A Deadly Shade of Rose

by Douglas Hirt

  I said, “He found out what you were up to and didn’t like it. He told Marcie and a few others. I heard this from a third party,” I added cryptically to give them something to more to worry about.”

  Marcie appeared at my side with a plastic glass of water and she dumped two aspirins into my hand. Her view was narrow and not friendly. “You talk too much, Granger.” She knew the game I was playing.

  Sherri’s mouth had gaped, her eyes wore a confused. “What’s going on here, Paul?”

  I ignored her, watching Alexander chew his lower lip. “Who told you that?” he demanded.

  “I told him,” Marcie intervened haltingly and not very convincingly.

  He glanced over, then back. “Make it easy on yourself, Granger. Give me a name and maybe I can talk the boss into letting up on some of the heat.”

  That got the pilot’s attention and he looked over his shoulder at the back of Alexander’s head. His suit coat hung on a hook behind his seat and I saw how his belly strained the buttons of his shirt. Little crescents of sweat soaked the cloth at his armpits. His brown hair was going gray and his face clean shaven. A cigarette drooped from his lips and bobbed convulsively with his small, quiet laugh.

  “Don’t listen to him, Granger,” Marcie glared at the pilot. “What about it, Cockran? You going to let your peons make the deals?”

  I hadn’t pictured Sten Cockran like that. Somehow, I thought there’d be something sinister about the man, something overtly dangerous in his appearance. Instead, he reminded me of a dentist I used to go to.

  Cockran grinned around the cigarette that danced in his lips as he spoke. “I don’t care who makes the deals Miss Rose, so long as I get what I’m after.” It was the unidentified voice that had spoken earlier, and it sounded reasonably pragmatic now. Sten Cockran was plainly a practical man.

  Sherri said, “Someone tell me what’s going on here.” She’d never been one to shrink quietly into the background for very long. Sure, everything that had happened had put her back on her high heels, who wouldn’t have been knocked off their stride, but now that the shock had lost its rough edges Sherri was damn well going have some answers. “I’m run off the road, kidnapped, and taken to that grimy airplane garage. Brian is assaulted, Paul’s head almost split open, and now we are a mile in the air heading to who knows where!” Her view swept the cabin falling on me. “Tell me what’s happening, Paul.”

  I said, “I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t. Why don't you ask the man with the gun?”

  Sherri looked at Alexander. “Well, you going to tell me?”

  Landerfelt stirred in the seat next row back, plainly interested in hearing the answer too. Well, that made three of us. I was pretty sure Marcie knew where we were going, but she wasn’t talking.

  “Sit down, lady,” Alexander said, waving the pistol threateningly like Pretty Boy had been wont to do. Maybe guns did that to certain people, people who didn’t use them often enough to know that sometimes they go bang when you didn’t expect them to? Accidents happen. They’ve happened to me and to friends of mine. If you’re lucky no one gets hurt and you've learned a lesson safe gun handling you're not likely to forget.

  Sherri sank wide-eyed quietly into the seat across the aisle from me. Alexander was bluffing but Sherri didn't know that. He'd not fire a gun inside an airplane at altitude. I didn’t know how high we were flying, but it appeared to be a lot more that the “mile” Sherri had called it; high enough to have a pressurized hull, which a .45 slug would quickly and violently depressurize, not to mention the possibility of severing cables, hydraulic lines, or electrical wires.

  Below us stretched the brown bowl of a valley rimmed with mountains. We were flying into the sun. Craning my neck—with much accompanying pain—I looked back along the fuselage at the profile of Pikes Peak. That would make the valley we were flying over South Park. Cattle country now. Indian land a hundred and fifty years ago. Sunlight sparkled off a long, narrow patch of blue water that was Eleven Mile Reservoir. I’d fished the stream below the dam a couple times.

  Alexander said to me, “We’ll talk later.”

  I shrugged. “What good will it do me?”

  “We’ll make a deal, maybe.”

  And if I believed that I’m sure he had a bridge somewhere he’d be happy to sell me. “Maybe,” I said glancing at Cockran who’d returned his attention to flying the plane. In the copilot seat Raymond pondered a chart. He hadn’t partaken in the activities back here. He either didn’t care or was too occupied with navigating to concern himself with a couple of women and men who weren’t going anywhere until their feet were firmly back on solid ground.

  Marcie had taken the seat behind me, which faced toward the rear of the plane and two more seats that faced forward, a small table between them. Sherri had gone quiet, staring at the automatic Alexander had lowered to his lap.

  “I wish you would tell me what’s going on, Paul,” she said quietly.

  “I wish I could,” I said. She looked annoyed, as if I was holding something back from her on purpose.

  “Really, Paul, if this is a joke it’s gone on long enough.”

  That startled me. Is that what she thought of all this? A joke? Then I realized that in the beginning it must have seemed that way to her. Someone was playing a nasty joke on her, and now it was all going to end. How could sweet, protected, Sherri Lane have thought otherwise? She’d grown up in the shadows of the Broadmoor Hotel, in the safe confines of Daddy’s walled estate that Granddad had built from Cripple Creek gold at the end of the last century.

  Was this the first, honest taste Sherri ever had of life in the real world? If so, life had just played a dirty trick on her, I mused, and maybe it was a wake-up call the young lady needed. Now, if only I could make sure she survived long enough to benefit from the experience.

  Chapter Fifteen

  We flew low over a couple picturesque mountain villages, the sun on the horizon, setting behind snow covered mountain peaks spiking toward a darkening sky. During our slow descent Sherri had turned in her seat and spoke to Landerfelt. I think it was the first time since I’d regained consciousness that she’d said more than a half dozen words to the fellow.

  “How did you get all mixed up in this, Brian?” Her voice was low, but I heard disapproval in it.

  He winced and looked embarrassed. “I could ask you the same question.”

  She scowled briefly, then her expression softened. “I’m sorry, Brian.” She glanced my way with disapproval. “I can guess how we both got involved.”

  He said, “It’s my fault, not his, but I was doing it for you, Sherri. I had to do something; don’t you see? I couldn’t just give you up. Don’t you see?”

  “For me? Or for you?” Her lips compressed drawing an unattractive line across her face. “We’ve been through this,” she said.

  “I know, but-”

  “But you didn’t listen. I might as well have been talking to my horse.” The anger in her eyes softened a bit. “We aren’t children anymore. We had wonderful times growing up and all, but that’s past. I’ve changed...you’ve changed. We were great friends, but that’s all it was. That’s all it will ever be. Can’t you see that?”

  “Why must it be only that? Because I’m not one of those causes you find yourself drawn to? Because our fathers happen to be business partners? Why, Sherri? Why can’t it work for us?” His voice cracked, his eyes taking on a sheen. He sat back in the seat and turned his head to the window. It wasn’t the scenery he cared about, but he had enough self-respect to not want to display his tears.

  Sherri was dealing with emotions too, not concerned who might notice the drop of moisture from her pooling eyes. “Oh Brian, if only you'd understand,” she said. She smiled briefly at me and then looked to the darkening landscape below slowly rising toward us.

  Lights strung along ski lifts were winking on, dropping pale yellowish pools on the snow-covered slopes. The illumination accentuated the deep darkness of the pine forests
from which the runs had been hacked out of. The plane banked low over a small village all lit up like Christmas. The season still had a couple more months to go, depending on how much snow spring brought. Some of the more expensive ski slopes used snow makings machines to extend the season. We leveled off and headed out over the forest, dropping steadily. A lighted runway appeared beyond the tops of the trees. Landing gears lowered with a muted electric whine and gave a solid clunk locking in place. Beyond the runway, among the trees, was a house with lots of bright windows and at least two patios alit. The forest dropped away and a strip of asphalt rose up to kiss the plane’s tires, and we were down.

  Marcie made a point of being the first of us off the plane. She swept past me in a rush, that bulky parka under her arm, her eyes blue lasers fixed on the open door. There were no steps here. Marcie grasped a grab bar and hopped down to the pavement into the fading light of an early winter’s evening. Raymond had already deplaned and was waiting on the tarmac with his little pistol in hand.

  Landerfelt was next. His face looked a mess, blue and black from Pretty Boy’s attack blossoming purple and black. Alexander waved him toward the door with the .45. Landerfelt held the bar, hesitated, and then jumped. He landed on a patch of ice and fell to his knees, his glasses flying off into a pile of slush at Raymond’s feet. Raymond fished them out of the cold melt, shook them off and handed them back. Landerfelt said a quiet, “Thank you,” and replaced them on the bridge of his nose making the fine adjustments with the tip of a finger.

  Sherri helped me to the door. I still wasn’t steady on my feet, and hoping to avoid Landerfelt’s fate, sat on the threshold. I could have made it without help, but playing up my poor, shaky state might work to my advantage if they thought my condition worse than it was. I made the trip to the tarmac without drama and double-handed helped Sherri do the same.

  This was skiing country. It was colder here, wherever here was. I was pretty sure we’d landed a couple thousand feet higher than from where we’d taken off. I wished I could have put my coat on, but Alexander wasn't taking any more chances, so I accepted my predicament as it was and put up with shivering. I didn’t think I’d be outside too long. Alexander made it to the tarmac in one long stretch, turned to say something to Cockran still inside the plane, then waved the pistol toward a glow of lights beyond the dark trees. “That way.”

  Heavy snowflakes were beginning to fall. Raymond took the lead along a footpath stomped into the snow. I suspected there was a paved walk somewhere beneath the snow, but no one had taken the effort to shovel it. We passed a steel hangar with a decrepit Willys pickup truck parked alongside it next to an odd looking contraption that resembled something from Dr. Moreau’s island; a gene splice between an overgrown sled and an airplane, with only the propeller and tail fin of the plane making it through the graft intact.

  Sherri kept between me and Landerfelt as if not knowing which one of us she wanted to be closer to. I, as she may be thinking, was not the nice, safe college professor she’d mistaken me for while the respectable Mr. Brian Landerfelt had pretty much proven his affection for her, clumsily as it turned out, but sincere, nonetheless. Marcie paid none of us any attention, her head slowly turning, scanning, eyes searching, brain planning, body taut like a cat in dog country.

  The path ended—as most paths usually do. This one terminated at a single, wide step that stretched across at least half the length of a wide, paved porch. A wall was of natural stone and was pierced by a pair of heavy wooden doors flanked by stained glass windows and a pair of heavy, wrought iron porch lights. The windows cast colored light across the terra-cotta tile beneath our feet. Brighter overhead lights snapped on as Raymond approached the door, which opened before he reached it.

  We followed him inside; the terra-cotta continuing inside too and spreading out, paving a long, wide room furnished with thick furniture scattered about in cozy, conversational units. An inviting fireplace blazed at the far end of the room with tall windows on either side.

  The doorman stepped back as we entered and the first thing I noticed was that the sleeves of white shirt were too short for his arms, but then any shirt sleeve would have been if not specially tailored for him. Sherri gasped and looked away. Marcie eyed him unmoved by his appearance.

  The man suffered from giantism. The correct scientific term for the condition is acromegaly. It’s caused by an overactive pituitary gland secreting too much growth hormone. I’d read somewhere that the record height for a “giant” was somewhere around nine feet. This fellow wasn’t about to break the record, but he did have all the classic symptoms of the disease: Baseball mitt hands, huge feet, jutting jaw, thick nose and an armor-plated brow ridge. He stood with a slight forward bend probably due to some spinal deformation. Even so, he topped me by a good twelve inches, and peered down at us with muddy eyes. A nervous twitch afflicted his cheek. I had the feeling the role of doorman was not his normal job as he seemed tense standing there.

  Other rooms and hallways opened onto this Great Room. I couldn’t determine how far the house extended in either direction, but this was definitely the focal point. Alexander glanced out the door we'd just entered by, then gave Raymond a nod. Raymond slipped his baby pistol into a pocket and strode to one of the rooms to our right. Alexander moved us to one of the conversational units near the fireplace.

  “Very nice,” I said looking around.

  Alexander fished out a roll of candy from a pocket and said,” Yeah, isn’t it. You’ll get to see more of the place. There’s a heated pool out back.”

  Sherri sat in the chair next to Landerfelt. Marcie slouched in the chair next to mine, legs stretched out and crossed, feet keeping a fast rhythm to whatever beat was playing in her head, or maybe it was just pent-up energy needing to be released.

  I said, “Who owns it?”

  Alexander grinned. “It’s for sure not me.” He wasn’t giving out any information, but it didn’t hurt to try.

  The front door opened and Cockran came in, casting a glance our way as he headed for the same room Raymond had gone into. He wore one of those quilted down jackets over his suit coat and looked as if he’d rather have been almost anywhere else than here.

  I looked at Alexander. “A war council?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Who’s the big chief?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  I said, “Why keep it a secret? You know as well as I none of us is going to leave here alive.” That might be either a true or false statement, and Alexander’s reaction to it would give me the answer I was fishing for. Actually, I thought the answer was pretty obvious. Just the same, I wanted to hear it from him.

  Landerfelt, however, apparently had it figured differently. Maybe he was holding onto the hope that the Feds, or Superman would arrive in the final scene. My words landed on him like Dorothy’s house and something snapped.

  “No!” he cried leaping from the chair faster than I’d have imagined a man of his bulk could have moved. Wagging his head at the impossibility of the idea he broke in a panic toward the front door, running blindly into the seven-foot doorman’s outstretched arms. All of his two hundred plus pounds of him came to an abrupt halt as if he’d just run into the side of Hoover Dam. The doorman took Landerfelt’s shoulder in a giant paw, turned him roughly and gave a shove that sent Landerfelt tumbling over the arm of his recently vacated chair.

  Sherri leaped to his defense. “You leave Brian alone,” she declared comically waving both clenched fists at the deformed giant.

  The doorman laughed soundlessly, twisted teeth showing past his fibrillating upper lip. He took a menacing step toward her. She quickly retreated. Alexander said, “Back in your chair, lady.”

  “You have no right to treat us this way!” Sherri has this thing about rights. Everything had rights: Men, women, canines, bovines, fish...earth worms probably, although I don’t ever recall her mentioning them specifically. She was a bandwagon-jumper. I suspect a guilt deepl
y buried in her soul made up much of the compulsion, having been born into a pedigree that went back to million dollar gold mines, banking, and now a string of fast-food franchises popping up across the country. I won’t say I understood what drove Sherri, but I could see how fighting windmills might be her way to make amends for the double-sixes a cosmic hand had rolled for her in this game called life.

  “I said sit down!”

  “You’re a horrible man,” she shot back. Coming from Sherri, that was practically a declaration of war.

  Alexander showed her the back of his hand. Sherri retreated, glaring hotly at him, and then turned to Landerfelt. “Are you all right, Brian?”

  While all this was going on, Marcie had leaned toward me and whispered, “You know what you’re doing, Granger?”

  “I think so.”

  “How about a hint?”

  Alexander was still facing Sherri. I said, “Keep on like you’re mad as hell at me. Like I’m going to reveal some deep, dark secret and you're going to try and stop me. I’ll stall them with a story that will take a little time to check out. Only problem is, I don’t know anything of value to them.” I slid my view and caught her eye. “You’ve been stringing me along from the beginning. That was okay at first, but now I need something real. The truth would be nice.” I kept my voice low while still emphasizing that last word.

  She didn’t have any choice. The situation had escalated way beyond how it’d begun. Her view moved off my face, her teeth clenching her lower lip.

  “Marcie,” I urged beneath my breath.

  “The detonators, the RD-35s I told you about? Carl learned what Cockran was doing to them; how he fixed them. Altered one component-”

  Alexander wheeled and swung the big pistol toward us. “You two! No talking.”

  Marcie straightened in her chair, glaring at me, and said loudly, “Damned coward. You’d sell your mother for a ticket out of here. You turn my stomach.”