In the silence that descended over the desert in the aftermath of the crash, J.R. blinked himself back to reality. Fully aware of what had just occurred, he sat very still, somewhat dazed, but fully conscious as he focused on the various parts of his body that were causing discomfort, trying to determine the extent of his injuries.
He was still strapped in his seat, his body leaning against the starboard bulkhead. His head was resting against the window but was tipped forward so that his face was looking down at his sneakers. His temple was throbbing painfully where it had obviously made contact with the Plexiglas. Moving slowly, he raised his hand to touch the location of the greatest discomfort, and then pulled his fingers away to look for blood. With relief, he saw that there were no lacerations; apparently the source of the pain was merely a bruise. A dull ache in his left side suggested a possible rib injury, but to his astonishment he realized that all of his injuries were minor.
Raising his head, he looked around with wide eyes. Miraculously, the plane had come to rest in an upright position, but was tilted slightly to the right. The small overhead compartments had popped open, and the thin blankets and pillows were scattered about the seats and the aisle. In the cockpit, the pilot was leaning over in his seat holding his head painfully in his hands.
Turning quickly, he looked across the aisle at Betty, who seemed to be struggling to bring herself fully conscious. She groaned, softly, and moved her head slowly on the backrest. The pillow she had been using was lost among the other pillows that littered the floor and the other seats. Like him and Tyler, her right hand moved to her head.
Concern for her spurred him into action. Placing his hands on the arm rests, he shoved himself out of his seat.
�Betty � Ahh!�
He had forgotten to release the seatbelt, and was abruptly yanked back into his seat by the restraint. Pain shot through his injured ribs, and he pressed his hand against his side as he doubled over to wait until the pain eased.
�That was brilliant,� he muttered to himself.
When the pain was reduced to a dull throb, he popped the buckle, stepped into the aisle and knelt beside her on one knee.
�Betty?�
She groaned, softly, and moved her head again on the backrest. She was conscious, but just barely. Her right hand was still pressed to her head, apparently probing an area of discomfort; the other arm was draped across her lap. �J.R.?� she murmured.
�Yeah, it�s me.�
Her brows knitted together in a vivid expression of pain and disorientation.
Anxiously, he grasped her wrist in his hand and squeezed it in an attempt to bring her fully conscious. �Betty, are you all right?�
Her eyes fluttered open, and his worried face slowly came into focus. Reaching forward with her right hand, she gently touched his forehead with her fingertips. �Honey, you have a terrible bruise! Did we crash?�
He managed a worried smile. �Yeah, but we�re all alive. Are you hurt anywhere?�
�My head hurts . . . And my shoulder,� she added, grimacing as her hand moved to her left shoulder.
�We got slammed around quite a bit.� Gently, he brushed her hair away from her forehead with his fingers to check for injuries and found a large contusion over her left eye brow. �You have a pretty good bruise here, too, and a sizeable bump. You might have a mild concussion. Can you move your shoulder?� he asked, turning her attention to her other injury.
She lifted her shoulder as if in a shrug, and moved it back and then forward. �Yes. It hurts, but I don�t think it�s broken or dislocated.�
�We were lucky, given the circumstances,� he told her, casting a glance at Tyler, who had apparently regained his senses. He had unfastened his seatbelt and was moving down the aisle toward them, wiping blood from a laceration on his right cheekbone with his sleeve.
�Is everyone all right?� he asked.
�Yeah, no thanks to you,� J.R. said, rising to his feet to confront him.
Tyler pulled up short, recognizing the hostility in those dark eyes that told him plainly that he was being blamed for the crash. Annoyance replaced the brief twinge of guilt as he pushed aside the reality that he was indeed at fault for keeping the plane in the air until the engine could no longer function. �I did the best I could!� he replied, shortly.
�I heard the engine quit, Tyler. If you had set it down at the other location, we probably would have landed safely. You damn near got us killed! And I�d like to know why!�
�It wasn�t a good place to land,� he reiterated, a statement that sounded as lame as it had the first time he had said it.
J.R. shook his head, ignoring the constant throbbing in his temple. He wasn�t buying it. �It was a perfect place to land, and you know it!�
The two men stood toe to toe in the narrow aisle, glaring at one another. J.R. Jones was not a tall man, but he was known to be a fair scrapper, and Tyler did not wish to tangle with him.
Betty�s hand clutched J.R.�s arm, distracting him from the argument that would surely have grown more heated had she not interrupted. �Please,� she said. �We�re all okay. Let�s just figure out what we�re going to do.�
The two men looked down at her, and Tyler nodded, grateful that the woman had intervened. �That�s a good idea, Mrs. Jones.� He indicated the cooler that was still strapped to the seat near the lavatory. Remarkably, the lid had remained securely in place. �We have the sodas in the cooler to drink, and there is plenty of ice that will melt into water, so we�ll be able to stay hydrated until help comes. We�ll leave the candy bars in the ice, where they won�t melt. There are blankets and pillows in case we have to stay out here overnight.�
�Yes, thanks to you we�ll be here quite some time waiting for help to arrive, won�t we?� J.R. taunted, looking directly into Tyler�s eyes. He gestured toward the front of the plane. �Why don�t you get on the radio right now and tell them that we�re miles from the place they lost radar contact?�
Tyler stared at him, apprehensively. J.R. was not going to let the subject drop; he was going to keep pushing until he discovered the truth, which that would be dangerous for both of them. �I�ve already tried to do that, but the radio was busted in the crash,� he said, looking quickly away to keep his eyes from betraying his lie. He had not checked the radio, and did not know if it was true or not that the radio was destroyed, but he did not want the nosy detective trying to radio for help when his back was turned. He would check it out later, after the goods were hidden, and if it worked he could then claim to have repaired it.
J.R. was shaking his head in disgust, a gesture that made his head hurt even worse. �That�s just great.�
Betty unfastened her seat belt and stood up, gripping the seat back in front of her to steady herself. She had never seen J.R. this angry, so she placed a gently restraining hand on his shoulder to calm him, and rubbed it soothingly. �J.R., honey, let�s just get through this. We�re all right; that�s the important thing.�
He turned toward her and understood that she was trying to deflect an unpleasant altercation. He sighed and nodded. �All right.� The sun, glaring through the windows, was already starting to heat up the interior of the aircraft. �Look, without the air conditioning, it�s going to get hot in here really fast, so I think we should get out of the plane and try to find a shady spot.�
�Sounds like a good idea,� Tyler said. Moving to the rear of the plane, he turned the hatch handle and pushed to open it, but the door refused to budge. He thrust his shoulder against it, trying to force it open.
�What�s wrong?� J.R. asked.
�Door won�t open. The latch must have been damaged in the crash.�
J.R. joined him, and both men slammed their shoulders again it, an effort that caused pain to shoot through J.R.�s injured ribs again, but he stifled the cry of pain that he wanted to make, and moved the hand discretely to his side as he leaned back against the rear bulkhead.
Apparently, his assistance had been sufficient, for the door yielded enough that Tyler could push it open. Since the plane was resting on its belly, the stairs would not lower into their proper position, but it opened enough that they would be able to climb out with no trouble.
J.R. looked through the opening, and felt the hot desert air on his face. Because the plane was tipped to the starboard side, lifting the port side higher, it was a sizeable step down to the ground, but nothing that couldn�t be maneuvered with little difficulty. He moved through the opening, and jumped to the ground. When he landed, he felt a mild stab of pain in his right calf. He had injured the leg while in Hawaii six weeks earlier when he had stepped into a booby trap left by marijuana growers. A long sliver of bamboo had punctured the leg, leaving a nasty wound, and because he had been on the run at the time, infection had set in, causing the injury to heal more slowly than it would have under normal conditions.
Concealing his discomfort from the others, allowing no trace of it to appear on his face, he turned around and reached up for Betty, who was waiting at the hatchway. Trustingly, she allowed him to grip her at the waist with both hands and lower her to the ground.
From the doorway, Tyler said, �I�ll get the cooler and collect a few items that we may be able to use.�
Not even bothering to suppress his annoyance with him, J.R. did not answer. Turning his back on the pilot, he and Betty walked a short distance away from the plane, then turned back toward it, curious to see the damage inflicted by the crash.
The airplane was lying on its belly on the ground, its landing gear either having collapsed or broken away. The fuselage that remained intact was crumpled and dented, and the front windshield had been shattered, probably the source of the cut on Tyler�s face. The propellers were both gone, and one wing was hanging at an odd angle. A trail of debris littered the ground for more than the length of a city block. The luggage compartment had apparently come open as they had somersaulted along the desert floor, for they could see Betty�s red suitcase lying in the sun in the midst of the debris, a bright splash of color amid the sandy brown of the desert soil.
Betty was shaking her head, slowly. �We�re lucky we�re in one piece,� she marveled.
�Yeah,� J.R. agreed. Turning, he scanned the desolate landscape that surrounded them, seeking a place of refuge from the burning sun. They were in a narrow valley, surrounded by shallow, completely barren mountain ranges on all sides. There were no trees or shrubs to provide shade, so he focused on the rocky terrain that surrounded their small basin. There were many hills and ridges nearby that formed the foothills of the mountains, and not far away was small north-facing ridge that cast a narrow ribbon of shade at its base. Not much, but it appeared it was the best they were going to find.
He pointed. �Why don�t you go over there in the shade? I�ll go pick up our luggage.�
With a nod of agreement, Betty walked to the ridge, thankful that she had decided to wear jeans and sneakers that day instead of her usual business attire. When she reached the ridge, she slipped out of the denim vest she wore and tossed it on the ground. Attempting to keep it and her crisp white blouse clean was not a high priority at that moment. With a heavy sigh, she dropped down in the shade and leaned back against the hard rock. Her hand went to her injured shoulder, and she massaged the soreness with her fingers.
Trying to ignore the mildly persistent ache in his leg and the more intense pain in his side, J.R. walked among the debris field and picked up her suitcase. Farther out, he saw his duffel bag lying upside down. He nudged it upright with his sneaker, and picked it up by the nylon handles. Tyler�s suitcase was peeking out from under a piece of the fuselage, almost as if it was hiding. He kicked the fuselage aside, considering the idea of leaving the suitcase for its owner to retrieve on his own. Instead, he bent down and picked up the plain gray suitcase as well, and laden with luggage, he trudged in the hot sun to the ridge, where he joined Betty.
One by one, he placed the luggage in a row in the shade next to the ridge, then, clutching his ribs with his right hand, he sat down beside her.
She noticed his obvious discomfort. �J.R., are you hurt?�
He quickly removed the hand. �I think I may have bruised some ribs.�
She was instantly concerned. �They may be broken.�
�I don�t think so. They don�t hurt that bad, just enough to be annoying.�
�Maybe I�d better take a look,� she offered.
�Oh, I don�t think that�s necessary,� he said.
She smiled, teasingly. �Don�t be so stubborn, or I�ll start calling you Jedediah, like Barnaby does.�
He groaned in response to her torturous threat. �Oh, all right. If you insist . . .�
He pulled the tails of his shirt out of the waistband of his jeans, and unbuttoned it all the way down, then pulled the left side back to expose his ribs.
Trying to ignore the fact that he possessed the most handsome torso of any man she had ever seen, she leaned closer, frowning at the large purple bruise that darkened his tanned skin.
He craned his neck, trying to look. �Well? How does it look?�
�Very angry,� she replied. �You have a bruise the size of an ostrich egg.�
�I�m not surprised. I think I banged it against the armrest during the crash.�
She reached forward with her fingertips, intending to probe the injury, but stopped for fear of causing more damage. �I can�t tell if they�re broken or not,� she told him. �There is no breakage of skin, but I�m afraid to touch it.�
�I appreciate that,� he said. �You�d probably launch me into orbit if you did!�
She leaned back with an amused smile, then watched as he dropped the shirt tail back into place, and fastened one button, electing in the intense heat to leave the shirt open. He rolled up his shirt sleeves to the elbows, and leaned back against the ridge.
They both turned their attention back toward the disabled airplane. Tyler was still inside it, but they could not determine what he was doing. Occasionally, they saw his shadow move past the windows, but the distance was too great to recognize any particular activity.
�Something is up with him,� J.R. said again. �Whatever he�s up to, I�ll lay you odds it�s illegal, and probably has something to do with that other guy, that Jeff guy back at the hangar.�
�You think he sabotaged the plane?� she asked. Her years of marriage to her late husband, private investigator Hal Jones, and her experience in working with Hal�s father, Barnaby, enabled her to quickly pick up on the direction of his thoughts.
�I don�t know, but it�s possible.�
�But why? We�re not carrying anything valuable, nothing that anyone would want. I�m not carrying much cash, and I know you�re not!� She had added the last part for humor, but neither of them smiled, for another thought had come to mind. �Do you think maybe this relates to our case file?�
J.R. nodded, slowly. �I can�t think of any other reason why someone would want to bring the plane down. It�s possible that someone doesn�t want us to arrive in Phoenix, and I�m wondering if that person hired Tyler�s helper to stop us from getting there. You saw how he acted around us. He clearly wanted to get away from us as fast as he could.�
�If this Jeff guy sabotaged the plane, then Tyler is a victim too,� she reminded him. �Why would he fly us so far from the point where we dropped off the radar? You still think it was a deliberate act?�
�I don�t know,� J.R. responded. �I don�t know, but we passed a perfectly suitable landing spot back there, and he chose to ignore it. It�s obvious that he wants to delay our rescue, but I can�t think of a reason why he would want to do that. By doing so, he put his life in danger, too.� He shook his head, slowly, in frustration. �It doesn�t make sense.�
Tyler finally emerged from the plane, and Betty and J.R. fell silent. The pilot briefly looked around for his passengers, and when he spotted them, he made his way toward them, carrying the ice chest.
When he saw the luggage, which included his own suitcase, sitting at the foot of the bluff, he was so startled that he nearly dropped the cooler.
He stared at the contraband suitcase for a moment, then looked at J.R. through slightly narrowed eyes. �Did you open the luggage compartment?�
�No,� he replied. �It must have come open during the crash. The suitcases were scattered on the ground behind the plane, so I picked them up. Why? You sound like you�re accusing me of something.�
�No!� Tyler responded quickly. �I just . . . I wasn�t expecting . . . � He knew he was stumbling over his words in a very incriminating way, so he gave up on trying to offer an explanation for his possessiveness of the suitcase. �That�s great. Thanks,� he said.
�Don�t mention it,� J.R. replied, coolly.
Tyler placed the cooler near the suitcases, and sat down on the other side of it, securing his own three feet of shade. Somehow, he did not feel too welcome sharing space with J.R. and Betty Jones. Discretely, he examined his suitcase, and found that it was badly scuffed, indicative of its fall from the luggage compartment, but fortunately, the latch was securely locked, concealing the contents inside. Casting a wistful gaze at his airplane, he saw the obvious: The plane was lying on the luggage hatch. There was no way J.R. could have opened it. He had just made himself look more suspicious than ever.
Feeling compelled to apologize, he said, �Look, J.R., I�m sorry if I sounded abrupt. I just lost a very expensive airplane, and I had spent a lot of money having it specifically remodeled and equipped to suit the needs of my passengers. I�m just a little overwhelmed by all this.� He lowered his throbbing head into his hand, and rubbed his temple in an attempt to sooth the pain.
J.R. looked at him for a long moment, as if trying to determine the level of sincerity. Finally, he shrugged. �All right, I guess I can understand that. So, what do you think happened?�
Tyler raised his head again, and lifted his shoulders in a bewildered shrug. �I don�t know. We developed an oil leak somewhere ---�
�Didn�t you check the lines before we left?� J.R. asked, but the question sounded taunting.
Tyler fought down a twinge of annoyance. �I always check the lines before a flight. I went over every inch of them yesterday evening, and then scanned them again this morning just to be sure. I never saw any indication of anything wrong.�
�So what do you think caused it?�
�I have no idea. Maybe a bad valve or a loose connection ---�
�Or someone punctured it on purpose?�
Tyler stared at him. The detective was gazing unwaveringly back at him, waiting for an answer. �Why would you say that?�
"You said yourself that you�d checked every inch of it. If there had been a loose connection, you would have noticed it.�
�I would have noticed a punctured line, too!�
�Not if it happened after you had already checked it.�
�Wait a minute. You�re thinking my plane was sabotaged?� His surprise was genuine, a fact that did not escape the detective�s observation.
�It�s a possibility.�
�No, I can�t believe that. Why would anyone want to sabotage my plane? I�ve never had any complaints about my service,� Tyler said, slowly. �I have an excellent reputation among my clients, but even if I didn�t, that�s a pretty extreme way to announce their dissatisfaction!�
�I�m not saying its one of your clients. How well do you know that Jeff guy back at the hangar?�
The abruptness of the question caught Tyler off guard, wondering where this line of questioning was headed. �I�ve known him a couple of years. Why? What are you suggesting?�
�Well, Betty and I were on our way to Phoenix to take Barnaby some very incriminating documents involving a case that�s being tried there. We�re wondering if this crash is tied to that. Maybe someone doesn�t want us to get there with those documents. It could be that they hired Jeff to tamper with the oil line. Did you leave him alone with the plane at any time this morning?�
Tyler�s heart skipped a beat. He had expected J.R. to blame him for the crash, but it appeared he was considering the idea that a connection to one of his own cases could be the ultimate cause. He began to relax. J.R.�s suspicions would be investigated, thereby taking the heat off of him. The only snag was Jeff Whitworth. He was already a nervous person; being questioned by the police could spell doom for both of them. He would have to convince J.R. and the authorities that Jeff was not involved. He thought carefully, giving the illusion that he was carefully considering J.R.�s question. �Well, it�s possible, I suppose, but I can�t really recall. Why do you think it was him?�
�He has easy access to the plane.�
�A lot of people have access to the plane. It�s a busy hangar.�
�Yes, but you said yourself that he had a record,� J.R. reminded him.
Tyler shook his head, wishing he had come up with another explanation for Jeff�s behavior back at the hangar. �Look, we don�t even know if the line was cut. You�re just speculating.�
J.R. nodded. �That�s true. Why don�t we take a look at the oil line? That should take the speculation out of it.�
Tyler stood up, and J.R. followed suit. Together, they walked back to the plane, and Tyler opened the cover on the engine, and the full impact of the severity of their situation struck him hard. Everything inside the compartment was covered with oil that had leaked out. �I can�t believe we stayed in the air as long as we did,� he marveled. �Look at that! There�s oil all over the wiring! A spark would have finished us off!�
A chill shivered down J.R.�s spine at the suggestion that the oil leak could have sparked an explosion that would surely have killed them all. �Do you see a hole in the line anywhere?� he asked, shoving aside those unpleasant thoughts.
Reaching inside, Tyler grasped the oil line at its most accessible point, and turned it in his fingers to reveal the gaping hole.
He stared at it, hardly daring to believe it was true. �That�s been punctured with a knife,� he said at last.
J.R. was watching from over his shoulder, noticing again that Tyler�s surprise was authentic. �I was afraid that might be the case. The question now is who did it?�
Tyler shook his head, slowly, his mind turning over the events of the past few days, when he had set up the deal. Larry Hunt, his former boss, had been very angry that he had struck out on his own and was the most likely suspect, but of course, he couldn�t reveal that to J.R. without incriminating himself. �No, I still can�t believe that Jeff would do anything like this. He and I have been working together for two years.�
�What, exactly, does he do?�
�Well, odd jobs mostly. He helps fuel the plane and keeps air in the tires. Sometimes he helps clean the cabin after a flight. You know, things like that.� He closed the compartment, and turned to face the younger man.
�So, how long do you suppose it will take the authorities to find us?� J.R. asked.
Tyler instantly felt uncomfortable. The question was spoken with a trace of sarcasm that the pilot did not fail to notice. �That�s hard to say. Depends on several factors; how far we traveled, how far off course we are ---�
�What a minute. Are you saying you took us off course, too?� J.R. asked in that same accusatory tone he had used earlier.
�Everything was a mess at the controls, J.R. It was hard to determine anything. The oil leak must have damaged the navigation system. I flew us as straight as I could, but there is a possibility that we�re off course.�
�So you have no idea where we are! It could take days for them to find us!�
�Probably not quite that long, but yeah, we�ll probably be spending the night out here. Look, I gathered up all the blankets and pillows, and left them just inside the door to the plane. I�ll go get them. At the very least, we can use the blankets for shade.�
Eager to get away from the private detective, he turned abruptly and strode back to the door of the aircraft.
J.R. watched through narrowed eyes as Tyler climbed back inside. Shaking his head, he walked back to where Betty waited, and sat down to tell her about the damaged oil line.
In the restaurant of the Phoenix hotel in which he was staying, the distinguished white-haired detective glanced at his watch. It was nearly one thirty. Soon, his daughter in law and his cousin would be arriving at the hotel with the case file and documents regarding the testimony he was giving at trial. The jury had been selected, and testimony would begin the next day, so the judge had adjourned until nine o�clock the next morning, leaving the aging detective with some spare time on his hands. Once Betty and Jedediah arrived, he intended to spend the afternoon reviewing the case file in preparation for the witness stand.
�May I get you another cup of coffee, Mr. Jones?� asked the waiter.
Barnaby looked up and shook his head. �No, thank you. I�ll just finish what I have here.�
The waiter departed, and Barnaby finished his lunch. Picking up his check, he made his way through the maze of tables and chairs to the cashier, where he paid for his meal.
As he passed through the lobby toward the bank of elevators, he heard someone calling his name. Stopping, he turned around, searching for the person. It was the desk clerk. He was waving urgently for Barnaby�s attention, and when he saw that he had acquired it, he held up a telephone.
"Mr. Jones! You have a phone call!�
Barnaby nodded. Perhaps it was Betty or Jedediah calling from the airport. He approached the desk and reached for the phone. �Thank you.� Placing the handset against his ear, he said, �This is Barnaby Jones.�
�Barnaby! I�m glad I was able to reach you.� It was the familiar voice of his friend, Lieutenant John Biddle, and possibly the last voice he expected to hear at that moment. �I must have called half the hotels in Phoenix before I found you!�
�What�s wrong, John? You sound upset.�
Biddle nodded to himself, impressed, as always, with the older man�s perception. �I have some news, Barnaby. Bad news, I�m afraid.� He paused. As a police officer, he had delivered bad news on many, many occasions, but it never got any easier. Especially, when he had to deliver it to a friend.
A frown creased the detective�s brow, understanding by the lieutenant�s reluctance that something serious had occurred. �What is it? Is it Betty? Jedediah?�
�Both, I�m afraid. There�s no easy way to say this. Their plane dropped off radar in the Mojave Desert, about sixty miles west of the Arizona border.�
Barnaby felt his breath catch in his throat, and when he spoke, his voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. �They crashed?�
�Air Traffic Control called us a little while ago to report that a plane originating from Los Angeles was down in the desert. When we checked out the flight schedule, we discovered that it was the one J.R. and Betty had hired to fly to Phoenix.�
Barnaby cleared his throat, trying to eliminate the painful lump that made speaking difficult. �Has anyone been dispatched to the crash site yet?�
�We�ve sent a rescue team by air from Los Angeles.� He gripped the phone between his ear and his shoulder, freeing his arm to glance at the watch on his wrist. �They should be nearing the area in about twenty minutes.�
�Twenty minutes,� Barnaby repeated, slowly. �Any survivors could die of injuries before then. Aren�t there any towns nearby that could assist in the search and rescue?�
�The nearest town is fifty miles away, and it�s so small that its local fire and police forces are ill-equipped to handle this sort of event. They don�t even have a chopper.�
�I�m staying in Room number 627,� Barnaby said, mechanically. �If you hear anything, anything at all, please let me know as soon as you can.�
�I will, Barnaby,� Biddle promised. �Talk to you soon.�
The desk clerk was watching silently as Barnaby slowly returned the handset to its cradle. �Is everything all right, Mr. Jones?�
�No, it isn�t,� he said, absently. �I�ll be in my room this afternoon. Please forward all my calls immediately.� Without another word, he turned and retraced his steps toward the bank of elevators. A few moments later, the elevator doors opened, and he stepped into it, disappearing from the clerk�s view.
GO TO ACT THREE