by Gordon Brown
My head is fit to split. I can feel bile rising in my throat. ‘Open the door.’
The driver reaches down, flicks a lever and the doors slide apart. A light above the entrance flicks on. I take my knife, driving it into the light to kill it.
Mistake.
The driver spots the tiny blade.
‘I can still kill you with it.’ I need to shout over the noise coming through the doors. ‘Listen carefully. Those guys out there are not your friends. If you stop here, they’ll take you out with me. Do you understand? They will kill you. You need to get back to town. This road runs back into Van Horn. Drive to the depot. Make sure there are plenty of people around before you stop. If you don’t they WILL kill you. Do you understand?’
He nods.
‘Good. What’s in the bag?’
There’s a sports bag sitting in the well next to him. He glances down at it. ‘A change of clothes and my snack.’
‘I’m taking it.’ I reach down and lift the bag. Heavier than it looks. ‘Swing right and slow right down. I’m jumping. As soon as I’m clear, get back on the road. With luck they’ll follow you and not notice I’m gone.’
A last scream from behind and I turn. It’s too dark to see but I don’t fancy George’s chances. Bert is lying at my feet. He isn’t moving. I turn back to the driver.
‘Do you know if there’s a hospital in Van Horn?’
He nods.
‘Change of plan. Go there instead of the depot.’ It’s the best I can do for Bert and George. ‘Now – swing off.’
The driver hauls us out into the desert, slowing down. I jump down the steps. The ground is rushing by. I throw out the bag. In my head I pull up the training manual for landing after a parachute jump, and leap. As I do, the world drops blue and the headache vanishes.
I hit the dirt and roll. The rear of the bus flashes by. I hear the driver gun the engine. I lie flat. The SUVs scream by feet from my head. I count to ten and look up. Four sets of tail-lights are chasing the bus. The road is keeping them back but they are swinging left and right trying to find a way past.
The blue world brings my own personal night vision. It could be midday. I search for the driver’s bag and pick it up, cross the dirt track before heading in the direction of the airport.
I look back. The bus is still rolling – good news. The longer it keeps moving the more distance I can gain.
I start to jog and the bag clinks. I stop and unzip it. A fresh shirt and pants are rolled up on top along with a plastic lunch box. Beneath there are bottles. I pull one out. Wild Turkey bourbon. It has five more brothers to keep it company. Not my favourite brand but good stuff. Not the sort of luggage that inspires me with confidence in a driver though.
I break back into a jog.
I’m amazed to see animals dotted around. A coyote stands not ten yards from me. Watching. Its eyes follow me. I smile at it. It’s so clear I could draw it.
I chink my way down to a fast walk, flicking my head to check that the SUVs aren’t on their way back.
The noise of the wild has replaced the noise of engines; the vehicles are out of sight. My breath is ragged. It occurs to me that this place isn’t on sea level. I’m grabbing for air. Mexico lies not far behind me. I wonder if I would be safer trying for a foreign country.
I stumble onto concrete and realize that I’m standing on one of the airport’s runways. In the middle distance a small group of buildings are huddled together with some planes parked on the apron. A taxi-way leads to the planes. Beyond them another clump of buildings squat in the blue light.
The place looks deserted but that would be normal – most of these local airports are dawn-to-dusk affairs. I cut across the runway and begin to walk up the taxi-way, listening for any signs of life in front or behind me.
The main buildings are shut tight, the two planes sitting on the taxi-way the only sign that the place is in use. As I circle the buildings the sound of a radio falls from the light breeze.
I freeze.
Baseball. I can’t hear the words but the cadence and the rhythm suggests commentators going through a game. A few steps and I’ve located the source. Behind the buildings an RV is parked up. The window is all but blacked out but a slip of light is escaping from the corner. I walk round the vehicle. Two men are talking inside. The conversation seems to revolve around planes.
A car engine hums in the distance. Probably traffic on the highway but the suits could have it figured by now. The blue world is fading and darkness is returning. I hit the door with my fist.
It opens to reveal a bald man with a beer gut hidden beneath a faded Texas Rangers sweat. ‘What?’
Nice greeting. Beer fumes mixed with cigarette smoke rush into the night. I back off a step as I gag on the cloud. ‘My car packed in a few miles back. Do you have a phone?’
‘Who is it?’ comes a shout from within.
‘His car broke down.’ Baldy turns to look into the RV as he says this.
‘Does he have any booze on him?’ the voice comes back.
Baldy looks at me. ‘Do you have any booze on you?’
I step forward a little. ‘I might.’
‘He says he might.’
The voice inside warms up. ‘Then invite him in. I’m as dry as a buzzard’s ring-piece.’
Baldy steps back, beckoning me to go in. I step up.
The RV is a tip. A dozen Miller Lite cans are spread on the floor. Three empty pizza boxes lie on the table. Ash lies thick on the carpet. My host sweeps a pile of porn to the floor to let me sit down.
‘So, do you have booze?’ The other man is thin. He has wisps of long hair. The last vestiges clinging to his liver-spotted pate. He burps and points to the can in his hand. ‘Last one.’
‘Either of you a pilot?’ I ask.
‘I am.’ Baldy drops to a chair as he talks.
‘So is one of the planes yours?’
‘The Skycatcher.’
‘Not all his,’ says the thin one. ‘Part share.’
‘Still mine and less than six months old.’ Baldy rubs his belly and smiles.
‘How many does she seat?’ I ask.
‘Two. Pilot and passenger. Why? You looking for some lessons?’
‘No, a ride.’
‘Where?’
‘Just a ride.’
‘Come back tomorrow.’
‘No, tonight!’
They both laugh.
‘No way, San Jose,’ says Baldy. ‘It’s dark and, in case you haven’t noticed, we’ve been on the juice.’
The thin man stands up. Unsteady. ‘Federal Aviation Regulation 91.17 prohibits pilots from flying aircraft with an alcohol level of 0.04% or more, and/or within eight hours of consuming alcohol. Isn’t that right?’
Baldy nods as the thin man falls back to the seat.
I think I can hear engines. Too loud to be from the highway. I reach into the driver’s sports bag and pull out a bottle of Wild Turkey. ‘Would this change your mind?’
The thin one’s eyes light up. He reaches over to grab the bottle.
I pull it away. ‘A ride first. Ten minutes. No more.’
‘Ain’t going to happen,’ says Baldy.
I pull a second bottle out.
‘Cornbread,’ says the thin one. ‘Matt, just give him the once round. Ain’t no one going to know.’
Matt eyes the bottle. ‘Chip, it’s not worth it.’ I dip my hand in once more and pull out a third. ‘Ten minutes,’ I say.
Engines.
Matt’s eyes are fixed on the booze.
‘Come on, Matt. Up and down for three bottles. How hard can it be?’
Matt rubs his gut again. ‘Ok, but no crap. Up and down.’
‘You’re the pilot,’ I say.
I stand up, wondering how bad your drink problem must be to agree to fly a stranger at night.
‘Leave the booze here,’ says the thin one.
I throw one to him.
Matt grabs one of the others and leads the wa
y out of the RV. I drop the third bottle on a chair as I leave.
We circle the buildings. Matt is swaying as if the earth is trying to shake him loose. He’s slugging hard on the Wild Turkey. We reach the aircraft. Matt points to the passenger door. ‘Jump in and strap up.’
Louder engines.
Matt walks round the aircraft and gets in the other side. ‘Up and down.’
I smile. ‘Up and down.’
He starts to play with the plane’s controls. I hear the note of a gear change. The cars are close. Matt fires up the prop.
To my left I can see lights bouncing towards us. Matt is flipping and checking. I want to gun the throttle for him. He flips some more, then the plane jerks forward. I hope he doesn’t notice the headlights. My luck holds as he swings the nose of the plane away from the building and the advancing cars.
We taxi back to where I entered the airport, at the junction of the two runways. One runs parallel with the taxi-way and the other tracks at forty-five degrees. Both start at the end of the taxi-way. If Matt takes the parallel runway, he can’t fail to see the cars.
We wheel left and he advances onto the further-away strip. He looks at me. I pray the buildings hide the cars. He pushes the throttle and we zip forward.
It’s clear that the silence from Matt, since we got in the plane, is down to sheer concentration. I wonder again at how much he wants booze that he’ll risk a flight rather than the drive to the liquor store.
A double bounce and we’re airborne. Airtime. I look over my shoulder and see four cars converging on the airport.
‘Where to?’ Matt’s first words since we started up.
I point away from the airport, keeping the tail towards the brewing trouble.
‘So are we good?’ Matt starts to bank the plane. ‘Ten and down.’
‘We can’t go back to the airport.’
‘What?’
‘You’ll be grounded.’
‘Who by?’
‘FBI.’
The plane takes on a swinging motion as he tries to look at me and steer at the same time. ‘FBI?’
‘Back at the airport. Lots of them. Have a look.’
He nudges the plane round a few degrees.
The airport is lit by a collection of car lights. We’re far enough away for them to be a single burning flame on the ground.
Matt straightens the plane. ‘You a wanted man?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Bad deal.’
‘Go back and your license is history.’
He buries the bad news in another slug of bourbon. ‘Bad deal. Bad deal.’
‘How far can we fly?’
‘A few hundred miles – the tanks aren’t full.’
‘Is there anywhere you can set down?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You can park the plane, spend the night and fly back tomorrow.’
‘And what do I say when they come asking about you?’
‘Whatever you want. Just leave out the bit about the booze and your willing participation. You took me up because I threatened you. I forced you to land. You didn’t want to take off again in the dark. You waited until the morning before flying back.’
‘Won’t wash. Chip will have blabbed. He has a mouth like a motor about to throw a rod.’
‘Blank it. Let him tell his story and you say when we got outside the RV you were going to change your mind and I got heavy. Puts you in the clear.’
‘And the fact I have one hundred per cent proof running in my veins?’
‘Quit drinking now and don’t go back until you’re sober.’
His eyes are darting from me to the windshield. I think the story works and I think he thinks it works.
He dips the plane and we head for the ground.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Getting below radar. There is a plateau up ahead. If we hug it they won’t be able to pick us up.’
I’m about to go low-level flying with a drunk.
Chapter 19
The desert is a smear, picked out by the moon hanging in a clear sky. We top a hundred knots. Close to the plane’s maximum. We’re so low we’re in danger of clipping the cacti. For a while the highway is company but Matt waits until it’s clear of cars before crossing it and swinging south.
‘Where are we going?’ I try to keep my eyes from the hypnotic conveyor belt unfolding beneath us.
‘Fort Davis.’
‘Where?’
‘Middle of nowhere. It’s a ways from the highway but there are roads leading south to the border or you can try to make the coast at Corpus Christi.’
‘How far is it from Van Horn?’
‘As the crow flies maybe fifty miles. Sorry I’m not going any further.’
‘It’ll do. Do you have a map?’
‘In the back.’
I reach over and pull out a large map. Fort Davis isn’t the best choice for someone on the run but it’ll give me a head start. I stuff the map into the holdall. ‘Where are you going to land?’
‘There’s a disused landing strip to the south of the town. I use it when I spray crops. There’s an old barn at one end. It has a bunk. There’s no lights so it’ll be tricky but it’s far enough from town that no one will hear us landing. After that you’re on your own.’
Matt nudges the plane a few degrees further east. We suddenly twist in the air. He shakes his head – trying to clear the bourbon. I can see the lights of the town to the right, we’re circling to avoid the built-up area.
Matt’s head starts to do a nodding dog. I thought he was just drunk. I now think he’s wasted. We’re flying on Matt’s personal version of autopilot.
The plane skirts the town. Matt dips us a few more feet and I grip the door handle. The ground is a smudge.
‘Could be rough,’ Matt says. ‘Hold on.’
He pushes us down a little more. I can’t see anything but wasteland. Then we zip over a fence and there’s a rough strip of ground. The wheels hit the dirt.
I might know shit about planes but we seem to be going way too fast. We rise back into the air before bouncing down again. A barn rises from the dark as we take to the night air once more – there’s no way that we are going to stop in time.
Matt is fighting the plane. His reactions are slow. The barn too close. I lift my hands to my face. The plane bounces, tries to lift once more and we plough into the building.
The world is alive with noise as the prop rips through the barn’s wooden door. The engine roars, dies and the plane continues to career forward. The nose dips, burying itself in the ground. The planet flips forward – slamming us to a halt. Windshield fills my face. The seat belt bites. Matt shouts.
Outside the barn is a whirlwind of dust, wood and shredded hay. It spins a cloud around everything as the night tries to reclaim some calm.
Matt is still shouting. My gut tells me to get out of the plane. I fumble with my belt, push at the door and fall to the ground. Staggering away from the wreck, I climb over the shattered door to squeeze out into the field beyond. I walk a few yards before falling to the deck.
To my surprise the sports bag is in my left hand.
Matt follows a few seconds later. ‘This will take some explaining,’ he coughs.
A mild understatement.
‘Somebody will have heard that,’ I say.
‘Don’t count on it. We’re a good few miles from civilization.’
He’s wrong. A pair of headlights are sliding across the field toward us. I jump up. ‘I need to go.’
It’s hard to believe that the suits would be here but I can’t risk it. I pat Matt on the head and sprint for the rear of the barn. If I’m not turned around, the town is a couple of miles along the road the car has just left.
I watch the vehicle bump across the field. It pulls up beside Matt. I cross the road and start to walk against any oncoming traffic. Ten minutes later the car flies by. Matt’s face in the window. He looks less than happy. I pray he’s not on the way to the
police.
*
No other vehicles pass as I reach the edge of town. When I hit a crossroads voices attract my attention. I walk to the far side of the intersection, approaching a low-roofed, clapperboard house.
A large truck is sitting in front of the garage, rear door open, headlights on. A man walks into view, his arms full of what looks like wood. He’s large. Bulked up. A pair of dungarees and heavy boots catch in the light. He jumps into the truck’s rear and re-emerges empty handed.
As he walks out of view I jog up the driveway to look into the back. In the dark it’s impossible to see what the man is loading but there’s a heavy smell of freshly cut timber coupled with the scent of wood stain. I duck out of sight as the man approaches again.
‘Graham, you’ve left one.’ A woman’s voice, soft.
‘I know. I’m putting it in the front. I promised Muzzle that I would drop it off on the way.’
More stuff is loaded before he retreats.
‘Long way, honey,’ she says.
Graham sighs. ‘I know, but the buyer has four people lined up. I can move all of this in one trip. It will get us through winter easily.’
‘But Tampa’s so far.’
‘No choice.’
‘Where are you going to stop on the way?’
‘Probably Mobile. Depends how I’m doing.’
‘I’ll miss you.’
‘I’ll be back before the party.’
I jump into the back of the truck before he reappears.
It’s full of wooden boxes, all securely fixed to the floor. I crawl across them before hunkering down at the back. In daylight I would be spotted easily but in the dark you would need to be standing on me to know I was there. Graham pulls down the shutter. A minute later the engine fires up.
Mobile sounds as good a destination as any. The suits would have to be psychic to know I had jumped in the back of a truck heading that way. Unless of course they thought me important enough to spring road blocks across the south of the country. But that’s all a bit too ‘most wanted’ for me.
I crawl forward to sit down in the space between the rear door and the last of the boxes. Mobile has to be a good eighteen-hour drive.