The Last Great Death Stunt

By Clark Howard

One team of daredevils is planning the ultimate death stunt finale in this novel by a “superlative storyteller” (Publishers Weekly).
 
A team of professional stunt performers are likely to lose their livelihoods as a new law goes into effect, severely limiting their ability to take the risks that have made them who they are.
 
In the meantime, they have a plan to mark a spectacular end to their careers—and possibly their lives—in this action-packed thriller by an Edgar Award–winning author.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Jun 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781504060738

Clark Howard

Howard Clark was a coordinator for War Resisters' International and embedded in civil peace initiatives in Kosovo throughout the 1990s. He is a founder of the Balkan Peace Team, and the author of People Power (Pluto, 2009).

Book preview

PART I:

Nick Bell

1.

Washington, D.C.

Friday, December 20

7:50 P.M.

The President still had ten minutes before he was to face the television cameras to address the nation. He stood patiently in the Oval Office while a makeup man added a few final touches to his tanned, handsome, fifty-year-old face. Around him flowed a seemingly endless stream of shirt-sleeved television technicians, instinctively stepping over and around a spaghettilike mass of black, yellow, and red electrical cables that ran from the microphones above his desk to the network pool camera to mysterious little boxes and conduits and control gauges, and then on out the door to God knew where. The President, a nontechnical person, never had been able to understand any of it.

As soon as the makeup man was finished and had moved away, the President’s wife, as was her habit, stepped forward and made several imaginary improvements on the makeup job. The President indulged her in this because he knew it pleased her to think that she had given him the final touch of approval before he faced the people. It was a small thing, really, particularly when she indulged him in so many things—a few of which would undoubtedly have surprised if not outright shocked a large portion of the electorate.

Are you all right, dear? she asked, adjusting his tie a fraction of an inch.

Yes, fine, the President said.

You took your pill?

Yes.

All right, then. She squeezed his hand. Good luck.

The President’s wife went over into a corner, where her grown daughter by a previous marriage stood watching.

He seems tense tonight, her daughter commented.

He’s always that way when he has to talk about a piece of unpopular legislation, the First Lady said. She sighed, half-wistfully and half-wearily. "He’s the people’s president, and he actually suffers when he has to pass laws that he knows they won’t like—even when it’s for their own good."

The President had walked over to the high-backed blue-leather judge’s chair behind his desk and sat down. His TV adviser was moving back and forth in front of the desk, examining him critically. Let’s remove some of that front light, he said over his shoulder to a technician. Soften it up so his forehead won’t shine.

As the lights were being adjusted, the President’s press secretary came around the desk and stood next to his chair. About two minutes now, Mr. President, he said. He put the script of the President’s address, typed in oversized print, in front of him.

What do you estimate the audience at? the President asked.

About half the population—eighty million or so.

The President nodded. A good audience. About fifteen million more than had voted to elect him five years earlier when he had begun what he hoped would be the first of two six-year terms.

The President rested his head back and closed his eyes. He kept them closed until he heard his press secretary say, Okay, fifteen seconds, Mr. President. Then he sat up, moved closer to the desk, and placed one hand on the script in front of him. His eyes open and alert now, he watched the light on the camera facing him, waiting for it to turn red as a signal that the camera was operational. Momentarily the light did turn red, and the voice of an unseen announcer was heard: Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.

The President nodded briefly and smiled slightly. "Good evening. I am speaking to you tonight because I have on my desk one of the most unusual pieces of legislation ever to reach a president of our great country. It is called the Anti-Death-Stunt Bill. Its effect, when it becomes law, will be to curtail the frenzy of suicidal exhibitions and demonstrations that has swept our nation during the past few years. I believe, as does the majority of the Congress, that the passage of this bill is essential to the continued moral and mental well-being of our country.

"Some years ago, after the daredevil Evel Knievel failed in his Snake River jump, failed in his London-bus jump, and subsequently retired, there was spawned throughout the United States a cult of imitators who seemingly would stop at nothing in their rush to devise more spectacular and more dangerous stunts. In a way, they were reminiscent of the old barnstorming pilots bred by the First World War—except that the barnstorming pilots performed only to the limits of their early aircraft—while today’s so-called Death Stunt men attempt to perform to the very limits of sanity. It is no longer a question of how far, how fast, how high, how deep, or how long; it has become a question of how close.

"How close. That is the challenge attempted almost weekly by one Death Stunt performer after another. How close can they come to death—and still avoid it? How near to the razor-thin line separating the living from the dead can these self-proclaimed death-defiers go—while still leaving themselves that single instant that allows retreat? Too many times—and this has been proved over and over again—they find that they have come too close, that their margin for survival has been consumed by their frantic desire to brush life against death. They find that they have overstepped a divine boundary and that their course has become irreversible. Death has snatched them.

"We have an America today of stringently controlled population. Not only is immigration no longer permitted, but births of American babies are federally limited on a graduated scale to ensure that future generations will have enough light, heat, space, and food. But it is incumbent upon us to protect those future generations in other ways also. And one of those ways is to bequeath to them a morality that does not trifle lightly with the dignity of human life. That, we fervently hope, will be the legacy of the Anti-Death-Stunt Bill.

"Last year in America, one hundred and forty-two persons died as a direct result of Death Stunt performances. Some of them were participants, some spectators, and some merely innocent bystanders. They were killed on the average of one every sixty-two hours. Admittedly, a hundred and forty-two persons are not many when compared to the millions who have perished in past wars, or the thousands who die accidentally on our highways every year. But death in the face of duty is one thing. Death by accident is one thing. Death by deliberation is something far different. To care so little for the preciousness of life as to purposely flaunt it in the face of death is an affront to man’s position as the preeminent of God’s creatures.

"Perhaps even more alarming with regard to Death Stunts is the effect they have had on the youth of our nation. It was a sad period for the United States when our young people began to substitute as their heroes these Death Stunt men in place of the baseball, football, and basketball greats of yesteryear. It would be sadder still if your government permitted the trend to continue and allowed an entire generation to reach maturity with only the Death Stunt performers as examples of American athletic competitors. Each day, press clippings are brought to my attention describing how youngsters, sometimes no older than eight or nine, have been maimed for life or even killed while attempting to emulate the latest Death Stunt. Hopefully, the passage of this Anti-Death-Stunt Bill will put an end to that tragic activity.

"This bill, my fellow Americans, makes participation in and promotion of Death Stunts a federal crime, punishable by a mandatory five-year prison sentence. It becomes effective in less than two weeks, on January first, and will make America the last nation on earth to outlaw these deplorable performances. This bill has been approved by overwhelming majorities in both the Senate and the House of Representatives, and now, in my capacity as your President, I am going to sign it into law. I am firmly convinced that it is a measure that will benefit us all.

Thank you, and good night.

2.

San Francisco, California

Saturday, December 21

8:10 A.M.

The city editor of the San Francisco Times played thoughtfully with several fine, wiry hairs growing out of his right ear as he studied the wire-service copy of the previous evening’s presidential address. The thrust of that address had already been well covered in the morning Chronicle, as well as on radio and TV news, so what the Times city editor had to do was find a way to present the same story- to its evening readers, but in a different and hopefully more interesting way. Ordinarily that sort of thing was a challenge to the city editor’s creative ingenuity, but in this particular case it was nothing, a straight shot, a piece of pie. The different approach and the more interesting angle had already been arranged for him.

He stopped playing with the hairs in his ear, got up from the pathetically worn and sagging swivel chair that had been his for thirty-six years on three papers, and took the wire-service copy into the sports department. It did not surprise him to find his sports editor ignoring the half-full rewrite basket while he tried to solve the paper’s weekly Money-Word crossword puzzle. The prize each week was one thousand dollars, and the sports editor was ineligible to win because he was an employee of the paper. For that reason he always entered under a fictitious name.

Who’s covering Nick Bell’s death run down Mount Whitney today? the city editor asked, tossing the wire-service copy onto the sports editor’s desk.

Hogan, said Sports.

Get hold of him, said City. Make sure he’s heard about this Anti-Death-Stunt Bill that goes into effect on New Year’s Day. Have him get Bell’s feelings on it during the press conference before the death run.

Right, said Sports. He looked over his shoulder at a pretty Chinese girl with a seven-month-old journalism degree from Northwestern. Hey, Dragon Lady, if they taught you to use a phone at that fancy newspaper school you went to, see if you remember how it works and get hold of that drunk Hogan up at the Timberline Lodge in Lone Pine. Holler when you get him on the line.

Ever have any employee-relations problems in this department? City asked when Sports turned back around.

Never, Sports said emphatically. My people worship me.

The city editor grunted derisively and started to leave. Before he got to the door, he turned back with a thought. Say, what ever happened to Jerry Fallon after he quit the Death Stunt circuit?

Sports shrugged. Nothing. He just retired. Last I heard, he was living a nice quiet life with his wife and daughter down in Monterey.

I guess he was about the greatest of them all, wasn’t he?

Sports shrugged again. Some say Fallon, some say Bell.

What do you say?

Sports thought about it for a minute. Well, I’ll tell you. At the time Jerry Fallon quit, there was no question that he was the best Death Stunt man that ever lived. But he’s been out of action for more than two years now, and in those two years Nick Bell has pulled off some pretty spectacular stuff. Two years ago I’d have said Fallon, hands down. Right now I’d have to say it was a toss-up. And after the Death Run down Mount Whitney today, I just might give it to Nick Bell.

The city editor started playing with his ear hairs again. Send somebody down to Monterey, he said after a moment. See if you can get something from Fallon on this Anti-Death-Stunt thing. Get something from him on Nick Bell, too, if you can. I know these Death Stunters have a thing about not talking about who’s good, better, or best, but try anyway.

Right, said Sports. As his boss left, he swiveled around and scanned the department. The Chinese girl was still trying to get the call through to Hogan. The sports editor’s gaze finally fixed on a young reporter named Leon Pulley. He preferred to be called Lee, but the sports editor carefully avoided catering to such unnecessary vanity.

Oh, Leon, he said loudly. Leon Pulley! Put your coat on, Leon. I’m sending you to the country for the day.

3.

Lone Pine, California

Saturday, December 21

10:30 A.M.

The Timberline Lodge was a long, rambling building trimmed wherever possible in redwood and natural pine wood. It boasted large picture windows in nearly every public room, to allow guests to look out from their drinks or their meals or their lobby gossip at the magnificent splendor of Sequoia National Park. Set near the edge of the park, Timberline commanded panoramic views of the Sierra Nevada’s rugged, snowcapped range; of spectacular redwoods both above and below the snow line; of towering granite peaks that plunged to deep canyons surrounding alpine lakes of every imaginable size and shape. The star of this natural wonderland, which could be seen from any angle of any window at the front of the lodge, was the giant Mount Whitney. Jutting 14,494 feet into the sky, it was the only crest in that huge block of the earth’s crust that had never lain under an ocean. On ordinary days, it was the unchallenged king of everything as far as the eye could see.

But this was no ordinary day, and as a huge banner across the front of the lodge proclaimed, the majestic mountain, highest in the continental United States, had a challenger in its domain. In yard-high letters, the banner boasted:

HEADQUARTERS OF NICK THE GREAT

Below that, in foot-high letters, it said:

SEE NICK BELL’S DEATH RUN

DOWN MT. WHITNEY—SATURDAY, DECEMBER 21

In and around the lodge, milling about for perhaps half a mile in all directions, were some ten thousand people who had jammed every access road to be near the meadow where the death run, if successful, would terminate. Inside, in Timberline’s main meeting room, that very success was one of the first questions asked of Nick Bell as his pre-death-run press conference began. The reporters, seated in rows of folding chairs, identified themselves and their papers as they posed their questions.

"Lew Teff, of the Washington Post, Nick. What are the odds on your survival today?"

The oddsmakers in Las Vegas say it’s twenty-five to one that I won’t survive. Nick Bell’s voice was casual; he was a completely nerveless young man. At twenty-eight, he was handsome with a dimpled chin and thick layers of hair that never needed combing but simply grew straight back in a great sweep with no nonsense. He stood at a raised podium wearing a padded gunmetal-red racing suit. There was about him such a supreme, easy confidence that it bordered almost on arrogance.

"Ray Murray, Chicago Tribune, Nick. Would you explain how your death sled converts from a snow vehicle to a dry-ground vehicle?"

Sure. The vehicle, as you know, is designed pretty much like a one-man bobsled, said Bell. Except that it has two axles built into recessed hollows in the front and rear of the body. Those axles have solid rubber wheels on each side of them, also recessed. When I reach the end of the snow, I activate two levers that drop the axles and wheels and lock them in place. From that point on, the vehicle rolls instead of slides.

"Ray Jones, Memphis Commerical-Appeal, said a friendly southern drawl. How do you guide the wheels, Nick?"

There’s a drive-shaft connected to the front axle. The front wheels are controlled pretty much like those on the old Soapbox Derby racers that kids used to make.

"George Fury, Phoenix Standard. Nick, how do you guide the vehicle when the wheels are still up and you’re on the snow?"

Body movement, Bell answered. Leaning, jerking, getting the sled to ricochet instead of hitting a tree or boulder head-on.

Nick Bell glanced over at the side of the podium at a nineteen-year-old girl named Janis, a Death Stunt groupie who had been with him for more than a year now. She had a fresh, clean, open-expressioned face set under a cowl of ruler-straight yellow hair that reached her waist. More than one person had said that she looked like a young, blond Ali MacGraw. Nick smiled briefly at her, and she smiled back, but only with her eyes, a smile that only he could see.

How long do you estimate the run will take? asked the Phoenix reporter.

Approximately half an hour if I don’t crack up, Bell replied.

And you’re starting from the summit, is that correct?

Right. The vehicle is waiting at the 14,494-foot mark right now.

How fast will you be going on the descent? asked the Memphis reporter.

I’m not sure, Bell said. He turned to his manager, Phil Spiller, who was sitting off to the side near Janis. Spiller was a shifty-eyed cigar smoker who had been a fight manager back in the days of professional boxing.

What was that descent rate again, Phil?

We’ve estimated it at between four hundred fifty and five hundred feet per minute as far as altitude is concerned. Probably about twice that far in actual distance, however, because of the zigzag descent pattern Nick will have to employ to avoid crashes.

There was a moment of silence as the reporters all made notes simultaneously. Then the San Francisco man remembered a phone call he had received from his editor an hour earlier.