Flight Across Waters

By Ulla Håkanson

2023 SCWES Book Awards for BC Authors Fiction Prize Winner

2023 Global Book Award - Finalist

While honeymooning in a seaside cottage, Amy Robinson Malik and her police detective husband, Ben, witness a small plan

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ulla Hakanson
• Release date: Jun 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9780992050320

Ulla Håkanson

ULLA HÅKANSON grew up in Umeå, Sweden. She worked at The Royal Institute of Technology in Stockholm as a draftsperson for six years before moving to Toronto, Canada, where she studied Commercial Art and opened her graphic design business. Upon retiring, she moved with her husband to Vancouver Island, where she turned to writing fiction.Flight Across Waters is a self-standing sequel to The Price of Silence.www.ullahakanson.comIf you are an aspiring author, don't forget to check out Ulla's blog for great tips on how to write a thriller! www.ullahakanson.com/blogs

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Flight Across Waters

sequel to The Price of Silence

Ulla Håkanson

Praise for Flight Across Waters

Ulla continually challenges me with realistic and intriguing questions! It is incredible to watch as she builds the story detail and background. Having been involved in hundreds of the most serious investigations in British Columbia I can say she has developed realistic and thoughtful twists that will challenge her characters and excite her readers. Her depth of thought, energy and effort is fascinating, and it is my privilege to be a mall part of the process!

—Doug Kiloh, Superintendent (Ret.) RCMP Private

Contractor, British Columbia, Canada, Security and Investigations

What a gripping story! I loved reading it.

— Ursula Vaira, Publisher of Leaf Press

"I read Hakanson’s first book and was curious to know how a second edition could possibly be better. Flight Across Waters is almost another story, a thriller with a bit of sensible romance and unmelodramatic tensions while keeping the characters as realistic as in her first novel. Truly, I had a feeling, throughout, that the characters were flesh and blood (a lot of it!). Amy is a strong woman, mentally and physically, facing near impossible dangers and life-threatening challenges with a feminine vulnerability of ‘don’t mess with me.’ Loved it. Good story, great writing, no words wasted, a solidly satisfying read."

—Mavourneen, Beta Reader

5.0 out of 5 stars

This is a true page turner; the characters are so well developed, and you get sucked into the story so fast. One of the best thriller books I’ve read in some time. Really looking forward to Ulla’s next book.

— Stephanie, Beta Reader

5.0 out of 5 stars

Had some time while it was raining and curled up with this book, found diving into this narrative by Ulla Hakanson to be a delightful respite from the world.

— Steve, Beta Reader

5.0 out of 5 stars

I read this on vacation and literally couldn’t put it down. So entertaining! When is the next book coming out?

— Andrew, Beta Reader.

5.0 out of 5 stars

"Meticulous research, page-turning action, and a compelling cast of characters combine to make Flight Across Waters a fantastic sequel to The Price of Silence. Action explodes in the opening pages and doesn’t let up until the final gripping moments of this highly entertaining and well-crafted thriller. I couldn’t put it down! 5 Stars."

— Jenny Mills, author of Where You’ve Never Been

Dedication

For Bo

FLIGHT ACROSS WATERS

Copyright (c) 2023 by Ulla Håkanson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN: 978-1-77374-097-3 (Print)

ISBN: 978-1-77374-098-0 (Ebook)

Cover design by Edge of Water Designs, edgeofwater.com

Contents

Praise for Flight Across Waters

Dedication

Acknowledgements

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Forty-one

Forty-two

Forty-three

Forty-four

Forty-five

Forty-six

Forty-seven

Forty-eight

Forty-nine

Fifty

Fifty-one

Fifty-two

Fifty-three

Fifty-four

Fifty-five

Fifty-six

Fifty-seven

Fifty-eight

Fifty-nine

Sixty

Sixty-one

Sixty-two

Sixty-three

Sixty-four

Sixty-five

Sixty-six

Sixty-seven

Sixty-eight

Sixty-nine

Seventy

Seventy-one

Seventy-two

About the Author

Acknowledgements

With love and thanks to my faithful team of friends and professionals who tirelessly helped and supported me beyond my wildest dreams:

Author and screenwriter John Robert Marlow, friend and mentor from The Price of Silence, has seen me through two books now. Thank you, John, for daring me with your shrewd plot ideas and always being there with valuable advice.

Many thanks to the talented members of my writers’ group, Pat Smekal, Madeleine Nattrass, Bert Wolfe, Dan Lundine, and Jonathan Rout for their friendship, guidance, and cheery support. An extra huge thanks to you, Pat, for reading through multiple versions of the manuscript. Joanna Qureshij, I miss you.

I received some incredibly helpful feedback from a few early readers who are also good friends: writers Ursula Vaira, Pat Smekal, and Gail Whitiker; beta readers Beverly Watson, Jacqui Townsend, and Megan Baker; and my daughter, Ingrid Hakanson. Huge thanks to you all; your advice largely improved my story and writing.

For my many questions about police and legal procedures, I turned to some impressive experts. I learned about Coast Guard vessels and depth of the Strait of Georgia from RCMSAR Officer Graham Marrion, about tide, ebb, and flow from my friend Jan Skollsberg, and a few important things about flying small planes from my friend Ray Dechene. Thank you all for sharing your knowledge with me.

As the plot became more intense, I relied heavily on my investigating team to put me straight. I’m immensely grateful to Superintendent (Ret.) RCMP Doug Kiloh, and Forensic Lab Staff Sergeant Brent Wladichuk for their patience with me. There didn’t seem to be a question outlandish or silly enough for them to tackle. What a dream team for a thriller writer! I also want to thank Forensic Toxicologist Wayne Jefferey, for suggesting a portion that worked well in the plot.

Preparing to publish, I once again turned to the fantastic team at Cascadia. I want to thank Michelle Balfour for her shrewd line editing, the all-knowing Kailey Urbaniak for keeping track of what to do and when, Marla Thompson for creating beautiful covers and matching typeset, Heidi Bells for her skillful copy editing, and Marcelo Beilin, for sharing his marketing knowledge, introducing me to writing thriller blogs, and teaching me how to do it.

Finally, I want to thank all my friends for their friendship and support. I love you.

And for you Bo, my love, my strength, and my everything: thank you for listening, answering copious amounts of questions, and feeding me. I’m so happy you’re in my life.

One

Amy woke to the sound of seals slapping the water. Warm August air wafted through the cottage window screen, wrapping her in drowsy contentment. She rolled over on her side to snuggle up to Ben, but he wasn’t there.

Thinking her husband must have left for his morning run, she leisurely stretched and left the bed to start a pot of coffee. After a shower, she pulled her long, auburn hair into a bun on top of her head and shrugged into a T-shirt and jean shorts. Cradling a warm mug of coffee, she walked out on the deck and stopped, taken with the scenery in front of her. I can’t get enough of this.

The Strait of Georgia, an arm of the Pacific Ocean between Vancouver Island and the mainland coast of British Columbia, slept under a sheet of pale pink satin. Wide streaks of yellow and pink blended with the sky above, most intensely over Vancouver, which was barely visible on the horizon. The silence, the smell of the sea air, and the gentle breeze filled Amy with a feeling of joy she couldn’t explain, only breathe in. Her morning fix. A perfect way to start a Saturday morning.

Sipping on her coffee, she looked down at the four-seater inboard tied to a floating dock at the bottom of the cottage’s private ramp. She’d always enjoyed being on the water and couldn’t wait to take it out for a spin. Their red kayaks were tilted over a log on the ground nearby. They reminded her of when she and Ben had first met. Back then he was simply a tall man with longish black hair and blue eyes who’d paid extra attention to her during a kayaking trip. Two years later, here they were honeymooning on Galiano Island.

Hey, you’re up!

Amy turned and smiled at Ben, red-faced and sweat-soaked, approaching her with open arms.

Good morning, babe.

She put her hands out. Oh no you don’t.

He laughed and made a beeline for the washroom. Amy set the picnic table on the deck for breakfast, then sat down to finish her coffee.

After a quick shower, Ben scrambled eggs, mixed in some leftover salmon and peppers, and joined Amy at the table. I’m starving, he said, rubbing his hands together.

It looks delicious. Amy helped herself to the food. Did you have a good run this morning?

Yes. I happened upon a new trail, Ben said, filling his plate. It ended up on a coastal bluff. The view from up there was fantastic; you’d love it. Come with me tomorrow.

"I will, but after I’ve had my coffee, or I’d run into the first tree on my way out."

Fine. I’ll wake you up gently with a cup of coffee so you can get wired before we go.

Wired? Ben!

I love you. Ben finished his eggs and leaned back in his chair. He nodded to himself, taking in the deck and the view over the water. I’d like to own a place like this.

Amy lifted an eyebrow. "You do? It took me months to convince you to take a week off to come here for our honeymoon. I know the Vancouver PD isn’t that demanding, but it seems with detective work, there’s always ‘one more thing.’ Would you take more time off if you had your own place?"

With you in it, absolutely.

At the sound of an engine, they both looked to the sky to see a small plane overhead.

That looks like a Cessna, Ben said. The same kind of plane I was up in a few weeks ago. Remember?

Vaguely.

My partner and I were flown to a remote spot up the coast to check out a cabin that belonged to a suspect.

Oh, yes. You seized the cabin, right?

Yeah… Ben stared at the plane. "Hey, what the hell?"

Amy looked, then covered her mouth with a gasp. Frozen with fear, they watched the plane sway from side-to-side, then turn steeply downward. In seconds, it spiralled toward the water and crashed into the sea less than two kilometres away.

The loud impact with the water was enough to shatter their shocked paralysis. In an instant, Amy and Ben were on the dock, yanking their life jackets from their kayaks and jumping into the powerboat. Amy, a competent boater, powered toward the crash site while Ben radioed VHF 16.

A plane just crashed into the Strait of Georgia off Galiano Island, he shouted over the roar of the engine. Slightly north of Pebble Beach.

The operator put him straight through to the Joint Rescue Coordination Centre in Victoria.

It was a white Cessna 172, Ben told them. He described the plane’s erratic movements and the crash. Amy, meanwhile, scanned the surface for debris. They spotted wreckage and reached the site two minutes later.

Ben tore off his life jacket and dove in.

Moments later, he surfaced, gulping air while he tread water. Too deep. I can’t see the plane.

Behind you! Amy pointed; her hand was shaking. A man had surfaced, floating face down.

Toss me my life jacket. Ben started to swim over to the man.

Be careful! Amy couldn’t help thinking of how drowning people sometimes clung to the person trying to save them, dragging them both down. What would I do if that happened? Dive after them? Would she even get there in time? Or would Ben be lost to her, swallowed by the sea?

To Amy’s relief, the man didn’t even stir when Ben reached him. After slipping his arms into the life jacket, Ben turned the man onto his back, grasped his torso from behind, and towed him to the boat. He held the man’s arm up, telling Amy to hang on to it while he got on board.

Oh my God. Amy clamped both hands around the man’s arm and held on for dear life. Is he alive?

Don’t know yet.

Amy looked at the limb she held. It was an old man’s arm, saggy and soft. I’m sorry, she cried as she dug her nails into his skin to get a better grip. The waves and Ben’s movements caused him to lurch and bob in all directions. He’s old, Ben. I’m afraid I’ll break his arm.

I’ll be right there.

The man had started to slide through her grip when Ben heaved himself from the water and took hold of his other arm.

Help me pull him in.

They struggled with the effort to pull him over the transom. Their combined weight made the stern dip perilously close to the water. Amy felt her heartbeat quicken as water rose over her feet.

Ben noticed and stopped pulling. We’ll try another way, he said. I’ll hang on to him. You take the boat line and tie one end around the base of the driver’s chair, then give the other end to me.

Okay. Amy grabbed the line and hurried off. Seconds later, she was back, holding the loose end out to Ben.

Ben took hold of it. Help me tie it around his torso so we can pull him in without having all of our weight at the stern.

They set themselves more securely in the centre of the boat and hauled on the rope. Amy looked away to stop her stomach from turning at the sound of his body scraping over the sharp edge of the transom as they hurriedly pulled the man aboard.

After finding no sign of breathing and no pulse, Ben began CPR. "Come on! he shouted when the man didn’t respond. You weren’t in the water that long."

Amy turned away from this nightmarish scene and stared at the debris around them. At the sight of a small suitcase bobbing in the waves, she was hit by a flashback of a suitcase digging into her side while locked in the trunk of a car, only to realize that it was, in fact, a dead body. Her stomach lurched in remembered vertigo of propelling herself from the moving vehicle.

She sank down on the boat’s driver seat, with her back to Ben, to wait for her racing heart to slow down.

Two years earlier, Amy’s ex-fiancé, Tyler, had to flee from a violent drug gang after stealing their cocaine. Thinking she might lead them to Tyler, the gang had come after Amy. Kidnapped and interrogated, Amy knew she had to escape or die. She’d succeeded but had suffered flashbacks for months. They had receded with time, and she had thought she was done with them.

The whining roar of approaching vessels snapped her back to the moment. She watched as a Coast Guard hovercraft drew near. Soon after, a Search and Rescue vessel arrived from Pender Island, and an RCMP vessel from Gabriola. Curious boaters from all directions headed their way. An RCMP officer used a megaphone to warn them off.

The rescue workers continued CPR as the victim was transferred to the hovercraft. Ben gave them a brief report of the plane’s erratic behaviour, the manner of the man’s body surfacing, and the approximate time he’d started CPR. Seconds later, the hovercraft raced off for Victoria.

Amy jumped when Ben put his hand on her shoulder.

How’re you doing, baby?

A bit shaky, but … I’m okay.

Come here. Ben wrapped his arms around her. Do you want me to drive us back?

No, it’s okay. I need the distraction.

Amy motored them to the cottage, trying not to think about what had happened or about the memory the event had triggered. She glanced over her shoulder at Ben, standing at the stern, watching as divers entered the water. What are you thinking about? she called out.

Ben came up to her, raking his hair back with his fingers. I feel like I’ve seen that man before, but I can’t place him. He shook his head. I should have been able to revive him…

Two

Early on Friday morning—too early, for the night shifts that he worked—Mark Sokalsky pulled up to his father’s estate. He glared at the wrought-iron gates as they slowly creaked open on their little motors. He hated doing this. But what other choice did he have?

He gripped the unfamiliar steering wheel tightly. The damaged Audi he drove was a friend’s; he had borrowed it to pull off this little deception. Once he had cleared the gates and wound up the drive, he was careful to park outside the front porch, where the damaged vehicle would be visible from the large bay windows. Adopting a sombre expression, he walked up the steps and rang the bell.

His father met him in the grand foyer, a two-story entrance hall that always made Mark feel like a lost child. Let’s join your mother in the drawing-room, he said by way of greeting, walking ahead.

Mark kissed his mother’s cheek and sat down in a velvet-covered armchair.

So, what is it this time? His father took a seat on the matching sofa beside his wife.

Mark despised being spoken to as if he were nothing more than a troublesome adolescent. However, he managed to keep his sombre look. I’m embarrassed to have to tell you this, he said. Yesterday, I crashed into another car after I’d been drinking. The driver insisted on cash compensation. He threatened to call the police if I didn’t pay up.

Mark threw his hands up in a gesture of desperation. What could I do? There was a passenger in the other car as a witness. Now I have to pay this guy for damages, and for my car to be fixed. I told him I’d take care of it. He agreed not to call the police, and kept my Rolex as collateral…

He hadn’t gotten any reaction beyond his father’s impassive business mask, usually only reserved for board meetings and troublesome clients. Mark pressed on. "I’d really appreciate if you’d lend me fifty thousand. This guy wants cash … and that would be best for me, too."

Why? his father said.

Mark hung his head. I’m broke. If you give me a check, I have to pay taxes on it, about fifteen thousand dollars, and then I’ll be in the hole again. Please. He looked up at his father with sad eyes. If you lend me the money, I can start over. I’m shaken up by this accident. I’ll finish my law degree, make some good money, and pay you back, I prom—

"More lies, his father interrupted. Just like with your last car."

My last car? Mark’s father had bought him a sleek, black Lexus SC convertible on his twenty-third birthday as he entered his first year in law school. That was stolen.

Stolen? Ha! You sold it. Didn’t you get enough for it?

How can you say that? Mark used mock outrage to hide his surprise. How had his father known about that? The buyer had paid cash, then driven it down to Mexico.

His father waved a dismissive hand. "I have proof. I had a private investigator look into what you were doing with all your time not attending class. And while he was at it, he saw you in a known gambling den. Is that why you need this money? To pay for this latest disgraceful habit?"

I need a Valium. Mark’s mother reached for a small bottle on the side table, shook a tablet out, and washed it down with coffee.

I’m not involved in illegal gambling, Mark said. How can you believe that?

His father gave him a long, cold stare. Don’t push me, Mark. I have evidence. All I have to do is turn it over to the police and my problems with you will disappear.

Mark’s mother put her hand on his father’s arm. Dear, may I speak to you in private? His parents went into the study and closed the door.

Mark went over and listened. He gritted his teeth when he heard his mother say, I don’t think Mark deserves anything from us either, but dear, how would it look to our friends and associates if we dumped him on the street with no place to stay? At least let him keep the condo.

Holding his breath, Mark waited for his father’s response.

All right, his father said. For your sake. I’ll give him the money; but this is the last time. If he keeps this up, I’m going to change my will.

Mark heard them move and bounded for the kitchen. Seconds later, the door to the study swung open.

I was thirsty. Mark held up a glass of water to his father’s suspicious look.

His father shook his head, although whether to dismiss the excuse or Mark himself, he couldn’t tell. Despite having the best of everything, his father said, you’ve turned morally corrupt and tarnished this family’s reputation. I want you to leave now and come back tomorrow, after I’ve had time to calm down.

Be here for breakfast at ten, Mark’s mother said. Your father and I are flying to Victoria for the weekend; we take off at eleven fifty-five, so don’t be late.

* * *

Mark barely remembered driving back to his penthouse condo in downtown Vancouver. All he could think of was his father’s comment about the will. What had prompted his father to hire a PI? He must find that report and get rid of it. He’d been given one more chance.

He’d go and have breakfast with his parents in the morning. His father had better come up with the cash then, because his gambling boss expected to have it in the morning, or there would be hell to pay. He’d then go back to the house and look for the PI report as soon as his parents left for their private airstrip.

But it was a big house. What if he couldn’t find the report before they got back? He needed them to stay away longer than the weekend; even an extra day should do it.

He thought about how his father had used puffers for years to keep his asthma under control. He’d take Excedrin and cough syrup with codeine when the coughing got bad. That made him sleepy, so he’d gulp coffee to stay awake. Then the coffee always gave him the runs…

Mark had an idea. He went online to do some research.

Three

Amy missed the dock on their return from the accident site. I can’t believe this… She backed out and tried again. This time, she came in too fast and had to reverse to avoid crashing into the dock. What am I doing? She banged on the steering wheel: the boat had ended up too