Elly's Ghost (10 page)

Jay put the
locator away. “They sent in a second team. We’ve been walking in a straight
line, giving away our position. We’re dealing with a larger group than I thought.”

The sun was now
partially behind the distant mountains. He knew the peaks as if they were part
of his own backyard. The dark clouds wrapping around the mountains were already
showing flashes of lightning. Jay knew the darkness of a storm was a blessing,
as it would serve as the protection they needed right now.

“Let’s move,”
Jay said, leading the way.

Beckholm held
his phone in one hand and jotted notes with the other as Agent West began.

“Elly’s pilot,
Michael Albert Belgrade, has very little on his record after a teenage
rebellion that started with shoplifting and ended with a six-month stay in
juvenile detention for grand theft auto,” West said.

“After that his
record is clear?” Beckholm asked.

“That’s correct.
He moved to Los Angles at age twenty-four, went to flight school, and got his
commercial pilot’s license. No wife, no kids. He was hired on at Myers Aviation
at twenty-seven. Myers has provided all the flight services to Revolution
Records for over twenty years. Belgrade’s employer has nothing but good things
to say about him. I asked if Belgrade had ever left off anything from his
flight plans before, and he was adamant that Belgrade always went by the book.
The boss also told me each pilot is issued a company credit card for fuel and
other expenses. Myers then bills Revolution Records at the end of the month,
including fuel and flight service. Belgrade’s card was used last Saturday at
10:37 AM Eastern Standard Time in Baltimore to buy 548 gallons of aviation
fuel. That was the last recorded transaction on the card. We checked his
personal cards, and the last activity on them was also Saturday in Baltimore before he flew to Seattle.”

“This is messed
up,” Beckholm said. “I have Big Sky telling me the plane couldn’t make it, I
have a flight plan showing no fuel stop, and the pilot didn’t use the company
card to buy any fuel. I also have a plane that crashed three hundred miles off the
coast of Seattle.”

“Let’s do this,”
West said. “Let’s come up with a list of possible scenarios and then rule them
out one by one. I think we can both agree the plane stopped to refuel.”

“All right. So
possibility number one would be what?”

“Easy. The plane
had an accident involving some kind of malfunction that allowed the door to
come off.”

Beckholm
scribbled it down and then said, “Number two would be foul play. Someone
sabotaged the door, killing everyone.”

“The pilot could
have killed everyone in-flight and parachuted out. We doubt the perp was Wittenbel’s
bodyguard since they got along so well.”

“But could he
jump from 30,000 feet?”

“He could have
been lower when he jumped. You can pre-program autopilot for whatever altitude
you want.”

“We’ll mark it
as number three,” Beckholm said.

“And we’ve
already talked about the possibility that Wittenbel could have faked her own
death by getting off the plane and then letting it crash, so put that down as
number four,” West said.

“What else is
possible?”

“What if she
didn’t leave willingly?”

“So you’re
saying number five would be she was forced off the plane?”

“Sure, and the
plane continued on without her,” West said.

“That means the
pilot and at least one accomplice,” Beckholm said.

“Number six
could be the pilot forced Wittenbel to jump out of the plane with him.”

“Are you
serious?” Beckholm asked.

“It would
eliminate the need for the pilot to have an accomplice.”

“Well … all
right, it’s number six. One thing, though. If this is a kidnapping, why would
they make it look like she died, if the whole point was to collect a ransom?”

“One reason, I
suppose, is to keep anyone from looking for her. The kidnappers could then
target those who would inherit her money. They’d have to wait awhile for the
beneficiaries to collect, but if they could convince them that she’s still
alive, they could try it. Do you know who inherits her money?”

“According to
Elly’s will,” Beckholm said, “a fourth of her money goes to a variety of
charities, her parents each get a fourth, and twin brother Nick gets a fourth.”

“That’s a big
payday for the family.”

There was a long
silence as Beckholm stared at his list.

“I see a few
things we can check on right now,” West said. “I’ll get someone to track down
all fuel purchases, concentrating on small airports along the flight path. I’ll
make sure the pilot’s bank records are idle and haven’t been cleaned out in the
last couple months. In fact, if we get enough probable cause, we should have a
search warrant issued for his place in LA.”

“We don’t have
enough for that yet,” Beckholm said.

“You know, that
door is the key. It would tell us if we are talking about an accident or not.”

“How do we find
it?” Beckholm asked.

“Well, we know
they first couldn’t make radio contact with the plane when it was crossing over
the Idaho/Washington border, so that’s the western edge of your search area. Since
we know the maximum range of the plane on one tank of fuel and we know where it
crashed, we can find the eastern edge of your search area. Confine the search area
to a mile in both directions of the last known heading.”

“You’re still
talking—and I’m just guessing here—a flight path about 1,500 miles long. A mile
in both directions means 3,000 square miles of search area.”

“Well, then,
confine it to half a mile in both directions,” West said. “I didn’t say it
would be easy.”

“There’s got to
be thousands of pieces of steel and scrap iron the size of the missing door
that would show up in that much area. It’d take forever to search everything.”

“You haven’t
seen what I have. If you get an over-flight of the area with the right
equipment, you not only get a reading of where every piece of steel is in the
search area, but you have a continuous photograph with such high resolution you
can zoom in and see the individual bricks on someone’s patio. You can read
license plate numbers from 50,000 feet. If you get the proper group of
technicians, I bet they could narrow it down to a hundred potential sites in
twenty-four hours. The FAA would be staffed with enough people to do the
searching on the ground.”

“My boss is
going to love this,” Beckholm said, sarcastically.

“Well,” West
said, “if someone sabotaged her plane, you’re looking at the biggest case of
your career and probably your boss’s as well. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

* * *

Michael
Belgrade’s and Dexter Quast’s groups gathered together and shared confused
looks. Belgrade’s plan to send a second team ahead of Elly and her unknown
companion to cut them off hadn’t worked. He cursed and shook his head,
wondering how they could have evaded him.

He’d been
furious ever since he’d lost men at the airport and Elly got away. He was past
the point of no return. Aborting the mission was not an option. Elly could
identify him she would tell the
authorities that he, the pilot, was in
on the kidnapping attempt. He had to find her before she got out of the woods.

Belgrade pulled out his map and used his GPS unit to find his location. The men gathered
around.

Belgrade pointed at Quast. “I want you and your men to keep moving. Whoever is with the girl
is taking her to the highway north of here.” He pointed at the map. “It’s the
only logical way out of here.”

“What are you
going to do?” Quast asked.

“I’m going to
get some help. If you don’t get them first, we’ll be ready to ambush them at
the highway. Make sure you kill the bastard with her.”

* * *

Strong wind
gusts brought the storm in quickly. Elly and Jay set up the tent and moved everything
inside while the sky grew black and big raindrops poured down with increasing
frequency.

“Jay, can you
look at something? It kind of hurts.”

“What is it?”
Jay found his flashlight.

“I think I have
a cut on my back. It’s from that stick that poked me when we were under the
tree.” Elly turned her back as she knelt in front of Jay. “Can you help me with
this?” She wrestled her handcuffs as she tried to pull up her shirt. Jay helped
her lift it from the back.

Jay had never
known that shoulders could have a particularly nice shape, that one back could
have a more pleasant contour than another, that wet, mud-plastered hair could
look perfectly done when against bare skin like Elly’s. The perfect symmetry
highlighted by the vertical line of small bumps her vertebrae formed kept his
gaze.

He suddenly
remembered that he was supposed to be looking at an injury, which turned out to
be just a small scratch between Elly’s shoulder blades. He cleared his throat
and managed to say, “I don’t know if this is ever going to heal.”

“What?”

“We may have to
do surgery right here in the tent.”

“Jay! How bad is
it?”

“You’ve got a
small scratch,” Jay said, “but it doesn’t look infected.”

“Where?”

“Right here.”

“Don’t touch
it!”

“I’m not going
to touch it.”

Jay’s finger drew
a circle twice around the cut on her soft skin.

“Don’t move.” He
dug through his backpack. “I have some ointment.” Jay wiped his finger off and
then squeezed some of the clear gel onto it. “Here we go.”

“Wait!” Elly
arched her back away from Jay before he was able to do anything. “It’s going to
sting, isn’t it?”

Jay laughed.
“It’s ointment, not lemon juice.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’ll only hurt
about ten times worse than a bee sting.”

“What?” Elly
moved away again, nearly losing her balance.

Jay laughed and
gently put one hand on her shoulder and carefully covered the scratch with
ointment.

“You’re good as new,”
Jay said.

* * *

The president of
the United States hit a button on his oval office phone. “Jenny.”

“Yes, Mr.
President.”

“I’d like to speak
to Director Holtz please.” Frank Holtz was the director of the Federal Bureau
of Investigation.

“Yes, Mr. President.”

It took Jenny a
moment to connect them.

“Good evening,
Mr. President,” Director Holtz said.

“Good evening, director.
I’m calling about the Wittenbel plane crash.” The president had been briefed by
one of his staff that Director Holtz had submitted a proposal to use a U-2 spy
plane to search for the door that came off Elly’s plane. “I want to know if
it’s possible that it could have been a terrorist act.”

“We haven’t
ruled out anything yet, Mr. President.”

“Then I am
authorizing your proposal to find the door that came off the plane carrying
Elly Wittenbel. This will be classified as a training exercise. If you’re not
getting the cooperation of the FAA and the Air Force, you call me right away,
and I’ll see to it that you do. This is a perfect cross-functional opportunity
to show how well we can work together. I want that door found in the next
thirty-six hours.”

“Yes, Mr.
President.”

* * *

Elly lay down on
the sleeping bag and stared at Jay. Her back still tingled from when he had
traced the circle around her scratch.

“Are you staring
at me?” Jay asked playfully.

“I was just
wondering how I would explain this if some random person were to find us. I
mean, here I am, in a tent in the middle of nowhere, in the pouring rain, with
a handsome young Marine, wearing handcuffs. What would they think of me?”

“Well, what
about me?”

“What about
you?”

“How would I
explain being found with a beautiful young singer? They’re known for being
trouble, and I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Oh, you do?”

“We Marines are
supposed to have high standards.”

Elly gave Jay a
playful shove.

He smiled. “See
what I mean? Nothing but trouble.”

When Jay turned
around to return the ointment to his bag, Elly jumped on his shoulders,
knocking them both into the wall of the tent. Elly shrieked laughter as Jay
grabbed her legs with one arm and put his other arm behind her back. He lifted
her up with little effort and gently flopped her onto the sleeping bag. Elly
wrapped her legs around Jay’s waist and struggled to hold on, but he broke free
and spun around to face her. She grabbed his leg and tried to pull him off his
balance, but it was no use. The weight of his chest overwhelmed her as he lay
across her torso. She laughed, trying to push him off.

“Hey, that’s not
fair,” Elly said as Jay grabbed the chain of the handcuffs and held it above
her head.

“Marines are
trained to win, not fight fair.”

“What makes you
think you’ve won?” she said, pulling on his arm.

Jay laughed as
she struggled for a moment longer, and then he let go.

He paused before
pushing himself off of her, his face not far from hers. They stared into each
others’ eyes. Elly’s mind raced with questions.
Is he going to kiss me? My
breath stinks! Do I want him to kiss me? His breath stinks! Does he want to
kiss me?

“Maybe singers
aren’t so bad,” Jay said, smiling. He returned to digging in his backpack.

Elly closed her
eyes as the tingling feeling returned and spread through her whole body.

The storm had
slowed to a steady shower with distant lightning and rumbles of thunder. Elly
watched as Jay dug out all his rifle shells and laid them next to his bag. She
sat up and tried to figure out what he was doing. He pulled out his large
hunting knife and strapped it to his right ankle. She froze at the idea he was
preparing to leave.