Deadly Echoes (23 page)

“Is he following?” Donovan didn't dare risk a look behind them.

“Yes.”

“Let me know the second we lose sight of him.” Donovan's muscles tensed as they shot past a narrow bay to his left and then roared under the bridge, racing toward the eastern tip of Pass Island.

“I've lost him!”

Donovan immediately yanked the throttle all the way to idle to bleed off as much speed as he could for the turn. He cranked the Cessna into a steep bank to the right. Above him, five-hundred-foot cliffs kept them confined within the narrow gorge. He kept turning until the wings were almost ninety degrees to the water. G-forces drove him down into his seat, and he added pressure to the tortured controls to keep the airplane from being pulled into the water. Pass Island seemed to hover just off the right wing, dangerously close to rocks, steel, and the icy-cold water. Donovan pivoted the Cessna in a tight, one-hundred-eighty-degree turn. He used the massive steel girders above him as a reference point. They flashed beneath the longer of the two spans and headed back the way they'd just come. Donovan slammed full power to the engine, and in an instant, they were west of the bridge. He made another turn and aimed for the narrow cove dead ahead. If his calculations were correct, the Border Patrol should just now be emerging on the east side of the bridge—searching an empty sky.

There was a narrow gap in the rocks at the end of the cove. Donovan banked to thread the Cessna through the trees, and then they shot out over Bowman Bay. He swept left to avoid a wooden pier and a pleasure boat. He had no choice but to haul back on the controls and climb away from the water, hugging the rocks on a narrow peninsula, then immediately dove back down to wave-top height on the other side. Just off the right wing, logs and kelp mixed with the house-size boulders marked the steep cliffs of Fidalgo Island. He put as much distance between them and the bridge as he could, until finally, he climbed up and over the vertical cliff and leveled off just above the trees.

Donovan kept the Cessna fifty feet above a road that would lead them into Anacortes. He couldn't see it, but he knew that Mt.
Erie towered just off the right wing and rose over a thousand feet above them.

“I don't see them,” Erica called out as she kept searching for any sign of the helicopter. “I think we lost them.”

“It won't take them long to figure out what we did.” Donovan held the Cessna steady.

Erica's gaze was still glued behind them. “Nothing.”

They shot over the first subdivisions, and Donovan throttled back to slow the airplane. He saw the familiar shoreline and brought the engine all the way to idle. When he had the speed, he began to lower the flaps. Just beyond the first marina was the strip of open land where the paper mill had once been. Donovan settled in his seat, the open land he'd noticed yesterday looked far smaller than when he was standing next to it on the ground.

Erica stole a glance forward and then looked at Donovan and whispered, “Holy shit.” Then she turned back to watch for their pursuers.

Donovan slowed the Cessna as much as he dared. They passed over a boatyard, the masts of the sailboats reaching up dangerously into their flight path. When they crossed over a parking lot, Donovan saw people look up and point. They flew over a fence, a collection of construction trailers, and the moment the wheels were over dirt, Donovan flared the Cessna and the main tires kissed the ground.

The landing area was rougher than it looked, and Erica let out a small scream as the 185 lurched and bounced. Donovan stood on the brakes, the noise deafening as the entire airframe shook. The chain-link fence at the end of the lot was coming up fast.

Donovan knew they weren't going to stop before they reached the fence. His thigh burned in protest as he used all his strength on the brake pedals. He made a decision; he released the brake pressure from the left side and held his breath as the Cessna instantly pivoted to the right. The left main gear strut hit the ditch first and took the brunt of the impact. Like a fifteen-foot scythe, the wing tip sliced into the fence, ripping it to shreds as the entire left side
of the plane slammed into the water-filled culvert creating a huge geyser. The Cessna's left side windows shattered and snapped inward, spewing water and debris into the cabin as they came to a halt. Still spinning, the propeller threw huge clods of mud into the sky before the bent props finally ground to a halt.

As fast as he could, Donovan cut the fuel to the engine, turned off the battery switch, threw off his harness, and reached over to release Erica's harness. “Go!”

Erica threw open her door, grabbed their things, and with Donovan right behind her, climbed out of the wrecked airplane. The smell of gasoline from the Cessna's ruptured fuel tanks filled the air.

They both jumped into the ditch. Donovan took the duffel from her and pulled her by the arm up the embankment. They climbed over what remained of the fence and began to run. Off to his left, people began to erupt from an office building and move toward them.

“Run! It's going to blow!” Donovan yelled, and waved them away. Immediately, their would-be rescuers turned and fled back into the building.

Breathing heavily, Donovan rounded the corner. The rented Cherokee was dead ahead. He pulled out the keys, pushed the button that unlocked the doors, and he and Erica jumped inside. He started the engine, threw it into drive, and sped away. A quick glance in the rearview mirror told him they weren't being followed—yet.

“We have to get off this island! One roadblock and it's over.”

“We can't make a mad dash for the bridge. We need to drive normal, blend in with traffic. We bought ourselves some time. Hopefully, it'll take a few minutes for the authorities to respond.”

“You're bleeding,” Erica said, pointing at his hand.

He felt the pain in his left shoulder for the first time and reached with his right hand to probe for the source of the blood. He winced and pulled his bloody fingers away. “There's something stuck in there. I'm not dying, it'll have to wait.”

“Look back at the harbor,” Erica said.

Donovan glanced in the mirror to find a plume of dirty black smoke, emanating from where they'd left the Cessna. The Border Patrol helicopter orbited, now joined by a red-and-white Coast Guard HH-65.

“How did you know it was going to burn? You saved those people.”

“I didn't,” Donovan said. “I didn't want a bunch of people to get a good look at us. I yelled the first thing I thought of that would make them scatter.”

“Do you know where you're going?”

“Yeah. Up ahead, we make a left turn and take Highway 20 off the island. Once we're over the bridge, we can go anywhere we want.”

“Uh-oh.” Erica pointed up ahead.

Donovan spotted the patrol car going the opposite direction, toward town and moving fast, every light flashing. Using all of his patience and self-control, Donovan kept the Cherokee at the speed limit. They breezed through two green lights until he could see the twin concrete arches that marked the bridge off the island. No roadblocks yet. As they drew closer, on the opposite span, two police cruisers appeared, lights flashing, but they weren't going very fast.

“Oh, shit,” Erica said as the two patrol cars slowed and pulled into the median.

Donovan was already in the slow lane. There was a truck ahead of them, a Volvo station wagon in the inside lane, and a quarter mile behind was a panel van. “Quick, take off your hat, I doubt if they're looking for a couple.”

They passed both troopers at 55 mph and started across the bridge. In his rearview mirror Donovan saw the highway patrol cruisers swing out onto the pavement to block traffic.

“We were the last car off the island. Holy shit! I can't believe we pulled that off,” Erica said as they headed east.

“We're not free yet. Look at the map, see if there's a way to get to Seattle other than on the interstate.”

Erica found the rental car map under the visor. “Yeah, there is. Just up here on the right is a turnoff. It looks like if we follow it to Route Nine, it'll eventually take us south into Seattle.”

“Perfect. Now I need you to do one more thing. Find your phone.”

While Erica dug in her bag, Donovan reflected on her actions today, her fearless navigation, and her complete trust in his abilities. He couldn't help but feel a swelling of admiration at how poised she'd been.

“What? Why are you looking at me that way?” Erica asked, phone in hand.

“Thanks for all the help back there.”

Erica leaned over and gave him a quick kiss. “We're a team. Now, who am I calling?”

“Michael Ross, he's the one flying us to Alaska.”

Lauren heard the familiar sound of the landing gear being lowered. The earlier conversation she and Michael had been having in California had been interrupted by a call from Erica Covington. Donovan was driving, but Erica relayed that they needed the
da Vinci
to pick them up in Seattle and fly them to Anchorage. Michael had called Gulfstream, and they'd recommended an experienced local freelance pilot, Scott West, to act as Michael's copilot. On impulse, Lauren had insisted on going.

She closed the laptop she'd been buried in for the last hour and a half. There was nothing new out of Paris where the authorities were still searching for a dark-haired woman in connection with the department store shooting spree. Lauren read more about the killings in Vancouver. The police there were asking the public for information, and the Asian Pacific Community was outraged over the lack of progress in what some were calling a hate crime.

The most interesting news story was the one she'd just been reading. Breaking news out of Anacortes, Washington: a small, single-engine Cessna, the kind favored by bush pilots, had been stolen from Victoria International Airport in British Columbia, and after evading authorities, crash landed near downtown Anacortes. Lauren made a quick map check and discovered that Anacortes was a two-hour drive north of Seattle. The report had gone on to say that two people had fled the scene of the crash after warning witnesses of the danger of an explosion. The airplane did burn, which will hamper the investigation. Lauren had clicked through the photographs of the burnt and mangled airplane. There was absolutely nothing to connect Donovan to the story, but she knew in her heart
this was her husband's doing. Whatever Garrick's ultimate goal, he was leaving nothing but chaos in his wake.

The view out the window of the
da Vinci
beyond the wingtip was opaque nothingness. This was the first time Lauren had been in the newest incarnation of the
Spirit of da Vinci;
it still smelled new. The added length from upgrading to the G500 from the older GIV, had been utilized to create a small VIP seating area forward of all of the science stations.

When they broke out of the clouds, Lauren spotted Lake Union, the Space Needle, and then downtown itself. She always thought the entire city looked washed clean from all the rain.

Michael touched down smoothly, and once they slowed, he swung off the runway and taxied toward the ramp. Lauren checked her watch. It was three and a half hours since Donovan had called.

They pivoted into a parking spot, and Michael shut down the engines, jumped out of the cockpit, and opened the door. Lauren made no effort to get up. She knew this was a quick turn. A flight plan had already been filed, fuel would be loaded, and the food Michael had ordered would arrive. They'd be on their way to Alaska inside thirty minutes. When Lauren heard footsteps coming up the airstair, she braced herself for it to be Donovan. Instead, Erica Covington appeared.

“Oh, hello.” Erica seemed startled when she realized there was someone on the plane.

Donovan came up the stairs and stopped behind Erica, who stepped to the side so that he could go in front of her. Donovan leaned down and kissed Lauren on the cheek. “Michael just told me you were here. Erica, this is my wife, Lauren.”

“Hello,” Lauren said, not at all expecting such a casual attitude from Donovan and certainly not expecting Erica Covington to be much more beautiful than her picture.

Donovan turned to Erica. “There's a spot in the back where two of the chairs fold down into a bed. Let's take this show back there. I want to do this before we take off.”

Lauren found herself sitting alone in the small VIP section as
Donovan went aft with Erica to where they could make a bed. She flung off her seat belt and followed.

“Help Erica with the shades,” Donovan told Lauren as he aligned two of the science station chairs and lowered their backs creating a narrow bunk. Not sure what was happening, Lauren nodded and lowered the shades on the trademark Gulfstream oval windows.

When it was clear no one could see inside, Erica helped Donovan with his jacket and shirt, revealing his blood-streaked arm.

“You're hurt!” Lauren blurted out the obvious before she could stop herself. “What happened?”

“It feels like a piece of Plexiglas,” Erica said as she gingerly probed the wound.

Lauren looked at Donovan's naked torso for the first time since he'd been hurt. Her eyes darted from the reddish scar on his wrist to the round bullet hole near his clavicle. She also noticed Erica didn't so much as glance at the wounds. Lauren felt a white-hot flush of jealousy. Erica had seen them before.

“Sit here,” Erica told Donovan as she maneuvered the overhead swiveling light. She turned to Lauren. “Donovan said there was a first-aid kit onboard. Could you get it for me? And a flashlight would be helpful.”

Lauren nodded and turned away, infuriated to be reduced to fetching supplies. When Lauren returned, Erica unzipped the bag, found everything she would need, and spread it out in sequence. She snapped on latex gloves, took the flashlight, and examined the wound. “Once I pull this out, depending how deep it is, it's going to bleed quite a bit. Your shirt is already ruined so we'll use it to soak up the excess while I flush out the wound and suture it closed. Lauren, can you hold the shirt under here like this?”