Dragged into Darkness (2 page)

Easier said than done, Neal thought, haven’t you been listening?  With no instruments, he didn’t know what was ninety degrees or one hundred and ninety degrees. 

Suddenly, he remembered.  He dived into his flight bag behind his seat.  His hand found what he was looking for and pulled it out.  He switched on the small Global Positioning Unit his wife had bought him.  It was a daft little gadget she had gotten him for Christmas. 
One of those useless things that morons with more money than sense bought from
The Sharper Image
.
  It told you your position on the planet and the direction you were going.

He always insisted on flying using the navigation skills taught to him.  Gadgets could fail but his skills couldn’t.  But Jean always insisted he took it.

“You never know.  You might need it one day,” she said.

Well, Neal would eat his words when he got home.  It wasn’t useless.  He turned onto the zero-nine-zero heading.

After what seemed an age but in actual fact was only a minute, Neal’s angel on the ground spoke.  “Turn onto one-eight-zero.  Cut your engine back to idle.  I’ve got you on a tight circuit.”

The Cessna took the decision out of Neal’s hands.  The engine died.  No second bite at the cherry, he thought.  He had to make this landing count.

Simultaneously, he turned onto his new heading, put the plane into glide descent, pulled the throttle out, leaned the engine off, and switched off the fuel pump but left the electrics on.  He still needed those.  He carried out his emergency procedures as per his training.

The aircraft descended swiftly.  The oppressive weather did its best to knock Neal to the ground even quicker.

The only problem was where was he descending?  He had to be only five hundred feet from the ground but he still didn’t have visual contact.

“On my mark, I want you to turn onto a heading of two-seven-zero.”  The air traffic controller paused. 
“Now.”

Neal turned. 

The plane descended nicely. 
But still no visual contact.
  He peered out of his passenger window.  The runway should be there.  Blackness showed itself to be the only feature.

“We’re nearly home, November two three seven six two.  Turn onto heading three-seven-zero.”

Oh, this had to be joke.  There were no three hundred and seventy-degree circles.  “Stanton, confirm heading?”

“November two three seven six two, you’d better turn or you’ll miss us.”

“But three-seven-zero?  Don’t you mean zero-one-zero?”

“Not if you want to land on runway three-seven,” the controller said agitatedly.  “Now, TURN!”

Was he an idiot?  Had everything he learned been a crock?  This wasn’t the time to argue.  He was less than two hundred feet from the ground and without power.  He could argue geometry later.  He banked the aircraft.

Neal maintained visual contact with the ground but kept glancing at his GPS for confirmation.  The red, three-digit display fed back his direction. 

Three-two-zero, three-three-zero.
  No runway was in sight. 

Three-four-zero, three-five-zero.
  The gap between his ass and the ground was frighteningly close. 

Three-six-zero.
 

Nothing.
 

Three-seven-zero.

Neal couldn’t believe it.  His GPS flashed up the impossible direction.  But as if to compound his disbelief, Stanton appeared.  Three sets of runway lights sparkled before him with a huge ‘37’ constructed from hundreds of bulbs.  Stanton existed.  Runway three-seven existed.

In the confusion, Neal let the impossible heading pass and his GPS indicated zero-one-zero.  He dropped the handheld unit as Stanton’s runway disappeared from view.  He immediately corrected his error and runway three-seven showed him the way home.

“The runway should be right in front of you,” the controller advised.

Neal couldn’t believe it.  One second the airstrip was there, the next it was gone.  It was like he peeked through a crack in a doorway.  If he wasn’t positioned perfectly then he couldn’t see a thing.

He let his questions go and guided the Cessna down.  He set the flaps and made the most perfect landing of his flying career.  The undercarriage kissed the asphalt and the aircraft rolled to a gentle halt.

Although mid-afternoon, it was
pitch
dark.  The storm had seen to that.  But it wasn’t raining.  He hadn’t noticed before.  Immediately after runway three-seven came into view the rain had stopped.  But the darkness stayed and the storm raged—just not overhead.

In the gloom, it was impossible to see the tower, hangers, service buildings and even other aircraft.  Nobody had any lights on.  He could make out silhouettes of objects.  It was like everything was painted the same shade of darkness.

Neal had switched off the electrics before landing.  He didn’t see why he should provide an ignition source for a fire.  He flicked the master switch back on and pressed transmit on the RT.

“Stanton Tower, this is November two three seven six two, down safe and sound thanks to you.”

“Good to hear, November two three seven six two.”

“I’d just like to thank you, man, for your help.”

“No need to thank anyone.  That’s what we’re here for.”

“Can someone come out to assist?  This bird is dead.”

“Sure.”

“Have you got a phone I can use?”

“No, sorry.
 
Doesn’t work.”

“Oh.”  Neal found it hard to believe.  “I know this might sound ungrateful.  Do you have anyone who can fix me up, so I can get out of here?”

“Yeah, I think we can rustle something up.”

Worry trickled through Neal’s veins.  No rescue vehicles were on their way.  He would have thought they would be jumping all over him.  He was planted on an active runway after all.

“Do you know how long it will take?”

“It could take forever.”  The controller’s tone didn’t sound like he was exaggerating.  “Why don’t you stay
awhile.
  We need good pilots to help out around here.”

The recovery vehicles still weren’t coming and Neal knew they never would.

It had started with the Whistler.  He had changed Paul Thompson’s life irrevocably but it was Thompson’s life to do with as he pleased and he was doing just that.  Thompson knelt on the beach waiting for the sun to rise, reflecting on the events of the last two days. 

He had been an award-winning architect.  He had dazzled the world with his visions, made stunning by his use of natural light.  He had been the creator of the Glacier casino, a glass iceberg jutting out of the Nevada desert.  He had been a lot of things but that life was been behind him now.

It all came down to one action.  If he had not left his home Friday night to buy the champagne he would not be on the beach right now.

Thompson had clinched the commission for his latest project.  As a reward, he wanted to select the champagne for the celebration he was planning for his project team.  Back from the presentation, he was glad to be home indulging himself in his favorite activity, watching the sunset.  After four long days in a stuffy boardroom with its bleached complexion from too many fluorescent tubes, he was ready for the natural spectacle.

His beachfront property north of San Francisco, the Conservatory, was aptly designed for watching the sun with its large expanses of glass.  The bay window stretched from one side of the property to the other providing an unhindered panoramic view of the ocean and the sky.  The roof to the room was also glass so he could track the sun’s progress from high in the sky until it melted into the horizon.

Heat radiated down from the sun and he felt his flesh tingle from its touch.  He watched the sun change colors as it dissolved into the blue waters.  He drank slowly from his wineglass in time with the disappearing sun.  He had one more chore before his day was over.

***

Thompson entered Grapevine Wine Importers where he was a regular customer.  He ordered two cases of Moet &
Chandon
for his team and bought a Californian Chardonnay and an Italian Merlot for himself.  He left the store with his two bottles; the champagne would be delivered.  He made his way back to his car, on a side street away from thieves and meter maids.

The whistling was loud.  The Whistler was talented; the music carried easily on the night air.  This was not whistling that could be produced by just anyone.  This was
music
and the whistle was an instrument no different from a flute or piano.  What was startling about the music was that anyone could whistle that well.

The architect recognized the music as either classical or an operatic aria.  He had heard it before but he was unable to put a name to it.  It was not that the sound failed to do justice to the score but that his musical knowledge was lacking.  All those who heard the Whistler broke their conversations to listen to the crystal clear music. 

As beautiful as the music sounded, its menacing nature unnerved the architect.  His every step was shadowed by it.  Every time he changed streets on his journey he saw fewer and fewer people but the music continued to pursue, as did the Whistler.  He looked to locate the Whistler but never found the source of the music.  The music intensified in harmony and clarity with each street, ricocheting off the walls of the imposing buildings like a pinball.  The proximity of the sound closed upon him with every step.  He turned onto the deserted street a little way from the alley where his car stood.  He increased the pace of his walk; the whistling matched it and exceeded it.

The chilling music was on top of Thompson. He felt the expelled air from the Whistler on his neck.  He turned into the alley and looked over his shoulder, frightened.  The instant he turned the whistling stopped and no one was there. 
Where had the minstrel gone?
  He continued to move in the direction of his car while frantically searching for the Whistler.

“Did you like it?” a voice said.

It was a man’s voice.  His speech was calm and level; there seemed to be a smile contained within it.  His tone was relaxing and had a hypnotic quality that put Thompson at ease.  The voice felt like a comforting arm had been placed around him.

Thompson walked slap-bang into a stranger standing in the alley.  He dropped the bag with the bottles of wine in it.  They exploded on the concrete surface between the two men and a stain spread across the paper bag.  Droplets passed through the porous material and a puddle formed under the men’s feet.

“Shit! I’m sorry.  I didn’t see you there.  Are you okay?” Thompson said.

“Did you like it?” the stranger said again, in the same mild manner.

“Excuse me?”

“Did you like the music?”

This guy scared him and his stomach made a complete revolution.  He could not see his face although he stood right in front of him.  Shadows cloaked the stranger’s face in darkness, although moonlight reflected off his Porsche parked further down the alley.  The Whistler was the only obstacle between him and his means of escape.