5 - Choker: Ike Schwartz Mystery 5

by Frederick Ramsay

  “Been out in a boat looking for your airplane.”

  “Any luck?”

  “It’s promising. Say, can any of your contacts…doesn’t have to be Company assets, maybe your Baltimore friends would know…I need to find out something about duck blinds, one in particular.”

  “You did say ‘duck’?”

  “Duck, as in ‘quack, quack,’ yes.”

  “Do I need to know why?”

  “I don’t know. There’s one of them in the area that isn’t quite right, and there’s a channel that doesn’t exist, and too much dredge spoil behind a bulkhead that ruined Bunky Crispin’s trot line. I want to know why.”

  “You want to run that by me again? I lost you after channel that doesn’t exist.”

  “Later, but I want to know everything about blinds.”

  “What’s your plan? Assuming I can get you the latest on blinds, duck, Venetian, Texas hold’em poker, whatever.”

  “I’m flying tomorrow—one more time over the area. I need to see the surface we combed today from the air. If anybody complains and wants me grounded again, you know what to do, right? I should have the rest of my options down by the weekend, say Sunday night.”

  “You don’t work weekends?”

  “How will it look, Charlie? The trick to a covert operation is it can’t attract attention, right?”

  “I remember the lecture. It’s just…time, you know?”

  “Charlie, it really would help me if I knew what’s on the collective mind of your buddies in the Company. You’re not thinking another 9-11?”

  “Ike…”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll stay with a generic bad thing going to happen, possibly including something that goes bump in the night.”

  “Close enough.”

  “Then, if I have more or less guessed what you guys are worried about and that you suppose it’s true, then doesn’t it seem likely an anniversary of some sort would be the time to do it? What’s on the calendar?”

  “It’s a thought. Okay, Labor Day and September 11 have come and gone. The month is nearly done, Ike.”

  “October has Halloween. November? Thanksgiving Day, that’d be a possibility. December we get Christmas—another possibility. And I haven’t heard from Fugarelli yet.”

  “He’s waiting for something hard before he…he’s kind of cautious these days.”

  “So, there’s not much I can do, anyway. I’ll work up a plan and we can talk Sunday.”

  “Do what you can, Ike. It really is…crucial.”

  “Wow, crucial. Okay, I’ll work on crucial for now. But if I’m going to be scared out of my wits, I’d really like to wait until after the weekend.”

  “Maybe the satellite pictures will turn up something.”

  “Your guys would have found it already if it was there, unless there’s a hole in the dike. You check all those guys out?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “Talk to me Sunday night or first thing Monday.”

  Chapter 24

  Blake usually sequestered himself in his office Fridays and spent the morning reviewing his sermon notes. Gloria had strict instructions that he not be disturbed until eleven unless she judged it an emergency. So it came as a mild surprise when, after only a half hour, she poked her head in the door.

  “Call for you. It’s Frank Sutherlin.”

  “Did he find our silver?”

  “I don’t think so. He sounded worried.”

  Blake picked up, punched the line button, and Frank came on the line.

  “Reverend Blake,” he said without bothering with the usual hello, “I think I need you to go over that devil business again.”

  “Go over? I’m not sure I know what you want. I told you that the sinkhole out there in the park looked like it could have been used for some sort of cultic service. My guess, it had something to do with Satanism.”

  “And that would mean what, exactly?”

  “Well, for most people in this day and age, nothing, unless it ratcheted up into physical abuse of some sort. For people like me, however, it is a nonstarter, to say the least.” Blake debated with himself whether he should tell Frank about Ashley Starkey.

  “I don’t think I understand. What kind of abuse?”

  “Okay, look, Frank, I am no expert on this and I freely admit my bias. There is no law that says people can’t practice Satanism. Quite the contrary, the current reading of the Constitution specifically protects people who do. If, however, it included public sexual lewdness or behavior, especially with a minor, or battery…that’s the actual physical part, right? If those things were to be part of their activity, then the law can step in and stop it, I suppose.”

  “People do those kinds of things at their…meetings? What do they call them anyway?”

  “I only know what I read. And even that depends on what and who, but yes, theoretically. I’m not sure what they’re called.” The phone remained silent while Frank turned that over in his mind. “I had a young woman in here yesterday…I can’t say who, you understand…and she claims to have been solicited by some kids active in that cult for some blood.”

  “Blood? You don’t mean her blood?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What for?”

  “She said they mixed it with wine or water and were going to drink it.”

  “You’re kidding. Jesus…pardon me, Reverend, just slipped out. You don’t think she might be having you on?”

  “She might. Kids have peculiar ideas about what constitutes a joke, but she was frightened. I think there’s better than an even chance she’s wasn’t lying.”

  “Whew. What’ll I do with that, I wonder?”

  “There’s another thing we ought to think about. When she talked to me she mentioned a cup. She meant a chalice. She said, ‘like I do,’ meaning the people at the event go through some sort of take-off of a Eucharist, a communion service. To do that, they use a chalice of some sort. What if it’s my missing chalice? What if that is where the silver has gone? You said yourself the other day, maybe the thieves were starting a church. You meant it as a joke but you might have hit the nail on the head.”

  “Jeez…pardon. What do you think we ought to do next? Unless there is some hard evidence of theft, or the blood thing, my hands are tied. Just to look for the silver, I’d need a search warrant, and I haven’t a clue where it might be. All we have is the word of a young girl. No judge is going to issue a warrant on something as thin as that.”

  “I think before you do anything, you ought to consult the Commonwealth’s attorney and see if you have any latitude to investigate the cult, if indeed there is one. Right now all we have, as you say, is the story from a prepubescent girl and some fire pits. That’s a long stretch to probable cause.”

  “I’ll call the attorney and go one more step. I’ll talk to my brother Henry again. He has connections into the weird end of local culture. I’m guessing the kids aren’t acting completely alone, or if they are, someone else knows, and Henry will find them. I’ll have me a spy to infiltrate the business and find out if I have a problem or not.”

  “Of course, if they have the silver, you won’t need to go into the behavior to make some arrests, and that will create exposure and, hopefully, give some parents a heads-up. With any luck, that’ll be all we need. Oh, and by the way, the sinkhole, you know, that used to be called the Passion Pit is now referred to as the Cauldron.”

  “Didn’t know that. Is it important?”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no…it’s all new territory for me.”

  Blake hung up and picked up his notes again but did not look at them. His mind wandered back to something else Ashley Starkey had hinted at. She said her sister did something at the gatherings, and she couldn’t say what because her sister would kill her if she told. Blake did not have a particularly graphic imagination, but after what he’d read on the Internet, it didn’t take much to picture the possibilities.

  ***

  Charlie had Ike’s grou
nding lifted, and he could fly again. The girl behind the counter looked at him curiously as he signed out the plane. Neither she, nor any of the staff had ever seen a grounding order reversed so quickly. She handled his Government Issue credit card with new respect. Preflight check completed, he ran up the engine and taxied away. He put on his recently acquired aviator-style glasses, adjusted his headset, and took off for Martin State. He wanted to grill Fonts again. Charlie’s hinting at Armageddon concerned him enough to want to go over everything Fonts and Nick had said the night he disappeared.

  The weather was perfect for flying, and Ike let his mind wander over the possibilities Charlie had avoided saying. Something, not somebody. What thing would have the CIA in a double swivet? In the past, his instincts had served him well. He’d trust them this time. Something, somewhere, was creating major static in the system. Something was out of place, something important. It had to be buried deep but it existed. He increased his airspeed.

  He landed without incident and spent two hours with Trent Fonts. Satisfied Trent had nothing new to add, they took off for Eastern Bay. They flew to the area on the Bay where Ike had recorded the irregularities in the bottom. Fonts flew from the left seat while Ike used the GPU to locate the spot. As he hoped, the coordinates corresponded to the point where he’d seen the eddy the previous week. He hoped that at altitude, he might be able to penetrate the Bay’s waters and see into its depths. No luck. Unlike the tropics, where the bottom can be viewed through crystal clear water, the Chesapeake Bay remained murky and inscrutable. He told Trent to head for home.

  Chapter 25

  Ike taxied up to the hangar and cut the engine. He’d need to refuel before he could fly to Georgetown. Thank goodness Charlie was paying for the gas. Folks driving cars thought gas prices were out of sight—they should check out the cost of a gallon of 100-octane Avgas. Trent opened the cockpit door, waited until the prop shuddered to a halt, and called out to him.

  “You finished for the day, or you going out again? The ramp guys will want to go home.”

  “We’ve done what we can for the time being. I’ll be in touch.”

  Fonts clambered down and sauntered away with an over-the-shoulder wave. Ike looked at his watch. The refuelers and tow men were off duty in twenty minutes. A skeleton crew would work the night shift, one refueler and a supervisor. He asked for a top-off on the tanks and then watched as the truck drew up to the plane and the ramp crew went to work.

  He retrieved his cell phone and powered it up. He’d missed four calls. Before he could retrieve any of them, his phone chirped.

  “Where are you?” Ruth’s voice seemed far away. Ike looked at the signal indicator on the phone’s face—low.

  “Around…here and there…thither and yon, as Hardy would say to Laurel.”

  “Who? Never mind, I’ve been calling you for hours and all I get is a transfer to your voice mail.”

  “Phone’s been off. I told you it might be.”

  “Great. I have to get in line to talk to you? I repeat, where have you been? You haven’t been out on the sand romping with some beach bunny, have you?”

  “I never romp. Besides, the temperature at the beach is in the high fifties and the wind is blowing at ten knots. There are no bunnies, beach or otherwise, in sight. The only people out there are old guys in windbreakers, swinging metal detectors around.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Metal detectors. They walk up and down the beach and when it beeps or lights up or does whatever the gizmo does, they dig in the sand to find out what caused the beep, light, or whatever. Treasure hunting on the beach. Last week one guy told me he found six quarters, a penny, and a wrist watch. Apparently he had a good day.”

  “A wrist watch?”

  “Timex. He said it still read the correct time. ‘Takes a licking, keeps on ticking.’”

  “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “Which was?”

  “Arrgh…Don’t go dense on me, Schwartz. You’re up to something. I recognize the symptoms. What are you doing?”

  “Not much, really. I got a call from Charlie and I’m doing him a favor, that’s all.”

  “A favor…for Charlie Garland? I don’t like the sound of that. Every time you get mixed up with Charlie, people get hurt.”

  “I only promised I’d look into something.”

  “He can’t do it himself?”

  “Well, he’s CIA and the local constabularies, not to mention the Bureau, take a dim view of Agency people poking around on their turf.”

  “I see. So what kind of favor are you doing?”

  “Looking for a missing person.”

  “The police can’t do that?”

  “They already have.”

  “And?”

  “They think the person is dead.”

  “And you and Charlie don’t?”

  “No, we think he’s dead, too. It’s just we want to know how it happened.”

  “What do the police think, or doesn’t it matter?”

  “It matters, but not the way you think. The missing guy, his name is Nick, was flying from Baltimore to Cambridge and dropped off the radar. They think he packed it in the Chesapeake Bay. Death spiral.”

  “What’s a death spiral? It sounds gruesome.”

  “The kid was a baby pilot, very little experience. It was a dark, moonless night and he was not that familiar with instrument flying. It happens often—too often.”

  “So, okay, what’s a death…thing?”

  “Imagine it’s pitch black. You’re flying blind, so to speak. You lose your sense of position in the dark and don’t pay attention to what your instruments are telling you—flying by the seat of your pants, they call it. Add to that, in this case, the fog—a double whammy. Anyway, what happened…see, sometimes the plane’s wing will tip and the plane goes into a slow turn. When a plane does that, it tends to slide down a little—lose some altitude. If you’re not careful, if you’re not watching your compass heading and you don’t check your horizon…in the pitch black you can’t do that…you may compensate for the altitude loss by pulling back on the stick in an effort to climb, you see?”

  “No. Hold on a minute there’s some idiot trying to cut me off…Watch where you’re going you moron…Yeah? The same to you! What a jerk. Okay, what’s a stick?”

  “In old planes, that’s what they called the device that steered the plane. Push it forward, dive, pull it back and climb. Right or left to turn. The apparatus is more complicated now. It looks like a steering wheel with the top sawed off, but it still pivots forward and back. So, he’s looking at his altimeter…that’s—”

  “I know what an altimeter is.”

  “But not a stick? Interesting. Your moron safely past? Okay, so the altimeter says he’s losing altitude, he pulls back on the stick to climb not realizing he’s in a turn. All that will do is make the turn tighter. The wing heels over some more and he loses more altitude, he pulls back harder and maybe increases power. That makes things even worse, and when the wing reaches a critical angle, the plane just plummets to earth, or in this case, the bay.”

  “Is that what happened?”

  “Maybe, but at this point, we don’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  “Can’t find the body. Can’t find the plane. If he crashed, there ought to be something.”

  “That’s not all, is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know you, Ike. You wouldn’t be poking around looking for a disappearing airplane if there weren’t something else. Charlie wouldn’t have dragged you into this unless he believed something else happened and it involved more than a baby pilot.”

  “The kid was supposed to marry his niece. It’s personal.”

  “Not good enough. There’s something else.”

  Silence.

  “Ike, answer me.”

  “Okay, maybe something else.”

  “That’s it? ‘Okay, maybe something else.’ That’s your an
swer?”

  “It’s just a maybe, Ruth, that’s all. Nothing definite.”

  “Sheesh. Well, I guess you can take the boy out of the Agency, but you can’t get the Agency out of the boy. Where are you now?”

  “At Martin State Airport, outside Baltimore.”

  “Baltimore? You’re not at the beach?”

  “Not at the moment. As I said—”

  “I heard you. What are you doing there, for crying out loud?”

  “Um…”

  “I was planning on joining you at the beach this weekend. I went to a heap of trouble to make that happen. I’ve been driving for hours, the road is full of moronic drivers, I’m starving, and now you tell me you’re not there.”

  “Where are you, exactly?”

  “In my car headed east on route 50 approaching the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. It’s Friday and the traffic is moving at a snail’s pace. I can’t very well make a U-turn in the highway. Hell, it’s a divided highway anyway.”

  “Keep going. I’ll join you. If you get there before I do, I’ve hidden a key so you can get in and make us some coffee.”

  “How long will it take you to come down from Baltimore?”

  “An hour and a half maybe. I might beat you there.”

  “An hour and a half? Not in this traffic not even if you plan on breaking some speed limits.”

  “I’m not driving, flying.”

  “You’re flying…an airplane?”

  “Yep.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yep.”

  “You’re a pilot too? Is there anything else about you I don’t know? Don’t give me another ‘yep.’ I’ll find out when I see you. We need to talk, lover.”

  “How long can you stay?”

  “I have to leave Sunday afternoon.”

  “See you soon. Wait. You’re coming across Route 50 to the 404, right?”

  “There’s another way?”

  “There is, but that’s not the point. Listen, drive to Georgetown and pull in at the Georgetown Air Services facility. I’ll meet you there. They have a nice little restaurant. We can have dinner and then you can follow me to the cottage.”