Chapter 26
The Locke Village patrol car’s radio blared loudly. “Plane down. All available units respond to Stormbreaker Bay. Repeat: Plane down in Stormbreaker Bay.”
Wyatt grabbed his police radio. “On my way.” Doing a U-turn in the middle of the street, he turned his sirens on and sped off along the winding road heading toward the bay, a remote area of the island, accessible via a two-lane dirt track.
By the time he reached the heavily wooded access point, a firetruck and Grady MacDonald’s Easton Harbor patrol car were already on scene.
Wyatt sprang from his car, grabbed his emergency kit from the trunk, and took off at a dead run.
A bolt of lightning flashed overhead. The ground shook and thunder rumbled. He began counting. One…two…three…four…five…six. The lightning was a little more than a mile away.
Halfway down the two-track, the heavy rain gave way to lighter droplets. He cast a furtive glance skyward, letting out a sigh of relief when he noticed the skies were becoming brighter. The ominous storm was starting to move offshore.
Up ahead, at the clearing where a small rocky beach curved along Lake Huron’s shoreline, he noticed Grady and a pair of the island’s firefighters huddled around their equipment.
“Hey!” Wyatt caught up with the trio. “Any survivors?”
“We don’t know yet.” Grady motioned to the tail of the seaplane bobbing in shallow water. “At best, this will be a tricky rescue.”
“We were first on the scene, right after it happened,” a firefighter explained while continuing to assemble his rescue gear. “It must’ve spiraled nose first, in a vertical drop.”
“Not good.”
“Not at all.” Wyatt zipped his rain slicker. “Do you need a hand?”
“Thanks for the offer. We’ll let you know.” Donning life jackets and carrying a small bag of tools, the firefighters waded into Lake Huron and swam out to the wreckage.
Wyatt and Grady remained on standby, ready to render aid in the rescue and recovery. While they waited, they began gathering debris that had washed ashore. Binoculars, a raincoat, hiking boots, and a backpack.
“I see more stuff around the bend,” Grady said. “Let’s split up.”
With Wyatt heading in one direction and Grady taking the other, the men continued collecting items and placing them in the growing pile.
A familiar figure cleared the tree line and strode toward them. Denver Coates, Easton Island Airport’s manager, picked up the pace and jogged across the rocky beach. “I heard about the crash. How’s it going? Any survivors?”
“We don’t know.” Wyatt motioned toward the rescuer who had pried the partially submerged door open with the help of the second firefighter. “It’s not looking good.”
“Before I left my office, I located the tail number and tracked down the plane’s information.” Denver hesitated. “Where it flew out of and who the owner is.”
“Who owns it?”
“Coastal Aviation in Fort Myers, Florida.”
Wyatt made a choking sound. “Are you serious?”
“It made a pit stop at a small airport north of Atlanta to refuel.” Denver swiped at the droplets of rain on his forehead. “I drove over here as soon as I found out where it was from.”
“Coastal Aviation is the flight company Morgan’s ex, Jason, was doing his flight training with,” Wyatt said.
“It is,” Denver confirmed. “The rescuers are coming back.”
The trio solemnly watched as the firefighters waded through the water and returned to shore.
“Hey, Denver.”
“Hello, Ryan. The plane hit hard. I’m guessing there weren’t any survivors.”
“Unfortunately, not. The pilot and passenger, both male, are submerged and still strapped into their seats. I’m not sure if the impact caused their deaths or if they drowned.” He unclipped his life jacket and set it on a nearby boulder. “Could have been a combination of both.”
“We found a backpack in the plane’s interior.” The second firefighter placed it with the other items Grady and Wyatt had gathered. “The nose of the plane pushed up into the cabin, trapping them inside. We’ve called for special equipment to help with the recovery.”
“While we wait, let’s try to confirm their identities.”
Wyatt held his breath, watching as the firefighter unzipped the camo-colored backpack and began removing the contents. Shirts, shoes, jeans, a grooming kit, a cell phone and wallet.
He opened the wallet and removed a pilot’s certificate along with a driver’s license. “Alan Cunningham. This backpack belongs to the pilot.”
Wyatt glanced at the photo identification, confirming it wasn’t Jason. “The other backpack must belong to the passenger.”
Denver took a tentative step. “You want me to check it out?”
“No.” Wyatt shook his head. “I’ll do it, although I’m pretty sure I already know who the passenger was.”
The Locke Village officer knelt next to the gray backpack and unzipped the main compartment.
He found a laptop, mouse, and power cord crammed in alongside a t-shirt, a collared shirt, a pair of jeans, socks, and underwear.
Stashed at the bottom was a Ziploc bag containing a razor, deodorant, and a toothbrush.
He set the items aside and unzipped the second compartment. Inside he found a lightweight raincoat, a Miami Dolphins ball cap, and a pair of sunglasses.
The final compartment, the smallest, contained a cardholder case with credit cards and a driver’s license. Wyatt removed the license from the holder. Jason Greer. “It’s him.”
Ryan, the firefighter, who was also a casual acquaintance of both Grady and Wyatt, dropped to his knees. “You know the seaplane’s passenger?”
“It’s Morgan’s ex-husband who lives in Florida.”
“No kidding. What was he doing flying all the way up here in a storm?”
“We may never find out.” Wyatt’s eyes were drawn to the bulky duffel bag he’d found washed ashore and added to the pile of plane debris. “Or maybe we will.”
Grady followed his gaze. “You want me to see what’s in there?”
“Yeah. If you don’t mind.”
The group of men gathered, watching as Grady untied the bag. He loosened the strings and flipped it over, emptying the contents.
Wyatt watched in horror as the items he was certain Jason Greer had brought with him to end Morgan’s life fell from the bag and onto the ground.