other mansions all around me," he said. "I want a nice chunk of land on the ocean somewhere, at least ten acres, somewhere where my neighbors are just vague concepts. I want my own airstrip on that land to fly my plane in and out of. I can't afford anything like that within range of my 172. With the 414, however, I could potentially live up to three hundred miles away and still do a daily commute when we're recording or mixing. If I keep an apartment of some kind in LA and stay there during the workweek, virtually all of California and a good chunk of both Nevada and Arizona are within reach. That's why I want a new plane."

She was looking at him now with understanding. "Do you really hate LA that much?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "I really do."

"And what about me?" she asked. "How do I fit into this plan of yours? I like being a flight instructor. I'm eventually going to take over my dad's business. It's what I plan to do until I retire."

"You work in an airport, Helen," he reminded her. "And you're a pilot. Assuming that we move in together at some point, you could just fly a plane to work every morning."

"Wouldn't that decrease your range back to the unaffordable range?" she asked.

"Maybe," he said. "And maybe not. It's something we can work out when the time comes, isn't it?"

"I suppose," she said.

"The first step is getting me certified in multi-engine and pressurization. Are you gonna set me up with someone, or what?"

"You know I will," she said. "But I want to take the classes and get certified with you."

"You do?"

"Bet your ass," she said. "You think I'm gonna have you able to fly something that I can't? Dream on, motherfucker."

Jake laughed. "I love you, Helen," he said, stroking a lock of her hair.

"I love you too," she told him, leaning in to give him a soft, sensuous kiss on the cheek.

He took his eyes off the road long enough to give her a loving gaze. "Can I cheat off your test papers when we take the class?" he asked.

That earned him yet another punch in the shoulder, and her another accusation of domestic violence.

Helen was in the mood for love when they got back to his place. Jake went to the wine cellar to select a good vintage for them (he went with one of the bottles he'd bought in Bordeaux) and by the time he carried it back upstairs, she was sitting on the bed, dressed in nothing but one of his long T-shirts. Her long, sexy legs were on display, parted just enough to allow him a tantalizing peek between them. Her large, braless breasts bounced and jiggled with each movement of her body. She was playing coy, of course, acting like she was just getting ready for bed and had no idea the picture she was painting for him.