I heard Janice yell out in alarm. We were sitting ducks! Those bastards were no more than fifty yards away from us. Lancer sprung a .45 automatic from his seat pocket at the same instant I unholstered my Beretta and said, "I have to get Janice out of here."
Lancer yelled, "I'll try to cover you. Use the escape hatch." He already had his gun extended through the small window opening beside the pilot's seat. He was blasting away when I rushed back to lead Janice out.
I released her seat belt and said, "We're getting out of here."
She hesitated and glanced toward the rear of the cabin. "Martha..."
"Not now." I unlatched the release lever on the emergency exit and pulled Janice out of the seat. "Keep close," I warned her.
Lancer was plenty sharp, okay. He was keying the mike to turn the blinding strobe lights on and off while we made our escape from the plane. Brave guy. He knew that the plane could go up in a ball of flame at any moment. Meanwhile, he was keeping the shooters busy with his return fire from the cockpit.
This was heroic shit. I had the greatest admiration for this guy as he maintained his post, braving almost certain death. I carried Janice clear and deposited her in a shallow ditch beside the runway. "Stay down!" I told her, and went back to support Lancer.
Maybe it hadn't been conscious on his part at the time but what had saved our butts from the opening gunfire was the way Lancer had positioned the craft away from the line of fire. The shooters had not calculated the length of the Citation's shorter landing roll and they were not in the proper position to target their fire effectively. They had really expected the plane to utilize much more of the runway and they were tucked in for a duck shoot directly opposite their position. Lancer defeated their plan when he unexpectedly wheeled around for his return to the hangar area. Off balance and firing at a difficult angle, they missed their chance.
When Lancer hit the strobes again, this must have blinded them momentarily and his surprise return fire added to their confusion.
It was a continuing hot firefight. I was really firing more for show than for effect as I sprinted back to the emergency exit. Luckily, the return fire now seemed disorganized and largely ineffective.
My strongest instinct was to go after those guys, but the pressing worry was the vulnerability of the plane to explosion and Lancer's imminent danger. His pistol had suddenly fallen silent. All of this action had spanned a minute at most. Life and death are often measured by such brief moments totally out of context with ordinary time; to a burning man, a split second must seem like an eternity. A fight like this can be similar. In the recounting of such events, real time has no measure.
I dived back into the plane and yelled at Lancer. "Let's get out of here!" I went to the rear and fought Martha's body clear of the restraining harness and yelled again, "Tom, let's go!"
He replied painfully, "I'm hit!"
I slid the body bag off the plane and Lancer was right behind me. He'd taken a shoulder hit and was losing blood fast. I ordered him, "Wrap that up with something," and pushed him in the direction of the ditch. To the credit of this guy, he used his good arm to help me drag the body clear. Just in time—one of the shooters had just closed on the disabled plane and was trying to get an angle for a close shot.
I got there first.
I rolled under the plane and fired once at point-blank
range. The Beretta shivered the guy and sent him careening backward.
The other shooter must have spotted his partner go down; he opened up a furious barrage toward the aircraft. The guy seemed to be targeting the fuel tanks in the wings. I had to discourage that.
To my dismay, I had nothing to discourage it with. The clip of my Beretta was empty.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
i was rolling clear of the target area with all possible haste. Lancer was aware of my predicament. He yelled, "Joe!" and slid his gun across the pavement toward me. This guy must have had a great bowling average. The gun slid right into my outstretched hand. He had a fresh clip in the .45. I popped off the safety, slid the hammer back, and chambered in a round. Just in time, too. The other guy was still having some trouble with the strobes; the lights were giving him fits and I suspected that he was firing almost blindly. My line of sight was perfect and I felt that I must have hit the guy with one of my first few rounds because he quickly lost heart for the fight. I heard him gunning the engine of the Jeep and trying for a hasty withdrawal. The way the Jeep was lurching forward I had the impression that this guy had never driven a stick shift and it was giving him a problem. He had to restart the engine twice and was kicking up a cloud of dust in his frantic attempts to get away.
I immediately anticipated the guy's intent to break toward the Owens River Road leading back to U.S. 395, which parallels the airport runway. I went off on a dead run, expecting to intercept him before he could reach the highway, which was pure faith on my part because at the time I had only the vaguest idea of the surrounding terrain. I guess I just got lucky. Twice I lost my footing on the uneven turf as I scrambled to beat him to the intersection with the highway. Fortunately I was not the only one having difficulty. The Jeep was still jerking along the road in first gear when I broke clear of the airport proper. I could see the panic in this guy's response as he spotted me beside the road—he was a dead duck and he knew it, but still he tried to just blow on through. He was fighting to get his rifle in position when I massaged a single deadly round from the .45. The big bullet blew the guy out of the vehicle and beneath it as it heeled abruptly, climbed the shoulder, and flipped over.
I discovered later that it was not the gunshot that was directly responsible for his death; he had suffered a broken neck when the Jeep rolled over him. Also, there was a nick from another bullet, which confirmed my earlier suspicion that I had winged him before his withdrawal.
The important thing from my point of view was that the shooting had ended with the plane still intact. Of course it had suffered quite a bit of damage.
Vehicles from two police agencies, the Sheriff's Department and the Highway Patrol, arrived on the scene while I was returning to the airport proper. An ambulance was dispatched for Tom Lancer. Janice had been made comfortable in the front seat of the sheriff's unit and seemed to be none the worse for the experience.
A shaken mortician's assistant had been an eyewitness to the startling events. The hearse had been standing-by near the tie-down area when the plane landed. It was he who had alerted the police when the shooting began.
It was at this point that one of the police units from Mammoth P.D. arrived although the airport was several miles outside the city. This is more or less standard procedure to offer mutual assistance between agencies at such times. A firefighting unit had also been dispatched from somewhere nearby but they were not needed here. It reminded me, though, of how close we all had come to a disastrous situation on the field.
The mortician took charge of Martha's body and an ambulance from Mammoth hurried Tom Lancer to the hospital for treatment of his wound. He was okay, it seemed, except for a flesh wound in the upper arm, which might have been a severe problem if Janice had not been there to render effective first aid on the spot.
All in all, we had gotten off lucky. We all knew it and even the guys from the fire department were marveling at our close call. The airport operator arrived and took charge of the plane for towing to the hangar area. He, too, kept reminding me how lucky this had all worked out.
It took an hour to get all the police reports satisfied and the two dead hoods collected and transported to the morgue. Chief Terry showed up at some point in this process, showed me a sympathetic smile, and said, "You've had a busy day, bud."
I tiredly replied, "Yeah, tell me about it."
He volunteered to take Janice home and I happily acceded to that suggestion. It was about two-thirty a.m. when I collected my van and headed back into Mammoth. I must have picked up a second wind or something because I was feeling more alert and together inside my head than
I had felt since my awakening in the hospital in Los Angeles some forty hours earlier.
Which was good, because there was no rest for me in the developing scenario of this night.
Like Goldilocks, someone was sleeping in my bed.
He had been a relative of mine briefly and now he was a fugitive on the run.
Harley Sanford was fast asleep in my bed.
I believe I would not have liked this guy under any circumstances. He was not one of those warm individuals who immediately inspire friendship. If I had encountered him in a normal family situation, I still would have had trouble with this guy. But for Martha's sake, and maybe for Janice's sake, I may have been inclined to make allowances and at least try to create the fiction of a friendly family connection.
But this was not the same man I had met a few hours earlier. The superior air, the guile, the toughness—all of that was gone when this obviously broken man sat up in the bed and cried, "Thank God, you're here! I was afraid I had missed you. Listen, I'm in deep trouble. I need your help."
He was fully clothed, even to his shoes, an afghan draped over him for warmth against the chill night air.
I asked, "Where have you been, Harley?"
He said, "Christ, it's cold in here. What time is it?"
I said, "It's time to get your ass out of my bed," and I went to the kitchen. I started a pot of coffee and waited for him to get himself together.
I heard him in the bathroom and he emerged a moment later. He had splashed water on his face and had not bothered to towel off. He looked like hell. This guy had been in hell. He said quietly, "I could use some of that coffee."
"In a minute," I said.
He took a seat at the table and seemed to be trying to put his thoughts together. "This has been a nightmare. I've been waiting for you for hours. Do I understand correctly that you are a private investigator?"
"That's right," I replied coldly.
"I think I'm in a lot of trouble. I want to retain you."
"For what?"
"For whatever it is private eyes do. You don't seem to understand. I told you I'm in deep trouble."
I said, "A hundred thousand a day wouldn't help you, pal. What you need is a lawyer—a damned good criminal lawyer. But just for fun, what is it you would expect me to do for you?"
He asked, "Isn't that coffee done yet?"
I told him, "Another minute. Coffee can't give you that much comfort. You look like a man in need of a strong drink."
"What do you have?"
"I think Martha kept a bit of wine around here."
"Thanks, I'll stick to the coffee." He stood up and helped himself to the unfinished brew.
I get aggravated with people who do that. But this was obviously one of those guys short on patience and disdainful of proper process.
He asked, "Where's your cup?"
"You've got it," I said. "Never mind, I'll wait."
"Did you hear me? I want to retain you."
"You told me that. I asked you, for what?"
"I think someone has been trying to kill me."
I said, "Here's a flash for you, pal. There's been an epidemic of violent death here lately. A little over an hour ago, someone tried to kill your wife. Is that of any interest to you?"
His normally wary look was reasserting itself. He took a pull at his coffee. "Why would anyone want to kill Janice?"
I told him, "That's the same thing I've been asking myself. I guess you're a prime contender. Do you know that the Mammoth police have issued an all-points bulletin on you?"
He seemed genuinely mystified by that statement. "Why, for God's sake?"
I said, "That's the usual procedure when the police are trying to apprehend a murder suspect."
"Wait." His native caution was fully intact now. "You've got it wrong. I am the victim, not a suspect!"
"You didn't shoot Arthur Douglas?"
"Arthur! Why would I shoot Arthur?"
I asked him, "Why would you shoot Cindy Morgan?"
His face was a total blank. I almost felt sorry for this guy until he continued to stonewall it. He said, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"She's dead," I replied without emotion.
Sanford growled, "No, wait, you mean Martha, don't you?"
"No, I'm talking about Cindy," I said coldly.
"Is everyone crazy around here?"
It was nearly the same reaction I got from this guy when I told him about his daughter's death. There was no real sense of sadness or even regret—only anger, maybe, and self-pity. I said, "I'm going to give it to you level, Harley. Feel free to jump in here any time I'm telling you something that you already know." I told him about the string of shootings, leaving nothing unsaid that needed saying.
As I recited that litany of horror, Sanford listened without comment until finally he groaned, "You wouldn't lie about this kind of stuff?"
I said, "I have better things to do with my time." I showed him Martha's bracelet. "Is this what your boys were looking for here yesterday?"
The guy was still playing it cagey. "What is that?"
"Your wife gave this bracelet to Martha years ago. It means nothing to you?"
"What is it supposed to mean?"
I said, "I'm trying very hard, Harley, to be civil with you, but if you insist on playing games with me I'll toss your ass outside."
"I'm not playing games," he protested. "I've never seen this before."
I produced the safety-deposit key. "This is not what your boys were searching for in here yesterday?"
I got a reaction on that one. "Where did you find that?"
I said, "Martha was wearing this the day she was killed. Is this what killed her?"
I guess that was cruel, but it wasn't intended that way. I was simply trying to unravel the puzzle. He stared at me through a long, incredulous moment then collapsed onto the table. He began sobbing. There was not much to offer this man as consolation. I had the unkindest suspicion of all, that this guy was weeping over only his own misfortune. I got up and went into the living room to give him some privacy with his grief, although to tell the truth I was not sure that he was entitled to that.
Sanford had crashed on the bed again when I went back to look in on him. I did not consider that particularly surprising. It had been a long, hard day for both of us. He opened his eyes and showed me a defeated grimace. I said, "I'll bunk in the other room. We will need to straighten out this mess with John Terry at first light. So get yourself together. I'll go in with you in the morning."
I was not sure that he had heard or understood what I was saying. I knew that I should have tried to resolve all this here and now, but I was just too beat, myself, to attempt to bring all these pieces into focus.
I should have tried harder. Come sunrise, I was going to hate myself.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
i had never been one to spend a lot of time in bed— sleeping. I had always resented unconscious time. Often, when working on a case, I would work several nights straight through with only an occasional brief respite to keep me running. But of course, this time, I had not been fully myself and I should have known that. I was still sound asleep on the couch when Chief Terry called me at a few minutes past eight.
He said, "Time to rise and shine, bud. You planning on sleeping all day?"
I groaned, "Oh, shit. I had wanted to get up early. Thought I had set the alarm." I was inspecting the alarm clock as I told him that. Hell, the alarm had been turned off. I growled, "Hold it just a second."
I dropped the telephone and hurried into the bedroom. My pigeon had flown the coop.
I went back to the phone and told Terry, "Well, I blew it. Sanford was in my bed when I got back last night. Dammit!—the guy was confused and wanting help. I should have called you immediately."
He asked, "He's not there now?"
"No. I believe that he sabotaged my alarm clock. So I have no idea—"
"I'm not surprised. Harley had a busy night. Why don't yo
u get over here as quick as you can. We've got visitors."
I said, "I'll need ten minutes to get clear. Have the coffee ready."
"You got it," he replied as he hung up.
It was characteristic of this guy to waste no time crying over spilled milk. Some cops I have known would have been reading the riot act over my failure to apprehend a wanted suspect. There was none of that stuff in this guy.
I invaded the shower and tried to clear my head of the cobwebs. The hit at the airport had an almost surreal quality, and I was trying to put the events into a clear perspective that made some sense but the steaming water was doing little to accomplish that.
Had the gunmen at the airport been trying to kill me, or someone else? If me, who could have been that worried about my involvement in the problems here? If not me, that left only Janice Sanford and Tom Lancer, and a girl already dead, aboard that plane. So what the hell was it all about?
The gunmen had undoubtedly been launched by the same people who had hoped to silence Arthur Douglas... but why had he needed silencing? What could a small-town cop add to the mystery that would be worth the risk of a daring execution-style slaying in open view of a score of witnesses?
As for that business at the airport, what could have been the motive and why was it so important?
And maybe I had just missed the most obvious implication. Harley seemed to think that someone had been trying to kill him. So maybe that was true, and maybe the gunmen at the airport had expected Harley Sanford to be aboard.
And if Harley had been the target all along, as he seemed to have thought, how would that account for the gunmen at the hospital?
Whatever, I had to get moving, so I got out of there as quickly as possible. I was at the P.D. fifteen minutes later. There was something similar to a war conference underway in the Chief's office. Official brass from two different sheriff's departments and a contingent from the California Highway Patrol were discussing the crime spree in this placid mountain village.
Terry performed introductions all around. I had met one of the highway patrolmen briefly several years earlier but I did not immediately recall the circumstances. His name was Griffith and he reminded me that we had met at a police convention in Sacramento. He said, with a genial smile, "Figured you were dead or in jail years ago, Joe."
Copp In Shock, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) Page 10