The Flight Before Christmas Ch. 03

December 24, 2017

I attached the towbar to the Cirrus's nose-gear and pulled the plane, on foot, through the dormant grass to a spot behind the house. It took a surprising amount of effort compared to moving one around on level concrete, but I felt happier when I figured it was likely the last time I'd ever touch it.

I noted a Seward County Sheriff's SUV a quarter mile down the road, and I half expected Farber to come racing in to charge me with tampering with "his" evidence.

Then, I worked on buttoning up the Camaro.

After checking the torque on every single bolt, I installed the filters. I filled the crankcase with the appropriate amount of oil, then added a teaspoon through a smaller funnel into each cylinder via their spark plug holes.

I would've filled the radiator and surge tank with the distilled water, but I was worried it'd freeze overnight considering the forecasted low temperature. I decided I could do that in the morning. The short bursts of energy I'd soon send through the engine to prime the oil wouldn't create much heat, so I wasn't worried about the lack of any coolant.

I connected the cables to the new battery and nervously climbed inside.

"Well, here goes nothing," I said to myself.

The dashboard, futuristic for 1986, lit up and chimed when I turned the key to its second position. I watched the display scroll through diagnostic information. The starter obediently engaged. I cranked the engine in a series of five second bursts and thirty second rests to allow the oil to thoroughly lubricate all the moving parts.

I got goosebumps at the warbling sound of air whistling through the unoccupied spark plug holes. I was almost certain the engine would run on its own, but that'd have to wait because there was no way in hell I would break the promise I'd made with Brenda.

I removed the key from the ignition and put it in my pocket, then placed and torqued the new spark plugs. I attached the cables to them. Lastly, I filled the reservoir with the windshield cleaner. The Camaro was as ready to fire up as I could make her.

As I washed and dried my hands at the utility sink, I heard my phone chime. I pulled it out and unlocked it to read a message from Benny.

Mays has quite an interesting history, but otherwise a solid green light. Call me if you want details.

I dictated my reply verbally via Siri, "Delete all the specifics. Just keep the pass."

Understood, boss. Consider it forgotten.

"I owe you four bottles. Go love on your family. Give them all my sincerest apologies for my intrusion. I hope you all have an absolutely fantastic Christmas, okay?"

Gush much? You know I will, but it's now three bottles of wine and a handle of JD.

My reply was a fist-bump and three thumbs-up emojis.

Yeah, I did gush because I sincerely regretted that I'd placed myself in the middle of his holiday with his family. Benny and his wife adore each other to absolute pieces, and their two little men, aged nine and five, are the very apples of Benny's eye. Even though their parents have been married for more than ten years, they still give off a newlywed vibe.

Benny wasn't only my most trustworthy, talented, and discreet researcher, he was also my best friend.

He'd just confirmed a gift I was planning to offer Brenda could actually be given.

Brenda had taken Stacie into town to do some last-minute shopping, and I took the same opportunity to do my own. A few days earlier, I'd overheard a conversation between Stacie and her mother where the younger had expressed a desire for a particular something from Santa.

I heard Brenda tell her daughter, "Don't get your hopes up, baby, okay? You've been an incredibly good girl, but Santa might not be able to bring it this year."

I wrote a note on a Post-It and stuck it on the refrigerator handle where it'd be noticed. It read, "I'm fetching another part in Lincoln. Remember, I'm making dinner tonight, okay?" with a few smiley faces.

My first stop was at the Amazon Locker to where Stacie's gift had been shipped. I thanked my lucky stars it'd arrived on time. Yeah, it was a little pricey, but it didn't matter.

Next, I stopped at a FedEx shop to print and laminate something. Then I went to a Wal-Mart to snag a few small gift boxes, a roll of wrapping paper, a spool of transparent tape, and some groceries.

I wrapped the gifts in the back of the Enclave, then deposited the excess materials in a waste bin in the parking lot before I headed back. I stopped at a gas station on the way to fill a five-gallon plastic gas can with fresh fuel. The errands required about three hours in total.

The ladies of the house had returned before I did, so it took a little stealth to hide my wrapped parcels under the couch.

I prepared a Christmas Eve dinner which was a particular tradition of my family. I parboiled then grilled bratwursts and served them with caramelized onions, potato salad and coleslaw.

I paired the fare with a Cabernet Sauvignon instead of beer, and poured milk for Stacie. Since Brenda had advised Stacie hadn't eaten brats before, I didn't know how she'd like such a meal, so I'd also prepped an alternative. Brenda and I were surprised she wolfed one down, eschewing the more familiar hot dog.

The three of us played match ends again until Stacie showed her fatigue.

She asked, "Are you sure Santa's reindeer will fly tonight, Mr. Todd? It's snowing."

"I am absolutely confident in Rudolph's nose, kiddo. His sleigh performs even better when it's snowing like this."

"Okay!" Stacie said energetically. "Mommy? Bath and bed?"

"Sure, chigger. Lead the way," her mother answered.

I stroked Brenda's cute little butt softly as she'd taken the first step of the staircase. She looked over her shoulder with a surprised grin but said nothing as she followed her daughter.

Ping.

What on Earth? I thought to myself, hearing my phone chirp. This late? On Christmas Eve?

It was a text from Benny.

Racotlik established as a d/b/a under a company named FDM Insurance. Merry Christmas!

My blood ran a bit faster as I pulled the manila envelope from my bag and extracted the paperwork.

I didn't give a crap it was 8:00pm on Christmas Eve. I dialed the number. It was a twenty-four-hour claims center, right?

I went through the prompts to reach a human. I first sought confirmation of what Agent Tucker had told me, but the lady on the phone steadfastly refused to give me the name of the policy holder, even though I pressed.

"You know what? I should be ashamed of myself for having asked." I paused. "You're one of the few customer service folks who do a good job protecting people's information. That's unfortunately rare these days," I said, buttering the bread a little.

I heard a sigh of released tension through the line. "That's very kind of you, sir, and I appreciate your understanding."

Social engineering is something I personally find distasteful, but I employed my skills in this situation because … well, it was personal.

"Do you think you could … maybe … give me a clue as to the agency which wrote the policy?"

After a few seconds, she said, "Yeah, I suppose I can do that. Give me a second … FDM Insurance, an independent agent located in Spokane, Washington," she replied before offering a telephone number. "In fact, FDM issued the prior policy as well. The same agency has insured it since 2011."

"Thank you, ma'am. I sincerely hope you, and those close to you, have a great Christmas, even though you're working late on Christmas Eve."

"Thank you! You and yours, too."

I shook my head at how easy the score had been. I called the number, hoping for, at least, something more.

"Hello, you've reached FDM Insurance. My office is closed until January sec⁠—"

I hung up.

"Bingo!" I quietly cheered to no one and jotted some notes on my pad of paper.

"What's going on?" Brenda asked as she walked down the stairs.

"A connection," I answered as I withdrew my laptop from my bag and powered it up.

"Going to keep me in the dark?" she asked after a few seconds.

"The insurance. The weird company the FBI guy mentioned? It's a DBA under an insurance agency in Spokane, Washington. It just so happens to be an independent broker for this company, right here," I said, handing her the letter I held.

"Hold on. The policy was written by an agency which owns the plane, but under a sub-company?"

"Exactly. There's something else."

I hit redial and put my phone on speaker.

"Hello, you've reached FDM Insurance. My office is closed until January second, 2018. If you need emergency service, please contact the claims center at⁠—"

I disconnected. She shrugged.

"I recognize the voice. It's the seller's, the guy who called to tell me he'd left the plane's keys with the FBO in Bozeman."

"Wow. That explains how someone has a policy more valuable than the asset. The agent basically wrote it for himself," she said, making the immediate connection.

"But, wait! There's more!" I spoke like a game show host. "The lady I just spoke to said the plane's been insured with them since 2011. It means that, either the FBI guy is wrong, and he's the one who's done all this, or he's somehow involved."

"Well, Agent Tucker said the guy failed his medical. Maybe he simply sold the plane to his agent? You know, mighty nice coincidence when you're planning a scheme and a plane falls in your lap all of a sudden."

"That could very well be."

My laptop had finished booting. I logged in and searched the initials.

"Bingo again!" I quietly screeched. "Oh, holy crap! I remember this! This guy got totally and rightfully screwed by his ex-wife. She was our client! He'd sold their beach house out from underneath her and hid the proceeds when she filed for divorce. During the digging, I found out she was divorcing him because she discovered he was having an affair with her brother's wife!"

"You've got to be joking. That kind of crap happens in real life? I figured it was only the stuff of soap operas. How much money are you talking about?"

"The share his ex got back cost him about a million. Lots of other things happened between him and her brother, too. Two hundred thousand was the commission from that particular investigation."

"But what about the buyer?"

"You know, I'll bet the whole sale was a red herring. I'm guessing he had someone else in his pocket or somehow acted as both. The buyer's voice was different, though. I'm also imagining whoever it is being financed up to his eyeballs on the plane."

"You going to call the FBI guy?"

"Not right now. This can keep until after the holidays. I've disturbed enough people's family time."

"You've also enriched another family's time," she said, smiling, wrapping her arms around me to give me an absolutely delicious kiss.

"You know, I can imagine the guy coming out of his skin right about now," she said.

"Why?"

"Think about it. If you were him, what would you have been doing over the last few days?"

I sat on the couch. Christmas music was playing softly in the background.

"Hmm. Gotta turn on insidious mode," I said.

I twisted a curled finger against my temple and clicked my tongue. My display earned me a chuckle as Brenda sat close to me.

"I guess on that first day, I'd be giddy. I'd be searching the web like crazy for news around the area for mention of a plane crash."

"Right," she said, tucking her hand under my crossed knee to draw it into contact with her thigh.

"I don't know if either the buyer or seller or whatever still had their cellphones, but if so, they saw my call the first night I was here. Besides that? Heck. The Lincoln and Omaha news websites both posted reports with aerial footage later in the evening, but didn't post any specific information that would have identified the craft. The video they included didn't show the tail number, but the next day, they added it in an update. I don't know how fast Google updates its indexes, but I'm sure anyone searching for the tail number would have been able to find it by yesterday."

"With either your calls or the news reports, they'd know you walked away from it unscathed," Brenda added.

I laughed pretty hard. "Don't I wish," I said, rubbing the bridge of my bruised nose.

I continued, "He's probably learned by now that his dastardly scheme failed, and he's maybe wondering how well he covered his tracks or if he's about to be found out. He's lost almost a half million dollars because he'd be an absolute moron to file a claim against the insurance policy now. He'd have to know it would expose him, right?"

"Of course. Given the magnitude of his plan, he's no idiot. He's likely looking for a hidey-hole right now," Brenda agreed.

She picked up the Post-It on which I'd written the name of the shadow company.

"He's arrogant, too," she mused. "I don't think this is pronounced wahn . I think it's pronounced one. Racotlik Won. He claimed victory before the game even started, but no, Racotlik or whoever, definitely lost."

"Huh," I said when I realized there might be yet another interpretation. "Read it backwards."

"Uh … now … kiltocar ?"

"Yeah. Now kill Todd Carlson," I said before I started laughing.

"That's not funny!" she shot back.

"I know it's morbid, but it's funny considering I'm still very much alive!" I said, laughing so hard I had tears coming to my eyes.

"Shush! Keep it down!" Brenda admonished, starting to titter herself, pointing up at the ceiling toward the upstairs where her daughter slept.

As our laughter settled, she pierced me with her gorgeous green eyes. She drew her fingers softly across my cheek, turning my head to face her. Her first kiss was soft, gentle, and a little tentative, the sort that set my hair on fire.

Her next was seeking. Asking. I wished beyond measure that I didn't have stitches because I would have answered with my tongue.

She sighed. "I'm not looking forward to you going back to Texas."

"Come on. It's Christmas Eve. Let's not talk about it right now," I offered, shushing her with another soft kiss. I slid my hand up her thigh, over her hip, and petted her warm denim-clad bottom.

She breathed deeply, nestling her forehead in the crook of my neck as I caressed her butt.

"Are there any final preparations you make so it looks like Santa visited?" I asked because I didn't know how she and Stacie celebrated the special day.

"Yeah. Would you help me bring down the stuff from the attic?"

"Anything you ask."

An invitation to ascend the stairs was new to me. Brenda had hidden away a few gifts in the upstairs attic, not wrapped, which we brought quietly downstairs and deposited near the fireplace adjacent to the tree.

We snuggled, watching the end of The Christmas Story as we munched on the goodies Stacie had sat out for Santa. In addition to two baby carrots, there were several cookies and a heap of "Reindeer Food" which consisted of cereal squares sweetened with peanut butter, chocolate, and powdered sugar. My family called that particular delight "Puppy Chow."

I took the bullet and ate the carrots before I noshed on a cookie and some of the reindeer food.

I noticed Brenda watching me as I fluffed my pillows after she'd shut off the TV at almost 1:00am.

"Hey," she said in a whisper.

"Yeah?"

"You don't need to sleep on the sofa tonight." The twinkle in her eyes made me lose my breath a bit.

I arched my eyebrows when she held out her hand and made beckoning motions with her fingers.

"Oh?" I asked, taking her hand.

She smiled softly. "I think we both could use a little extra closeness tonight. Bring your suitcase."

I did, then we quietly climbed the stairs. She led me to the main bedroom. I chuckled lightly when I noticed the shotgun propped in the corner by a nightstand.

"Uh, Brenda?" I asked, pointing at it.

She grinned and chuckled, too, then said, "You've got nothing to worry about from me."

She stepped to her door and twisted the little toggle in the center of the knob.

"I haven't locked it in more than three years," she whispered.

I nodded my understanding as I sat at the foot of her bed.

She wordlessly began to unbutton her blouse. She shrugged it from her shoulders, displaying a simple black cotton soft-cup brassiere. It was as if time began to slow as she reached behind her back to unclasp it. At first, I thought she was slowly teasing me, but then wondered if it was doubt. Her expression made me wonder if she was self-conscious, but I suppose my smile of anticipation eased her feelings. She slid the straps down her arms.

Of course I noticed it. There was no way I couldn't have. It'd been hidden by the top corner of the cup of her bra. The mark where she'd been stabbed was jagged. It was pink and puckered. I tried to avoid any outward appearance I'd seen it.

Her hand immediately rose and covered it.

"It's hideous, isn't it."

I wanted to argue, but my answer was spoken unfiltered.

"Yes. It is. But not for the reason you're thinking. Yeah, it bothers me. Not because I find it difficult to look at, which I don't, but because it makes me hurt to think of what happened.

"I understand why you want to hide it, but it's part of who you are and a part of who you've become. It's also a part of your little girl down the hall. It's a part of the world I'm happy to have been invited into."

I hoped my words sounded sincere. They were.

"Don't be so sure of yourself," she said cautiously, unbuttoning her jeans and lowering the zipper.

She shimmied her pants over her hips and beyond her calves. With them still around her ankles, she stood before me, beautifully well-formed, exhibiting the physique of an athlete wearing nothing but a pair of matching black cotton panties.

"Good lord. I lied when I said you looked twenty-five. You look more like twenty-one."

"Stop your joking and look!" she hush-yelled in frustration, pointing at the scar on her leg.

It wasn't a wound like the one on her chest. Her thigh had obviously been slashed. What I saw made me wince despite myself. I felt sympathetic pain in the same place on my own leg.

"I wasn't joking," I whispered. "What I see doesn't change what I think about you. You are astonishingly beautiful. Heart, soul, mind, everything about you including your awesome legs, too. Let me tell you about … no. I'll show you."

I pulled my hoodie over my head, followed by the tee-shirt I'd worn underneath it. I turned my back to her.

After a few moments of silence, she stepped closer to me and traced her fingers over a permanent reminder of a moment of sheer reckless stupidity.

"What happened?" she whispered.

"On a dare, I jumped out of my second story bedroom window trying to canon-ball into the backyard pool. A half-inch farther, I'd have been fine, but I managed to hit a rock along the coped edge and it sliced me open. Took twenty-four staples to stitch me up."

"Oh," she said, softly stroking my twenty-year-old wound. "A half inch farther back and you'd have⁠—"

"Yeah. Yours weren't your doing. My scar was my own stupid fault."

I turned and looked at the most beautiful breasts I'd ever seen. Perfectly shaped, perfectly sized, with perfectly dimpled nipples at their crests. She was so incredibly youthful. The only evidence of her age was slight, consisting of a very few grayed hairs at her temples. There was no way in hell I could ever care about such a thing, though, because I was much farther along than she was in that regard. She'd earned the right to bear a little gray given the stress she'd endured.

She reached for and donned a flannel nightshirt on her dresser.