West of Sin

by Wesley Lewis

  Jennifer stood beside the front passenger-side door, staring through the opening where there had previously been a window.

  She looked up at Crocker. “I found a rock.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The unpaved road between the Prickly Pear and the dry lake bed was no less bumpy in Bryan’s rental car than it had been in the limo, but the nausea Jennifer had felt the night before was now held at bay by seething hatred.

  Crocker’s radio call from the sheriff’s car had lasted less than five seconds: “Sheriff, this is Crocker. Scarlett is headed to the dry lake bed. We’re going after her.” They hadn’t waited for a reply.

  Jennifer spied the white fence post and recalled Vegas’s giggly voice proclaiming, “Welcome to California.” The memory of how much the young woman had enjoyed the excitement the night before brought tears to her eyes.

  She glanced at Crocker. “How do we find Scarlett?”

  He swerved to avoid a small boulder. “We ask around.”

  “Ask if anyone at the skydiving tournament has seen a girl carrying a parachute?”

  “A pretty redhead.” He eased off the gas as the car reached the top of the hill. “People always remember pretty redheads.”

  “That won’t work—she’s wearing a black wig she stole from Vegas.”

  Crocker sighed. “We’ll find her. A parachute and a wig aren’t enough to make a girl like Scarlett blend in.”

  As the car crested the final hill, the skydivers’ tent city came into view a couple hundred yards ahead.

  “There must be at least two thousand people down there,” said Jennifer.

  “We’ll find her.”

  “And when we do?”

  Crocker slowed the car as it approached the first cluster of tents. “Sorry, Jennifer, but I’m fresh out of plans. We’re just going to have to improvise.” He brought the car to a crawl as the road became thick with pedestrians. “You watch right. I’ll watch left. My guess is she’ll be somewhere near the planes, so—”

  “There!” exclaimed Jennifer.

  Parked side by side between a pair of tents were Larry’s yellow Corvette and the ancient green Land Rover.

  Crocker mashed on the brake, bringing the car to a sudden stop. “That’s why we didn’t see the Vette in the parking lot. She must have parked it here and hitched . . .”

  Jennifer was out of the car before Crocker could finish his sentence. She scanned the area for a black wig and pink jogging suit. She heard Crocker’s footsteps, then felt his hand on her shoulder.

  “Stay back,” he said.

  He approached the Land Rover in a crouch and peered through the rear window. He worked his way around to the front, checking each window as he moved.

  Jennifer watched his surreptitious movements and thought, He knows he doesn’t have a gun, right?

  When he reached the front, he spun and moved to the Corvette, still crouching. After a quick peek through the passenger-side window, he straightened himself and shook his head.

  A few yards from the cars, three middle-aged men sat in lawn chairs in front of a trio of tents, watching Crocker with expressions of amused curiosity.

  “Hi there.” Jennifer waved and walked toward them. “Did any of you happen to see the woman who got out of that Land Rover?”

  “Sure,” said the man in the middle. “Pretty little thing dressed all in pink. Sped up here about five minutes ago, jumped out, grabbed her rig, and ran off toward the runway like she was afraid she was going to miss her load.”

  Crocker joined Jennifer beside the men. “Her load?”

  “You know, like she was going to miss her jump, like the plane was going to take off without her.”

  “And where would someone go to get on a plane, or a load or whatever?” asked Jennifer.

  The man chuckled. “You folks aren’t jumpers, are you?”

  “No,” said Crocker, “We’re—”

  “We’re trying to warn her,” said Jennifer. “We think there might be something wrong with her parachute.”

  The man frowned as if this were an odd concern. “Well, if you need to get hold of her, you can page her from the manifest desk. That’s where people go to sign up for loads.” He pointed toward a large blue tent near the runway. “But there’s no need to rush. FAA has us shut down until further notice.”

  “No planes are flying?” asked Crocker.

  One of the man’s friends, an aging-biker type with tattoos and a long beard, said, “Nah, the goddamned feds suspended our NOTAM just before nine this morning. Said the airspace was closed due to a police pursuit.”

  Crocker glanced at the blue tent, then back at the three men. “Does one of you have a pocketknife I can borrow for just a second?”

  The aging biker dug into the front pocket of his blue jeans. Without saying a word, he pulled out a large folding knife and tossed it to Crocker.

  Crocker reached out and caught the knife.

  “Careful,” said the man. “It’s sharp.”

  Crocker nodded and turned to Jennifer. “Head over to the manifest tent, and try to get them to make some sort of public address. Make it so she can’t hide.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to make it so she can’t run.” He turned and walked toward the cars.

  “J. D.,” said the first man, “don’t you think maybe you should have asked why he wanted to borrow a knife?”

  Jennifer and the three men watched as Crocker knelt and plunged the knife into one of the Corvette’s rear tires.

  “Yep,” said the biker, “definitely should have asked.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The faint scent of sweat and nylon hung in the air beneath the big blue manifest tent. A patchwork of tarps created a floor on which a half-dozen men and women packed parachutes. Jennifer stepped over stretched lines and around colorful bundles of canopy, making her way to the left side of the packing area, where the tent abutted a mobile office trailer outfitted with three service windows. She was two steps from the trailer when the first window slid open.

  A plump young woman poked out her head, scowled, and said, “There is still no news. As soon as we hear something, we’ll make an announcement.”

  “What?” asked Jennifer.

  “Weren’t you going to ask when we’ll be flying?”

  “No, I need you to make an announcement.”

  “All right.” The woman reached for a pad and pen. “Who do you want to page?”

  “I don’t want you to page her. I want you to warn people about her.”

  The woman set down the pen. “If you think someone is being unsafe, ask the organizers to have a talk with her. We don’t air dirty laundry over the PA.” She reached to close the window.

  Jennifer blocked the sliding window. “There is a murderer running around here with a gun.”

  “Is this a gag?”

  “Bitch, look at the red spots on my shirt. Do I look like I’m joking? You’re aware that your flights are grounded because of a police pursuit, right?”

  The woman stared at Jennifer for a long moment. “Listen, I’ve never seen you before, so unless you can show me a badge, I’m not announcing to the whole drop zone that there is a killer on the loose. If you like, I’ll try to find our director of security, and you can—”

  A man appeared beside the woman. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but the pilot from Lone Star Skydiving is asking if he’s okay to taxi to the fuel tanks.”

  “Now?” asked the woman. “He’s going to have to pump it himself—we released the fuel crew until the flight restriction is lifted.”

  Jennifer recalled the plane with the Texas flag on the tail. “Brent!”

  The man and woman both stared at he
r.

  Struggling to keep her voice steady, Jennifer said, “The pilot from Lone Star Skydiving is named Brent. He knows me. He can vouch for me.”

  The man gave the woman a bewildered glance.

  Jennifer took her hand off the window and, mustering as much calm as she could, said, “Tell Brent that Tom’s friend Jennifer says you’re in danger. Ask if you should take me seriously.”

  “Is she for real?” asked the man.

  The woman sighed. “I don’t know. Tell Brent he’s responsible for self-reporting how much fuel he pumps.” She glanced at Jennifer. “And ask him if he has any idea what this woman is talking about.”

  The man walked away, shaking his head in either confusion or disbelief.

  “Wait here,” said the woman. She closed the window and disappeared into the back of the trailer, leaving Jennifer staring at her own reflection in the dirty glass.

  Jennifer saw that her hair had taken on an escaped-mental-patient quality that couldn’t be helping her case. She gathered it into a ponytail while scanning for anything to use as a hair tie.

  “Need a pull-up cord?” asked a soft female voice.

  Jennifer turned and, for one terrifying moment, thought she was staring at Vegas’s ghost.

  “Are you okay?” asked the girl. She was maybe eighteen or nineteen and had the same platinum blond hair as Vegas but otherwise bore little resemblance to the recently departed.

  “You startled me,” said Jennifer.

  “Sorry.” The girl gave an apologetic smile that again reminded Jennifer of Vegas. “I saw you messing with your hair and figured you were looking for a pull-up cord.”

  “A pull-up cord?”

  “To tie your hair.”

  “Okay, sure.” Jennifer had no idea what a pull-up cord was. “Do you have one?”

  The girl knelt and pulled a foot-long length of purple ribbon from the skydiving rig lying at her feet. “Here you go.” She held out the ribbon to Jennifer. “I’m done with it.”

  Jennifer took the ribbon. “Thanks.”

  As she turned away from the girl, the fleeting resemblance to Vegas struck her one last time. She looked for the girl’s reflection in the dirty glass, half expecting it not to be there, but once again saw a girl who, aside from her hair, looked almost nothing like Vegas. She watched the girl pick up the skydiving rig and walk away.

  Using the dirty glass as a mirror, Jennifer tied the ribbon around her ratty ponytail. As she gave the bow a final tug, a dark silhouette enveloped her reflection. She spun, prepared for the worst, but found only Crocker standing behind her.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Are they going to make an announcement?”

  Jennifer took a breath. “They’re asking Tom’s friend Brent, the pilot, to vouch for me.”

  Crocker nodded. “It may be a moot point. In five minutes this place will be crawling with deputies.”

  Jennifer heard the window slide open and turned to face the uncooperative woman. “Well? What did Brent say?”

  The woman looked annoyed. “He said to meet him over by the fuel tanks and explain the situation to him. If he thinks it’s serious enough, he’ll relay the message to me.”

  “Serious enough!” exclaimed Jennifer. “You get that we’re talking about a—”

  Crocker placed a hand on her waist. “Come on. We may need Brent’s help anyway.”

  “For what?”

  Crocker was already dragging her away from the window. “I’ll explain it to both of you at once.”

  “Wait until he shuts off the propellers,” called the woman. “We don’t need a couple of spectators getting their heads chopped off.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The midmorning sun baked the fuel-splattered portable tanks, making the area reek like a kerosene-diesel cocktail. After a couple of minutes of inhaling the fumes, Crocker understood why the refueling area was located at the far end of the runway, at least two hundred yards from the nearest campsites.

  As the twin-engine plane with the Texas flag on its tail turned off the runway and taxied toward the tanks, Crocker chanced another quick glance at Jennifer. He knew his glances were growing increasingly less subtle, but he still wasn’t sure whether the look in her eyes was grief, anger, or a complete departure from reality. Whatever it was, it was unnerving. He gripped her hand a bit tighter, worried that she might inadvertently walk headlong into a spinning propeller.

  The plane rolled forward and made a hard left turn, stopping with its right wingtip just a few feet from the foul-smelling tanks. The propellers slowed to an idle but continued spinning.

  “Is he going to shut down?” asked Jennifer.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can he refuel with the engines running?”

  “I don’t know.” Crocker glanced around, but there was nobody to ask. He opened his mouth to tell Jennifer to stay put but thought better of leaving her alone. Instead, he said, “Stay with me.”

  Leading her by the hand, he cut a wide path around the tail of the plane and approached the large Plexiglas door behind the left wing. The wind and noise from the idling engines were surprisingly violent. He knocked on the door.

  They waited but saw no sign of Brent.

  Jennifer pounded twice more and screamed, “Brent! We need to talk to you!”

  There was no reply.

  Crocker studied the clear door for a moment. There was no handle, but he remembered seeing Brent slide it straight up. He placed his hands on the smooth plastic and pushed upward. It moved about an inch, exposing the bottom edge of the door.

  “Give me a hand!” he shouted.

  Jennifer pushed on the exposed edge of the door. It slid upward until the gap at the bottom was a couple of feet high.

  “Good enough!” He bent over and made a stirrup with his hands. “Climb up!”

  Jennifer placed one foot in his hands and pulled herself up into the plane, crawling through the small opening they’d created.

  Crocker hoisted himself up and squeezed through the gap, into the narrow fuselage. He crouched beside Jennifer and inspected their surroundings. The main cabin was devoid of seats but had two rows of seat belts bolted directly to the floor. Through the archway in the front bulkhead, he could see the cockpit controls but not the pilot.

  “Brent,” he called, “you up there?”

  From the pilot’s seat, Brent poked his head out and hollered, “Shut the door and come up here.”

  Crocker was grateful to find a handle on this side of the door. He pulled it shut and followed Jennifer to the front of the plane.

  “Brent,” he said as they reached the bulkhead, “we have a bit of a situation.”

  “No shit,” replied Brent.

  A .357 revolver peeked out from the copilot’s seat.

  Scarlett, still wearing the black wig, leaned out behind the revolver and said, “Throw me your gun.”

  Brent glanced back from the pilot’s seat and said, “I woulda warned you if I coulda, but she had the drop on me.”

  Crocker nodded that he understood.

  “Your gun,” repeated Scarlett. “Now!”

  “We’re not armed,” replied Jennifer.

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s true,” said Crocker. “I’m all out of guns. I was looking for that one in Larry’s office when . . .”

  “When you shot Vegas,” said Jennifer, glaring at Scarlett.

  Scarlett locked eyes with Jennifer. “That was your fault, you know. If you’d just done as I said, I wouldn’t have had to—”

  “Wouldn’t have had to what?” Jennifer took a step forward. “Wouldn’t have had to shoot your friend in the back as she was running away?”

  Scarlett pointed the gun at Jennifer and cocked the hammer.
“Take one more step. I dare you.”

  Crocker raised an arm to block Jennifer from advancing. Still staring at Scarlett, he said, “Whatever you’re planning, it’s not going to work. The FBI wants you for murder, kidnapping, and, if I were to guess, a whole host of conspiracy charges. By now every county and municipal law enforcement agency west of the Mississippi has your picture. Kathleen Dysart is officially one of the most wanted fugitives in America.”

  Scarlett flinched at the mention of her real name but quickly recovered. She offered an unconvincing smile. “I guess it’s a good thing I can afford to live abroad.” She patted something between her legs.

  Crocker leaned forward and saw Tom’s skydiving rig sitting on her lap. He laughed. “Live abroad? If this plane takes off, the FBI will be right behind you. This whole area is a no-fly zone.”

  Scarlett shook her head. “Not according to the pilot.”

  Crocker turned to Brent. “What does she mean?”

  Brent sighed. “The temporary flight restrictions overlap a small portion of the drop zone, so the FAA halted all skydiving operations, but the runway itself is technically outside the restricted area.”

  Crocker scowled. “Why would you tell her that?”

  “At the time, she wasn’t pointing a gun at me.”

  “See,” said Scarlett, “we can still take off.”

  “We?” asked Jennifer.

  “I’m not leaving you here to call the FBI on me.”

  Jennifer’s face was turning red. “And where do you think we are headed? How far do you think an old skydiving plane and six hundred thousand dollars can take you?”

  “If this plane is as fast as Brent says, we can be in Baja in less than an hour.”

  “Mexico? That’s your big plan?”

  “It’s an awesome plan.” Scarlett’s tone was indignant. “The FBI has no jurisdiction in Mexico. I have a friend who’s been down there since she was indicted for selling ecstasy. She turns tricks at this dive bar in Ensenada. I’m going to buy the bar, take a piece of the action from all the girls working there, and spend my days drinking piña coladas on the beach.”