Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

T he Appalachian Mountains rise around us, the storm front rolling in like an advancing armada. Winds buffet the helicopter as we fly over foothills, the treetops thrashing beneath our feet. For long intervals there’s no sign of civilization, nothing but forests.

Over a ridge, we emerge in a valley where the Green Bank radio telescope dwarfs a barn in a grass clearing. Sal once told me that it’s sensitive enough to pick up my cell signal on Jupiter should I visit and call home. Appearing through gaps in trees, the structure appears like a gigantic ghost forged of metal, the three-hundred-foot-wide dish pointed up in a mushroom position.

The summer Sal and I were together in Italy, he’d just begun doing research at Green Bank. I remember he said that telescopes like theirs are time machines detecting gases and stardust from the formation of the universe.

We’re witnessing what’s happening billions of years ago, he’d marvel. We’re watching our own creation, amore.

The ground flows by like a movie fast-forwarding, a scattering of mobile homes, a cemetery, an old train station. As we approach the tiny town of Arbovale, Lucy points out the Red Caboose near the train station. The restaurant is known for its barbecue, and Sal was a regular when visiting. She says that last night he, Marie Rao and another colleague ordered the Monday special of pulled pork platters with coleslaw and tater tots.

Turning on a northeast heading, the elevation rising, Lucy lowers the collective, slowing down. We thread through a notch in the hills, blue and red lights flashing on the other side. Police cars, the flatbed truck block the narrow winding road below. Rescuers in bright orange are gathered around Sal’s blue pickup truck lodged against trees at the verge of a ravine, the sight shaking my composure.

Finding a menu on her heads-up display, Lucy lowers a retractable orange nylon strap. A hundred feet long with two cargo hooks on the end, it’s called a dual point load, she fills me in. I watch the hooks dropping straight down as if she’s fishing for a whale while holding the helicopter steady as the wind pummels us like a heavy surf.

The sun slips in and out of smoky clouds, the helicopter casting a flickering shadow on the ground. The long blades reach out like the arms of a swimmer as Lucy lines up the sight picture from her side window. She positions the bright orange line over Sal’s truck while making small adjustments on the controls. When the cargo hooks are in reach, a loadmaster attaches them to fittings on chains around the axles.

Lucy begins lifting gradually, keeping the dangling truck in her side window as we rise vertically above trees dancing wildly. I take in the damage to the truck’s front end, the hood buckled, the bumper hanging off, when suddenly one of the chains breaks free, the helicopter lurching violently. I look down in dismay at the truck swinging like a pendulum, tugging us out of trim as if we’re having a mechanical failure.

“That’s not good. Somebody screwed up.” Lucy’s voice is surprisingly calm, the truck hanging nose down, swinging and twirling.

It seems to take forever to stabilize, and Lucy moves into position over the flatbed. She sets down the old Chevy while the ground crew in hard hats is at the ready with hands reaching up. Releasing the cargo hooks, Lucy retracts the line and it snakes up, disappearing into the helicopter’s undercarriage like a strand of spaghetti.

We fly away as dark clouds gather, the first drops of rain streaking the windshield. The imaging systems paint the artificial terrain, and radar tracks weather in real time on the cockpit’s multiple displays. I’m seeing a lot of orange and red shades warning of dangerous conditions.

“Looks like you got the truck out of there just in time,” I say to Lucy as the rain gets harder. “I don’t suppose it’s destined for my place.” I know the answer.

“It’s not.”

“I didn’t think so. Are you going to tell me where it’s going?”

“When it’s time for you to know.” The lenses of her computer-assisted glasses are amber in the churning grayness.

“You don’t think I should have a vote or even an opinion?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think, Aunt Kay. And you’re better off not knowing certain things. As is Marino. At least for now. That way if anything leaks, you can’t be blamed. You’ll understand better later, and he’s the one we have to worry about. He’s not going to handle it well.”

“Handle what well?”

“Certain aspects of reality you’re about to get exposed to and can’t talk about with anyone except for those of us involved,” she replies.

“Such as?”

“I just said I can’t talk about it. But you’re perceptive. I won’t need to tell you what you’re seeing.”

Lucy turns the helicopter’s intercom switch to the All position.

“Marino? You holding up?” she asks.

“Jesus effing Christ!” His voice explodes in our headsets. “You trying to kill us?”

“That’s not the goal,” Lucy answers.

“I thought the damn truck was going to slam into the trees and pull us down with it. Or swing up so high it knocked us out of the sky like a wrecking ball.”

“Someone did a bad job with the chains,” she says.

“Damn sabotage,” he decides. “Who attached the one that failed? We need to find out. We could have crashed.”

“That wasn’t going to happen,” Lucy tells him.

“I’m seeing lightning. And I assume you are too.”

“The storm’s reaching us quicker than expected, with a possibility of tornadoes,” she says as if it’s no big deal.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me. We’re going to die in fucking West Virginia.”

“I’ll do my best to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Soon we reach Monterey, where people visit from nearby and far away for the farmers’ markets. A cluster of red metal roofs are a conservation center where scientists work to save endangered species of animals, including ones from Africa, I’ve seen in the news.

“The Brileys are their biggest benefactors.” Lucy gives the place a wide berth, always considerate about not disturbing wildlife.

“So they hunt endangered animals in Africa and hang them on their walls while donating money for their survival?” I reply.

“The way they probably figure it, there’s more to shoot that way.”

“Don’t get me started.” I feel the anger deep inside.

Thunderheads rise blackly, shimmering with lightning as if the gods are warring. The rain is mixed with tiny ice pellets, and at times I can’t see the ground, just the shapes of tree canopies in the billowing gloom. Lucy makes another call on the satellite phone, this time to her investigative partner Tron, asking for confirmation that the landing zone remains unobstructed.

“Because of the trees, I’ll be coming in hot with a tailwind while doing a steep approach,” Lucy explains, and it’s a good thing Marino can’t hear what she’s saying. “It will be hard to keep the tail boom from swinging, and I don’t want anything around us. No cars parked there. Nothing.”

“The LZ is clear.” Tron’s voice sounds in my headset. “Nothing there but puddles. See you in a few.”

A mile from the Oz theme park I can make out the roller-coaster tracks soaring above the foggy horizon. The Witch’s Castle is a gothic silhouette shrouded in gray. As we get closer, the Yellow Brick Road shines through the rainy mist, the turrets of Emerald City a faint etching.

“Look familiar?” Lucy is lowering the collective, reducing power.

“Never seen it from this perspective,” I reply as we thunder low and slow over the entrance.

The front gates are open, the barricades removed to let emergency vehicles through. She eases into a hover as we reach the empty parking lot where I used to leave my car when we visited years ago.

“This is as close as I can get without blowing things around,” Lucy says, the asphalt potholed and cracked, tall weeds whipping in our rotor wash.

We set down harder than usual as she fights the wind. Lightning veins the dark sky above the hulking castle as if the Wicked Witch is throwing a tantrum. The heavens suddenly open, rain drumming the roof. Lucy begins the shutdown, going through her endless lists.

Cutting the engines, she pumps down the rotor brake handle, the blades slowing to a stop. Harnesses off, we open our doors, and I feel the chill and smell ozone. The rain smacks wetly, cold drops pattering on my head as I climb down, stepping on a skid, then the ground. Opening the baggage compartment, Lucy gathers the bright red tiedown straps to secure the main rotor blades.

While I’m helping her, a black Tahoe rolls into the parking lot, stopping close to us. Leaving the engine running, the wipers going, Tron climbs out the driver’s side. Attractive and solidly built, she’s in black tactical clothing and waterproof boots. Her black windbreaker has the Secret Service star on the shoulder, her gun on her hip.

“Welcome to Oz.” She walks up to us, rain dripping from the bill of her baseball cap. She makes a big production of looking under the helicopter. “Just checking that you didn’t land on the Wicked Witch,” she quips as Lucy bends another rotor blade within reach and I slip the nylon cover over the tip.

“The flight from hell,” Marino complains. “You should be glad you weren’t on it.”

“I will be soon enough.” She gives him one of her winning smiles.

We help load our gear into the Tahoe, slamming the tailgate shut. Marino and I settle into the backseat as Tron climbs behind the wheel. Lucy is up front next to her, and she hands back a roll of paper towels.

“Thanks.” Marino tears off sheets, dropping them in my lap, and we pat ourselves dry enough that at least we’re not dripping.

We slowly bump along the Yellow Brick Road, the pavers paint-chipped, some of them missing. The fabled thoroughfare leads to the park’s many attractions, and I remember the festive Lollipop Guild tramcar welcoming guests by song while driving to the rides, shops and other entertainments.

“Still no luck with any personal effects?” I ask Tron. “Has anything at all turned up?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Not even inside his truck?” I ask.

“Rescuers looked through the windows and didn’t see anything inside,” she replies.

“I hope that’s all they’ve done is look,” Marino butts in. “The truck’s not to be opened before we can process it.”

“We got the DNA and fingerprints of the first responders making sure anything found isn’t from them. The doors were locked and stayed locked. Nobody’s opened anything.” Tron leaves out the part that it won’t be us doing the examination.

“What about a picnic basket with wine, olive oil, cheese and such?” I explain that I watched Sal place it in his truck yesterday morning.

“There was no mention of that or anything else, including his phone and laptop,” Tron says, the wipers sweeping rain off the windshield in a monotonous thumping.

The Munchkin carousel is silent and lonely in the deluge, and I remember the statue of the Wicked Witch in her pointed hat. Her eyes would light up red, a recording blasting her shrieking laughter whenever people walked past. She’s dark and silent now, listing to one side, her arms broken and green face smashed as if someone went after her with a baseball bat.

We follow the Yellow Brick Road into the Haunted Forest, passing the ten-foot-tall Tin Man fabricated of steel that’s now dented and spray painted. His oilcan cap and axe are missing. Blighted by a heavy rash of rust, he looks sad and abused, his mouth forever clamped shut. When he’d come to life, his eyes moved side to side as the music started. “ If I only had a heart ,” he seemed to sing.

Next is the Scarecrow hanging from a post as if crucified, his straw and clothing mostly rotted and scattered. Tangles of dead electrical cables are all that’s left of the Cowardly Lion. I can still hear his talking statue wishing for courage, and everything I’m seeing is depressing. I wonder when Ryder Briley was here last to check on his property. It’s shameful that he’d allow the beloved theme park to slip into such disrepair.

“Looks like he wanted the place destroyed after it closed,” I comment.

“Send in the vandals and start collecting insurance payouts,” Tron says. “He writes off this place as a huge loss year after year. It’s more profitable for him than selling it. For one thing, who would want it in this day and age? Especially way out here with hardly anything around it.”

“We’ve had Ryder Briley on our radar for a while,” Lucy explains. “Insurance fraud is one of his specialties.”

“That and getting away with it,” Tron adds.

The Tahoe sloshes over yellow bricks that are muddy and puddled, either side of us crowded with apple trees in bloom, the picnic tables overgrown. Heavy branches seem to grab at us, their pale blossoms driven down by the wind and rain. The small petals stick to the paint and glass, the ground carpeted white.

As we near the Witch’s Castle, five unmarked police SUVs and a van materialize in the mist. Quiet and with lights out, they’re parked in a clearing where two tents have been set up. One is blue and large, the other black and smaller, and they’re some distance apart on the Yellow Brick Road.

Flashes of lightning silhouette the castle, the roller-coaster tracks beyond undulating like a dragon’s back. Thunder cracks and reverberates as if we’re under attack, salvos of rain smacking and flooding the windshield.

“Anybody besides me wondering about the significance of him being abducted on his birthday?” Tron is saying as she parks close to the tents. “I can’t stop thinking about it because it doesn’t strike me as coincidental. I guess it could be. But if not? I’m feeling a lot of hate. Someone had one hell of a point to make.”

“It also implies planning in advance.” Lucy takes off her seat belt. “Sal Giordano didn’t just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and someone grabbed him, dumping him in Oz.”

“Assuming he was targeted, whoever’s responsible would know a lot about him.” I place my briefcase in my lap. “Including that it was his sixtieth birthday yesterday. And that he was on his way to Green Bank. And where he was staying and eating dinner.” I talk about him logically as if he’s someone else. Otherwise, I won’t be able to bear it.

“Considering who we might be dealing with, assume nothing is random,” Lucy says as we climb out of the Tahoe, rainwater drenching my hair and soaking into my clothing. “Everything means something when the perpetrator has incentive and all the time and resources needed.”

“Who are you talking about?” Marino looks peaked from our turbulent ride, standing in the downpour as if it might feel good to him. “You got someone in particular in mind? Because that’s what it’s sounding like.”

“Practically speaking, we need to ask who might be hell-bent on creating chaos right about now.” Lucy opens the back of the SUV.

“I have a feeling I know where you’re going with this,” he replies, all but rolling his eyes. “Despite what you seem to be convinced of, all roads don’t lead to Carrie Grethen.”

“Cause and effect,” Lucy says. “We took out one of her comrades last fall. Now she takes out one of ours.”

“And how would that explain a UAP dumping the body? You think she’s got a flying saucer at her disposal?” Marino’s sarcasm is biting.

“She could.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he exclaims, squinting in the deluge, water running off his big face and shaved head.

“The U.S., Russia, probably the Chinese have been designing and building flying saucers since the fifties.” Lucy pulls out my rain slicker but it’s a little late, and I drape it over an arm. “I can point you to ones now in museums at places like Fort Eustis and Wright-Patterson. Trust me when I tell you that there are all sorts of technologies out there that the general public knows nothing about.”

“So, you’re saying that all the weird shit people have been seeing forever, the UFOs, the UAPs, the Tic Tacs, the jellyfish are secret human-made technologies,” Marino says.

“Not all of them,” she replies as Tron lifts out the cardboard box full of containment body pouches.

“The chopper’s okay sitting out in this? What if it hails?” Marino carries our Pelican cases.

“It wouldn’t be ideal.” Lucy leads the way, the rain splashing and sizzling on yellow bricks.