by Beth Ciotta
“I need to borrow the Ford,” he said.
“Of course, but . . . now?”
“I have to make a run to Van Buren’s.”
“The department store? Why?”
“Everything needs to be perfect for you.”
She hugged him. “Everything is perfect for me. Well, close to perfect.”
“Close?”
“I need to patch things up with Izzy and Mick.”
“I know, honey. We’ll figure out something.” He squeezed her tight, thinking himself the luckiest man on Earth. Although every man in love, true love, no doubt considered himself the luckiest. Exactly as it should be. “You fly out to the airfield. I’ll meet you there. I promise, you won’t be sorry.”
Sighing, she reached into her pocket and handed him the car key. “Please don’t be late.”
“I’d die before I let that happen.”
She frowned. “I have a bad feeling about this. What if the car breaks down? What if you get lost? What if—”
“Hey.” He tugged at the scarf around her neck. “Who was it who said a partnership is sacred? That trust is everything?”
“Me.”
“Are we partners?”
“Yes.”
“Do you trust me?”
She sighed, then smiled. “Yes.”
He chucked her chin. “Then get the hell out of here.”
She saluted him. “See you in a while, Ace.”
He trotted backward toward the Ford. “You go first.”
“Why?”
“I want to watch you take off. Seeing you manhandle the Jenny turns me on.”
“You’re screwy.”
“So you keep saying. Take off.”
She shook her head, giggled, then backed toward the plane. She reached for the propeller. “Be careful, Rufus.”
His heart lurched at the hitch in her voice. He’d just hung upside down from her wing, and she was worried about his driving into the city. “Absolutely, sweetheart. See you in one hour.”
“One hour.”
He watched her fire up her pride and joy, watched her taxi across the pasture and take off into the sky. Yup, a complete turn-on. Whistling, he made a beeline to the house in search of a clean white shirt and suspenders. All he needed now were khaki pants, riding boots, and a white scarf. Certainly, he’d find those at Van Buren’s.
Minutes later, he blew out of the farmhouse and hopped into the Ford. Grace believed in angels. Maybe she’d believe in ghosts. Telling the truth wouldn’t be so bad. He peeled backward out of the drive, singing the love song from Top Gun. “Take my breath away . . .”
Two dark sedans screeched to a stop, blocking his way.
He slammed on the brakes and leaned on the horn. What the hell?
Seven men poured from the two cars. Four of them carried Tommy guns.
He watched, stunned, as the small army of suit-clad thugs converged on the Ford. A tall man wearing a black Fedora opened his door. “Get out of the car, hands on your head.”
When he didn’t move fast enough, a stocky man in a gray Fedora yanked him out of the car and shoved him facedown on the ground. The man patted him down.
“I don’t have a gun,” he snapped. “Mahoney knows that.”
The stocky man yanked him up and slammed his back against the car. “You’ve caused our boss a lot of headaches. Makes him cranky. We don’t like cranky.”
Rufus fumed. “Then you won’t like me much. I’m feeling cranky as hell. What? Mahoney didn’t want to dirty his hands, so he sent a bunch of flunkies?”
The tall man in the black hat moved closer, while the armed men kept watch on the road. “Ronald Simms, you’re under arrest.”
He stared. “Who’s Ronald Simms?”
The stocky man snorted. “Nice try.”
“Who are you?” Rufus asked, dread in his gut.
The tall man flashed his identification and grinned. “F.B.I.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“MISS LARUE, YOUR partner”—the reporter looked down at his notes—“Ace Sinclair, claims Tuck Cagney was actually responsible for the accident last month in which he broke his legs and lost an eye. Are you accusing Mr. Cagney of being both a liar and negligent?”
Grace stood in front of her plane, smiling and trying to look like a professional pilot as a photographer snapped her picture. She gritted her teeth. Where was Rufus?
“No comment, Miss LaRue?”
“It’s a shame what happened to Tuck. He had nice eyes.”
“Miss LaRue,” another reporter asked, “where is Ace Sinclair? We’d like to get a photograph of you both together.”
“He, uh, likes to meditate before he flies. To get into the zone.” At least, that’s what he’d said before their first flight. Maybe that’s what he was doing now. But the sinking feeling in her stomach told her otherwise. “Wing-walking takes a lot of concentration.”
“Maybe he’s afraid he’ll suffer the same fate as Cagney.” The group of reporters snickered. Her blood heated. They didn’t believe Tuck had made a mistake. With a woman involved, it must be her fault. She’d show them.
One of the reporters checked his watch. “We’ll give him five more minutes.”
“Better hope he shows, Miss LaRue, or tomorrow’s edition won’t help your cause.”
“Sinclair promised us the show of a lifetime. I had other stories to follow.”
She heated up even more. “You won’t be disappointed.”
“How could they be?” A strong arm slid around her. Mick. He eyed the reporters. “Grace LaRue is the best pilot east of the Mississippi. Male or female.” The reporters stared at him. “Write it down!” he barked.
They jumped and scribbled on their pads.
“Mick.” It was all she could say. It was all she had to say. He knew. Rufus was ten minutes late.
He squeezed her shoulders. “Quite the turnout.” He nodded toward the spectator stand, packed to capacity with people eager to see Amazing Grace succeed or fail, not caring which as long as she provided heart-stopping thrills. “Sinclair certainly knows how to create a stir. Even Joystick and his boys are here.”
“I know,” she said, feeling the added pressure of being deserted in front of her peers. “Joystick came over earlier and wished me luck. He said there was still room on his team if I changed my mind.”
He held her gaze. “Did he now?”
She sighed. “Stop leaning on that man, Mick. It’s not right, and it’s not necessary.”
“I’m not leaning on him. He wants you in his circus. Why wouldn’t he? You’re a damn fine aviatrix. Talented. Fearless. Cute as—”
“I’m starting my own air circus.” She swallowed hard. “With or without a partner.”
He ran a hand over his face. He looked tired. Sad. “Izzy’s over by my car. We came together.”
“She came?” She glanced past the reporters, across the airfield, and spied Izzy leaning against the black Caddy. She was smoking a cigarette, sunglasses hiding her eyes, an Oriental parasol shielding her face from the hot sun. She looked like a movie star, decked out in an embroidered bright red dress and matching wide-brimmed hat. A light in the dark. Grace choked back a lump of emotion. After yesterday’s awful scene, she’d feared Izzy wouldn’t show.
“She didn’t want to come over here,” he said. “She didn’t want to disturb your concentration.”
Again she noted her friend’s stunning attire. “You mean she didn’t want to steal the show.”
“Maybe.” A shadow passed over Mick’s eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
He looked down at her, serious, tortured. “After the show, Grace. After the show, we need to talk.”
“I’m sorry I hurt you, Mick.”
He breathed in. “It’s not me I’m worried about.”
“Don’t be silly. Everything’s Jake. I’ve done these tricks a million times.”
He leaned closer to her ear. “You know that’s not what I mean.” He kissed her forehead. “Knock ’em dead, short stuff.” He turned to the reporters. “She’s the best, boys. Don’t forget it.”
She stood alone again with the reporters. She began to sweat under her collar. She scanned the horizon for the Ford. Dozens of cars lined the field. Not her car. Where was he?
One reporter started to pack up his camera.
“Wait, you can’t leave!”
“I can, and I am. This is a bust. There’s no show here.”
His words began to disassemble the rest of the group. “Better luck next time, Miss LaRue.”
She panicked. Dammit! Where was he? She knew she shouldn’t have given him the key to the Ford. Why hadn’t she trusted her gut? Because she’d trusted him.
“Don’t get knocked up. He won’t be around long.”
She glanced back at Izzy. Did she know where Rufus was? Had Mick been right?
Rufus had said he wasn’t in control of his own destiny. Well, who was? He’d also said he wouldn’t leave by his own two feet. She believed that. Believed it with all her heart. He wouldn’t just run off. He loved her.
Something had happened. Something that had to do with his secrets.
Something bad.
But if she thought about it now, she’d break down and lose her chance at redemption. She had to fly now, or her reputation would be forever lost. Wherever he was, Rufus wouldn’t want that to happen. He’d pinned her with his wings because he believed in her. She wouldn’t let him down. Focusing her energy on her objective, she pulled her goggles down and shouted, “You want a show? You got a show. Wing-walker or not, I’m an amazing pilot.”
She climbed into the cockpit and yelled, “Contact!” to a mechanic, who cranked her propeller. The engine roared.
She scanned the horizon one more time. No Ford. No Rufus. A sharp pain stabbed her chest.
“Erratic emotions equal body parts taken away in buckets.”
Focus, Grace. Concentrate!
She taxied the Jenny down the runway, gaining speed. She’d perform an outside loop. No aviatrix to her knowledge had ever performed an outside loop. It was dangerous. Damned close to impossible. “You’re one of those people who can do anything you put your mind to.” She touched his pin, recalled his sweet-spoken sentiment. “Just wear my pin and know that you are truly loved.” Then he’d grinned. “You’re my hero.”
Blinking back deadly tears, she gritted her teeth, pulled back the stick, and sailed up into the sky.
“I NEED TO MAKE a phone call.”
“When we get to Manhattan.”
If he could throw himself from the speeding sedan, he would, but he was wedged between two hulking Federal agents, both with guns under their coats, poking his ribs. “You wouldn’t let me leave a note. You could at least let me call. I’m allowed one telephone call.”
It was already late in the game. They’d been on the highway for almost two hours. Grace would already be in the sky, stunting. He had no doubt she’d perform without him. She’d regain her reputation and dazzle those reporters, who then wouldn’t dare shred her about being stood up. No, she’d give them something. Something fantastic and wild. And dangerous.
That’s what worried him. After his big talk to the reporters yesterday, she’d have to pull off something damned impressive to survive this public disaster. He didn’t doubt her talent, but he didn’t trust her judgment under these circumstances. She’d be furious at him. Worried, anxious, definitely upset.
“Erratic emotions equal body parts taken away in buckets.” Jesus.
“You’ll be doing plenty of talking soon enough.” This from Agent Hickey, the short bruiser in the gray Fedora. He was driving the car. His boss, Special Agent in Charge Michael Baine, was riding shotgun. A second car was following, carrying three more Feds.
Baine looked over his shoulder, then thumbed up the brim of his hat. “Do you really want to drag Miss LaRue into this, Simms? Make that call and she’ll fly up to New York to be by your side. I’m not sure I’d want Capone to know the identity of my lady love. He won’t be too happy with you once you give us what we need to bring him down. In fact, I’d venture to say he’ll be feeling downright murderous. Not that you have anything to worry about. You’ll be in protective custody. But Miss LaRue . . . Better to cut that tie now. Better she doesn’t exist.”
He bristled at Baine’s deliberate torment. “Do I look as if I just fell off the turnip truck, boys? If you truly believed Grace was in danger, you’d protect her. You’re the F.B.I. The good guys. You’ve probably already assigned someone to keep an eye on her.”
Baine merely raised an enigmatic eyebrow and faced front.
Rufus refused to take the bait. The F.B.I. would protect Grace. If they didn’t, Mahoney would. He’d said he would die for her, and Rufus believed him. He wouldn’t let Capone hurt Grace. Hell, he probably knew Al Capone. And he wouldn’t have been dumb enough to cross Capone by calling the Feds when it would mean putting Grace in jeopardy. Besides, Rufus was certain that if Mahoney had wanted him gone, he’d have done it himself.
Which meant the Feds had tracked him down on their own. Despite his protests, they really believed him to be Ronald Simms.
“The drifter. He was in and out of their lives in a flash.”
He swallowed hard, his head pounding.
The drifter was Ronald Simms. And he, Rufus realized, was in the man’s shoes. For all intents and purposes, he was Ronald Simms. Thanks to Mr. Newborne.
His heart froze. He thought of Grace, high in the sky, distracted.
He nearly went crazy. He needed to get out. To get back to her. To explain . . .
He gritted his teeth and elbowed his flanking guards in frustration. They elbowed back. Hard. He dropped his head back against the seat. His breath labored, he repeated his earlier statement in a drone, knowing they didn’t believe him, yet hoping for a small shred of doubt. “My name is Sinclair, not Simms. I don’t have any identification because I lost my wallet. Yes, I’m from Brooklyn. Yes, I’m a pilot. But I do not fly bootleg over the Canadian border for the Capone organization. I can’t give you ‘the goods’ on Capone. I’ve never met him, nor do I want to. You’ve made a mistake.”
“We’re the F.B.I.,” said Hickey, “We don’t make mistakes.”
Then he heard a sharp pop. Another.
Gunfire.
A bullet shattered the driver’s side mirror. Hickey stomped on the gas as, out of nowhere, a black car slid up next to them. It angled right, trying to run them off the road.
Baine and the two Feds next to Rufus thrust machine guns out the side windows and started shooting. The shots vibrated in his chest. Deafened him to any other sound. He got a quick look through the rear window before one of the Feds shoved him to the floor.
Their backup car lagged behind, caught in a shootout with a second ominous sedan.
Squealing tires. Rapid firing. Tommy guns.
Capone’s men.
Rufus, face pressed down by a hard black shoe, was too stunned to be scared. It felt like being in the middle of a gangster film, the bad guys trying to snuff out the informant. He, in this very unfortunate circumstance, being the informant.
The rear window popped and shattered. The car jolted, rammed from behind. Hickey lost control. The car spun, once, twice . . .
The Feds kept firing. Rufus said a prayer.
The spinning intensified, and suddenly his vision blurred with psychedelic colors.
Disoriented, he screamed in desperation. Grace!
Chapter Twenty-Two
RUFUS OPENED HIS eyes and
stared up into the clouds.
Was he dead?
He moved his eyes to the right. The west tower stood like a dark monolith against the blue sky. Late-afternoon sun glinted off the arched window, making him squint. But what afternoon? How long had he been unconscious?
He wiggled his fingers, then his toes. Good sign.
He patted down his body. No broken bones. No blood. No bullet holes. Had he been thrown clear of the spinning car? Had someone rescued him and dumped him in front of Laguna Vista? It didn’t make sense. Nor did the frosty bite in the air. It was June, wasn’t it? Yet he was shivering inside his leather jacket. An icy breeze fluttered his hair, carrying the scent of exhaust and fish. Frowning, he tightened his fists around tufts of dried yellow grass.
He lay motionless, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. A whirlwind. That same bizarre funnel cloud of bright colors. He’d felt himself lifted up . . . then . . .
Was he dead?
He bolted upright at the sound of screeching tires. He felt a sickening wave of déja vu as a car hurtled into the driveway, racing straight for him.
He didn’t have time to react as it squealed to a halt, the steel grille two inches from his nose.
Was this some life-imitating-film paranormal joke? Groundhog Day, starring Rufus Sinclair? Was he doomed to relive a flash in time over and over until he finally got it right? He scrambled to his feet, dizzy, his vision blurring. He didn’t care if he had to start all over. As long as he got to be with Grace.
A car door slammed. Needing balance and a miracle, he braced his hands on the hood, closed his eyes, and hoped, wished, waited for her voice. The voice that made him feel alive. The voice that made him believe in something. Anything. Everything.
“You’re back!”
His breath rushed from his lungs, and his shoulders sagged. “Very astute, Professor.” He struggled for clear thought, keeping his head down. He didn’t want Bookman to be real. He didn’t want to face the reality that he’d returned to the twenty-first century.
“Sinclair?” The man gripped his shoulder. “Are you all right? Did I wing you with the Jeep?”
“You look a little green, Ace.”