Mr. Grey and the Spirit from the Sky

by A. J. Matthews

  Martin worked through the fiches to the editions Doug indicated and read through the entries. "It says here that no illegal booze was recovered."

  "That's right." Doug cocked his head. "You reckon this spirit you're dealing with was the guy who flew the stuff in from Canada?”

  "Yes, he told me."

  "That is so fucking freaky, pardon my language!" Doug said, marveling. "So there was enough booze to fill a small aircraft. The Feds never recovered it. You think it's still out there?"

  Claudia nodded emphatically. "It's out there. A hiker brought some down from the mountains earlier this year. But what's more important, the remains of the pilot are there too."

  "Yeah, of course." Doug nodded seriously. "Of course." He rolled the 1929 fiche through the reader until he came to the November fourth edition. "Check this out. I think you'll find it interesting."

  It was the main story. Martin read it aloud.

  "'John Gottlieb Declared Missing, Presumed Dead. John Gottlieb, eighteen, farmer's son, has now been missing for over a month. Last seen driving a pick-up truck on the outskirts of town near the turn-off to the family farm, a thorough search of the locality over previous weeks has uncovered no trace of the farmer's son. Railroad and coach lines have no reports of a passenger of his name or description. The sheriff's office today officially declared him missing, presumed dead.'"

  "That seems to be a quick assumption on their part," Claudia said, her hand resting on his shoulder. "Didn't they think to check if he got a lift with someone?"

  "You're right," Doug said, pursing his lips. "It does seem as if someone brought down the curtain early on Johnny Gottlieb."

  "It's kind of odd that he should disappear the same time as the shoot-out, don't you think?" she said, looking at Martin.

  He sat back and stared into space as he thought. "It could be connected. The Minotti gang were city boys; they'd be lost up here. Maybe they wanted a local guide to take them to the landing site the first gang had chosen."

  He narrowed his eyes as the thought process played itself out in his mind. "Perhaps… perhaps John Gottlieb had even been approached by the first gang and had shown them a suitable site for a plane to touch down. When the Minottis took over, they could have learned the name of the local contact and made use of him."

  "And killed him after he'd shown them the place?" Doug shook his head. "They'd have no further use for him. Just wonder why they'd kill the pilot. Without meaning to sound callous, he'd be useful for bringing in more goods."

  "The Minottis may have had their own pilot lined up; a pilot who they knew could be relied upon." Martin shrugged. "I guess we'll never know. All their plans came to a bloody end down at Mel's Diner."

  "Yeah." Doug looked at the entry for the missing John Gottlieb. "I guess we now know what happened to that poor kid."

  "Yes. That makes two bodies we've got to find." Martin gazed pensively at the screen. "If only we knew where to look."

  Claudia reached down into his case and drew out a map printed off from the web-site. "Doug, the pilot landed in a valley. This is a map of the area made in 1930 by the US Geological Survey, which shows several valleys within a twenty mile radius of Gainesville. Neither of us being a pilot, we wouldn't know which to look at in terms of a good landing ground."

  "Why twenty miles?" Doug asked.

  Martin shrugged. "It's just an arbitrary figure. The original bootlegger gang had planned to run a truckload of illegal booze through unfamiliar territory at night. They'd want a site which was remote from habitation so no one would hear the plane, yet it had to be accessible to a main road within a reasonable time over rough tracks. Twenty miles just sounds about right."

  "I think so too," Claudia said and smiled. "Call it woman's intuition!"

  "Yeah, you could be right." Doug looked at the map again, and drew his cell phone from his pocket. "As far as landing grounds are concerned, I know someone who can help."

  * * * *

  Paloma Air Services had a small office module attached to a rented hangar on the edge of Payneton airfield. As Doug drove onto the track leading to the office, Martin caught a glimpse of a red and white twin-engine aircraft in the depths of the hangar.

  "Let's try the office," Doug said, stopping the car and getting out. "Mack should be around someplace. She won't be busy until Thanksgiving."

  Martin got out of the car a little more slowly, recovering his wits after a fast fifty-mile drive, most of which had been spent with Doug yelling threats and imprecations at other motorists. For a mild-mannered guy, he had a biting turn of phrase.

  Claudia looked pale and she gave him a harrowed smile of fellow suffering as they walked together toward the office. "Are you sure Mack wouldn't answer a fax, Doug?" she asked.

  "No," Doug said. "Not right away. Mack's a damn good pilot but she's got a lazy streak a mile wide when it comes to office work."

  Mack was in the office and looked up from her desk with surprise which switched to good humor when Doug knocked and entered. A striking-looking woman in her late forties, she wore her long black hair in a pony tail, a streak of white over her right ear giving her a distinguished appearance.

  "Doug, you old hack!" she cried, rising to clasp his hand and kiss him on the cheek.

  "Mack, how's it going?" She looked over his shoulder at Martin and Claudia. "These are the folks I told you about on the phone; Martin Grey, from England, Claudia Mackenzie from Indiana."

  "Hi, folks." Mack shook hands, her grasp firm.

  "Folks, this is my old prom date, Paula MacRae, owner and sole pilot of Paloma Air."

  "Not sole any more, Doug," she said with a grin, holding up her left hand. A diamond engagement ring sparkled on her ring finger. "I got engaged last month to a pilot from my old outfit in the Air National Guard. He's coming into the business with me. We're going to expand."

  "Son of a bitch!" Doug hugged her. "You never said a word!"

  "Yeah, well, we've been kind of busy." She glanced at the clock on the office wall. "Speaking of which, I do need to get going soon. How can I help you guys?"

  Martin showed her the printout and explained. "I'd like you to cast your eye over this area, see if there's any place that a small aircraft can land at night without getting into too much danger."

  Mack bent over the map and frowned. "Sure has changed since then," she muttered. "You get a feel for an area once you've flown over it a few hundred times." Her finger moved over the paper. "This area's now forest; so is this. And this. All along here is the Nuffield resort and access road. This valley's now a reservoir."

  She glanced up at them. "What kind of bird was the guy flying? Each plane has its own handling characteristics. If I knew the type, I could give you a better guess as to where he'd set her down."

  Martin checked his notebook. "It was a vintage aircraft, the Spartan C-3."

  Mack tipped her head to one side as she thought. "I've heard of Spartan, but the C-3's not a model I know. Let me see what I can pull up on the 'puter." She selected a CD from a rack by her desk and slipped it into the machine. "This is an aviation nut's dream," she said over her shoulder. "It's an encyclopedia of American aircraft right back to Wilbur and Orville, with history, pictures—even some blueprints." She worked the mouse, typed a few letters, and leaned back. The drive whirred briskly and an image sprang onto the screen. "Bingo! Here she is—the Spartan C-3, built in the late twenties by the Spartan Company of Tulsa, Oklahoma."

  The image was of a silver biplane with an exposed radial engine attached to the nose like a bulky afterthought. Martin looked it over with quickening interest, especially when he noticed the figure of the pilot standing beside it was wearing an outfit similar to that of the spirit. "Would it be able to operate within the confines of these mountains?" he asked.

  "Sure." Mack nodded. "There's nothing like a biplane for maneuverability; except maybe a triplane, and there aren't many of those around." She read the statistics set in the side bar alongside the picture. "Nowhere a
round here is above the C-3's maximum altitude either. Speed's a little slow compared to what we're used to these days; 120 horsepower doesn't make for a fast bird, but it'd be a positive benefit when you're ghosting over unknown territory at night, looking for a landing ground."

  Claudia had to smile at her choice of words. "He was flying in from Dundas, in Canada, back in 1929. Would it have the range to make it here and back?"

  "Oh yeah; easy. If it needed gas, the pilot could just fill up with kerosene. There was plenty of that about in those days. Everybody used it for lighting and cooking, especially round these parts." Mack looked wistful. "Aviation was a whole different world back then. Simple machines a car mechanic could maintain; no restrictions, few rules. Just take off when you pleased, land where you liked." She shook her head. "A whole different world…"

  She examined the map again and Doug winked at Martin. "Mack's a romantic," he chuckled. "She's up there in the clouds with Earhart and Johnson. Don't worry, she knows her stuff."

  "I surely do, Doug," she said quietly, refusing to rise to his bait. Picking up a pink highlighter pen, she held it poised over the map. "Now, with the C-3's performance in mind, I could put down here, here, here, and here." Each 'here' was punctuated by a quickly-drawn oval on the map. "These other valleys and plateaus look okay, but notice the peaks on either side? No pilot would have time to make an approach before he had to either pull up or slam into the deck. There are other places I would use, but they're all outside your twenty-mile ring."

  Martin took the map as she proffered it and examined her choices. "Mack, many thanks to you! All we need to do is overlay this on the modern map, get some idea of location, and go look."

  "Doug didn't tell me much about why you're interested in all this, folks," Mack said, looking up at them with keen attention.

  Martin moistened his lips with his tongue and chose his words with care. "I'm looking for one, possibly two bodies, a truck, and a Spartan C-3 biplane."

  Mack's mouth formed a silent O of surprise. "This sounds, like, serious! Martin, I got to admit, I'm intrigued by all this. Would you two like to scout the locations from the air? I'll take you up tomorrow if you like, no charge."

  "Would you? That's very kind of you, but at least let us pay for the fuel."

  "Okay, you can do that much, then." She glanced at the clock and shut down her computer. "Now, I got to scoot. Be here at eight o'clock tomorrow morning, folks. You too, Doug, if you want. Now shoo!" she said, flapping her hands at them.

  They returned to the car whilst Mack began locking up the office and hangar. Martin and Claudia sat in the rear passenger seat in a state of mutual resignation as Doug guided the car out onto the freeway like a cruise missile.

  "Mack's a gold-standard buddy to have, isn't she?" Doug chuckled.

  "Oh, yes!" Martin replied, wincing as they missed a truck by the width of a cigarette paper. Claudia, no chicken driver she, shut her eyes and her lips moved as if in prayer.

  To distract his mind he got out his cell phone and dialed the resort office. Bruce answered. "Bruce? It's Martin. Yes, I'm fine—just about," he added, after a quick glance through the windscreen. "I wonder if you'd do me a favor?"

  * * * *

  Doug pulled into the lot in front of Mel's Diner and switched off the engine. "Looks like we missed the main rush," he observed.

  "Good! I think things could get interesting in there soon," Martin replied and got out.

  A light covering of snow lay upon the parking lot, a recent fall untroubled by tire marks. Their breath steamed in the frigid air as they made their way to the door.

  "What are you up to?" Claudia asked suspiciously.

  "I've got an idea which may move things along a little."

  "Like what, exactly?"

  He smiled as they mounted the steps. "You'll see."

  Steamy heat hit them like a wave as Doug pushed the door open. Bruce was sitting at the bar chatting to Jodi when they entered. "You guys look like you could use some coffee," Jodi called. "Regular black for you and Claudia, and a Cappuccino for Doug."

  "Right! Thanks." Martin smiled at her. "Damn, that's impressive! You remembered after we'd been here just once?"

  She winked. "Goes with the territory," she said, moving over to the percolator.

  Martin sat beside Bruce. "Did you bring it?" he asked.

  "Yep," Bruce replied, patting the zipper bag on the counter. He made to unzip the flap but Martin hurriedly stopped him.

  "Not yet." Jodi placed coasters on the counter and set the steaming cups on them. "Thanks, Jodi."

  "What are you gonna do, Martin?" Bruce asked. "You were rather vague when you called me." He grinned. "Are you going to hold a séance?"'

  "Similar. It's known as a 'calling.'"

  "Yeah? Why here?" Doug asked.

  "Because this is where the Minotti gang died in that shoot-out all those years ago. I'm pretty sure the two events are connected." He looked around the diner. "Jodi, have you ever felt anything strange or inexplicable here, at any time?"

  She shrugged. "Yeah. Sometimes it feels a little spooky at night, when I'm closing up. I guess all old places are the same, and the diner's been here for decades. It's one of the earliest of its kind," she said.

  "It's always nice to see ordinary buildings preserved and still in use, not just the grander places. They mean so much more to everyday folk."

  "Reckon they do. Did you get something last time you were here?" Jodi asked, looking at Martin with narrowed eyes. "You went kind of funny for a moment back then."

  "Yes." He gave her a lopsided smile. "I'm sorry I lied to you, but some people have a rather uneasy reaction when I tell them what I do for a living."

  "That's okay. I understand. What do you need for this… calling?"

  "Would you mind taking down that photograph you showed us yesterday, please."

  She shrugged and fetched it, laying it in front of Martin, who glanced at it quickly without touching it. "Thanks."

  "There won't be any harm done?" she asked.

  "To us or the diner? No," he said and smiled. "But I have my doubts about anyone else."

  Then he closed his eyes, breathed deeply for a few moments, calmed himself. Martin was aware of the others watching him with a mixture of incredulity, skepticism and interest. Opening his eyes he picked up the photograph by the edges of the frame, and focused. Focused…

  Reality flickered as two timelines crossed and he felt…

  Pain. Searing, burning pain! Oh Holy Mary, how it hurts! Momma, Momma, make it go away.!

  A sensation of drifting, the pain ceasing. Bodies all over the floor. Blood, so much blood, slick and bright red. Joe? Hey, brother? Ellis? What's going on, fellers? Where are you? Men in dark overcoats, fedoras; the fuckin' Feds! Guns out, barrels smoking. Kicking us around like we was nobody! Faces like the plaster saints in St. Mary's church back home. Damn they frightened me! Fuckin' G-men!

  A light in the darkness; so many shadows… I'm scared! Go to the light. Wanna…

  Denied! The ties that bind. Momma's voice saying "Not yet! Not 'til you do your chores, Jackie."

  So many years…

  Martin opened his eyes with an effort. "Now, Bruce, open the bag."

  Bruce collected his wits and fumbled the bag open. Martin closed his eyes for a second, sensed the release, the psychic rush of air.

  "Hey, fellersh!" He heard Gerry's bright, boozy voice. "Howsh it goin'?"

  Martin looked round, saw the pilot standing beside Doug, who was shivering and looking for the source of the draught.

  And there was another figure, dark, almost a shadow, a little way beyond them, hovering over a spot on the floor.

  "Gerry, do you recognize this man?" Martin asked, pointing at the shadow.

  Gerry frowned, swung round heavily to look. "No? Should I?"

  A sudden wave of fear and panic surged from the shadowy figure of Jack "Cutie-Boy" Minotti. Holy Christ! It's him! But he's dead! I blew his fuckin' brains all o
ver that cave!

  Martin sensed his control of events slip away like soap in a bath, so he leaned back on the counter and watched as the shadow condensed, became a young man of sallow complexion wearing a grey coat and fedora. A very frightened young man…

  "You!" Gerry's rage was palpable as he hurled himself at the figure. The other spirit flung up his arms in terror and fell back under a volley of punches and kicks.

  "What's going on, Martin?" Bruce whispered, trying to follow Martin's line of sight. "I don't see anything."

  Doug and Jodi were looking around too. Only Claudia seemed to be aware, her eyes narrowed, uncomprehending. "I…I think I see two guys over there!" she said, pointing. "Are they fighting?"

  Martin nodded as he raised the cup of coffee to his lips and blew on it softly. "Yes, no pin-falls, no knockouts; only one submission required."

  *

  Claudia gaped as Gerry gripped Minotti by the neck and planted blow after blow on his unprotected kidneys. The other spirit attempted to grapple his legs but got a knee hard in the face for his pains. Gerry roared continually as he belabored his former nemesis, the noise creating a nagging psychic ache in her mind.

  Only once did Minotti get loose, turning to launch a flurry of short jabs at Gerry's face. Shrugging them off, the pilot tackled Minotti low about the legs, sending him crashing back into the counter with a cry. A storm of paper napkins erupted from the metal holder there as he sought to stop himself.

  "Hey! Watch what you're doing!" Jodi called then blinked. "What the hell am I saying? I can't see anybody!"

  Cutlery crashed to the ground as Gerry punched through the counter to catch Minotti in the solar plexus. "Martin, I thought you said nothing would get damaged!" Jodi complained, hurrying down the end of the counter.