By the time he centered beneath the billows, he’d gained elevation so rapidly he could feel the air temperature coming down around him. His altimeter showed 9,200 feet, with the needle still rising. Back on the ground the thermometer on the airfield shed read just shy of eighty degrees, right before he’d taxied to the strip and lit off. The air was noticeably cooler at this altitude, as though it were still summertime down there but the first of October up here. Sixty degrees, maybe? And while Mr. Pietenpol may never have intended the ship as anything more than a low-and-slow hedgehopper, between the boost from the clouds and the mod to the engine, she showed no sign yet of hitting any kind of a plateau.
At 9,600 he bumped around a bit on the far edge of the cloud column, felt himself exit the hard pull of the updraft. His needle showed him still at a moderate climb, but nothing like the ascent he’d just experienced.
With the bulk of the column running now to the north, he dropped the nose a bit and put the ship into a left bank, came back around and bumped into the thermal again. He leveled out and nosed up and watched his gauges. The altimeter passed ten grand and kept right on going.
He followed the draft in a shallow bank, corkscrewing into thinner and thinner air, the temperature dropping and dropping, until the down on his forearms rose against his skin like hoarfrost.
He called it at twelve thousand feet. He felt like he’d flown past October and well into November. Thirty degrees, maybe? Twenty-five? No matter—his rate of climb was indeed finally tapering, and anyway, if he stayed with it much longer in this flapping summer shirt, he’d start to turn blue. He nosed down and leveled and flew out beyond the reach of the clouds.
The reefs and big buttes jutted no larger than anthills, fainter and fainter in the distance, and finally ghostlike at the lavender haze of the horizon. The one tiny hamlet he could see had barely the scale of a postage stamp. No people, no cars, not even a single identifiable structure, more just a mottled, telltale grid of green foliage and vague rectilinears, surrounded on all sides by that rolling brown ocean. Even Dunn Mountain off to port looked like some schoolkid’s papier-mâché geography project.
He backed off the throttle, pointed the half globe of the compass in the gauge-cluster west and a little south. He dropped through the warming air.
Five thousand feet down, the air patterns were evidently all a-swirl. He felt the wall of a headwind push like a palm against his chest, while a couple of miles away the cloud column seemed to move in the same direction he was moving. He bucked around a bit in a patch of chop, feathered the stick in response and came out level with the wind again at his back, the ship leaping with the shift. He throttled back up.
He was still fairly far out from the airfield, intent on reaching the foothills of the Bulls and angling along the ridge back toward home. He bumped around through another rough patch, worked the stick somehow intuitively to ride it out, and a tremendous sidewise slap out of the west rocked the ship as though the fuselage might barrel-roll around an invisible spindle. His heart leapt straight for his throat even while the force of the thing subsided and his attitude stabilized again.
He wondered if such a gust qualified as wind shear. He’d read about the phenomenon mainly as a landing hazard, in which a blast of air colliding at a right angle with the prevailing wind created the atmospheric equivalent of a sucker punch.
He was still wondering when another one hit. He rode this out as well, leveled again a little off course for the mountains. He banked back toward them and ran the throttle fully forward. Evidently the wind was really howling now down at ground level, for the river bottom was not far off, and he could see the flash of leaves in the crowns even from here. That fluid green flicker.
The rough air at his own elevation continued in punctuated bursts, for some reason from the opposite direction than the course taken by the cloud column, and he had to correct and correct again to stay on course. Finally he wound up with the Bulls not far at all to the west, which would at least put him in the direction of the airfield. He went ahead and gambled and put the ship into a fairly hard bank. With the ground tilted toward him, the corner of his eye picked out a flash of motion down below.
He looked over the cowling and saw the square box of a structure, tucked up tight to a juniper-studded bench. A homesteader’s twelve-by-twelve shanty, or maybe a cattle company’s line cabin, with some commotion going on around back of the thing, what looked at a fast glance like a couple of guys wrestling a sail in the wind.
That didn’t make any sense. He checked the position of the mountains again, held the bank and looked back to the ground. Of course it wasn’t a sail but a canvas tarp, and evidently the wind was really screaming down along that bench because they were having a heck of a time managing the billowing thing, so much so that the one guy lost his grip on it altogether.
The ship was around a thousand feet AGL, too far by a long shot to recognize a person with any certainty. But once the loose-blowing canvas flapped up and ripped as well out of the other guy’s hands, Huck saw plain as day what rested underneath: a gray Plymouth coupe, with a smudge of damage visible even at this height to the roof.
He pointed for the airfield and poured on the coals.
Release
1
She’d felt herself approaching dry land, even before that night of the meteors with Houston. By the time Roy roared up in the middle of the afternoon a few days later, the slightest of currents could have washed her into shore. Without even gathering her things, she roared right back down the lane with him.
“Complete stroke of luck on the kid’s part,” he told her. “Went out to test this gizmo he made for the airplane and wound up spotting that dern Plymouth coupe, way out by Rattlesnake Buttes.”
“Appropriate.”
He laughed. “Reckon he found himself the easiest possible way to keep old Cy off his case, too. When I left for the ranch, the two of them and about twenty reporters out of Billings were all heading up to the runway for a demo.”
He let her off at the bungalow and went on to the airfield.
She took a hot bath, ran a razor over herself for the first time in a while. Lined and shadowed her eyes.
She wriggled into that same summer dress she’d worn to Billings that day, same black-and-white heels, an outfit she knew made him a little crazy. No lipstick to smear, though, and no way she could plead heat-of-the-moment or any other sort of momentary lapse. She held her chin high in the mirror, narrowed her painted eyes. Mea culpa, all the way.
They’d gone at each other like beautiful animals, no sooner, it seemed, than she’d crossed the threshold into his little room. Half danced and half crashed their way to the bed, clawing at clothes and biting and breathing. Then he was falling atop her and how quickly he’d plunged inside her and how quickly she seemed to launch, her wrists pinned along her head, and in no time he roared in her ears because he was launching, too, which made her rack even harder. She heard herself cry out, just about the time some lever dropped her through her own foundation and into a whole other plunge, and she began to rack not so much with spasms as great heaving sobs.
Release, in more ways than one.
She fought away from him and he let off her wrists. She curled tight and let him hold her, let him shush in her ear. She shook so hard, she couldn’t even nod.
Finally it passed. She lay there a bit and patted his wet wrist. Got her breathing under control. One of the droplets had rolled, started to tickle her chin. She twisted away and sat up.
She wiped her eyes. “Wow. I’m sorry.”
“You shouldn’t be. Probably just what you need.”
“It’s just such a relief, you know? Even with everything else going on—Amelia and all. I’ve been in knots ever since you shot their cars up. Longer than that, even. Worried sick.”
“I want to tell you I’m sorry, for putting you through any of it. Hell, for even a
ttempting that stupid bushwhack in the first place.” He stalled, shook his head at his own hindsight. “I guess I must have been so festered after what they did to you that night, I just . . . wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Hush,” she told him. “It wound up working out. Crazy as it seems.”
“Roy tell you they had bullion when they got pinched?”
“No . . . what? Out of the cemetery?”
“No doubt.”
She could feel her wheels turning, those old gears getting back in the habit of working ten miles down the road. “Houston thought you turned everything over to the police. In exchange for staying in the clear yourself. But I guess that’s not what happened.”
He shook his head. “Nope. The kid was right, I started to get pretty worried myself, especially once we knew about that gold stash. So when they came back around, I just turned it all over to them. Watch, ledger, map—all of it. Figured if they got what they were after, they’d hightail it for Argentina or something.”
“What did they say about us beating them to it?”
“I never told them we did. Not even with the map and the lockbox. I just put the whole caboodle in a burlap sack and left it in the boondocks, as instructed. Three o’clock in the morning. Figured that was the end of it, until a couple of days later when Houston happened to spot them from the airplane.”
“By which time they’d gone for the stash.”
“Looks like it.”
“Well. Guess I missed the whole show.” She kneaded at her eyes again, saw the makeup on her fingers. “On top of that, I must look like a real fright.”
He appeared to give this some serious mulling. “That is, ah, one way to put it.”
She slapped his face, not very hard. God, she’d missed laughing with him.
He kissed the hand that hit him. “You’re gorgeous. Like a raccoon.”
She laughed again, had to catch herself again. A sound like a hiccup. “Careful,” she warned. “I might start back up.”
“Want a beer?”
“God, yes . . .”
“I was starting to wonder if you were going to come around at all,” he told her.
Her eyes felt like withering gashes in the skin of an apple, curdling with some sickly color. She took a small sip of Highlander, let her tongue absorb it. “It wasn’t you, I promise. Just all the other stuff.”
“Thought for sure I’d lure you right to my lair, that first time you seemed to shake it. My wheels were a-turning, believe me.”
She gave him a little look.
“After you figured out the ledger? That trek down to Billings?”
She couldn’t read his face now, and with the light lowering outside the window she realized he almost certainly couldn’t read hers, either. “I know. You were close. Believe me.” She pulled another swig, this time a healthier one. “Guess it wasn’t over, though.”
She was quiet a moment. Down on the main floor of the house something banged and thumped, then the circular clatter of a dropped lid. An agitated French harangue came through the floor.
“Half in his cups,” said McKee. “Probably tripped over his cat.”
“It was that little girl’s body. In the crypt.” Somehow she was only just realizing it. Should have been obvious. “That’s what set me back. I probably never should’ve seen it.”
“One of those things, though. You don’t know until it’s too late. And no way to unsee it afterward.”
“True enough.” That tiny sleeping face, with those tiny teeth. Now and always and maybe forever, peering away through some hazy glass in her own mind. She didn’t know how many times she’d startled awake already to that very image.
“Tell you the truth, I had my doubts about letting you down in there that day. Not that I think you couldn’t handle such a thing, under regular circumstances.”
“Well, I appreciate the sentiment, looking back. But I doubt you could have stopped me, short of not inviting me along to begin with. Which would’ve made me even angrier.”
“It’s a fine line, wanting to protect someone.”
She thought about Gloria, out there alone once again. Roy had been in such a wild rush, she’d barely even said goodbye. She said, “Ignorance might be bliss, but only if it’s honest. Otherwise, you just wind up feeling mollycoddled. It’s insulting. Can you close the window? I’m freezing.”
He swung his feet to the floor and stood and slid the window down. In an instant that simple gesture sealed the two of them from the air and the noise of the rest of the world, and in another instant he was right back beside her as though he’d never been gone. “You feel pretty warm to me,” he told her.
“Like a raccoon?”
“Not sure. Never been to bed with one.”
She yawned, still thinking about her aunt.
“That was supposed to be funny.”
“It is funny. I’m just”—another yawn and she talked right through it—“really worn out. Been a rough month.”
She lay there for a bit while he drank his beer in the gathering dark, feeling herself settle into this amazing drowsiness, knowing something had sure drained out of her. She’d sleep like she’d been drugged and she knew it, knew as well she should rouse herself and head to the bungalow right now, before she slipped past the point of return.
“Might be a touchy subject, but are you gonna get back in that bird again? The kid sure wants you to.”
She heard the blow of her breath, that old dying balloon. Touchy, that was one way to put it. “I will if you will.”
“Great. Let’s do it.”
She lifted her head off his shoulder, put it right back again. “Yeah, right.”
He laughed. “I mean it. Probably. Have to put me in a diaper first, but for you? Sure. I’d do it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, you’re smart. Anyhow, none of that’s the point. You’re the one’s got to do it, for you alone. My horse ain’t in the race.”
Only a moment ago she’d been borderline chilled and now a flush went through her like ninety-proof whiskey, right down her throat and somehow straight to her blood. “It makes me look pretty weak, I know.” Her face practically burned against the pillow.
“Not what I’m saying. Hell, look at me—I won’t even climb up on a roof. But you can fly a plane, and that’s your life. Maybe you can’t get Miss Earhart back, but you can get you back.”
She realized she was holding her breath, realized as well that her old stinger was starting to rise. Evidently she was getting herself back, little by little, misguided as it might be. She’d also shocked awake more than once to Amelia’s face, that famous gap in her teeth, also behind glass. Glass, and water.
She forced herself to let the bottling air back out. Forced the sting back down.
“You know he took that thing to twelve thousand feet the other day?”
The words sank in and her head came back off his shoulder. “You’re kidding.”
“What he said. But he was a speck in the air in no time, that much I can for sure tell you. He told you he supercharged the engine, right?”
“With a vacuum cleaner?”
“Yeah. A busted vacuum cleaner.”
God love that kid. “He told me he thought he might be able to. I guess I’m not surprised he actually did it.”
He nudged away from her and went across the room to the icebox. “Yeah?”
“I’d better not. I need to get back to the house.” She heard him pop a single cap. A moment later he climbed back in beside her.
“So how was it out there, with Miz Gloria? Huck said the two of you were getting along like thieves.”
“I saw another side of her, definitely.” She’d put herself in her aunt’s position and couldn’t help feeling some of her pain. “It’s hard not to feel bad for her, becau
se she’s just muddling through like the rest of us. Unfortunately, she sort of forced her own rejection by the people she loves. I don’t think she knows how to atone for it without appearing to deny the same sense of belief that carried her through her other troubles for so long.”
“Rock and a hard place.”
Now she did want another beer. She reached over and took his. “She’s incredibly lonely out there. I actually feel sort of guilty, like I abandoned her myself, all over again. It happened pretty quickly, but I could tell she was . . . crestfallen, or something.”
“How did she take the news about the airplane?”
She drained the rest of the bottle. One easy gulp. “She doesn’t know yet. Roy was in a rush, I don’t think he really expected me to come back with him.” She realized something else. “He probably thought I should be the one to explain it all to her. Given the way it’s been going.”
“Want me to run you back out there?”
“Looking like a raccoon? No, I don’t. There’s plenty I haven’t told her, either.”
McKee laughed.
“Anyway, it’s something the three of them really need to powwow about. I don’t mind going, but they’ve gotten way too used to not being themselves around her. It’s made a real mess for all of them.” Plus there was something else, something she could hardly resist now that she’d plunged back in. “Besides that, you feel good.”
“You’re welcome.” He had her tight. “I hate to say it, but we should get you back over to the house.”
“Yuck.”
“I know it.” He yawned again. “But the rumor mill.”
“Dodging that’s”—this yawning was a real contagion—“mainly for my aunt, in this case. Save the poor woman from the scandal.” She felt almost bad again, even as she said it. Who was mollycoddling whom, exactly? “I can hardly move, though. What on earth did you do to me?”
“Just my sworn Christian duty.”
“Oh, Yak,” she said, and she couldn’t keep her eyes open, her own voice ten thousand miles away, floating at her from the inky deep. “I do love you.”
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