Sitting immediately behind the two vocalists in the cockpit, in seats that faced the rear of the plane to maximize the room, were Bill “Nerdly” Archer and his wife of almost two years, Sharon Archer (formerly Cohen). They were part owners of KVA Records (the “A” in KVA belonged to them), the limited liability company formed to produce both Jake’s and Celia’s upcoming solo albums. The Nerdlys (as they were called by pretty much everyone who knew them) were perhaps the most sought after audio engineering and mixing team in southern California. They could have named their own price at any of the major recording studios that produced more than ninety percent of the American music market. Instead, they worked for free with Celia and Jake in a tiny, three-room studio in an empty commercial complex in Santa Clarita. Actually, they worked for more than free. They had put up a million dollars of their own money for the privilege of having that A.
The Nerdlys were looking pretty much like they always looked. Bill was sporting a button-up black shirt with a pocket protector and four pens in it; a pair of khaki cargo shorts with multiple pockets, most of which were filled with a variety of objects like a Velcro wallet, a tape measure, extra pens, an asthma inhaler, and even a protractor (“you never know when you might need a protractor,” Nerdly always said); a pair of black socks; and an open-toed pair of Birkenstocks. Sharon had on a pair of baggy jeans; an even baggier T-shirt from her alma mater: UCLA, from which she held a Master’s Degree in Audio Engineering; and a pair of generic sneakers she had bought at a discount shoe store near their home. Both had headsets on that were plugged into the plane’s communication system.
“Do what I do when I ride in this contraption with Jake, Celia,” Nerdly said.
“What’s that, Bill?” she asked.
“I think about the mathematical calculations related to air travel.”
“You mean the odds?” Celia said.
Nerdly winced a little. “I’m not a fan of that term,” he said, “but, yes, that is what I’m referring to. Now, granted, flying in Jake’s plane is not as statistically safe as flying on a commercial airliner, but as long as he is a qualified pilot and the aircraft is maintained properly at the prescribed intervals—and I happen to know that Jake is quite fastidious about that—and, of course, you’re flying in good weather conditions, such as we are now, then you’re talking a likelihood of fatal accident that runs around one in twenty thousand or so. Compare this to a likelihood of one in five thousand for automobile travel.”
“That is a pretty good statistical analysis,” Celia had to admit.
“Indeed,” said Nerdly. “It’s all a matter of perspective.”
“If we do all crash and die, it can’t be right now,” said the fifth person in the plane—Pauline Kingsley, Jake’s older sister, the manager of both Jake and Celia, and part-owner of KVA Records. She was seated in the very rear of the cabin in a forward-facing chair. “If we have to go, it needs to be after we’ve put your albums out, or at least recorded them. That way, we’ll be able to cash in on the tragedy.”
“Well ... our next of kin will be able to, anyway,” Jake said.
“Yeah,” Pauline agreed. “The situation does have its drawbacks.”
“Can you imagine though?” piped up Sharon, in all seriousness. “Jake and Celia both dead in a plane crash and then the albums are released a few months later? We wouldn’t even have to promote them. We’d go platinum on both in the first week.”
“That would make Greg very happy,” Pauline said. “You know ... once he got over his wife dying and all that.”
“This conversation has taken a turn toward the morbid,” Celia said with a shake of her head.
“Hey, C,” Jake said. “We’re just talking industry realities here. Nothing stirs up album sales like a well-publicized death. We just need to pick the right time to cash in on it.”
“Madre de Dios,” she muttered, though she could not hide a slight chuckle of amusement.
When they passed below five thousand feet and were only ten miles out from Cypress Municipal airport, Jake declared a sterile cockpit condition. All of his passengers knew that meant they should not talk or otherwise distract him from his task of safely landing the plane. Despite their earlier conversation, all knew it was in their best interests to follow the rule, particularly when they were to land at an airport Jake was not familiar with.
Jake brought them down to thirty-five hundred feet and followed his navigation notes until the small airport was in sight. It was nestled onto a plateau just north of the historic gold rush town, its single runway a 7/25 that was thirty-two hundred feet in length. There was no wind to speak of, so he decided to bring them in from the southwest approach. There was a ridge about half a mile from the runway on the northeast approach—something he really did not want to deal with on his first landing at the field.
He circled around once in the pattern and then lined up with the runway for his final approach. The engines wound down, the flaps were incrementally deployed, slowing them to ninety knots of airspeed, the gear were lowered, and they touched down neatly on the centerline of runway 7 with barely a thump.
“Nice one,” Celia said appreciatively as they completed the rollout.
“Naturally,” Jake replied with a smile.
He parked the aircraft in one of the visitor spots near the airport office, pulling it in between a Cessna 172 and a Piper PA-24. The five of them exited the plane and spent a few minutes stretching their legs after the semi-cramped two hour and twenty minute flight. Jake spent a few minutes securing the plane to the two tie-down rings embedded in the concrete of the parking slot and then directed everyone to remove their baggage (one bag apiece, no more than thirty pounds) from the cargo boot in the nose of the plane. Once the bags were all removed and the doors all securely locked, they headed over to the airport office. Here, a 1990 Toyota Land Cruiser had been parked.
“Is that our ride?” asked Sharon as she looked it over.
“I’m thinking so,” Jake said, “since it’s exactly the model I requested and parked exactly where I told them to park it.”
“A Land Cruiser, Jake?” Pauline asked. “Really? You couldn’t have got us a Caddy or something comfortable?”
“Well, Mom and Dad live up in the mountains now,” he said. “I thought the four-wheel drive might come in handy.”
“They only live two miles off the main road and their access is paved,” Pauline told him. “Not only that, it’s July, not the dead of freaking winter. Were you picturing some Donner Party shit or something?”
“Well ... I didn’t know what to expect,” he admitted. “I know they live on the edge of the canyon, so ... you know?”
Pauline shook her head. “They’re only at an elevation of thirty-two hundred feet. It only snows there once or twice a year, sometimes not at all.”
“Well, it’s better to be overprepared than underprepared, right?” Jake said.
“No,” Pauline said. “It’s better to ask someone who has freakin’ been there what vehicle would be appropriate.”
“I’m a man, sis,” Jake told her. “We don’t ask for advice.”
This earned him another shake of the head. He ignored it and went inside the airport office, where a young woman, moderately attractive, was working behind a counter. She looked up at him without interest or recognition when he entered.
“Help you?” she asked.