Chapter 5
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Houston
Flint pulled into the private airfield in the darkness. The sky was still black overhead, only the faintest hint of gray beginning to show in the east. The Gulfstream sat on the tarmac, gleaming white under the lights. Drake was already there, conducting his pre-flight inspection.
“Morning,” Drake called out as Flint approached, not looking up from the engine housing he was examining. “Coffee’s in the cockpit. You look like you could use a gallon or two.”
“You got that right.” Flint climbed the steps into the cabin carrying a leather briefcase stuffed with files.
The interior was configured for work. Two facing seats with a table between them, plus a small galley and communications setup. He set the briefcase on the table next to a thermal carafe of strong black coffee.
Drake finished the inspection and joined Flint a few minutes later, settling into the pilot’s seat. “Kentucky? Mind telling me why we’re flying to the armpit of America before the sun comes up?”
“Client meeting last night. Jason Fisher.”
Drake’s hands paused over the instrument panel. “Jason Fisher as in Onyx? The tech guy?”
“That’s the one.”
“Christ, Flint. What’d you do, cure his mother’s cancer?”
Flint didn’t have the energy to laugh after he’d stayed up most of the night. “Fisher’s siblings died twenty-some years ago. He thinks they’re still alive and wants me to find them.”
Drake finished the pre-flight checklist and started the engines. The Gulfstream’s twin turbofans spooled up with a familiar whine.
“Ground, this is November-Seven-Four-Delta-Fox requesting taxi for departure,” Drake said into his headset. He listened for a moment, then nodded. “Roger, ground. Taxi to runway two-seven via Alpha.”
The aircraft began moving toward the runway. A few minutes later, Drake switched frequencies.
“Tower, November-Seven-Four-Delta-Fox ready for departure on two-seven.”
Another pause as he listened to the controller.
“Roger, tower. Four-Delta-Fox cleared for takeoff.”
Flint opened his briefcase and pulled out the first folder from Fisher’s collection.
“All those years,” Drake said to Flint over the headsets once they were airborne and climbing. “That’s a long time to wait for justice.”
“He was seventeen when it happened. Probably took him this long to get rich enough to afford answers.”
Drake nodded. “Or to get powerful enough to survive after asking the wrong questions.”
Flint looked up from the police report he was reading. Drake had a point. Flint’s clients only came to him after they had exhausted other options. Or when they needed an expendable asset.
“Tell me about the case,” Drake said.
Flint leaned back in his seat. “Rural Kentucky. House fire destroyed the Fisher family home. Three children and their babysitter presumed dead. No bodies recovered.”
“No bone fragments or dental remains? Nothing at all?”
Flint shook his head. “Fire department said the heat was intense enough to destroy everything.”
“Bullshit,” Drake replied. “We’ve seen lots of forensic evidence from all kinds of fires. Something always survives, even after a fire that burns hot and uncontained for hours. Certainly not a normal fire.”
“That was my reaction too.” Flint stretched his neck, which had kinked during his all-nighter studying Fisher’s files. “If there were actually no remains, this fire was arson. Some accelerants will burn hotter and destroy most evidence.”
“Yeah, but even cremated bodies, which are burned at very high temperatures under well controlled circumstances, don’t actually turn to unidentifiable ash,” Drake replied.
“Can’t argue with that,” Flint said while covering his mouth to yawn. He swallowed the last of the coffee in his cup and poured another.
Drake checked the flight pattern as the autopilot banked the aircraft to the right, following the flight path toward Kentucky. “Who were the victims?”
Flint consulted his notes. “Dylan and Kevin Fisher, three-year-old twins. Maureen Fisher, eight months old. Elizabeth Pace, sixteen years old. The babysitter.”
“That’s tough,” Drake said, shaking his head. “What about the rest of the family?”
“Parents Harry and Vivian Fisher. Two older sons, Bruce and Jason. They were at a basketball game in town when the fire started.”
“Conveniently out of danger, or was that also planned?” Drake asked. “Were they establishing an alibi?”
“The parents and older boys were already gone when the fire started.” Flint leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “The younger kids and babysitter weren’t supposed to be there either, but the twins had colds, so the parents wanted them to stay home. Last-minute change of plans.”
Drake was quiet for several minutes. Through the cockpit windows, the sun was beginning to rise, painting the clouds below them in shades of orange and pink.
“What’s the family situation now?” Drake asked.
“Father died ten years ago. Natural causes, according to the records. Mother still lives in Kentucky. Same property. Rebuilt the house exactly as it was.”
“Because that’s not morbid at all,” Drake said sardonically.
“One surviving brother, Bruce Fisher, lives in California. Software engineer. Keeps to himself.” Flint yawned again.
“Our client, Jason, became absurdly rich. Tech, defense contracts, AI development. Forbes says he’s the number two wealthiest man in the world, behind Elon Musk. Hundreds of billions.”
Drake whistled softly.
Flint returned to discussing the police report. “The investigation was perfunctory at best. Fire department arrived seven hours after the blaze started. No arson investigation to speak of. No follow-up on the missing bodies. Case closed within a week.”
“Wow,” Drake said, as if he couldn’t come up with anything better.
“Look at these.” Flint held up two photographs. The ATM surveillance image Fisher had shown him and the altered childhood photo.
“That’s the same person.”
“One of the twins. Dylan or Kevin Fisher,” Flint said. “This surveillance photo was taken six weeks ago.”
“Which means either the fire investigation was completely wrong, or someone’s been living under a false identity all these years.”
“Or both.”
Below them, the landscape was shifting from Texas plains to the rolling hills of Arkansas.
“What do you know about the babysitter?” Drake asked.
Flint opened another folder. “Elizabeth Pace. Lizzy. Junior at the local high school. Average student. No behavioral problems. Worked part-time at her uncle’s gas station.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Nothing in the files. She was quiet. Unremarkable. The kind of kid who slips through the cracks.”
“Which she literally did.”
“Exactly.” Flint nodded. “Her disappearance was barely investigated. Parents filed a missing person report, but law enforcement across the country was overwhelmed. Locals assumed she died in the fire with the Fisher kids. Mostly because, by all accounts, she was a great babysitter. They figured Lizzy would never have left the kids alone.”
Drake was quiet for a long moment. “If three kids and a teenager survived that fire, where have they been all these years?”
“That’s what we’re being paid to find out.”
“And if they didn’t survive? Or if someone used the fire as a distraction and simply grabbed them up?”
Flint had been thinking the same thing. “Then Jason Fisher is paying us to find the four bodies and the people who put them in the ground.”
“Either way, we’re walking into something that’s been buried for two decades. Who has enough power and wherewithal to cover up four deaths and make them stay covered?”
“That’s a good place to start.”
“The kind of people who kill to keep secrets don’t usually develop a conscience after more than twenty years,” Drake said dryly.
“Agreed.”
Drake checked their position on the GPS display. “ETA Keeneland Regional Airport in thirty minutes. After we land, where do we start?”
Flint looked out the window at the Kentucky hills beginning to appear below them. “The crime scene. Always start with the facts.”
“The house literally burned to ashes and the kids are long gone. What evidence could possibly still be there?”
“We won’t find much at the house, I’m sure,” Flint agreed. “We need to get a firm understanding of the setting, at least. After that, someone knows what happened that night. Someone always knows.”
Drake began their descent toward Keeneland, just outside of Lexington, Kentucky. The morning sun was fully up now, burning off the mist that clung to the rolling pastures dotted with rolling hills and white fences, as far as the eye could see.
As they dropped below the clouds headed for landing, Drake asked, “Why now? Jason Fisher’s had money for years. Why hire you now instead of five years ago?”
“He says he just found the video. And he’s developed a new facial recognition software capable of matching the video to the old photos,” Flint replied.
“You believe that?”
The Gulfstream’s wheels touched down on the Kentucky runway with a gentle bump. They were here. In the heart of Bluegrass country, where old money and older secrets ran as deep as the limestone caves beneath the rolling pastures.
Flint shrugged. “Until we have contrary intel, we’ll work with what we’ve got.”