Chapter 16a

Above Kern County, California

August 13, 1989

Jake sat alone in the cockpit of the 1982 Cessna 414 as it headed southeast high above the southern tip of the San Joaquin Valley. His hands rested lightly on the controls, making minute adjustments every now and then when the high-altitude winds pushed him off course to the Taft VOR transmitter he was navigating to. The avionics package of the plane included one of the most sophisticated autopilot systems available for a private aircraft — an autopilot capable of being programmed to fly the entire trip from shortly after take-off until shortly before landing — but Jake had it turned off at the moment. He was still enjoying the novelty of flying his own plane.

He made a quick scan of his instruments. His navigation needle was pegged dead center toward the VOR transmitter and the distance measuring equipment, or DME was showing him twenty-three nautical miles out from it. His altitude was seventeen thousand feet above sea level. Compass heading was 154 degrees. His airspeed was holding steady at one hundred and seventy two knots — just a hair above two hundred miles per hour. Each of his fuel tanks was well over half full. Cabin pressure was at the standard for eight thousand feet of altitude, comfortable enough to breathe but not enough to actually stress the airframe.

Satisfied that all was copasetic on the instrument panel, he looked outside, scanning in all directions, looking for other aircraft mostly, but also for weather phenomenon and landmarks. To the left he could see the western edge of the city of Bakersfield sprawled out on the valley floor like a relief map. Forward, he could see the mountains that made up the Los Padres National Forest, which he would soon be flying over, and beyond that, the brown haze of smog that marked the Los Angeles basin. To the right he could see the peaks of the Sierra Madres Mountain range and, beyond them, the sparkling blue Pacific Ocean stretching off to the horizon. Though he had spent thirteen of the last forty-eight hours in the air and had now logged more than eight hundred hours of total flight time, he still never tired of looking at the view from high in the air.

The Cessna 414 was Jake's latest acquisition. He had purchased it from a partner in a prestigious Chicago law firm. Since the partner in question was upgrading to a one third share of a Cessna Citation business jet and needed to free up some capital in order to make this purchase, he had been willing to let the 414 go to Jake for $185,000, about $50,000 less than the plane's actual resale value. Though Jill, his accountant, had pleaded with him to reconsider such an extravagant purchase (as well as the other extravagant purchase that was in the works), Jake had been unable to resist. After the quickest possible escrow period, the papers were signed, the official transfer of ownership was made, and Jake was now on the final leg of his flight to bring his new toy home to Brannigan Airport in Ventura County.

He had left the exclusive Chicago suburb of Winnetka at sunrise the previous day and had spent the better part of twelve hours hopping his way southwestward across the country to Winnemucca, Nevada, where he stayed the night in what passed for a four-star hotel. Early this morning took off from Winnemucca's small airport and flew to Westfield Executive Airport in the suburbs of Heritage County. In Heritage, he stayed awhile, visiting his parents for a few hours and then dropping off the final financial paperwork regarding the plane at Jill's office.

"Are you ready for next week?" he'd asked her after listening to her obligatory lecture on cutting down on his spending.

"As ready as I'll ever be," she told him. "I'll ask you one more time, Jake. Are you sure you won't reconsider? In light of the... you know... problems you're having with your bandmates, is it really wise to commit to something like this?"

"Probably not," Jake said with a shrug. "But I'm going to do it anyway."

Jill shook her head. "That's kind of what I thought you'd say."

Jake had lifted off from Westfield Exec — as it was known in Heritage — at 2:55 PM and climbed to his present altitude of seventeen thousand feet. He'd flown south and then southeast, navigating from VOR station to VOR station, roughly following the course of Interstate 5. And now, at 4:28 PM, he reached the Taft VOR station and watched as the second navigation radio went into action, locking onto the next and final station of his flight: the Brannigan VOR. The guidance needle swung slowly to the right, indicating that he should turn that way in order to head directly at the signal. The DME lit up with the calculated distance to fly: forty-three nautical miles. Jake banked the plane to the right until the VOR needle was centered. This put him on a compass heading of 182 — almost due south. Once on the correct course, he contacted air traffic control to request permission to start his descent. Permission was granted. He reduced power to the engines and pushed slightly forward on the control stick. The nose dipped toward the earth and the altimeter began to wind downward. The long flight was almost over.

He dropped down out of the sky, passing over the national forest and into the gently rolling hills of populated Ventura County. As he came within visual range of the airport the regional air traffic control passed him off to the local ATC. He entered the landing pattern for Brannigan Airport at 4:43 PM. As was usually the case at this particular field, there were no other planes landing or taking off at the moment and he was cleared right in. With his flaps fully extended, his airspeed at eighty-five knots, Jake pushed the lever that deployed his tricycle landing gear. He heard the brief whine of machinery from beneath and watched in satisfaction as all three gear lights on his panel turned green, indicating they were locked in place. He made his final turn toward the runway and reduced power even more. He came down smoothly and quietly. Since his two propellers turned in opposite directions, there wasn't even any torque to deal with as there would have been in his 172. He flared at the last second and touched down neatly with a slight thump. He retracted the flaps, neutralized the controls, and then taxied to the hanger he'd rented, parking just in front of the doors. He was back on familiar ground, safe and sound after flying alone for more than two thousand miles.

He expected Helen to come out to greet him. She would just be finishing with her last class of the day and she knew he had planned his arrival here to coincide with that. They hadn't seen each other in three days now and she had to be excited about checking out his new plane, if nothing else. But, by the time he got the wheels chocked and his bag removed from the storage compartment, there was no Helen in sight.

With a sigh, he shouldered his bag and started walking toward the collection of classroom buildings behind the main terminal. He was disappointed in her failure to show but not really all that surprised. Helen had not been herself of late. Though things had been a little touchy with her ever since the engine had gone out on the DC-10, her personality had undergone a radical shift from center after Jennifer Johansen was captured in her yard with a gun, a set of handcuffs, four knives, and a blowtorch. He hadn't seen the Helen he'd fallen in love with since that day.

Granted, finding a psycho in one's yard in possession of a gun, restraints, and a pyrogenic cutting tool was something to get a bit upset about. Especially when coupled with the fact that the psycho in question was going to get very little punishment for what she did, mostly because she hadn't been able to actually do it.

Johansen had refused to talk to the sheriff's department detectives or the district attorney's investigators who had interviewed her after her arrest, invoking her Fifth Amendment right to tell them nothing. Even her own lawyer, a veteran public defender appointed by Ventura County, hadn't been able to get anything out of her other than "I wasn't going to kill anyone." This was in response to the news that the DA's office wanted to charge her with attempted murder. At her arraignment hearing, she refused to talk to the judge at all. He ordered a psychiatric assessment of her to determine whether or not she was even sane enough to answer for her actions. She didn't tell the court-appointed shrink much — certainly nothing about her motivations or intentions — but it was enough for him to decide that Johansen suffered from bi-polar disorder and possibly some form of delusional disorder, but not schizophrenia. He pronounced her mentally competent enough to stand trial.

Things never made it that far. The deputy DA assigned to the case and Johansen's public defender put their heads together and took a realistic look at what she could actually be found guilty of. Though it was obvious to any thinking person what her intentions had been — she had planned to hold a gun to Helen long enough to handcuff her and get her into her house and then wrap her up in duct tape and go to work on her with the knives and the blow torch — the fact that she had not actually made it as far as confronting her victim before being caught somewhat limited the charges that could be filed against her. She could not be charged with attempted murder because there was no way to prove that murder was what she intended. She could not be charged with attempted kidnapping for the very same reason. Nor could she be charged with burglary since she had not entered or attempted to enter any of the structures or vehicles on Helen's property.

In the end, the DA's office worked out a deal in which she would plea guilty to carrying a concealed weapon, trespassing, and possession of burglary tools. In exchange for the plea and for agreeing to undergo psychiatric counseling for at least a year, she would do no jail time and would be placed on probation for one year. There was also, of course, the stipulation that she attempt no contact with Helen Brody, Jake Kingsley, or any of their family members or acquaintances. A temporary restraining order that had been granted the day of Johansen's arrest was made permanent and served by the judge himself. It stated in no uncertain terms that if Johansen was found within one hundred yards of Helen, Jake, their properties, or any of their acquaintances, her probation would immediately be revoked and she would do a year in the Ventura County Correctional Center.

"Do you understand?" the judge had asked her after explaining her sentence and the restrictions.

"I understand," she'd mumbled in return, her eyes looking down at the floor.

Later that day she was released from custody and went home a free woman. And Helen's personality had taken yet another dip toward the abyss.

Jake entered the classroom building now, finding it mostly empty and silent. The main classroom was locked tightly. Jake peered through the window and saw that all the chairs had been stacked atop the tables, all the papers and books stowed away, and the only sign of recent habitation was an equation, written on the blackboard in Helen's spiky, feminine script, that dealt with the weight vs. thrust and speed issue of powered flight. Jake went down the hall to Helen's small office. He tried the doorknob and found it locked. The blinds covering the window were pulled tightly down. There was, however, a sliver of light coming from beneath the door. Gently, he knocked on it. There was no answer. He knocked again, a little harder and a little longer this time.

A timid, careful voice drifted out to him. "Who is it?"

"It's me, Helen," he called back. "Jake."

"Okay," came the reply. "Hold on a second." And then... "Are you alone?"

"Yes, Helen," he said. "I'm alone."

"Okay."

He heard footsteps tromping across the ground. He heard the clicking of one then two then three locks being disengaged. The door slowly opened revealing Helen. She was standing back as far as she could while still being able to touch the door. She was dressed in her normal garb of jeans and a T-shirt. The T-shirt in question was very long on her, covering several inches of her waist. Her right hand rested beneath the shirt on the right waistband. Jake knew she had a SIG-Sauer 9mm concealed in a holster there. Since Johansen had been released from jail, she carried the gun with her everywhere and spent half of any given day with her hand resting on the butt of it.

"I'm alone, Helen," he told her again. "No need to draw down on me."

Eventually, she relaxed. A little. She took her hand off the gun and stepped back to let him into the office. "Hi, Jake," she said softly. "How was the flight?"

"It was good," he said. "The plane flies like a dream." He stepped forward to give her a hug. She stiffened a little at first and then put her arms around him and hugged back. It was a perfunctory embrace at best, followed up by a sterile, perfunctory kiss on the lips that lasted less than two seconds.

"I missed you," she said, though she didn't sound like she really had.

"I missed you too," he told her. "It would've been nice if you'd been with me."

She gave a frown. "We don't need to get into that again, do we?"

That, was the argument they'd had about her accompanying him on his journey to retrieve his new aircraft. Since it involved flying on a commercial aircraft to Chicago, Helen had absolutely refused to come along when he'd suggested it. She was apparently sticking to her vow of never setting foot inside a jet airliner again. "No," he said. "I guess we don't. I was kind of hoping to see you down on the flight line though. You did know I was coming in, didn't you?"

"I'm sorry," she said, sounding anything but. "I figured I'd wait until you came to get me. I don't like... you know... going out there by myself anymore. If that psycho bitch isn't out there with a sniper rifle than some of those goddamn reporters might be."

"I suppose," Jake said, although a sniper rifle didn't really seem Johansen's style and as for the reporters, they'd been almost obsessed with the story for the first week or so, following Jake, Helen, and Helen's father anywhere they went, but as of the plea bargain and Johansen's release from jail, they had seemingly lost interest. "What are you doing in here?" he asked. "Correcting papers and grading tests?"

"No. All of that's already done. I was just waiting for you. You wanted me to be here, didn't you?"

"Uh... yeah," Jake said, "but only if you want to be here."

She shrugged disinterestedly. "It's no big deal."

"I see," Jake said, his voice a little troubled. Helen either didn't pick up on this or didn't care. "Well... uh... do you want to go look at the plane?"

"Sure," she said. "Let me go get my stuff."

Jake waited patiently in the hallway while she retrieved her leather briefcase from beneath her desk and shut off all the lights. She then closed the classroom door and spent the better part of two minutes using three different keys to engage all of the locks.

"That should do it," she said with satisfaction once the door was secure.

"I would think so," Jake agreed. "Shall we?"

They made their way out of the building and across the flight line to the hangar complex. Jake's new plane was still sitting in front of the hangar door. Jake felt a sense of pride and joy just looking at it, just at the thought that it was his and he could fly it whenever he wanted, go anywhere he wanted in it. He had just flown it halfway across the country and already he wanted to take it up again. He had expected that Helen's face would reflect at least some of this joy. It didn't. She was looking at it with no more interest than she would have shown at a picture of the aircraft in a sales brochure.

"It's nice," she said blankly, running a hand over the left wingtip, touching one of the propeller blades. "I'm happy for you."

"Let's take it up," Jake suggested. "You fly it."

"You know we're not supposed to do that, Jake," she said. And this was technically true. Both of them were still in the process of accumulating enough solo hours in a twin-engine pressurized aircraft to achieve official certification. Until that happened, they were forbidden by FAA regulations from carrying any passengers other than certified multi-engine flight instructors. They were operating now under the equivalent of a learner's permit.

"Nobody's gonna know, Helen," he told her.

"No, sorry," she said. "What if one of those photographers is creeping around and takes a picture of us getting in together? I don't want to chance it."

"Helen, that rule is just a technicality. When they say we can't have passengers, I don't think they were talking about fellow students."

"A passenger is a passenger," she told him. "And if I get caught flying outside the allowances of my certification level, my teaching certificate might be suspended. I'm just not going to chance it."

Jake felt a surge of frustration go through him. Wasn't this the same woman who had seduced him, her student, in an Omaha hotel room not so terribly long before? She hadn't been too worried about her teaching certificate then, had she? No, he seemed to recall that she'd been screaming in pleasure and squirting her vaginal juices all over his face. He bit back on making reference to this episode, knowing she would simply refuse to acknowledge it was the same sort of transgression.

"All right," Jake said. "I get your point. Why don't you take it up alone then?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you," he said. "You've finished the classes, just like me. You're allowed to solo alone in type. Take it up and cruise it to Catalina. I'll follow in the 172 and we'll have dinner in Avalon."

"You want me to fly your plane to Avalon?" she asked, as if Avalon were on the far side of the Sahara instead of less than one hundred nautical miles away.

"Right."

"Just to have dinner?"

"Right again," he said. "It's one of those spontaneous things that people in love are supposed to do."

"It would take me thirty minutes just to pre-flight that plane and get familiar with it," she said.

"It's the same plane was fly for our cert," he said. "Just a different year."

"It's different, isn't it? And it has different avionics, doesn't it? And then there's the matter of insurance. I'm sure I'm not covered to fly it."

"Actually, you are," Jake said. "I had them include you as a primary pilot."