Corrector Page 3

  There were other pistols, and a half dozen rifles and two shotguns, as well as an assortment of knives to choose from. Nothing in the safe was registered to him. He had a permit for the suppressor, or at least one like it. That one was up in his other safe. This one was off the books, but was identical except for the serial number.

  “Just the two,” he muttered softly to himself having decided a long gun wouldn’t be needed this time, and let the door swing closed. Then he latched it closed and moved the heavy toolbox back into place to help hide the opening.

  He walked to the Toyota, and placed the pistols into the small carrying case in the trunk. Everything else he needed was already in the car, including one of his fake ID kits in the glove box. He climbed in and started the engine, then backed the car out into the open air where he gave it a moment to warm up while he thought through his intended actions. After several minutes, he pressed the remote control for the automatic door to close up the garage, then pressed his foot down on the accelerator, turning away from his house and headed for the freeway that would take him to the airport.

  The drive to the airport only took fifteen minutes. His plane, a very nice Cessna Corvalis TTX, was parked at an FBO (Fixed Base Operator) on the eastern edge of the Reno-Tahoe International Airport. He was well known to the staff there, and flew at least once a month. Learning to fly and buying the plane had become a necessity when he’d decided a few years ago to pursue these kinds of matters by himself. He needed to cover large distances, sometimes quickly, and he couldn’t travel commercially with the kinds of weapons he needed to bring along. The private plane had been the obvious solution.

  “Local, or a bit further?” Ted asked when Jake walked through the entrance to the small business on his way to the parking area where the planes were kept.

  “A bit further today,” Jake admitted. “Thought I’d fly down to Vegas for a couple of days.”

  Ted grinned. “I wish I could come with you, but some of us have to work.” Jake’s semi-retired status was well known among the small group that worked at the airfield.

  Jake waved as he continued through the small building, carrying the small case that contained the pistol and the single bag with spare clothes and other necessities. He walked onto the blacktop and turned to the right where his Cessna was kept. Once there he used his key to open the storage area, and placed the items inside, the case latching in place to a special pre-fitted restraint he’d built in some time earlier.

  After a careful preflight inspection of the aircraft, Jake strapped in and set one of his radios to the clearance delivery frequency.

  “Reno clearance delivery Cessna seven three three six November,” Jake broadcast.

  “Cessna seven three three six November, clearance delivery,” was the response.

  “Cessna seven three three six November requests IFR (Instrument Flight Rules ) clearance to Las Vegas McCarran.”

  “Cessna three six November, clearance on request. Advise when ready to copy.”

  “Cessna three six November is ready to copy,” Jake said.

  “Cessna seven three three six November is cleared as filed to Las Vegas McCarran via left turn after departure to heading zero nine zero, intercept victor one zero five, climb and maintain one two thousand. Expect one seven thousand ten minutes after departure. Squawk 4130, departure frequency one one nine point two.”

  Jake wrote the clearance on his knee pad in shorthand, and then pushed the mike button on the side of the stick controller and responded.

  “Cessna seven three three six November is cleared as filed to Las Vegas McCarran via left turn after departure to heading zero nine zero, intercept victor one zero five, climb and maintain one two thousand. Expect one seven thousand ten minutes after departure, squawk 4130, departure frequency one one nine point two,” Jake said as he finished repeating back the instructions.

  “Cessna three six November read back correct,” came back to him from the air traffic controller.

  “Three six November,” Jake acknowledged.

  Jake quickly programmed his route into the Garmin 1000 navigational system and then started his engine. While the engine was warming up he listened to the current recorded airport information and then switched to the ground control frequency.

  “Reno ground, Cessna seven three three six November at Oasis, IFR to Las Vegas, taxi for take off with information Lima,’ he said into his mike.

  “Cessna three six November taxi to one six left via taxiway Charlie,” the controller instructed.

  “One six left via Charlie, three six November,” Jake repeated the clearance.

  He turned right onto the designated taxiway and proceeded to the run-up area adjacent to runway 16L. There he performed his final pre-takeoff checklist and engine runup. Satisfied that all was in order, he contacted the control tower.

  “Reno tower, Cessna seven three three six November is ready for IFR release.”

  The tower responded, “Three six November is cleared for takeoff, one six left. Maintain runway heading through five thousand five hundred.”

  “Cleared for takeoff, one six left, maintain runway heading through five thousand five hundred, three six November,” Jake replied.

  Jake taxied onto the runway, turned the plane to align it with the centerline and applied the brakes with both feet. With his left hand on the side stick, he slowly pushed the throttle forward with his right hand allowing the turbo charger to spool up to maximum takeoff power. After a final engine instrument check, he released the brakes and began his takeoff roll. Seven seconds later he passed through 70 knots airspeed and eased the stick back to rotate. Climbing through 100 feet and 110 knots he felt increased acceleration as he retracted the flaps. Easing the nose up slightly, he reduced to climb power to maintain a constant 130 knot cruise climb and then adjusted the trim for hands off flight.

  “Three six November, contact departure,” the tower controller called.

  “Switching to departure, three six November,” Jake replied.

  He switched to the departure control frequency and pushed the mic button on the side stick.

  “Reno departure, Cesna seven three three six November is with you climbing through six thousand for one two thousand,” Jake said.

  “Three six November radar contact,” Reno departure informed him.

  Three minutes later Jake Reno departure called him again. “Three six November contact Oakland center, one two five point seven five.”

  “Roger, one two five point seven five, three six November,” Jake confirmed back to them.

  Once again Jake adjusted his frequency and then broadcast on the new frequency, “Oakland center, Cessna seven three three six November out of one one thousand for one two thousand.”

  “Cessna three six November climb and maintain one seven thousand,” he received back.

  “Roger, three six November out of eleven five for one seven thousand.”

  Finally freed from the immediate task of communicating with the controllers, Jake was able to enjoy the scenery. The flight was an uneventful hour and forty minutes as the spectacular scenery of snow capped mountains and desert plains passed below. In the back of his mind was the constant challenge to watch for where he might put down in the event of engine trouble, something always in the back of the mind of pilots of single engine aircraft.

  Jake flew directly to Las Vegas, landing at McCarran International Airport and parking at an FBO that he had used several times in the past. By flying IFR his flight would be a matter of record. That was fine with him. He wanted it known he went to Vegas. He made arrangements to park his plane for several days, telling the man at the desk that he would be flying around and exploring the area and might not actually park his plane here every night, but was willing to pay for the slot to ensure flexibility. After these arrangements were made, it was a simple task to arrange for a taxi, and within a few minutes he was on his way onto the strip toward the Monte Carlo Casino.

  Once checked in at the M
onte Carlo, a casino he liked because of its location on the Strip and its less frenzied atmosphere, he went up to the room and deposited the travel bag and set up his personal items in the bathroom. Then he rumpled the bed. It didn’t really matter. Vegas was an unusual place, and no one thought anything of a room that went unused here. It was assumed that the occupant was still down on the floor throwing away his money, or had made some other connection and was spending the night elsewhere. He had paid for three nights, and no one would care if he slept here any of the nights or not. All of this maneuvering was probably unnecessary, but he could afford it and a couple of events in the past had made him cautious about covering his trail. Anyone who made a cursory check on him would find he had gone where he’d told the agent in Reno, and had a room here for the duration. More care would be required to discover he hadn’t been in town the full time.

  Satisfied that everything was in order, he stepped out of the door into the hallway and made his way back downstairs, where he caught another taxi back to the airport. The same man was at the desk, and Jake explained he was now checked in to his hotel and wanted to explore the area, he headed out to his plane. A short time later he was back in the air, continuing on his journey toward Arizona.

  For this leg of the journey he flew VFR (Visual Flight Rules) and stayed below the 18,000 foot limit. This meant there was no official record of his flight and there would be no way to tell he had come this way. He landed at Pleasant Valley, an unmanned airport in Peoria just north of Phoenix and not too far from Scottsdale. He could park his plane here in transient parking and no one would ever know. He called for a taxi, and had the driver drop him at one of the car rental agencies. Using fake ID, he rented a vehicle, then drove to the hotel he’d selected and checked in for two nights.

  Jake used the next day to scout the area. He drove around the High School and the part of town where the killer lived. By late in the day he knew the area as well as could be hoped, including several routes he could take to get back to the car rental agency. He also knew exactly where the killer lived. That information and the man’s schedule from the television and Internet reports gave him everything he needed. Jake returned to the hotel, parked the rental car where it would be readily accessible, and headed to his room for the night.

  He was up at the first hint of light the next morning. He showered, then arranged for room service. After he was finished he made a point of wiping down surfaces in the room and wiping down the shower. He knew that room service would follow up as well, making it difficult to find any DNA traces on him. If anyone actually showed enough interest in him to check such things, he knew he had problems regardless of his precautions. Still, he was nervous enough about it that he made a point of being careful. Then he drove toward the house of the killer and parked a block and a half away.

  Jake had colored his hair with a washable dye, and had padded his cheeks so he didn’t look like himself. He also wore a Suns baseball cap to help block his face. He walked quickly, but quietly toward the house, then slipped down the driveway toward the back of the residence. The news had made it clear that the home was an older dwelling, and not well maintained. As expected, the locks were old as well, and while Jake was equipped to defeat most common locks, he found it wasn’t necessary. The back door was unlocked and he could enter without needing to apply his skill. Moments later he was in the kitchen, listening carefully for any sounds of movement inside the house. Nothing.

  The news had indicated that the mother-in-law lived in the only bedroom on the first floor, while the killer and his wife slept in the large bedroom at the top of the stairs. According to the news, the man had killed the mother-in-law first, when she had risen and come to join the man for breakfast. Then he’d gone upstairs and killed the wife who had apparently heard the sound of the shots that had killed her mother. That meant Watkins would be the first to come into the kitchen. Jake couldn’t know the timing any better than that.

  He made a cursory check of the dining area and the living room to assure himself that no one was up and moving around, then sat on the edge of one of the hard wood chairs and waited. Ten minutes later he could hear footsteps coming down the stairs. The man stopped at the hall closet and rummaged around, then closed the closet door and stepped into the kitchen. He had a small short barreled handgun stuck in his belt and carried a large daypack in one hand and a Ruger rifle casually in the other. The guns were one sign that the killing spree that Jake remembered was about to begin.

  The man’s weaponry didn’t matter. Jake had heard his activities as he’d searched the closet and was waiting with his own pistol, the silenced 9mm Sig, drawn and ready when the young killer stepped through the door. Jake recognized him from the broadcast photos immediately. Even as the man’s eyes widened at seeing Jake standing there, Jake placed three rounds into his chest, then followed those up with one to the back of the head after the man collapsed in a heap on the floor. The four sharp “claps” from the Sig were surprisingly loud inside the quiet house despite the presence of the suppressor, and Jake knew he’d probably earned the attention of the mother-in-law, who should have already been awake.

  Quickly he checked the dead man for a pulse and policed up the spent brass that had clattered off the wall to his right. Then he turned and exited the back door, and hurried down the driveway, his gun secured in the shoulder rig that hid the pistol with its silencer. Outside of the house the sound would have been muted and unrecognizable, so none of the neighbors should be paying particular attention. Jake walked at a normal pace as he made his way back to the rental car, then drove away, taking streets heading away from the house that were opposed to the nearest police station, something he’d scouted out the day before. He stopped at a quiet corner, and placed the handgun in the case, then continued to the rental car return. He retraced his steps of two days ago, taking a cab to the airfield, and was airborne within half an hour.

  As Jake flew back toward Las Vegas, he considered his actions. Once again he was technically a murderer. He’d left little for the police to work with, and odds were small they would find anything that would lead them to him. With no history between himself and the creature he’d killed, it was unlikely any connection were possible. The biggest fingerprint he’d left behind was his plane, but by landing at the unmanned airport there would be little chance of anyone following that lead. Besides, there was no reason for the police to be thinking along those lines. It wasn’t always possible to travel with the plane and leave so little record. Sometimes he had to park at an FBO that recorded the tail number. As Jake saw it, he had little choice. He couldn’t think of a quick way to travel with firearms without using the plane. Several times in the past he’d driven to his targets, but Scottsdale had been a little too far for that to work.

  He’d just killed a man, but that man would have died today anyway. Because of his actions, thirty-two private citizens and two cops would be far better off. It had changed the future, at least a future only he had been aware of. Did it matter? He didn’t know. That future probably hadn’t had time to progress far enough for it to matter. Jake didn’t believe in a preordained future where the consequences of the killings had already propagated far in forward in time. The only future that mattered now was this one. A future in which those people hadn’t died.

  Was he right to take the action he did? Again, he didn’t really know and he was aware he was taking a risk by doing so. But he could clearly recall his own situation back in Afghanistan and how he had escaped a horrible future before he even understood what he could do. Those innocents deserved the same chance he’d had. He wasn’t able to affect all of the horrible events that happened each and every day, but sometimes, something like this got to him, and he was in a position to be able to modify the end result. In those cases, he felt compelled to use his ability to do something. Clearly there were cases where a good man with a weapon could alter the situation in a positive way.

  Now, as always after one of these events, he had to h
ope the police wouldn’t find something he’d overlooked. They wouldn’t know of the massacre he prevented since it never happened for them, and would see the killing of the young man as an unexplained murder that needed to be solved. Jake had to hope they wouldn’t have any luck doing so.

  Chapter 3

  Jake landed back at Vegas just after lunch, parked his plane, and rode back to his hotel room. The weapons remained in the locked compartment of the plane, where he was certain they would be safe enough. There were a number of high dollar planes parked at the FBO, and care was taken that nothing happened to them there. Once back in his room at the Monte Carlo, he called for room service, ate lunch, then headed for the showers to wash the black dye out of his hair and to clean up. He would spend the rest of the day here, as well as the night. He would gamble at the tables, loose some money and establish a line of credit to verify his presence, and make sure he was seen, just in case any questions were ever raised about his visit. He would then return home in the morning, following a flight plan that originated at Vegas and ended at Reno, just as he’d told Ted at his local FBO.

  Before he turned in much later that night, he scanned the news channels on the hotel television. There was nothing at all about Scottsdale or a murder that had taken place there. The death was nothing to warrant national attention. Jake was certain he would be able to find more once he was home and could scan the Internet. The fact Watkins had been found with the weapons would cause the police to look more deeply at his background. They wouldn’t understand why he’d been killed, but they would more than likely have a sense of the kind of plans he’d been making. Most importantly, unlike Jake’s memories, there was no High School massacre flooding the channels. Once again, he had been successful. In the morning he would fly home, put away the weapons, and resume his life. He had already disposed of the brass and the barrel from the Sig. He had a large number of spares and had replaced the one that had been used with a new one, throwing the old one and the brass in separate trash receptacles around town. He had disposed of the magazine as well. He’d read some hard to believe reports of what the police could do with spent bullets and magazines. It was safest to be certain and simply dump them. The items he tossed had been inside fast food bags, so no one was likely to stumble upon them before the local waste management buried them in the desert for him.