What the hell is going on, thought Frank. Someone was definitely setting him up as the fall guy. He had reread and reread the email bearing his computer’s IP address. In it he practically admitted to causing theSioux Fallscrash and all of it done to kill some guy named, Curtis Brooks. Who the hell was Curtis Brooks? The name sounded oddly familiar but he was absolutely sure he didn’t know anyone by that name. Same as he didn’t know anyone named Sam Larson. The only guy he wanted to kill wasStanleyand his last name wasn’t Brooks or Larson.
Did Sam know Curtis Brooks? He must have. What did the two men have in common? He knew from what David had told him that Sam owned or had owned, before his death, a small TV affiliate station inPeoria,Illinois. Curtis Brooks was nothing more than a certified public accountant fromSioux Falls. And yet, both men had died in plane crashes that he, Frank Roberts, had later investigated. “Jesus!” that was more than a coincidence, he thought. The odds of that happening were astronomical.
It didn’t help his case of innocence that he’d made a big fuss over theIowacrash. He could hear Sanchez now, saying how he’d made all that fuss in order to point the blame elsewhere. Lord, help him if his missing notes on the crash of Flight 404 ever came to light. In those notes, he’d written down just how he’d gone about ‘fudging’ his report to get Captain Nolan off the hook. The whereabouts of his missing notes were of dire importance.
The sun was barely up but he needed a drink. Cautiously, he walked to the kitchen in search of the scotch tucked neatly behind the canned tomatoes. He opened the cabinet and thought, why am I hiding the scotch. I’m here alone. And then it occurred to him again, no! he was not. He poured himself a double but this time his muscles didn’t relax, they stayed hard and rigid.
All that time he’d spent inIowalooking for a mysterious strangers while the mysterious stranger was breaking into his home. He was going to find this bastard!