Broken Sky

by L. A. Weatherly

  “It sounds awful.”

  “Invigorating, I’m sure Miri would say. The make-up sex is good.” He gave me a wolfish leer. “Oh, sorry. Am I being too crude?”

  “No. I’m glad there’s something good about it. Because she sounds like a grade-A bitch.”

  Ingo studied me, his dark eyes both amused and irritated. “Do you always say exactly what’s on your mind?”

  “Mostly,” I said.

  “Well, I suppose it’s refreshing, at least. Yes, she can be a bitch,” he said shortly. “She’s also the most exciting, intoxicating woman I’ve ever met. Shall we talk about your friend Collis now – the intended recipient of mysterious phone messages?”

  I thought of Collie begging me not to fly and cleared my throat. “I’d rather not.”

  “Trouble in paradise?”

  “No. The opposite, if it’s any of your business.”

  Ingo gave me a keen look and fell silent. We turned onto another street. We were nearing the administrative offices of Heatcalf City now; there were no other people on the sidewalk. In the distance I could see the dark bulk of the World for Peace building, with its laurel-leaf emblem silhouetted against the stars.

  “There’s still time for you to just give me the keys,” I said.

  Ingo was gazing at the WfP building too. “I think you know I’m not going to do that. So can we avoid having this tedious conversation again, please?” He glanced at me and added dryly, “Dare I ask if you have a plan for once we get inside?”

  I didn’t take my eyes from the laurel leaf.

  “In theory,” I said.

  The private entrance for officials was too brightly lit for my liking, but was at least tucked away on a quiet side street. Ingo and I stood in the glaring circle of light as he tried key after key.

  I peered over my shoulder, straining to see if there was any movement in the shadows. “Can’t you hurry?” I hissed.

  Ingo didn’t look up. “I’ve only been here once. I suppose you’d have memorized which key was used, but normal people don’t think like criminals. Ah. There.”

  With a faint click, the door swung open.

  Ingo motioned me through. “Ladies first,” he said, his voice heavy with irony.

  Inside the lights were on, but I couldn’t hear anything. There was a small reception area, vacant this time of night. As Ingo entered and closed the door, I ducked behind the desk and started rummaging, pulling out drawers.

  “What are you doing?” Ingo’s voice was sharp. “You said—”

  I exhaled and held up a slim silver letter opener. “We can go now.”

  A carpeted hallway led to the elevators; I ignored it and glanced at the door to the stairs. Madeline’s office was on the fourteenth floor.

  “Come on,” I said. “We’ve got a long climb ahead.”

  The stairwell was dark, lit only by squares of light from the windows of each landing’s door. When we finally got to the fourteenth floor I reached for the doorknob. Ingo grabbed my wrist.

  “Wait,” he hissed. “Do you hear something?”

  I started to say no, then heard it too: a low humming noise, rising and falling in pitch. Trepidation filled me. “A vacuum cleaner,” I muttered. “Damn.”

  Ingo’s face hardened. I expected him to insist that we leave; instead he cracked open the door and peered out. The lights were on – the noise sounded very close.

  “I don’t see anyone. The cleaner must be in one of the offices,” he said.

  Madeline’s office was down at the other end; if it hadn’t already been cleaned it would be one of the last. “Hurry,” I whispered urgently. “We can sneak past without being heard.”

  Ingo looked like he wanted to argue, but didn’t. We slipped out of the stairwell and eased the door shut, then hastened down the corridor. When we reached Madeline’s office the door was predictably locked. I crouched down and angled the letter opener into the keyhole.

  Ingo glanced back towards where the vacuum cleaner still droned. “Do you actually know what you’re doing with that thing?”

  “Yes, since you ask,” I said shortly. My heart was hammering. I tried to ignore it and moved the letter opener’s blade carefully, feeling for the tumblers. The blade was a nice narrow one. Good – that made it easier.

  This type of lock hadn’t moved on much in the four years since I’d tried this. Just as Ingo hissed, “If you don’t figure that out quickly—” the tumblers fell into place.

  I turned the doorknob; we rushed inside and shut the door. The wall opposite had a plate-glass window. Ambient light from the city cast soft shadows. I went and twisted the blinds closed, and Madeline’s office fell into darkness.

  “Get the lights,” I whispered.

  There was a click. I blinked in the sudden brightness and let out a breath. The letter opener glinted as I tucked it in my pocket.

  Ingo eyed me. “Should I even ask?” he said after a pause.

  “A misspent youth,” I said.

  “You?”

  “I was arrested once. Does it even matter?” I scanned the office, not bothering to explain that it had been Rob, not me, who’d picked locks. But he’d taught me how and I’d liked knowing. It had made me feel strong, in control.

  Nothing like I felt now.

  Ingo was still watching me. “Yes, maybe it does matter. Why the hell did you need me, if you can do that?”

  I spun towards him. “Because I couldn’t have picked the outside lock – it’s about a million times more complicated! I was hardly a master criminal. Can we drop this?”

  Ingo’s curls looked blue-black in the harsh light. He gave a sardonic nod, though his eyes stayed wary. “All right,” he said. “What are we looking for?”

  I felt even more apprehensive than I’d expected now that we were actually here. Madeline’s office was businesslike, yet feminine – just like her. A vase of yellow roses sat on the desk, the blooms slightly wilted.

  This was not the time to tell Ingo that I had no idea what had happened to Madeline. And that what I needed might already be gone.

  I went and took down the painting of two Firedoves that covered Madeline’s safe. The door looked small, impenetrable. I stared at its dial and tried frantically to think.

  “Don’t tell me you’re a safe-cracker, too,” said Ingo.

  “Can’t you be quiet?” I snapped.

  People didn’t choose combinations at random. Madeline’s birthday, I thought. It was March 10th – I’d have to guess at the year. She was my father’s age, wasn’t she? No, younger: he’d told me once that she was in the year below him at school.

  I wiped my hand on my trousers. Slowly, I turned the dial. It made a soft clicking noise. Left…right…left again. I tugged. The safe stayed locked. I tried again with a different year. Then another one.

  I spun the dial in frustration. Ingo appeared at my elbow, hands in pockets. His shoulders looked tense under his sports jacket. “Do you know this woman well?” he asked.

  “Yes. I know her well.”

  “All right, then think. What are you trying – her birthday? Try a different one. Who’s important to her?”

  How well did I know Madeline? She’d always been part of my life, yet was too much older for us to have really been friends. I’d told her things, not the other way around. I knew she’d never been married, but had no idea who her friends were, if she had a lover, if she had a child, even – though I didn’t think so.

  A lover.

  The words hesitated at the edge of my mind. I went very still, remembering Madeline resting her hand on my father’s chest in the main lobby downstairs – the look in his eyes as he gazed down at her.

  A sudden suspicion punched me in the stomach.

  I started as Ingo snapped his fingers in front of my face. “I would really rather not be found still standing here tomorrow morning, if you don’t mind,” he said testily.

  I set my jaw and reached for the dial again. Somehow my hand stayed steady. I entered my
father’s birthday, spinning the dial with neat precision.

  6 left. 11 right. 3 left.

  With a faint click, the safe opened.

  Ingo rocked backwards with a wordless bark of surprise. “What did you try?” he burst out.

  In a way I think I’d always known, so why did this hurt so much? “Someone else’s birthday,” I said shortly.

  There were some manila folders inside the safe; I snatched them up and started rifling through them. When I found the bundle of information that I’d given Madeline, I gasped out a breath.

  “It’s still here,” I said.

  “Let me see.” Ingo pressed close and took the folder from me. He didn’t speak as he studied the newspaper clippings with Russ’s scribbled comments, the diary with dates starred, my careful notes about the fights. I saw his fingers go white as he gripped the file.

  “I told you,” I said softly. “It’s all true.”

  “Yes. You told me.” Ingo shoved the file back at me. His eyes looked fierce, but his voice shook. “The thing that I’ve given my life to – left my home for—” He broke off. “You’re sure it wasn’t just this one man? You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  Ingo turned away, his jaw working. I was surprised at his emotion – ever since I’d met him, he’d seemed so cool and controlled. He swiped a hand over his face. “Fine. So what do we do about it?” he said roughly. His gaze fell on the rest of the files from the safe. “What are those?”

  I flipped through them. WfP documents, carbon copies of memos. It looked as if Madeline had been gathering more evidence. “We’d better just take this stuff and—”

  I broke off as I saw my own name. The words on the memo jumped out at me. I frowned and tugged it free from the file. I read the whole thing.

  It made no sense.

  I read the memo again, gulping down the words. “But…I don’t understand,” I said in a daze.

  Ingo snatched the memo from me. Out loud, he read, “Hester, in addition, Hendrix was misled by her background and made incorrect assumptions. Amity is very determined and not motivated by money. She won’t stop until she’s exposed this. I’m extremely saddened but agree that the proposed solution is the only way. Would you take care of it? M.”

  Ingo’s eyes flew to meet mine. “You know her well, huh?” He shoved the memo back into my hand.

  “Madeline betrayed me,” I said hoarsely. “Madeline.” I read the words again. “She knew,” I whispered. “She helped plan it.”

  Ingo looked up sharply. “Plan what?”

  Fury and fear galvanized me. I leaped for the safe and slammed it closed, then shoved the painting back on the wall. “They tried to kill me a few hours ago,” I said. “They sabotaged my plane. The other pilot was killed, too. They murdered him so there’d be no witnesses.”

  Dawning horror spread across Ingo’s face. He grabbed my arm. “You told me you were in danger – that’s all!” he spat. “You didn’t say—”

  I whirled towards him. “Would you have still come? Would you? Or would you have taken your keys and gone back to Miri?”

  Ingo’s face darkened; he started to reply – instead we both froze at the sound of a nearby door opening.

  The vacuum started up in the next office.

  I reached to grab the files, and then stopped. There was a notepad on Madeline’s desk; I snatched up a pen. I trusted you, I scrawled. I ripped off the piece of paper and slapped it in the middle of Madeline’s desk.

  “Come on,” I said.

  Ingo stood staring. “You are insane,” he said.

  “Yes, maybe I am!” I snapped. “It feels like it right now, anyway.”

  Ingo started to say something else; his mouth tightened. Silently, he helped me take the files and we slipped away from Madeline’s sanctuary with its fading flowers. The sound of the vacuum amplified as we opened the door.

  We crept past and then ran for the darkness of the stairs. When we reached them, we travelled down, down into the gloom.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Dear Amity,

  I’m writing again because I need to tell you that those men came back. I tried not to let them in like you said, but they pushed past me and I couldn’t stop them. Ma kept saying not to antagonize them, to let them do what they want. They checked our charts again but this time they went straight to mine, they didn’t seem to care about the others. When they left they took my chart away with them. They told me not to go anywhere or I’d be in trouble.

  I’m scared, Amity. Why would I be in trouble? They can’t really do anything to me, can they? They’re Gunnison’s men, not ours. I’ve been reading the papers to try and find out what’s going on but I can’t see anything. Ma said not to bother you and that it’s probably nothing but I knew you’d want to know.

  I hope you’re all right. Say hello to Collie for me. I sure wish you two could come home again soon.

  Your brother,

  Hal

  I folded Hal’s letter and tucked it back in my pocket just as Milt appeared with two cups of coffee. Around us, the roadside diner was full of truckers. In their large hands, the silverware looked tiny.

  I’d read Hal’s letter a dozen times now. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but urgency filled me. It seemed that Collie had been right – it wasn’t him those men were after. I couldn’t call home; switchboard operators might have been told to listen in on Ma’s line. If I hadn’t had to meet with Milt, I’d have been on my way to Sacrament already.

  Hang on, Hal, I thought. Deep down I added Collie to that plea. My fear for his safety was like a gnawing rat.

  I added cream and sugar to my coffee and took a gulp; I’d hardly eaten today. “Thanks for meeting me here,” I said to Milt.

  He shrugged. “Kind of out of the way, isn’t it? Guess that’s the idea.”

  Milt’s shabby sports jacket was the same reddish-brown as his hair. His ruddy cheeks gave him an outdoorsy look – just like when he’d first approached me in Heatcalf City after my appeal. I’d pitched his business card in the trash, but to my relief had remembered his name.

  As Milt stirred his coffee he gave me a keen glance. “Heard the news?”

  I’d just started to pull the files from the brown paper shopping bag I’d been carrying them in. I looked up in apprehension. “What news?”

  “You, of course. At least, I assume it’s you. Yeah, you’re pretty big news, Miss Vancour. Here you go – courtesy of the evening papers.” He took a newspaper from a battered briefcase and slid it across the laminated tabletop.

  WESTERN SEABOARD PILOT CHARGED WITH MURDER – “WILDCAT” ON THE RUN

  My hands went cold. “What?” I grabbed up the paper.

  During a Tier One fight yesterday a Western Seaboard pilot – who cannot be named under the anonymity policy – opened fire on her Central States opponent as the defeated pilot parachuted to the ground, brutally murdering him. The WS pilot, nicknamed “Wildcat” by her team leader, eluded arrest upon landing and is now on the run.

  It is thought that “Wildcat” killed her opponent to stop his disclosure that she had approached him about the possibility of making money for thrown fights. Both the World for Peace and the Western Seaboard have denounced Wildcat, and every effort is being made to find her and bring her to justice.

  “I’m sickened,” said Base Commander Hendrix of the Western Seaboard. “She was a Tier One pilot, trusted with the utmost responsibility the world can give. Clearly our trust was tragically misplaced.”

  Milt took a gulp of coffee, his gaze not leaving my face. “So is it you, Wildcat?”

  I shoved the paper away. “This is just…just a complete pack of lies from start to finish!”

  “Is it? Sure seems like it’d be a good reason to kill someone.”

  Heat surged through me. I leaned forward. “These – are – lies. If you don’t believe me, I might as well leave right now.”

  Milt chuckled. “Hey, relax. I’m a journalist.
I ask questions. But if you want to get your version of the story out there, I’m your man.”

  He took in the denims and shirt I’d bought that morning. There hadn’t been enough money in the stolen wallet to get rid of my boots, too. “So where are your flight clothes?” he asked. “It says you eluded arrest upon landing.”

  “I didn’t land – my plane was sabotaged,” I said tightly. “My parachute was too, only I took the wrong one. The other pilot wasn’t so lucky. He tried to bail and fell to his death from ten thousand feet.”

  Milt gave a low whistle. He pulled a notepad and pencil from his inside pocket and started to write, the stubby lead flying across the page. “Keep talking,” he said urgently.

  “I’m the one they want to silence, because I found out about the bribes. Hendrix is as corrupt as the rest of them. I’ve got all the evidence. Everything. Right here.”

  Milt’s head snapped up; he looked at the shopping bag. “What kind of evidence?”

  “Notes from one of the corrupt pilots, WfP memos and documents—”

  “Let’s get out of here.” Milt flipped his notebook shut. “I’ve got my auto – we’ll find someplace more private.” He glanced at the bag again. “If you’ve really got what you say you’ve got…well, sister, this thing is going to explode like nobody’s business.”

  Milt drove us to a wooded road high in the hills. The tang of pine scented the air. I knew I’d never smell it again without seeing myself back in this moment: sitting in a battered coupé, parked off an empty dirt road and gripped by tension.

  I told Milt everything as he went through the documents, snapping photos of them with a silver and black camera as large as his head. I hated the undercurrent of excitement in his voice. This was only a story to him, the biggest of his career. But he asked good questions and listened to my answers.

  He blew out a stream of smoke through the open auto window. It was the third cigarette he’d lit. “Hendrix was misled by her background,” he read aloud from Madeline’s memo. “So what ‘background’ is she talking about?”