Missing Without A Trace: A Kelly Mitchell Mystery

By Charles Schiman

Kelly Mitchell is a young woman pilot, in her mid-twenties, who runs her own air charter company. Sheriff Hank Wallace, whom Kelly has known since she was a child, hires her to fly him to the Poverty Island Research Station. Poverty Island is a small, rocky, forest-covered island located at the northern end of a landlocked freshwater lake, accessible only by air. There has been some sort of accident there and the men manning the station were able to make a single distress call before going off the air. Kelly and the sheriff find the station deserted and the men missing. Packed with action, this story grips your attention right from the start. Our heroine finds herself in over here head as, against all odds, she ends up opposing a powerful group of heavily armed personnel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Schiman
• Release date: May 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463225004

Charles Schiman

About the Author/ArtistI am currently disabled with Lewy Body dementia. It is a brain disease, like Alzheimers, although in the case of Lewy Body Dementia, the memory is not being destroyed but the brain cells in the frontal and temporal lobes of the brain slowly stop functioning. The neurons, which process thought and access memory shut down, go dormant. They create gaps in the pathways the neurons use to transmit data; sort of like a short circuit in a wiring harness, where the wires start breaking or the relays quit working. Much of the brain's messages to coordinate with other centers of the body become distorted and impaired. There is no cure for this disease nor is there treatment for it; other than to ease the outward symptoms of the disease.I have drawn and painted since I was a child, and in school I loved to write stories. As the disease progressed my artistic abilities seemed unaffected by the dementia. In fact, I got better at drawing and painting, even as I lost the ability to write, do math and speak fluently. In 2013, after I was diagnosed with having Lewy Body Dementia at the Mayo Clinic, I started drawing a web comic (self publishing it independently on the web, on February 28th, 2014), and called it "The Year Everything Changed." It's a serial-type story, sort of like Alice-through-the-looking-glass coupled with parallel dimensions. (I stopped writing/drawing 'The Year Everything Changed' and closed down the comic's website toward the end of February, 2019). In 2017, I started trying to rewrite an old story of mine, unpublished, first written back before there were things like cell phones and laptop computers. "Missing Without A Trace" was the result.

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Missing without a trace

Copyright 2018 Charles Schiman

Published by Charles Schiman at Smashwords

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CHAPTER ONE

I was just finishing the engine overhaul for O'Bannon's Cessna when the telephone rang. I wiped the grease and oil from my hands and walked across the hangar to the wall phone. I wasn't in any hurry to answer it. Most everyone knew that Cooper Air Charter was a one-person operation. If they hung up before I got to the phone, they could call back--if it was important. If they didn't call back, that was all right, too. At the moment, I had all the repair and charter work I could handle.

But I hadn't gotten the contract. Fortunately for me, the other air charter outfit--Jack Piper; Piper Air--didn't have enough planes or mechanics to handle all of the area's air charter work and do all the county work at the same time. So even though I didn't get the contract, Cooper Air Charter picked up enough of the overflow to keep it--and me--solvent and in business.

Cooper Air Charter, I said into the receiver. Kelly Mitchell speaking.

Hello, Kelly--How's it going? a voice said. The voice was a raspy tenor.

Hey, Hank, I replied, recognizing his voice. Hank's been sheriff since before I can remember. He is also a family friend. He loaned my father the money that was needed to start Cooper Air back before I was born. It's going great over here. Just finished another engine overhaul. Money in the bank.

Whose engine this time?

O'Bannon's Cessna.

Hank laughed. Ha! I should have known it would be his. He paused and then added, He's interested in you, Kelly.

He knows that I do good work, I retorted. Hank had been kidding me lately about the number of excuses O'Bannon seemed to find to come over to the Cooper Air hangar. In fact, I was pretty much doing all his repair and maintenance work--both on his plane and his newest four-wheel drive truck. So, what's the reason for your call? I asked. Then I added, Besides offering commentary on the motives of some of my customers.

Can you have the amphibian warmed up and ready to go by the time I get out there?

Sure, I replied. The amphibian is Cooper Air's only aircraft. It's an old Grumman Goose; a six to ten passenger plus cargo, twin-engine boat-hull amphibian. In the years before we purchased it, the Goose had passed through the hands of quite a few owners and had operated in various parts of the country. During that time, it had been modernized with engines with higher horsepower and the fuselage's side windows had been enlarged. The interior had been refurbished and the cockpit instruments updated with modern equipment.

When I had taken over the business from my father, there had been three floatplanes and the amphibian in the Cooper Air stable and a recession sweeping through our region of the country. I had sold the three floatplanes and rode out the recession operating with only the old amphibian. The mechanics had had to be let go and I took over with my mechanic's certification and pilot license as Cooper Air's female Jack of all trades. Right now, mechanical work and occasion cargo runs kept the bills paid during the off season. I was just starting to breaking into the hunting and fishing charter end of the business, which I hope will get better as I establish my own reputation running my father's company.

What does this job entail? I asked.

We received a radio call from the Research Station on Poverty Island. I would like to go out and check on them.

What sort of radio call? I asked. Poverty Island was a tree-covered pile of rock and pine forest that the Air Force had purchased to use as a research facility. It was remote and accessible only by air. Actually, it was only accessible by floatplane or amphibious, boat-hulled aircraft. Like my old Grumman Goose. Rumor said that the island was being used for communications research.

Hank hesitated, then said, They've had some sort of an accident out there.

What kind of accident? I asked, my voice sharp.

He sighed over the phone line. I don't know, Kelly. We haven't heard from them since the radio message reporting that the station was experiencing some sort of accident. That message came in a couple of hours ago.

I didn't bother to ask why he had waited so long to investigate or why he wasn't using one of Jack Piper's aircraft, which, according to the contract I hadn't been awarded, said that he was supposed to provide transport for county authorities if they needed to go something accessible only by air. But Hank had probably had to wait for the Air Force to decide that perhaps the locals should be the ones to go out and see what was happening out there. And, besides, all of Jack's planes were probably in use. He was a busy man. Lots of irons in a lot of fires. That was probably why Hank had finally called me. The county would be low on Jack's list of priorities--contract or no contract.

All right, I said, doing some quick calculations in my head, I can have her fueled and ready to go in twenty minutes. And I expect to be paid my normal charter fee--not the discount county rate.

I'm on my way, he said and hung up.

I hung up the phone and locked the door to the office. Then I stripped off my dirty coveralls which I had been wearing over my regular clothing. I hung the coveralls in the office closet and washed my hands and face in the sink next to the office's built-in stove. I was wearing a light blue cotton blouse and jeans which accented my lean, long-legged figure. I'm pretty, I guess--in a skinny, elfin sort of way--and people who are meeting me for the first time usually find it hard to believe that I work on plane engines and run my own air charter business. But I grew up around planes. As a little kid, I helped my father maintain Cooper Air's little fleet of four aircraft. When my father's health forced him to consider selling the company, it hadn't taken much thought on my part as to what I should do. I had flown home and have been running the company for just over a year.

I ran a brush through my longish reddish-brown hair--I needed to find time to get it trimmed--and pulled my battered leather flight jacket from its peg near the door and went outside. It was windy and cold. I pulled the collar up and zipped the jacket up close to my chin against the bite of the wind. I opened the hangar doors and went in and climbed inside the amphibian. I started one engine and taxied outside, pausing to close and lock up the hangar before I taxied the plane over to the pumps. While they were topping up the tanks, I walked back to the hangar and hung the 'Closed' sign on the entrance door--something I had forgotten to do when I left the building to get the amphibian outside.

As I was walking back toward the gas pumps there was a sudden blast of sound from directly behind me. I jumped, almost losing my balance and falling, then I spun around to see O'Bannon's Jeep Cherokee creeping along just a few feet behind me. I put my hands on my hips and scowled at him. He grinned, then swung the Jeep over and stopped beside me.

Don't do that, I said before he could say anything to me through his open driver's-side window. You scared the crap out of me!

Sorry, he said, not sorry at all. Need a ride over to the pumps?

What—you get tired of watching me walk? I retorted as I opened the passenger door and climb in.

His face reddened. He was a blusher. It was one of the things I liked about him. Instead of answering my question, he said, Unexpected charter job?

Hank wants me to fly him out to Poverty Island, I replied.

He frowned, his eyebrows knitting themselves together. What--out to the research station?

Yes. We drove past one of the small buildings which hid the gas service area from my hangar's line of sight. Hank was already there, standing next to the amphibian. He was talking to the attendant and his mud-covered Explorer was parked on the grass.

O'Bannon glanced ahead and then looked over at me. I hear they're working with some strange things out there on the island, he said.

I shrugged my shoulders and asked, Where did you hear that from? The men stationed on the island never came into town and the Air Force was tight-lipped about whatever it was that they were doing out there. Since nature abhors a vacuum, the local diehards were working overtime thinking up stories about what could be going on out on Poverty Island--none of it good, wholesome or safe, of course.

Jack Piper told me, he replied. Jack says they’re working with high-powered lasers. They’ve just finished installing some powerful generators out there to power them.

He swung the Cherokee onto the grass and parked next to Hank’s Explorer. I turned to face him and said, But that doesn’t explain what you’re doing out here. What brings you to the airport?

I was wondering if the engine overhaul was done.

I nodded my head. I was just buttoning it up when Hank called.

Then I’ll stop by tomorrow and check out your work.

Okay, then, I said and smiled. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Maybe we could go out on a shakedown flight in the Cessna together, or get some lunch or something, he suggested.