Blinding Fear (15 page)

Chapter 24

Tim Wiggins was beginning to feel the fix wearing off.

His new employer—whom he’d only met over the phone—had provided him with just enough black tar heroin to get him through his assignment. Besides the “horse” and $500 in advance cash, the man had promised him much more of both if he successfully completed the task he’d had laid out. He wasn’t sure whether to take the job until the guy promised him $5,000 more. He figured with that wad of dough he could supply himself with high-class hookers for a change. He also calculated he could score enough legal and illegal drugs to keep himself fried for weeks, if not longer.

He was sitting in the cab of an old, Ford F450 tow truck he’d just stolen from a local garage in Cottonwood Heights, Utah, southeast of Salt Lake City. It was normally tasked with providing emergency roadside service to motorists in need of assistance on State Route 190. The two-lane highway runs between the Salt Lake City metro area through the Wasatch Mountains and provides access to many of the ski resorts that dot the slopes of the picturesque, 10,000 foot-plus range.

Sitting on the seat next to him was a small but very rugged lock box the man had shipped to him. Supposedly in it were the drugs he’d been promised. Once things were all done he’d call the guy who’d give him the combination. Then he could relax in the warm euphoria of a new hit.

As instructed, he’d parked near the top of a primitive gravel and dirt road, lightly coated with snow. It started at S.R. 190 and then snaked its way 6 miles up a steep stream valley to a few privately owned homes. At several points along the way there were 300 foot, near-vertical drop-offs to the boulder-strewn stream bed below.

With the diesel motor running to keep warm, Wiggins was waiting with the front of the truck facing down the road. The man had told him to expect a late-model, GMC Yukon to leave one of the homes sometime around 7 p.m.. Wiggins’ instructions were quite simple: force the Yukon off the road and down the slope of one of the steepest cliffs. He’d been given the license plate number to make absolutely sure he got the right vehicle. He’d also been told an Indian man would be driving. Wiggins had enough smarts not to ask which kind of Indian, given they all looked the same anyway.

The idea he would probably kill someone and the probable legal consequences, never entered Wiggins’ stream of consciousness. For the moment his brain was beginning to demand one thing and one thing only: a quick score.

At 7:20, just as Wiggins was beginning to get nervous that his ticket to liquid Nirvana wouldn’t show, headlights appeared in his rearview mirror slowly moving toward him. As the vehicle eased past him on the narrow road he could immediately see that it was a newer-looking Yukon. He’d also pre-positioned the truck’s spotlight to illuminate whoever might be driving. As he snapped it on he was surprised to see a woman at the wheel. He could also see the tops of what looked like two, kid-sized heads in the back seat. The woman was clearly startled and alarmed as she squinted in the light. There was no question in his mind she was Indian. They all had that unmistakable “look.” There was no sign of the Indian man his anonymous employer had said would be inside.

Once the van passed he turned on his main headlights to verify the license plate was correct, then quickly pulled out to follow close behind. As he did, the Yukon began to speed up.

It took longer than normal for Wiggins’ drug-addled brain to process what he should do. The man had told him to run a Yukon off the road. That seemed to be the main thing he had to do. The fact a woman was at the wheel was irrelevant. Many times in the past he’d committed felonies—some violent—in his never-ending quest for his next fix. In fact, he’d spent the majority of his sorry 38 years in some kind of lockup for mainly drug-related offenses. He finally concluded this was just a novel way to gain what he knew he had to have.

As the two vehicles neared one of the many hairpin turns on the road, he realized that just around the bend was a good place to accomplish what he’d come here for. Just as the Yukon cleared the turn he floored the accelerator and slammed into its rear with the Ford’s massive push-bars. The Yukon fishtailed, slid sideways and with Wiggins’ much-heavier truck now bulldozing into its side, tumbled over the edge of the road and down the precipitous cliff. He slammed on the brakes to avoid going over himself, then leaped out to watch what was happening. The Yukon was spinning and tumbling, glass, plastic and other debris spraying in every direction; rending steel shrieking and groaning like a dying animal. Finally, it came to a rest in a smashed heap on the rocks of the stream; its twisted, broken wheels still turning. By purest coincidence it was upside down in a relatively deep section of water. He watched for few more seconds and seeing no signs of life, got back in the truck and headed down the mountain.

Thirty minutes later, he found a secluded spot in an industrial park in the Salt Lake City metro area and pulled over. He grabbed the throw-away cell phone the man had also sent him, and looking at a scrap of paper, punched in a number. The call was instantly answered.

“Mr. Wiggins?”

He could barely hear over the sound of honky-tonk music in the background. “You in some kind of bar, man? You’re gonna have to speak up.”

“Not that it’s any concern of yours, I’m at one of the few pay phones left in the country and there’s a drunk waiting to call a cab, so let’s get down to business, shall we? Did you accomplish your task?”

“No problems, but there wasn’t a guy driving the van.”

For a few seconds Wiggins heard little but the distinctive twang of acoustic guitars and heavy drums. At one time he’d been a big country music fan and had loved blue grass as well as good-ole-boy, line-dancin’, stomping music. The guy had to be some place in Texas. He didn’t care as long as he got his stuff.

“Who
was
driving, Mr. Wiggins?”

“Some Indian chick. Had a couple of brats with her.”

“Was there a man in the car at all?

“Not that I could see.”

“You’re sure you got the right car?”

“Gimme a break, will ya! I ain’t stupid! I could see the license plate. It matched perfect.”

“Most unfortunate.”

For a brief moment Wiggins considered calling the man a few choice names, then quickly realized he might not get the combination to the lockbox. “Look! I got done just what you wanted, okay! I pushed a Yukon off a cliff. Ain’t no way anybody survived! It’s what you wanted, right! Now I want what’s comin’ to me!”

Again, the man paused, then said, “Very well, Mr Wiggins. The combination is 8 - 2 - 9 - 1.”

Wiggins put the cell phone on speaker, dropped it on the seat and grabbed the lockbox. He spun the four tumblers built into the top to the correct numbers and opened the lid. Inside was what looked like a thin, narrow box for cheap jewelry. He pulled the lid off and to his great relief found an empty syringe and needle still sealed in their factory-supplied bags and an ampoule filled with a clear liquid. As he read the ampoule’s label he realized it was the strongest form of morphine used in hospitals for end-of-life cancer patients. He also knew it was almost certainly stolen, given he’d ripped off hospitals and pharmacies himself on numerous occasions.

“I trust the drug is appropriate for your needs,” the man said calmly through the speaker.

“You bet your ass it is!” Wiggins responded as he inserted the needle into the ampoule and drew into the syringe the large dosage his body told him it desperately needed.

“Would you care to hear where you can pick up the rest of your cash and other drugs?”

“Just give me a sec’, all right! I got important things goin’ on right now!” He was glad he didn’t have to go through the messy and time consuming process of cooking the fix as he normally did. He jabbed the needle into his forearm and slowly injected the morphine. As he did he leaned back into the driver’s seat head rest and closed his eyes waiting for the ecstasy rush to begin. For some reason it didn’t happen as fast as it normally did. In fact, it didn’t seem to be happening at all! His heart was racing as it typically did but with no building high. “What kind of crap is this?! What’d you give me?!” he demanded as he began to feel dizzy.

“Oh, it’s not crap at all, Mr. Wiggins. It’s a very sophisticated variation of a drug that’s used for people like you on a regular basis in various correctional facilities. Or perhaps I should say ‘on’ people like you.” The man chuckled.

Wiggins felt hellishly nauseous now, with the dizziness beginning to overwhelm him. He tried to spew out every obscenity he could think of at the man but found his vocal cords seemed to be of no use.

“Essentially, it’s the same drug used in lethal injections on death row inmates. One of the one big pluses is it’s undetectable in any autopsy. And since you have just committed a capital crime, I could not think of a more appropriate and karma-fulfilling way to end your miserable life. In a moment or two your heart will simply stop. In a few hours the police will find your worthless carcass and quickly connect you to the death of those people you pushed over the cliff. Just another junky doing what junkies do. So sad.”

Wiggins could no longer see but he did hear his tormentor’s last few words— seconds before he slid into infinite silence.

Chapter 25

Again, Claire was impressed. As Christina escorted her through the doors to the gymnasium she was struck by the size of the place along with the variety and sophistication of the exercise equipment. Treadmills, ellipticals steppers, rowing machines, exercise bicycles, free weights, punching bags, and individual weight machines for virtually every muscle group were carefully positioned. Mirrors lined the walls, while several large-screen TVs were on with a mixture of news, entertainment and sports. In one corner she could see what appeared to be a full gymnastics layout, with a large tumbling mat, pommel horse, rings, parallel bars and a high bar. Dozens of men and women were hard at work at the venue or machine of their choice. There was the unmistakable odor of sweating bodies filling the air.

Claire shook her head in amazement. “Let me guess. All this is provided free to every employee?”

“Yep. 24 - 7.”

“Why does he do it?”

“It’s an age-old management practice, actually. Physically fit employees have fewer sick days, fewer accidents and hospital visits, are generally more productive and just plain happier. There used to be many more companies that did things like this. In recent years, however, the cut-costs-at-all-costs obsession has blinded them to the dramatic, positive effect perks like this have on their workforces.”

“So to borrow the phrase, Kay has gone back to the future?”

“And it’s worked. Everybody and his brother wants to work at KS so he has the cream of the crop to hire from. It’s probably one of the reasons he’s ahead of the competition in the space tourism business.”

At that moment, in the gymnastics section, Claire saw a fit-looking, middle-age man, dressed only in what looked like a bathing suit, leap onto the high bar and begin a routine. A small crowd of on-lookers gathered to watch. She’d always loved watching gymnastics, so she knew some of the names of the various tricks he performed: kip, giant swing, layout, pirouette. How a man who looked like he might be well over forty could perform such extraordinarily difficult exercises was a mystery. She began to drift in that direction.

“He’s your next interview,” Christina said, looking at Claire and smiling.

“You’re kidding! That’s Herc Ramond?!”

“Yep. The man’s obsessed when it comes to his physical condition. Just turned 52 and has the body of someone half his age.”

Claire picked up her pace. “Why does he do it?”

“He says it’s because being an experimental aircraft pilot puts high demands on his body. He also says he wants to set an example for the other pilots and personnel who report to him.”

Together they joined those already watching the routine. After a minute or so he dismounted with a front flyaway and managed to stick the landing, eliciting a round of low-key applause from the crowd. He acknowledged the admiration with a gentle smile and small wave, then stood with hands on hips to gather his breath.

As the spectators dispersed, Christina approached Ramond with Claire a few steps behind. “Herc, I’d like to introduce you to Claire McBeth from the New York Sentinel. She’s here to do a story on space tourism in general and KS specifically. She’s already spent some time with Kay. He sent her over to see you to talk about technical stuff.”

He stepped forward, extending a smoothly well-muscled arm and calloused hand, looking steadily into her eyes. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Kay told me to expect you. May I call you Claire?”

As she took his hand she couldn’t help but notice his striking, light blue eyes and nearly full head of dark brown hair. There was only a trace of grey framing a strikingly handsome and distinguished face. “Only if I can call you Herc.”

As she thought about it for a second, this was the kind of man she had expected to see at the airport as she prepared to climb into the biplane. Although Scott Service had done a great job piloting her, Herc Ramond had “the look.”

He laughed easily. Claire noted his clear, crisp voice. If he sang, he’d have to be a tenor.

“It’s a deal then! But before we talk would you mind if I complete my workout?”

“You mean this is only part of it?”

“The high bar’s good for upper body strength and conditioning but now I need to get some quality cardio and some lower body.”

“No problem. I’m in no hurry.”

“Thanks! I appreciate it. I’m headed to the pool next.” He smiled broadly, revealing white but slightly uneven teeth, then headed past the two women at a brisk pace.

‘At least there’s one thing about his physique that isn’t perfect,’ Claire thought.

As the three headed out of the gym with Herc leading the way, Claire looked at Christina and mouthed, ‘Wow!’ Christina simply nodded and smiled then added, “I think I’m about done for now. You’ve got my cell phone number. Text me or call if you need anything else.”

“Thanks! You’ve been very helpful!”

“Catch you later.” She stopped momentarily, then whispered, “Watch yourself. Herc’s a real charmer. There’s been more than one broken heart around here, if you know what I mean.”

“Come on! He’s almost old enough to be my father!”

“Trust me on this one, Claire. Women are naturally attracted to him, but he’s very picky. I’ve got to say though, from what I’ve seen so far, you’ve made more progress in the last five minutes than any other woman here.”

“Stop it! I’m looking for a good story, not a good man!”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Christina pointed a finger at her. “See ya.”

Claire had to run to catch up with Herc. As she did she couldn’t help but notice an obvious scar on Herc’s lower back and extending around his left side. It had to be at least 4-5 inches long. As she pulled beside him she asked, “Bad looking scar. Would you mind telling me how you got it?”

“I was shot down during the first Gulf war and took some shrapnel when I got hit. It hurt like hell and I spent some time in a hospital but luckily nothing was seriously damaged.”

“No kidding! What kind of plane?”

“A-10.”

“The Warthog. I’ve heard of that one. Ground attack, if I remember correctly. Originally designed to counter Soviet armor in eastern Europe. Hasn’t the Air Force tried to retire it a few times only to have the “rank and file” rebel saying it may not be fast and sleek but it gets the job done?”

Herc stopped abruptly and turned to look at her quizzically. With a touch of admiration in his voice he asked, “How did you know all that?”

“When you’re a reporter, especially in science and technology, you run into all kinds of trivia. You read a lot, talk to people. Guess sometimes it just comes through osmosis.”

He gazed at her for a few more seconds, smiling. Claire began to feel flustered. She hoped she didn’t blush.

He blinked several times, then shook his head slightly. “Sorry, Claire. Didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s just refreshing for an old warbird like me to run into a young person who knows something about aviation and military history.”

“Well, I’m probably not as young as you think,” she snorted.

“Since I think I’m a gentleman I won’t ask the next and obvious question.” He turned and continued his brisk walk with Claire trying to keep up.

A few yards later they left the cool confines of the gym and emerged into what had become the 90-degree day, having cooled “way” down from 100. She found herself on the deck of the pool she had seen from the air. It appeared to be Olympic size: 10 lanes wide by 50 meters long and surrounded by many deck chairs, small tables and large beach umbrellas. There were a few other people in the water and others lounging around.

As she took a seat at a small table and in the shade of one of the umbrellas, Herc washed off his sweat at an outdoor shower. He looked to be a little over six feet and maybe 170 pounds. A moment later he smoothly dove into the pool and began to the next phase of his workout. She watched in amazement as he swam 200 meters of butterfly with graceful ease. She knew enough about swimming to realize that butterfly was brutally strenuous, yet he finished the four laps without slowing down or losing his technique. He then swam another 200 meters each of backstroke, breaststroke and finally freestyle. He completed the last few strokes and pulled up to the edge, breathing heavily. He looked at her with a mischievous grin. “Sure you don’t want to get in. It feels great!”

Laughing she said, “No thanks. I don’t think I want to go all the way back to my quarters to get my suit.” Becoming more serious she said, “Besides, I need to ask you a few more questions.”

He sighed dramatically, then easily levered himself out of the pool. He grabbed his towel and walked over to sit opposite her in the shade. “I’d need something to drink. Can I get you something?”

“Sure. Coke’d be fine. Thanks.”

She watched as he sauntered to a nearby vending machine, slipped what looked like a credit card out of his swim trunks pocket and bought the two drinks. As he returned it suddenly struck her that there was something different about his appearance that was out of the ordinary for a man like him: he wasn’t tanned. In fact, he was almost pale. As he sat down and she took the Coke, she asked, “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“No problem. Go ahead.”

“From what I’ve seen over the years, most strong, athletic men like you will spend nearly as much time getting a tan as they do getting in shape. It looks as though you don’t. Is there a reason?”

“Thanks for asking. It’s one of my pet peeves. To put it simply, tanning is stupid.”

She chortled.

“Think about it, Claire! Our skin is the largest organ in our body. It protects us from all the crap in our environment. We need it to be healthy and strong. Yet most of us have been brain-washed to think that by literally cooking it with UV rays it makes us healthy and sexy. Of course, it’s actually the reverse! It’s complete and utter insanity! Tanning is the most catastrophic marketing fraud ever perpetrated on the human race!”

“Okay. Would you now care to tell me what you really think? Don’t hold anything back!” she asked with a bit of a smirk.

“Sorry. I get annoyed and frustrated sometimes by the ridiculous things we humans do. Would you care to hear what I think about the scruffy beard look the fashion industry has been jamming down our throats lately?”

“Nah, that’s okay.”

“How about the insane obsession we have for texting literally everywhere we go?”

She laughed. “No thanks. I must say I agree with you about those things, but before I get to what I really came here to do, I’ve got to know where ‘Herc’ came from?”

“Well, if you must know, it was my call sign when I was a pilot. It’s kind of a combination of the initials of my name, Harold Eugene Ramond—H-E-R—and the fact that some of my squadron mates thought I had a body that reminded them—and I know this sounds dumb—of Hercules. So, presto-chango, they labeled me Herc and it’s stuck ever since.”

Claire couldn’t help but laugh. “I guess I can see that.” She composed herself, then decided to finally move on to things more important. “One of the questions I asked Kay—and that he deferred to you about—was how you’re going to get so many people into space every year? NASA could only launch four or five shuttles a year during its heyday before the Challenger accident. After that it shrank to two to three. It seems to me you’d have to put at least half a dozen tourists into space every month to make any money.”

He stood up. “Tell you what. Let’s head over to Hangar One where we house our launch system aircraft. Once we get there I think you’ll begin to understand how we plan to do much better than that. Just give me a few minutes to change into my work clothes and we’ll get going. Just hang tight and I’ll be right back.”

“If you don’t mind I think I’ll wander around the gym some more. If I stay out here much longer my clothes’ll be soaked with sweat!”

“Good idea. I’ll see you back inside in a few minutes.”

Claire watched him walk back toward the men’s locker room with the towel draped over his shoulder. Christina was right. She had to admit there was something about him she found very appealing. ‘Enough, Claire!’ she scolded herself. ‘You’ve got work to do!’

She got out of the chair and headed back into the gym. The place had cleared out slightly as the afternoon waned and she now had the opportunity to get a closer look at the equipment. She wandered around for a few minutes looking at, touching and using some of the many machines, although lightly. As she was using an elliptical, Herc returned dressed in navy blue overalls and work boots. She could see he’d showered and looked refreshed.

He grinned when he saw her on the machine. “Didn’t you say you were going to cool down?”

“I thought I’d work off some of this flab.”

“No need as far as I can see.”

She was about to come up with a witty rejoinder but was interrupted by a clanging bell from a TV above their heads. They both turned to look up and saw it was a bulletin from Fox News.

“We have breaking news just in,” the female anchor stated. “At this moment, a NASA spokesperson is about to convene a news conference at the Johnson Space Center in Houston. This, in apparent response to media reports there was an unscheduled resupply of the International Space Station earlier today. There have been unconfirmed reports the mission brought supplies to the ISS far more than the needs of any near-term mission currently on the schedules of NASA, the European Space Agency or the Russian Space Corporation. Let’s go quickly to Houston to hear what’s being said.”