by Susan Slater
He jogged part way until his knees let him know enough was enough. He decided to approach the hangar from the west, follow the edge of the woods until he could cut across the runway to the back of the building. He wasn’t sure how he’d explain this snooping; he just hoped he wouldn’t have to.
The moon popped out for a few minutes and he hung back shielded by the thick underbrush and waited for clouds to float over it again, then dashed forward to the corner of the building before pausing. Again, he listened for noises by sucking in his breath and letting it escape through his mouth, all the time straining to catch some unfamiliar sound, some indication that he might not be alone.
Something that could have been a coyote sang in the distance. An answer came from over his shoulder to the east. But there was nothing else. He flattened his body against the cold of the corrugated steel and inched forward; his rubber soled shoes crunched on the gravel path along the side of the building.
The door at the back of the hangar was locked. He’d expected that and reached into his tool kit for a screwdriver. This lock wouldn’t even be a challenge. It was not a talent he was proud of, but one that came in handy. It took less than ten seconds to open the door.
Dan quickly stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The echo of steel on steel sounded like an avalanche as it rolled through the building, gradually faded, then stopped. He continued to wait by the door before moving on, letting every sound register and implant on his brain. The creaks and groans of the large wood truss and steel sheet building gave it a language all its own—and it talked to itself. Unnerving if you were by yourself and weren’t supposed to be there, Dan thought.
The building covered five thousand square feet at least, a warehouse, hangar combination. Something rustled overhead. Pigeons, probably. Maybe a bat. His flashlight illuminated a collection of droppings on the concrete floor under one beam. Boxes stacked at the back had the logo of farm equipment, could be replacement parts. He’d check later.
But first the plane. Only in this case, planes. The cargo plane was easy to pick out with its pregnant-looking undercarriage and ramp doorway underneath in the back. The second was a surprise. A Lear jet. It seemed to be in mothballs. Its engine was dismantled and in a few thousand well-ordered pieces, some in trough-like trays with numbers and notes tacked to the sides, some, bigger, unwieldy, on the cement floor, and still others in crates. But it hadn’t flown in awhile, that was for sure. It looked like it hadn’t been worked on in awhile, either. Dan wondered who the mechanic was, a hobbyist, maybe?
The cargo plane showed signs of use but was well-maintained.
Dan walked underneath it, then around to the front. It could hold two to four passengers and probably another two or three four-legged creatures. The outside walls were obviously reinforced. The plane was heavy. From its shape, it looked like it shouldn’t be able to fly, sort of a bumblebee that would heave itself into the sky and stay airborne against all odds.
The ramp doorway was locked from the inside but the cockpit was open. Someone had left a ladder in place and Dan hurried on board, shutting the door securely behind him. He’d need to muffle the sound of the battery-run vacuum however possible. He was fifteen feet above the hangar floor. He squatted down beside the pilot’s seat and waited for any unfamiliar sound before switching on the flashlight.
The plane wasn’t new, just well cared for. The buttery soft leather upholstery and wood instrument panel belied the plane’s age. They just didn’t make them like they used to. Dan dropped to hands and knees to inspect the flooring, a long strip of rubber mat glued in place at the edges and immaculate. A person could eat off the floor.
But in keeping with why he was there, Dan revved up the miniature vacuum and ran it under the seats and along the sides of the walkway leading to the cockpit. He emptied a minute amount of particles—three grains of sand, the stem of a crushed leaf, a knotted piece of string—into a plastic container and labeled it appropriately, then moved on to repeat his gathering in front of the pilot’s seat and beneath the instrument panel.
It was slow going. He glanced at his watch, one twenty. He worked his way backward to the cargo hold, lowering himself into the padded stalls. These would be time consuming. Here, he scraped paint and metal from the tie-downs to collect dried saliva as a precautionary measure. Probably would tell the lab what they used to sedate the animals, and who knew whether or not that would be important. Next, he pulled threads from the canvas-covered padding that lined the walls, using a hollow needle to go between the seams to sample the stuffing.
The cleanliness astounded him. Here was a good example of safeguarding the animals…or destroying evidence. The plane was beyond clean. Dan supposed it helped to have a plentiful supply of cheap labor.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
There had been times in life, like now, that Dan was pleased that he had strong sphincters. In spite of his heart pounding crazily, he quelled the fight-or-flight reaction and turned slowly to look at Eric leaning over the top of the opposite stall.
“I could say the same.”
“Just lending a hand.”
“Things not moving fast enough for you?” Dan squatted down to poke the suction tube between the circles of rubber making up the two-inch-thick mat that each animal stood on. Heavy cushioning for heavy cargo. Eric didn’t seem exactly chatty. Dan ignored him as he continued to work.
He was just finishing up the first stall when he saw the crystals swirl up through the mat, enter the tube and clink into the clear container attached to the back of the vac. He knew it wasn’t beach sand. Three more holes, three more tiny caches of an illegal substance. They seemed out of place in these immaculate surroundings. Then it hit him. He knew why Eric was here.
“Busy evening.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I think you know. I just collected a substance that probably wasn’t here an hour ago.” Dan tried not to sound accusatory, just keep his voice even, statement of fact, what he thought, and nothing more.
“Sorry, can’t pin that one on me.”
“Can you tell me what you are doing here if it isn’t to plant a little something where I’d find it?”
“How ’bout I just thought you needed help. Thought I’d go over the plane myself. I’m not exactly impressed with a few schedules, copies of bank statements, and a list of South American contacts from eight years ago. You got to do better than that.”
“Give me time.”
“I don’t have time.”
“I’m not reporting this.”
“The hell you’re not. This will keep your friends happy and you in expense account money for awhile. Oh, speaking of expense money, I showed Elaine a copy of the report that included a billing for the orchids. Believe me, you’re not going to be getting any for awhile. She’s feeling just a little taken about now. Probably why she’s decided to spend some time with me. Maybe nothing permanent, but then again, you never know.”
Laughter, then silence. Dan willed his arms to remain at his sides and let the anger wash over him. He didn’t have anything to say, nothing that would take away the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He could only imagine how seeing that report had made Elaine feel. Would he get the chance to explain?
He dismantled the vac and loaded the camera. He’d finish quickly and get back to the house. He took a number of close-ups where he’d found the crystals. Crack? It had to be crack cocaine. But he knew he should let a lab decide.
Eric disappeared. He’d done what he came to do, made sure Dan found the evidence. Dan had ignored him, not trusting himself to confront him. He heard him open the cockpit door and climb to the hangar floor. Dan’s mind was racing. How could he explain to Elaine why he sent flowers on the taxpayers’ money? Without admiting he’d been paid to court her? Jesus. She must have been shattered. So, would she go running back to Eric? Better the devil she knew?
He snapped two rolls of twenty-four exposures. Nook and cranny shots, c
hanging lens for the in-tight, up close, small stuff. Roger would be pleased. Roger would be more pleased with the plastic canister of crystals. He wished he didn’t feel so strongly that Eric had planted them.
He backed down the ladder and saw Eric in the shadows by the Lear. Dan had hoped he was gone.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
Dan supposed he meant the plane. Eric ran the beam of his flashlight along the silver fuselage.
“Not my thing.”
“You know, this one’s mine.”
“How’s that?”
“Flew Billy Roland to an auction. Some Texas biggie went under and the Lear was practically given away. I talked him into getting it restored. Had it hauled here and I had just gotten started reworking it. Sent the engine off for an overhaul.”
Eric’s expression looked wistful in the surreal light of the flashlight as it played across his face. “Those were happy times.”
“And you believe a man who would buy a plane for you to tinker with would set you up?”
“People do a lot of crazy things if they’re cornered.”
Dan hoped he wasn’t talking about himself, because that’s exactly what Eric was, cornered. Dan adjusted the vest full of containers and left by the back door.
As he neared the house, he saw the light on in the study. Three-thirty. Must be Billy Roland. Hopefully, he’d be back in bed by the time Dan had stashed everything in the Cherokee. But, he wasn’t. Billy Roland was standing on the veranda waiting for him.
“Nice night for a walk.” Dan spoke first.
“Son, you don’t have to lie to me. I took a peek at that box that came for you yesterday. United Life and Casualty wouldn’t have kept you on all these years if you weren’t thorough.”
“Probably true. And I admit to liking to work at night. By myself.”
“There’s a lot of loner in you. Ever marry?” Billy Roland motioned for him to pull up a chair as he sank heavily onto the porch swing.
“Couple times. Didn’t take.”
A chuckle, then, “I’d imagine it wouldn’t. I can’t see you taking up with any ordinary filly.”
They sat quietly. Billy Roland didn’t suspect him of doing anything not required by the insurance company. Good. He wasn’t quite ready to explain old Roger and Tom. Not yet. Billy Roland probably didn’t know he had gone over the plane. Should he tell him? No, he had another topic of conversation he wanted to bring up with his host, a little question that was long overdue.
“Earlier this evening when we talked about Eric Linden, there was something I wanted to ask you.”
“Shoot.”
“When we found the Caddy after the bridge washed out, there was a manila envelope stuck in the brush. Did you ever take a look at the contents?”
“Yep, and saw the same bank book that you did.”
“But no two million ever existed.”
“And someone was about to be caught in a lie. If Eric had lived.” Billy Roland had stopped the swing and crossed his feet at the ankles; the heels of the cloth bedroom slippers flapped against the painted boards of the porch flooring. “You think that someone was me?” There was no anger in his voice, just a matter of fact what-do-you-know tone.
“Could be, if you had something you needed covered up. Something big enough to bargain with a man for seven years of his life.”
“I can see how I’d be high on your list. My plane. My contacts. But it just didn’t happen that way. I answered enough questions after Eric’s arrest to last a lifetime seven years ago.”
“Were you straight with me earlier when you said you doubted any locals put him up to it?”
“I’ve come to believe Eric initiated it, set up the deal with outsiders.”
“And the two million?”
“To keep his mouth shut, maybe. The two million didn’t come out in the trial.”
“I wouldn’t expect it to.”
“Son, I want you to level with me. You think I could be behind ruining a man’s life? Then have him killed on top of it?”
“I don’t want to think that.” And that was the truth. Dan liked this man, found it difficult to believe he’d jeopardize his position. Throw his life away when there was every indication that he didn’t need the money.
“I thank you for that. You want to look at that bank book?” Dan followed Billy Roland into his study and waited while he fiddled with a small wall safe behind his desk.
“Here it is. Other than supposedly being issued by Midland Savings and Loan, there’s no evidence of who made the deposit.”
Dan switched on a floor lamp and held the book under the light as he turned the pages. He didn’t know but guessed that the notations had been made by Eric based on the statement delivered to the prison each month. In one instance, a loss on utilities was noted, in another, a gain in pharmaceuticals. The math was straightforward. Two million invested, interest and dividends reinvested with a nice tidy sum at the end of seven years totaling almost another million dollars on top of the original two.
“Do you trust Judge Cyrus?”
“With my life. Known him forever.”
“So you don’t think he knew anything about this?”
“I asked him. Took that little black book over to him and demanded an explanation. He was as shocked as I was. Course, a book like that would be easy enough to come by.”
Dan would have liked to have said that Eric verified the deposit before going to prison. Talked with someone at Midland Savings and Loan, then heard once a month for seven years from someone representing the bank. Or supposedly representing the bank. Maybe Dan should ask Eric a few questions. He handed the book back.
“You find everything you need out there tonight?” Billy Roland closed the safe and twirled the dial.
“And something I didn’t need.”
“How’s that?”
Dan knew he was taking a chance, tipping his hand if the crystals were part of a stash; but if they had been planted….
“You tell me.”
He’d kept the vial of crystals, didn’t leave them in the Jeep, wanted them with him until he decided what to do. This wasn’t what he’d planned, but it might prove interesting. He tossed the small container to Billy Roland and pulled a chair up opposite the desk. Billy Roland was silent. Not “What’s this?” “Where’d you find it?” Nothing. He just sank into the high-back, ergonomically correct swivel desk chair and stared at the contents. Then picked the vial up and shook it watching the nuggets clump back together at the bottom. Dan waited. It was Billy Roland’s turn to say something. And the longer he didn’t, the more guilty he looked. Finally, he sighed and looked Dan in the eye.
“Guess I might have some explaining to do.”
Dan nodded.
“I’m guessing you found this in the clinic out back. Good eye. My surprise is that it’s probably crack, not cocaine already refined.”
“You suspected that I might have found cocaine?”
“Hoping you would. More than one reason I asked for you—told your boss it was you or no one.”
“I’m not following.”
“Guess I better start at the beginning. You want anything? Drink? Cup of coffee?”
“I’m fine.” He watched as Billy Roland got up to pour himself another scotch. The cocoa-tan striped silk robe with corded maroon trim looked rich but did nothing to hide the slack skin of a hairless, pasty white chest. This was a man old for his sixty-odd years. Old and spent.
“I’m gonna tell you a little story, then let you decide how to use it. I’m relying on your integrity. I know I’m not wrong, son, you’re a fair man.”
Dan didn’t say anything. Obviously, he was about to hear a confession. He hadn’t planned on this.
“My suspicions are that this belongs to my wife.”
Dan must have looked startled and about to say something, because Billy Roland waved him silent and went on.
“My Miss Iris is the most beautiful creature on the face of this earth. Bu
t beauty has its price.” Billy Roland paused and looked at him, but Dan was too stunned to open his mouth and just nodded for him to continue.
“You ever know any beauties who just couldn’t handle it? Hollywood’s full of them. Too beautiful and too weak of character to take care of themselves. The Marilyn Monroe syndrome. Women like that need help. Need someone strong to help ’em get along in life, resist the temptations and ne’er-do-wells who just wait to prey on their weaknesses.”
Billy Roland stopped to take a drink then swirl the ice in his glass before continuing.
“Five years ago I founded The Wings of the Dove. Bible College outside Carrizozo. Bought a small ranch with a grouping of old buildings nestled in the hills, then brought in a crew of caretakers, cooks, groundskeepers, and the like—even found me a Bible thumper whose wife doubled as dorm mother and a couple teachers. Nothing radical. Just straightforward fundamentalist teaching. There’s a need for that in this world, good straight talk from the Bible.” He paused and sucked down half the scotch before continuing.
“Well, before I know it, the place becomes a retreat. Falwell rented the whole thing one summer. So, in addition to bringing lost souls along in the teachings of the scriptures, the place sort of gets a name for itself, among the in-crowd, TV evangelists. And that’s when Miss Iris shows up. She’d been saved by one of the biggies—Robertson, if I remember correctly—and then just became a religious groupie, glorified word for a hanger-on with no real purpose in life, and showed up here.”
Billy Roland rummaged in the top drawer of the desk and pulled out an eight-year-old Playboy.
“Lookee here.” The centerfold had obviously been admired before and fell open with little help. And there was Miss Iris.
Longer hair, a little darker blond. A trifle thinner in the face. But then who looked at the face? The full breasts, implant-perfect, the freckles covered by makeup, was the first thing a casual viewer would notice. She was reclining in a bed of Japanese iris; the stark purple blue of the flowers with their yellow-gold stamens hugged the curve of a naked hip and bunched between her legs leaving something, at least, to the imagination.