The crowd seemed fascinated, though. There had to be several hundred people there, including quite a few families, and it looked from the baskets and blankets they were carrying as though they’d made a day of it, picnicking to wait for the planes to land, then staying to see the festivities afterward. And that was good — good publicity, good for Henry and all the other sponsors, and good for Gilchrist Aviation as well.
The MC finished his speech and turned the microphones over to the sponsors’ spokesman, “Mr. Hickson from Texas Aviation Fuels.” Hickson was taller, leaner, hard-faced under his pale ten-gallon hat, and mercifully to the point.
“Since we’ve required each airplane to carry a passenger, it seemed only fair to allow those passengers a chance to win something for their teams,” he said. “Today, the ladies — and gentlemen — the passengers — have a chance to win a little extra time for their teams. As you see, the big wheel behind us is marked with twenty numbers, each of which represents the subtraction of either five, ten, or even fifteen minutes from a team’s elapsed time. With the help of our lovely assistants, Miss Flagstaff and Miss Ponderosa, each passenger will spin the wheel and see what she can do to help her team, beginning with — Miss Ruby Lee, for Transcontinental and Western Airways.”
Miss Lee waved prettily, and stepped up to the wheel. One of the other girls said something, and she grabbed a spoke, pulled hard to set the wheel spinning. It whirred loudly, then slowed and settled.
“Five minutes!” Hickson announced. “That’s five minutes subtracted from Transcontinental’s already race-leading time!”
Jerry studied the wheel as the girl from United took her turn. There were two blocks worth fifteen minutes, four more worth ten, and the rest were worth five. If he wanted to — if he concentrated, he could shift the probabilities, gain the maximum time for Gilchrist. But, no, it was probably better to save that trick for later, when they might really need it. It wouldn’t do to look too lucky. Hickson called his name, and he stepped up to the wheel.
“Grab one of the high ones,” Miss Flagstaff said, “and pull real hard.”
He gave her a smile of thanks, and did as he was told, yanking the heavy machinery into motion. It seemed to take forever to stop, but at last it slowed, drifting past five after five to settle at last on a bright orange ten.
“Ten minutes for Dr. Ballard of Gilchrist Aviation,” Hickson announced. “Ten minutes to be subtracted from Gilchrist’s time.”
Jezek won fifteen minutes, putting them almost even with the Harvards ahead of them, but May shook Mrs. Jezek’s hand with what looked like genuine pleasure. And then at last it was over, and Jerry hung back to let the others leave the stage before him.
As he made his way across the tarmac toward the hangar, a handsome brunette in a pretty crepe dress fell into step beside him. She was carrying a notebook, and there was a reporter’s tag pinned to her wide white collar; he tipped his hat, but didn’t slow his step.
“Peggy Martin, Cococino Sun,” she said, with a smile that showed very white teeth. “Mind if I ask a few questions, Dr. Ballard?”
“Not if you can do it walking,” Jerry said. “I need to get back to my team. I’m sure you understand.”
“Absolutely,” she said, without great sincerity. “I just had a few questions, anyway. How’d a distinguished professor of archeology end up as the passenger for Gilchrist? No offense, Dr. Ballard, but I’m sure they could have found someone a bit more — mobile.”
Jerry forced a smile of his own, tamping down the automatic anger. “And more decorative, too. But I’ve worked with Gilchrist for many years, and I was delighted to have the opportunity.”
“Worked as what?” Peggy asked, and Jerry cut in quickly before she could expand on the question.
“Mrs. Segura’s first husband and I were in the War together.”
As he’d hoped, that deflected her onto another path. “I understand Mr. Segura and Mr. Sorley are also veterans?”
“Decorated aces,” Jerry said, stretching the truth only slightly. Mitch was the ace, Lewis had the DSC. “And Mrs. Segura drove an ambulance on the Italian front.”
He became aware that another reporter was listening as well, and the man grinned cheerfully and shoved his hat back further onto his head. “Mrs. Segura’s quite a dame,” he said. “What happened to husband number one? That was Gilchrist, right?”
“Gil died five years ago,” Jerry said. “TB, from being gassed in the Veneto.”
Peggy, at least, looked slightly abashed, but the other reporter kept his cocky smile. “And Sorley’s worked for her all this time? And Segura?”
“Mr. Sorley was Gil’s partner,” Jerry said, austerely. They were, mercifully, at the hangar doors, and there were race officials poised to turn away the press. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Martin?”
He ducked inside without waiting for her answer, found himself next to the girl from Consolidated. She gave him a smile, and Jerry said, “You don’t happen to know who that guy was, do you?”
She lifted an eyebrow. “You mean you didn’t?”
Jerry shook his head.
“His name’s Carmichael,” she said. “Freelance, but lately he’s been one of Winchell’s stringers. You better watch him, it sounds like Winchell’s decided your boss is some kind of hot ticket.”
Alma is going to kill someone. Jerry swallowed the words. “That’s all we need.”
The girl from Cosolidated shrugged. “It’s all publicity, right?”
“That’s the idea,” Jerry said. He only hoped it was true.
Lewis sat on the edge of the hotel bed in boxers and undershirt, listening to the sound of water running in the private bath. He ought to be dead tired, what with the early start and the demands of the race, but he was too keyed up to sleep. He'd felt like this during the war sometimes. The day was over and by all rights he ought to take advantage of the opportunity to sleep, but his body just didn't believe it. They were safe. There was no war. Here they were in Flagstaff, Arizona, in the Hotel Monte Vista, the nicest place for miles around, two rooms next door to each other, nice and quiet.
Ok, yes, the other teams were also in the hotel. Likely some of them were in the speakeasy downstairs, but that probably wasn't a good idea. The college kids might think this was a game, but for Lewis this was deadly serious. This was their livelihood on the line. He hadn't brought much to this marriage, not like a man ought to. Alma owned the house and the business. She owned the planes and the truck. All he brought was his skill. Lewis knew she prized it. She'd put her trust in him over and over, even when he hadn't learned to trust himself as far as this esoteric stuff went. But he did trust his skills as a pilot, and that was all he'd brought her.
He ought to feel good that he'd pulled it off today. It had been a flight to be proud of, even if it looked easy to the waiting crowd. Aviators knew it was no picnic. Alma knew that. She'd said so. But everything still felt off.
Lewis took out the necklace and spread it out on the white sheets. It was weirdly beautiful, he thought. Wrought iron, but so delicately made that the flowers seemed to be real, as if true petals had been somehow dipped in molten iron without losing their shape, a parody of life like those wax figures that were really the bodies of dead women hidden in wax in one of Mitch's horror magazines. Lewis shuddered. He didn't like horror stories. He only read those lurid things when Mitch left them lying around. He'd seen enough real horror to make them either absurd or disturbing. It was kind of twisted, people reading about the desecration of the dead for their amusement.
Lewis reached out and traced one perfect flower. It was beautiful, though.
A jolt of cold ran through him as though he'd touched ice. No, colder than ice, the skin of an airplane that had been at altitude on a cold day, colder than ice ever got, cold enough to freeze to your skin in a single instant.
Snow. Ice that never melted. Cold fire, drawing you deeper into the snow, deeper into the heart of winter…
Lewis jerked his
hand away. The necklace lay on the white sheets, beautiful and inert. It looked unbelievably delicate. It would be gorgeous on Alma, dark tracery against her white skin. Surely it couldn't hurt to just try it on… The thought of her wearing it caused a visceral reaction, desire sharp as pain. She could just wear it for a few minutes, just wear it to bed tonight. Henry would never have to know…
No. It was almost as though someone had spoken behind him, a voice inside his head like his mother's, gentle and forbidding at once. No.
Lewis blinked. It lay on the white sheets, just a necklace, yes, but glittering with an oily sheen, as though malevolence lurked beneath the surface. His stomach turned. No. It was Her hand he'd felt, clearly as if Diana had stood beside him. He was Her priest, and this thing's evil allure couldn't touch him. Not through Her. Not through the bright clarity of the moon. Dark things fled from the moon in the sky and could not bear Her silver touch.
Lewis reached for his handkerchief and bundled the necklace up in it, links heavy in his hand. He tied the corners across and across again. Henry was right, he thought. This was a dangerous thing. It had no business being loose in the world where it could hurt people. As soon as the race was over it was going straight back in a safe where it could stay. And in the meantime he'd make certain that nobody else touched it, nobody without Diana's protection.
Lewis nodded slowly. He was Hers, and his life was Hers to take. That meant nobody else could take it without Her permission, without it being part of a proper challenge. So he was probably the safest person to watch over this. Certainly Alma shouldn't touch it, not even once. He shuddered, imagining the temptation. How tempting it would be to try on something so beautiful, just to put it on for a moment and look in the mirror! Alma pretended she didn't care much for looks, but she'd want to see. Just for a second, just in private. She'd put it on in front of the mirror just out of curiosity.
Not if he could help it. Lewis tucked the bundled handkerchief into the pocket of his flight jacket. He'd wear it against his heart, and hope Diana's protection would do for them both.
"I can't believe Al let her go." Jerry sat down on the other side of the bed and loosened his tie.
"Let it go, Jerry," Mitch said. He hadn't taken his suit coat off yet since the news pictures after dinner. He grimaced at himself in the mirror over the dresser.
"She's a professional thief!"
"We got that, Jerry." Mitch ran his hand over his chin. He didn't need to shave yet. Well, a gentleman is always well groomed.
"Don't you think…"
"No, I don't, really," Mitch said. He felt unaccountably antsy tonight, for all that there was no reason for it. It was true they'd have liked to have grabbed an early lead in the race, but he'd known that was unlikely. Everyone was going to be in top form for the first leg. They'd finished forty-five minutes off the leader, and the spread of the whole field was less than three hours. This race was a week long, seven days transcontinental. Nobody was going to have a significant lead after the first four to five hour leg.
Jerry looked up over the tops of his gold rimmed glasses.
"I can't settle down yet," Mitch said. He glanced at his watch. "It's barely ten o'clock. I'm going to go take a walk around."
"Around where?" Jerry asked.
"Just around the hotel," Mitch said.
Jerry shrugged. "Wondering if they've got a speakeasy in the basement?"
"I know they do," Mitch said. "The bellman told me."
Jerry snorted. "Well, don't wake me up coming in. I need my beauty sleep." He looked toward the right hand wall. "And I expect the newlyweds will be cranky if you wake them up."
"They may like to go to bed at ten," Mitch said. "But I'm going to get some air." Alma and Lewis always went to bed early. Hell, Al had for years before Lewis was anywhere in sight, but for some reason tonight it seemed particularly annoying. Not their fault, Mitch said to himself. People have a right to be happy. If Al and Lewis want to shut the door and spend time together, it's nobody's business. They're married and they get to. No reason to be an ass just because… Because what? Because it's kind of a weird, unsettled night?
Nothing that a shot of whiskey wouldn't solve. "I'll be back in a little bit," Mitch said. He snagged the room key off the top of the dresser. "Night, Jerry."
"Night, Mitch."
He closed the door behind him and locked it so Jerry wouldn't have to get up, went down the hall to the elevator. The cage opened and the attendant looked out. Mitch stepped in. "Down to the bottom if you please."
"The Lounge, sir?"
"If that's where they keep the Kentucky bourbon," Mitch said.
The attendant chuckled. "That it is, sir."
Alma came out of the bathroom in her combinations, her robe loose on her shoulders. She’d needed that bath, the long soak that washed away not just the sweat and dust but the lingering fear. They’d come through, safe and sound, and were in good shape for the long leg to San Angelo in the morning. That was more than she’d expected in those hours over the desert.
She didn’t need to be thinking about that again, not when she’d finally managed to stop replaying all her choices, all the chances she’d had to spot the stowaway, and she slid onto the bed next to Lewis, who looked up with a smile. He hadn’t bothered dressing after his own bath, was propped up against the headboard in his underwear, the stubble heavy on his chin. His hair had come out of its careful pomade, lay in heavy dark waves threaded here and there with gray, and she leaned against his shoulder. His arm went around her, settling her more comfortably, and she sighed in content. He looked a bit like Ramon Novarro, mostly the dark eyes and the stubbornly curling hair, and she rubbed her cheek against his.
“I really couldn’t call the police,” she said.
“Jerry really wanted to,” Lewis said.
“I know.” Alma moved to sit up, but Lewis tightened his hold, and she subsided willingly. “It would have taken too long, though. The last thing we need is to be tangled up with the police.”
“Oh, yeah.” Lewis shifted again, tucking her into the curve of his shoulder. “She was at the party, you know. I mean, I saw her there.”
“Oh?”
“She was telling Mrs. Kershaw’s fortune,” he said. “That was kind of a surprise. I didn’t think Mrs. Kershaw went in for that sort of thing.”
“She’s not involved in lodge business.” Alma shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have other interests. I suppose fortune-telling, being a medium, that sort of thing, would be a good way to get into a house like Henry’s.”
Lewis nodded. “Makes sense.”
“A bit more excitement than I was hoping for today all around,” she said.
“Me, too.” Lewis frowned, and Alma sat up, catching the change in mood.
“What?”
He looked away, his gaze fixing on his flight jacket where it hung over the back of the ladderback chair in front of the desk. “Henry’s necklace.” He stopped then, shrugging in his turn. “I don’t like it.”
Alma’s content vanished. “What do you mean?”
Lewis shook his head. “I don’t — I’m not really sure? It’s a strange thing, and I think I was — warned away from it.”
“Let’s take a look,” Alma said.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
Lewis grimaced. “I believe Henry when he says it’s cursed, that’s for sure.”
“All the more reason to see what we’re dealing with,” Alma said. “If Diana warned you away, no, we won’t do anything except take a quick look.”
“All right.” Lewis got up with visible reluctance, came back with something bundled in his handkerchief. He undid the knots, opening the fabric to reveal a strand of blackened metal flowers. It didn’t look like much, Alma thought, just a jumble of iron, but she trusted Lewis too much to risk touching it.
“I don’t feel anything,” she said.
“Neither do I,” Lewis admitted
. “I don’t know, maybe I was imagining things?”
“I doubt it,” Alma said. She eyed the tangle of metal dubiously. Maybe they should take it to Jerry, see what he had to say — but it was late, the end of an exhausting day, and they had an early start in the morning. “Well, we can give it back to Henry when we get to San Angelo. Then it’s his problem.”
“I won’t be sorry.” Lewis bundled the handkerchief back over it, returned it to his jacket pocket. “Better him than me.”
It was a real nice speakeasy. The little tables had white cloths and there were actual waiters, a small stage off to one side for live shows, a placard propped on an easel saying that the Fantastic Fernando Mariachi Players were on at 11. A bar ran the full length of the other side of the room, mirrors behind it reflecting hanging amber lamps. It must cost a pretty penny in bribes to keep the joint open, but Mitch wasn't complaining.
Several of the other teams were in evidence, the Fair Harvards at the far table, a couple of guys from Comanche at another with a guy who might have been one of the Bestways pilots. One of the reservists tipped a wave to Mitch and he responded in kind, but didn’t go over to join their table. Instead he slid onto one of the barstools at the far end by the empty bandstand. "Kentucky bourbon," he said. "With a dash of soda if you please."
It wasn't even raw stuff, but oaky and smooth, either left over from before the war or… Yeah, that was it.
"Seventy five cents, sir," the barman said and Mitch put it out without complaining. It's what he'd spend on a whole bottle of regular stuff, but this must be aged twenty years, sure as shooting. He took another sip, savoring the taste. Smooth, rich as amber.
"Can I get a light, stranger?" She slid onto the stool next to him without looking at his face, just meeting his eyes in the mirror behind the bar, still in the same black slacks and black blouse.
"I suppose," Mitch said, fishing out his Ronson automatic and flipping it open.
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 46