Final Approach (10 page)

Chapter Twenty-one

That evening there was a lull while the plane got refueled and Vince took a dinner break. It was the first chance I’d had to speak with him alone. We sat on the wooden Cessna mock-up in the training room adjoining the hangar, and he unwrapped a Butterfinger and popped the top on a can of Sprite.

“I fixed that guitar string you broke at the beach,” he said.

Windsocks swelled and deflated on their posts in the landing field. The sun crept toward the horizon, but was still high enough to warm my face and arms. Skydivers with nothing else to do tossed a Frisbee. Another group drove golf balls.

“Figure we’ll squeeze in one more load, then call it good,” he continued. “Wanna get some coffee afterward? I’ll even let you play for me.”

It sounded better than what I had planned.

“Can I take a rain check? Tonight’s not good.”

Vince snapped his fingers, like he’d remembered something.

“Right,” he said. “Your job.”

“What?”

“The new NASA job starts tomorrow. Red mentioned it. Good luck.”

Lying to Vince felt unnatural and wrong. I looked at him. He tipped his Sprite to offer a sip. I shook my head.

“I have an early morning too,” he said. “Taking the Otter back to Tulsa.”

I wanted to get at what was nagging me, but felt like a big fat hypocrite. Even if Vince had broken my confidence, it would be minor compared to the pack of lies I’d told. Or, more accurately, the pack of truths I’d withheld.

I asked anyway.

“Vince, last night in the parking lot…Did you mention our talk to anybody?”

“Of course not,” he said. “Why?”

I believed him.

“It’s nothing,” I said. Speculating about how Scud knew Annette’s name might make me look like a head case. “All that stuff’s private to me, that’s all.”

He placed a hand on my back and made small, comforting circles before patting it lightly and drawing away.

Someone outside ran to catch the Frisbee, reached too far, and tripped. He rolled in the grass and rebounded to his feet.

I could tell without looking that Vince was staring at me.

“I’m not starting a job at NASA tomorrow,” I said. “I don’t even live here. I came to help a friend, and soon I’ll go home.”

I waited, my hands in my lap, legs dangling over the edge of the make-believe airplane door. I stared at the floor and waited for what he might say or do.

Finally, he asked, “Where’s home?”

His voice was quiet. I thought I heard it catch.

The door to the packing area swung open on our right. Marie charged in.

“There you are!” I thought she’d come to put Vince back to work. It turned out she was looking for me.

“I’m putting an eight-way together for the sunset load,” she said. “You in?”

I looked at Vince and imagined the questions he must have, what he must think of me.

I nodded to answer Marie’s question and slid off the mock-up. Vince stepped down too.

“Ready, big guy?” she asked him. “Load ten’s on a thirty minute call.”

He chucked his empty can into a metal trash barrel and its clang was harsh and angry.

We followed Marie to the picnic bench outside where the other six jumpers for her eight-way had gathered. Vince walked straight past us, toward the plane.

***

An hour later, I sat with Jeannie on the threadbare sofa in the drop zone’s office and we flipped through Marie’s Yellow Pages. Jeannie wanted to get a motel room near the beach. With the boogie over, Rick and Marie would be locking their doors tonight. If I got caught sleeping at the airport on a weeknight, that would look downright weird. Camping wasn’t an option, and the long drive back to a Houston hotel didn’t make sense.

I dialed a motel in Freeport. Jeannie wouldn’t agree to a non-smoking room, so I booked a room for each of us. Then I phoned Richard to tell him where I’d be. He had news.

“My buddy checked out the restaurant where Mattie was recovered,” he said. Richard still had connections in the Austin police department—leftover detective friends from before I more or less got him fired. It hadn’t been long after I’d voiced my suspicions that Richard was out of a job.

“There’s no employment record for Mark Dalton,” he said. “When you were there, the manager was Mark Townsend. A waitress remembers him,
and
the tattoo you described.”

“Townsend? But that’s—”

“The other pilot’s name. I know.”

Vince.

Richard went on. “He’s in the personnel list you gave me. Vince Townsend, staff since…” Papers rustled on Richard’s end. “It’ll be three years next month. What do you know about this guy?”

What did I know? For starters, my cover was blown. Could Vince really be related to the tattooed man from the restaurant? It didn’t seem to fit.

I forced myself not to think about the sick feeling in my stomach. “Could the name be a coincidence?”

It seemed impossible that Vince could be involved with Trish and Mark and their black-market babies.

“No,” Richard said. “I had records faxed over. Walt and Caroline Townsend of Austin, Texas, had two kids—Mark in 1966 and Patricia in 1968. George and Amelia Townsend, also of Austin, had Vincent in1971. Walt and George were brothers, both now deceased.”

I struggled to get my head around what the new facts meant for the case.

“Patricia married Jason Dalton in 1996, divorced him in 1999. Social Security records show she kept the name.”

Jesus. Why hadn’t anyone here mentioned they were cousins? Why hadn’t
Vince
mentioned it?

“There’s more. Once I had the right name, I ran Mark’s criminal history. His drug problems are the tip of the iceberg. He moves around a lot, usually to big cities. Passes his time in ghettos and slums. Seems he uses cocaine and meth to extort information from junkies.”

“What information does he want from—” I lowered my voice. “What information does he want from junkies?”

“They tell him where the babies are.”

“Excuse me?” Richard’s story was rapidly becoming incomprehensible.

“San Antonio PD recently had a man in custody willing to trade information about his seller in exchange for a lighter sentence. According to him, Mark’s standing offer in the hood is ‘drugs for names.’ He wants names of users with small kids.”

“Why?”

“I have it from Narcotics, these people get pretty messed up when they use. They’ll leave their kids with anyone…strangers…if it means they can leave to get a fix.”

The connection eluded me.

“We think Mark Townsend wants babies who won’t be missed for a while.”

Amazing—but I couldn’t see how it fitted into Mattie’s abduction. My friends Keith and Nora Shelton had had no drug issues. What about Casey’s parents?

Chapter Twenty-two

Shortly after eleven, Jeannie was on her third margarita and I’d switched to Aquafina and taken it To Go. Last I’d seen, she was nestled at the bar with a couple of guys on either side, watching college basketball, eating pretzels, and swearing at the flat screen TV in a hole-in-the-wall bar we’d found on East Broad. There were two men, one Jeannie, but as far as I was concerned, the guys were outnumbered.

I walked the beach alone, my socks shoved in my sneakers, carrying my shoes in one hand as I stepped ankle-deep through frigid waves. Unable to think clearly, doubting my instincts, I trudged over the sand listening to waves and gulls and noise in my head, smelling the stale aroma of dead fish, and wishing I had a jacket.

My thoughts returned to Vince. I’d misjudged the only man I’d allowed myself to care for since Jack. Or, maybe I’d only misjudged a man I thought I could care for eventually. After all, we’d spent so little time together, really, and time spent together under contrived circumstances probably only counted as half of actual time, anyway.

But, while Karen Lyons had identified Trish, and Mark had an incriminating rap sheet, the only case against Vince was that he hadn’t mentioned being related to either one. In particular, it seemed strange he hadn’t told me his cousin worked at the same drop zone. Then again, he didn’t know I knew her. I remembered the cold look they’d exchanged the day Vince came to jump with me. Being on bad terms could explain the omission. If Vince had nothing to do with Trish and Mark’s schemes, maybe I hadn’t misjudged anything.

Either way, he knew I wasn’t who I’d pretended to be, and now I was anxious and preoccupied with whether Trish and Clement knew that too.

Mark Townsend was a real problem. He was solidly linked to Mattie Shelton’s abduction, and peripherally linked to Casey’s by his relationship with Trish. It was Mark I’d asked for help in the restaurant the day I found Mattie. Mark was the manager who’d delayed the tab to give the police time to arrive. But, when they finally came, the bogus adoption agent was gone. Surely, Mark had arranged that getaway.

Had it also been Mark who’d threatened me? Broken into my house? Played the trick that prevented my deposition from making it to court?

It couldn’t all be him. How many were with him? At least enough people to work in two states at the same time, maybe more. I wondered whether I was uncovering a sinister conspiracy or deteriorating into a frantic and paranoid nut.

Later, in my motel room, I drew a bath and undressed, feeling slightly flushed. My clammy skin and warm face could be the work of the margaritas, I told myself, or maybe the result of coming in from chilly night air.

Richard said he hadn’t put much stock into the threats he’d received until the boat wreck. Thinking of that again nauseated me, and I felt warmer still. I sat on the edge of the tub and watched it fill, steamy water rushing from the tap, crashing into the basin, filling and filling. I focused on my breathing, tried to get a grip.

One point tormented me, clawing and scratching past Vince and Richard, and Mark and Trish. I knew what it would do to me, and tried to stop it, but couldn’t.

Only one casket was laid out at my family’s memorial. Annette’s tiny body was never recovered. If Mark Townsend’s people were behind the boat wreck, was it possible she was alive? Had she been sold over pancakes at some roadside diner as Mattie had so nearly been?

I fell to my knees on the cold, cracked tiles of the motel bathroom and vomited into the toilet. And when my stomach was empty, the tears wouldn’t stop.

***

I sat on the side of my bed, wrapped in a towel, and stared at Annette through the opaque sleeve of a photo booklet I’d pulled from my wallet. TV noise carried through the wall, and I was jealous that my neighbor could relax and I could not. It was Monday now, 12:09. I kissed her picture and tucked it away.

In a few hours, Vince would take the borrowed plane back to Tulsa. If I met him at the airport, I might be able to figure his role in all this. But my fake job started this morning. That stupid lie ended my tenure at the drop zone. Even though Vince knew the truth, I couldn’t show my face there again until the weekend without drawing suspicion from the others.

The phone call I’d overheard Thursday suggested Craig would be up to something, somewhere, in less than two hours. I suspected he and Trish might have a secret flight planned before the Otter’s return. With its larger cargo capacity, I reasoned, Trish might find it more desirable than the tiny Cessna. She and Craig could shuttle even more stolen kids.

But how many children could they possibly have at any given time? I looked at the clock again. There was time to find out.

I phoned Richard but got no answer. So I pilfered through my dirty laundry—all my clothes were dirty now. I pulled my only pair of jeans and my warmest sweatshirt from the pile and vowed to find a Laundromat tomorrow. When I stepped into my jeans, the cuffs were still folded from my walk on the beach with Vince. A mental picture of him lobbing the ball for Cindy came to mind, and I shook it off.

As I pulled on my socks and shoes, I felt a little relieved Richard hadn’t answered. I was having doubts about including him. He was an ex-cop. I knew he’d involve the police. And I was holding out hope for Vince. I wanted to understand his place in all this before I potentially got him arrested. More importantly, a bust gone wrong would be the last I’d see of Trish and Craig. If they disappeared, so would any chance of ever finding out if my little girl might have survived.

***

At the dirt road leading to the airport, I switched off my headlights. Twice, I veered into grass because it was nearly impossible to see. After passing two small metal shacks, I eased behind a larger one. When I was sure my car couldn’t be seen from the road, I put it in park and killed the ignition. The silence that enveloped my car was so unnerving I locked my doors.

I peered through my windows. The metal surface of a neglected shack was straight ahead. It was faded and partially rusted, but I knew that from memory only; it was too dark to see those details now. I checked my rearview mirror and the driver and passenger windows and found the same thing everywhere: black.

My GPS watch was strapped to my wrist, my cell phone was set to vibrate, and this time I’d remembered a flashlight. A car passed on the highway and faded into silence. The crickets were calling again, probably warning me to go home.

I stepped from the car and carefully shut my door before leaning on the car to call the motel. Jeannie wasn’t back in her room yet. Or, more likely, she was back in her room, but not alone. The voicemail system prompted for a message.

“I’m at the drop zone,” I whispered. “Thought I should mention it incase the bogey man gets me. Which one did you end up with?”

Then, regretting that I’d come alone, I tried Richard again. Still no answer.

Something howled. I vaguely recalled that coyotes live in Texas and snapped my phone closed.

The moon formed a thin silver crescent, the shape of a fingernail clipping and just as useless. If there were clouds, I couldn’t see them. The road was a straight shot to the hangar, but I was too afraid to risk being seen. So, I pulled my jacket zipper to my chin and turned toward a field I knew was behind me but couldn’t see to save my life.

The flashlight might give me away, so I decided to make my way in the dark using my GPS. Grass was waist high and wet with dew. It brushed my jeans and jacket and made them damp. By my estimation, which was really only a hopeful guess, the hangar was a quarter mile ahead. I changed screens on my watch. It was ten after one.

The crunch of tires on gravel sent me to my hands and knees as headlights swept over the field. Through the grass, I watched a vehicle cruise up the dusty road beyond the out buildings faster than any I’d seen all week. Its brake lights flared when it got to the drop zone hangar. I’d gotten my bearings, but I wasn’t alone. Nor was I sure what to do.

I waited for the car’s lights to turn off before I stood. Mud and vegetation had caked to my palms, and my jeans felt cold on my knees. I continued toward the end of the field.

The overgrowth I’d planned to use for cover ended several hundred feet short of the hangar. Ahead to my left, I could make out its looming shape.

Lights turned on throughout the packing area and office and small strips of illumination escaped from the building’s crevices. The giant metal door on the other side rumbled open. Someone was bringing out the plane.

From my hiding spot in the tall grass, I couldn’t see the back door sliding open, but the landing field behind it become gradually washed in soft yellow light. When the door was fully opened, the air fell eerily silent again.

I crouched and moved forward. When I came to the edge of the grass, about a hundred feet of clearing separated me from the parking lot. I made a run for it.

Another set of headlights swung onto the dirt road behind me.

I didn’t stop running until I reached the far end of the hangar. I rounded the corner and stooped at its base to catch my breath. I peered around the front, and watched a fifteen-foot U-Haul drive around the opposite side of the building, straight to the back. I didn’t think I’d been seen.

When I peeked around the rear, the U-Haul was backing up to the hangar near the picnic table and the Coke machine. It stopped, and two men in coveralls stepped out. One went to the back of the truck and raised its door. I couldn’t see what was inside. The men disappeared into the hangar, and muffled voices carried out into the field.

The only way to see inside the building would be from a position in the landing field, but it was illuminated now. It would be better to get inside the training room and listen through the wall.

I peered around the corner again. Both exterior doors to the training room were closed. The large, enormous one was out of the question. Its smaller, standard counterpart was about thirty feet away.

I took a deep breath and scurried to it. The doorknob was cold in my hand, and when I twisted it, the knob turned. I pulled it open and ducked inside, working hard to control my breathing.

Inside, I stood paralyzed, grasping the knob behind me. A rapid series of beeps startled me.

It was my stupid watch. The GPS satellite signal had been lost inside the metal building and my watch wanted to make sure all the criminals in the next room knew it. I mashed buttons until one silenced the alarm, then I waited. No one came.

I turned on my flashlight and aimed it toward the wall that separated me from them. Garage equipment and rows of stacked plastic chairs cluttered its entire length. The Cessna mock-up where I’d sat with Vince was to my right. A small window in the interior door let in a little light from the room that housed the Otter and, now, those here to use it.

Voices resonated on the other side of the wall in erratic bursts. I inched closer to the door to listen. Then I froze.

Beside me, a training harness swayed almost imperceptibly. Before I could fully register its significance, a powerful arm closed around me from behind and a hand clamped over my mouth so hard my face felt bruised.

“Don’t make a sound,” a man whispered. “For your own good.”

I kicked backward and tried to scream. His grip tightened. I tried to elbow his ribs, but his grip on me was solid. He shuffled me forward, directly toward the wall, and pressed his weight into me until my cheek was flush with a cool, steel beam and I couldn’t move.

He whispered again. “I won’t hurt you, but be quiet. Understand?”

I tried to swallow but my mouth was dry. I stared straight ahead and waited.

He took the flashlight from my hand.

“Quiet,” he repeated. I nodded, aware I was trembling. A tear fell into the space between my cheek and the steel.

He removed his weight from my head, but not my body. I turned and recognized the rat features of Craig Clement. He stared at me with unspoken warning. Then, still leaning heavily into me, he reached one-handed for something I couldn’t see. I feared it was a gun.

Instead he produced some kind of leather wallet and held it in front of my face, pulling it backward slowly until I focused on a headshot of him below the words Federal Bureau of Investigation.

When he released his weight, it was all I could do to keep from collapsing onto the floor.

“I checked you out,” he whispered. “You’ve got nothing to do with NASA.”

“I’ve got nothing to do with any of this—”

He held a finger up.

If Clement was a good guy, who was helping Trish?

He put a hand on each of my shoulders and eased me forward, away from the beam.

“You’ve got more to do with this than you think,” he whispered.

He positioned himself behind me and directed me through the training room.

“I think I know what happened on Lake Erie,” he said.

Before I could speak, he put a hand over my mouth again and shushed me. He maneuvered me around hardware and lumber until we were at the outermost wall of the training room. I could vaguely make out the contours of an overhead gantry in front of us. A row of harnesses hung from it. Clement parted them like curtains and nodded for me to step into the shadows beyond.

“Stay here until I come for you. No matter what.”

“But—”

“No matter
what.
”

When I was hidden, he pointed to the floor, directing me to sit. Then he passed me the flashlight and let the harness hang freely again, closing me in the dark corner. I sat. The cement floor was frigid under my jeans. I listened for more instructions, but none came. All I could see of him were his sneakers, padding away almost silently.

I pressed the Indiglo button on my watch. One twenty-six. Clement was somewhere in the shadows to my right, presumably back at his listening post by the door. How long had he been here? What was going on in the next room? And what did the FBI know about my family’s boat wreck on Lake Erie? I considered creeping over to beg him for answers. Then light spilled into the training room. Clement had opened the door.