Deadly Echoes (20 page)

“It'll be fine.” Donovan watched as the linemen pumped fuel into both wings and then reeled in the hose, climbed into the truck, and drove off the way he'd come.

“See that dumpster over there by the fence?” Donovan waited until Erica turned, saw what he was looking at, and nodded. “The only security camera I've seen is on the building behind us, and none seem to be pointed in this direction. We're using the dumpster to go up and over the fence. Then we walk out to the plane. No running, just act like you belong.”

“What makes you think the keys are in the airplane? Airplanes have keys like cars and boats, right?”

“It's actually easier to hotwire a Cessna than a car. It'll take me less than thirty seconds. Do you have anything sharp I could use to strip insulation?”

Erica nodded, dug in her bag, and came up with some nail clippers. “Would this work?”

“Perfect.”

“Here, I almost forgot.” She pulled out a handful of thin latex gloves. “Put these on. I found them on the boat. In fact, before we go, let's take a moment and wipe everything down. I don't want to go to jail for stealing a crappy old truck.”

Donovan pulled the gloves on, tested his dexterity, and then nodded that he was good.

Erica unfolded two cloth napkins she'd taken from the boat, and they quickly wiped the truck clean of fingerprints.

“Ready? Once this starts we're going to move fast,” Donovan said.

She leaned in and kissed him, her lips lingering momentarily before she pulled away. She took her knitted beret and slid it on, then tucked her ponytail inside. She put on her sunglasses and turned to face Donovan. “Let's do this.”

Donovan pulled his cap lower, slid on his sunglasses as well, and stepped out of the truck.

Donovan went over the fence, then pushed free from the strands of barbed wire at the top, and landed harder than he expected. The force of impact resonated up through his bad leg and jarred his spine. Erica landed catlike from the top of the fence. He picked his bag off the ground, lowered his head, and they walked exposed across the ramp toward the Cessna, something he'd done thousands of times, but never with the intention of stealing.

He opened the cockpit door. Erica crawled in first; Donovan followed, then closed and latched the door. He tossed his bag in the back, slid his seat forward, and took a moment to scan the ramp and make sure they hadn't drawn anyone's attention. Everything seemed normal.

The controls and switches were identical to the 185s he'd flown before, but the radios in this airplane had been updated. He was relieved to see a GPS receiver. One last sweep of the switches and he was ready. Fourteen thousand hours of flight time gave him the confidence to understand what he faced, and more than one narrow escape gave him the wisdom to know he needed to stay sharp in an airplane he hadn't flown in over fifteen years.

“Can we go?” Erica broke the silence. “Or do you need a little more time to do whatever it is you're doing?”

Donovan ignored her, though he did appreciate that as her stress levels went up, so did her sarcasm, always a helpful mechanism against freezing up and becoming useless. He wondered if it was from her medical training. He probed under the panel until he felt the small bundle of wires that led to the ignition. One swift yank and they were free. He leaned down, and using the clippers,
stripped the plastic insulation off the ends of the wires. He switched on the battery, pushed the mixture all the way in, double-checked the fuel, and then touched the ignition wires to ground.

The propeller jerked to life and spun until the three-hundred-horsepower engine purred to life. Donovan twisted the leads securely together as the engine oil pressure climbed into the green. He flipped switches, adjusted the trim, set the flaps for takeoff, and picked up the microphone. He made one more quick check of the instruments then cleared his throat and prepared to alter his voice. All the transmissions on radio frequencies were recorded, and he preferred to remain unidentified.

“Victoria ground, this is Cessna foxtrot-tango-papa-mike. We're parked at Aerocentre, taxi for takeoff, VFR eastbound, over.”

“Roger, foxtrot-tango-papa-mike, turn left out of Aerocentre, taxi to and hold short of runway three-one. Altimeter 1004, calm winds.”

“Papa-mike, we copy, hold short of runway three-one.” Donovan slid the microphone back in its holder, released the brakes, and the lightly loaded airplane only needed a nudge of the throttle to begin moving forward.

Donovan checked the flight instruments as they rolled to the hold short point for runway three-one. Each transmission from the tower, and Donovan expected the worst, that they'd been spotted and would be ordered to return to the ramp, or worse, airport security vehicles would surround them with guns drawn.

Donovan switched the frequency on the radio, turned to Erica. “You ready?”

She nodded.

“Victoria Tower. Foxtrot-tango-papa-mike, ready for takeoff, runway three-one, request eastbound departure.”

“Foxtrot-tango-papa-mike. Wind calm, cleared for takeoff runway three-one, right turnout after departure approved.”

Donovan acknowledged the clearance, advanced the throttle, and swung the single-engine Cessna out onto the runway. He double-checked the flaps and trim settings, and satisfied all was good,
he pushed the prop control to the stops and then eased the throttle forward. They surged forward and the Cessna quickly accelerated down the runway. Donovan's toes lightly danced on the rudder pedals to keep the airplane on the centerline as the tail came up and then he eased back on the controls and the airplane lifted from the concrete. The 185 clawed skyward and out of eight hundred feet he began a turn.

As he climbed, Donovan was relieved to see the backside of the weather front had slid a little more to the south. As far as he could see to the northwest, the horizon was free of clouds. Behind them was nothing but low clouds, fog, and rain. He leveled the airplane at fifteen hundred feet, announced to Victoria tower that he was departing the area, and then turned to the GPS and began to enter Garrick's coordinates into the navigation system. Once the calculations were complete, Donovan put it up on the primary display. They were one hundred ninety-two miles southeast. At their present speed they would be overhead in one hour and twenty-two minutes.

Donovan looked outside. To the east, beyond Puget Sound, the snow-capped Cascade Mountains pushed up through the overcast into the sunshine. Vancouver Island was fifty or so miles wide and to the west was nothing but thousands of miles of open ocean. He reached around and found one of the navigation charts he'd taken from the
Irish Wake.
He opened it and smoothed it out on his leg. It gave him basic topographical information. Donovan eased the Cessna into a gentle bank and lined the airplane up to track their course.

“How far away are we?” Erica asked.

“One hundred eighty-nine miles.” Donovan pointed to the display.

“Have you given any thought to this being a trap?” Erica asked. “One where Garrick is waiting for you, that this is where he intends to kill you and, by default, me as well.”

“It's crossed my mind, but I don't think so. It's not the grand
finale that someone like Garrick would go for. He's using these hints to maneuver and manipulate me.”

“That part of his plan seems to be working pretty well.”

“He's also trying to split me off from the authorities while pushing my buttons. I think he hopes I'll be reckless.”

“He seems like a genius to me.”

“That's exactly what we want him to think.” Donovan shot Erica a rare smile. “He's already made his critical mistake. He just doesn't understand it yet.”

“What's that?”

“He thinks he's this anonymous voice on the phone, but, thanks to you, I know exactly who I'm dealing with. And maybe his biggest mistake of all is that he has no idea you're still alive.”

Donovan circled the coordinates, making a steep turn three thousand feet above the terrain. Below them were tree-covered hills, lakes, creeks, and a logging road that led from one clear-cut area of timber to another.

“I don't see anyone down there at all,” Erica said after she lowered the binoculars. “In fact, I don't see a single sign that anyone was ever here.”

Wordlessly, Donovan eased off on the throttle and slowed the Cessna to start his descent. He'd spotted the relatively open stretch of road and it matched the NASA image he'd printed. To the east of the road was a field of stumps where a thriving forest had once been. He widened out and began a low approach. With flaps down, he slowed the single-engine Cessna, descended until they were only fifty feet above the road, and gave the surface a good look as they flew over. Donovan saw tire marks and the surface looked firm enough to support the plane. It was certainly flat enough and long enough. Donovan poured the power to the engine, climbed up and away from the road, and swung around for the actual landing.

“Make sure you're strapped in tight, this could get a little rough. I need to land and leave enough runway in front of us to take off again.” As Donovan explained his plan, he swung the Cessna on final approach and slowed to sixty knots. Flying at half the approach speed of the Gulfstream, Donovan felt like they were hanging in the sky.

He made tiny, yet meticulous, corrections using rudder and aileron to keep the 185 lined up straight. He guessed he only had four feet on either side of the main landing gear before the road
fell off into a ditch. As they neared the ground, he came off the throttle, and the main gear lightly touched the surface.

Donovan touched the brakes, and the airplane bounced and swayed as it slowed on the makeshift strip. Donovan used the brakes to bring the airplane to a dead stop. The propeller spun down and it was quiet. He opened the door and breathed in the pine-filled air. It had warmed up, so he peeled off his jacket, found his gun, and slid it under his belt. He jumped out of the cockpit to the ground, tested the soil under his feet, and found a firm mixture of gravel and wet clay. The Cessna had handled it well, tires sitting up nicely, not sunk into ruts.

“Is there a problem?” Erica asked.

Donovan looked at how much road remained in front of the 185. “No, I think we're good. We should be able to fly out of here without any problems.”

While Erica stretched away her stiffness, Donovan took in the area. Three hundred yards behind them, crows were raucously calling out to each other from the tops of the Douglas firs, shattering the quiet alpine morning. More crows arrived and joined the fray. Donovan wondered what had gotten their attention. Was it their arrival or was it something else?

“Let's grab our gear. I want to know what those crows are doing,” Donovan said as he transferred the gun from under his belt into his right hand and slung the backpack over his shoulder. According to the last coordinates from the Cessna's GPS they were about a quarter of a mile from where they needed to be.

“I'm ready,” Erica said as she secured her shoulder bag.

“We'll stay on the road as long as we can.” Donovan fell in beside her as they started walking.

“Ugh, do you smell that?” Erica said, as she recoiled from the odor.

Donovan, too, was hit by the same putrid smell. A sickly sweet rancid odor that was so thick he couldn't get a full breath. He inwardly cursed Garrick, the stench reminded him of what he'd found on the
Kaiyo Maru #7.

“Oh, my God, that's awful,” Erica leaned over, resting her
hands on her knees. “I've observed an autopsy or two, but this is magnitudes worse.”

Donovan tested the wind and then looked up at the trees for confirmation. “There's not much wind, but it's coming from the northwest. If we cut across that cleared area, closer to where the crows are, I think we'll find what we came for.”

Erica tied a bandana around her mouth and nose. Donovan did the same, and they set off over the uneven terrain. They encountered moss-covered rocks, standing water, and underbrush with needle-sharp prongs that tore at their flesh. Halfway across the clearing, they came to a faint trail that ran toward a stand of trees. The crows circled in a frenzy. Donovan headed down the path, and they walked underneath the tremendous green canopy of the rain forest. Weaving among the trees, ferns, and fallen limbs, they continued.

“I remember this from the video,” Erica said, her voice muffled by the bandana. “I think this could be where we saw the man running.”

Twenty more feet and Donovan came to a muddy stretch and pointed. “Look, boot prints.”

“And footprints. We're in the right place.”

“A bear print,” Donovan said as he knelt, placing his hand inside the massive indention. “a big one.”

“Donovan, stop!” Erica hissed. “On the trail, dead ahead, there's a black bear.”

Donovan spotted the adult bear in the dappled shadows about fifty yards in front of them. Slowly, he placed his left hand under his right and brought his weapon up to eye level. “Stay behind me and whatever you do, don't run.”

“Oh, God, we need to get out of here.” Erica pulled at the back of his shirt as she tried to move away, but Donovan held his ground.

“No, we've come too far.” Donovan took a step forward. “Go away, bear! Get out of here!”

The bear reacted by rising up on its hind legs, and Donovan
felt Erica dig in while still clutching his shirt.

“Get! Go away, bear!” Donovan powered forward, Erica reluctantly following.

The bear dropped down on all fours and exhaled, a huff that couldn't be mistaken for anything other than what it was—a warning.

“Go on! Get out of here!” Donovan walked faster and squared his shoulders. “I said, go!”

The bear lowered its head and without any prelude charged them. Erica screamed as the bear stayed low, its broad chest whipping the vegetation as it pounded closer, mounds of dirt thrown upward by huge paws.