He dropped down out of the sky, passing over the national forest and into the gently rolling hills of populated Ventura County. As he came within visual range of the airport the regional air traffic control passed him off to the local ATC. He entered the landing pattern for Brannigan Airport at 4:43 PM. As was usually the case at this particular field, there were no other planes landing or taking off at the moment and he was cleared right in. With his flaps fully extended, his airspeed at eighty-five knots, Jake pushed the lever that deployed his tricycle landing gear. He heard the brief whine of machinery from beneath and watched in satisfaction as all three gear lights on his panel turned green, indicating they were locked in place. He made his final turn toward the runway and reduced power even more. He came down smoothly and quietly. Since his two propellers turned in opposite directions, there wasn't even any torque to deal with as there would have been in his 172. He flared at the last second and touched down neatly with a slight thump. He retracted the flaps, neutralized the controls, and then taxied to the hanger he'd rented, parking just in front of the doors. He was back on familiar ground, safe and sound after flying alone for more than two thousand miles.
He expected Helen to come out to greet him. She would just be finishing with her last class of the day and she knew he had planned his arrival here to coincide with that. They hadn't seen each other in three days now and she had to be excited about checking out his new plane, if nothing else. But, by the time he got the wheels chocked and his bag removed from the storage compartment, there was no Helen in sight.
With a sigh, he shouldered his bag and started walking toward the collection of classroom buildings behind the main terminal. He was disappointed in her failure to show but not really all that surprised. Helen had not been herself of late. Though things had been a little touchy with her ever since the engine had gone out on the DC-10, her personality had undergone a radical shift from center after Jennifer Johansen was captured in her yard with a gun, a set of handcuffs, four knives, and a blowtorch. He hadn't seen the Helen he'd fallen in love with since that day.
Granted, finding a psycho in one's yard in possession of a gun, restraints, and a pyrogenic cutting tool was something to get a bit upset about. Especially when coupled with the fact that the psycho in question was going to get very little punishment for what she did, mostly because she hadn't been able to actually do it.
Johansen had refused to talk to the sheriff's department detectives or the district attorney's investigators who had interviewed her after her arrest, invoking her Fifth Amendment right to tell them nothing. Even her own lawyer, a veteran public defender appointed by Ventura County, hadn't been able to get anything out of her other than "I wasn't going to kill anyone." This was in response to the news that the DA's office wanted to charge her with attempted murder. At her arraignment hearing, she refused to talk to the judge at all. He ordered a psychiatric assessment of her to determine whether or not she was even sane enough to answer for her actions. She didn't tell the court-appointed shrink much — certainly nothing about her motivations or intentions — but it was enough for him to decide that Johansen suffered from bi-polar disorder and possibly some form of delusional disorder, but not schizophrenia. He pronounced her mentally competent enough to stand trial.
Things never made it that far. The deputy DA assigned to the case and Johansen's public defender put their heads together and took a realistic look at what she could actually be found guilty of. Though it was obvious to any thinking person what her intentions had been — she had planned to hold a gun to Helen long enough to handcuff her and get her into her house and then wrap her up in duct tape and go to work on her with the knives and the blow torch — the fact that she had not actually made it as far as confronting her victim before being caught somewhat limited the charges that could be filed against her. She could not be charged with attempted murder because there was no way to prove that murder was what she intended. She could not be charged with attempted kidnapping for the very same reason. Nor could she be charged with burglary since she had not entered or attempted to enter any of the structures or vehicles on Helen's property.
In the end, the DA's office worked out a deal in which she would plea guilty to carrying a concealed weapon, trespassing, and possession of burglary tools. In exchange for the plea and for agreeing to undergo psychiatric counseling for at least a year, she would do no jail time and would be placed on probation for one year. There was also, of course, the stipulation that she attempt no contact with Helen Brody, Jake Kingsley, or any of their family members or acquaintances. A temporary restraining order that had been granted the day of Johansen's arrest was made permanent and served by the judge himself. It stated in no uncertain terms that if Johansen was found within one hundred yards of Helen, Jake, their properties, or any of their acquaintances, her probation would immediately be revoked and she would do a year in the Ventura County Correctional Center.
"Do you understand?" the judge had asked her after explaining her sentence and the restrictions.
"I understand," she'd mumbled in return, her eyes looking down at the floor.
Later that day she was released from custody and went home a free woman. And Helen's personality had taken yet another dip toward the abyss.
Jake entered the classroom building now, finding it mostly empty and silent. The main classroom was locked tightly. Jake peered through the window and saw that all the chairs had been stacked atop the tables, all the papers and books stowed away, and the only sign of recent habitation was an equation, written on the blackboard in Helen's spiky, feminine script, that dealt with the weight vs. thrust and speed issue of powered flight. Jake went down the hall to Helen's small office. He tried the doorknob and found it locked. The blinds covering the window were pulled tightly down. There was, however, a sliver of light coming from beneath the door. Gently, he knocked on it. There was no answer. He knocked again, a little harder and a little longer this time.
A timid, careful voice drifted out to him. "Who is it?"
"It's me, Helen," he called back. "Jake."
"Okay," came the reply. "Hold on a second." And then... "Are you alone?"
"Yes, Helen," he said. "I'm alone."
"Okay."
He heard footsteps tromping across the ground. He heard the clicking of one then two then three locks being disengaged. The door slowly opened revealing Helen. She was standing back as far as she could while still being able to touch the door. She was dressed in her normal garb of jeans and a T-shirt. The T-shirt in question was very long on her, covering several inches of her waist. Her right hand rested beneath the shirt on the right waistband. Jake knew she had a SIG-Sauer 9mm concealed in a holster there. Since Johansen had been released from jail, she carried the gun with her everywhere and spent half of any given day with her hand resting on the butt of it.
"I'm alone, Helen," he told her again. "No need to draw down on me."
Eventually, she relaxed. A little. She took her hand off the gun and stepped back to let him into the office. "Hi, Jake," she said softly. "How was the flight?"
"It was good," he said. "The plane flies like a dream." He stepped forward to give her a hug. She stiffened a little at first and then put her arms around him and hugged back. It was a perfunctory embrace at best, followed up by a sterile, perfunctory kiss on the lips that lasted less than two seconds.
"I missed you," she said, though she didn't sound like she really had.
"I missed you too," he told her. "It would've been nice if you'd been with me."