Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  Alma would think of something. Surely. He glanced at her, tired and dirty, her hair held back by a faded kerchief, no sign of the sexy world traveler haircut she’d worn from Hollywood. But she was still Al. She’d find a way.

  The reporters claimed Alma for her promised interviews, and Mitch and Lewis followed her, but the hangar was still buzzing with reaction to the Harvards’ crash and the results of the pylon race when the referees began collecting the passengers for the suitcase race. Jerry couldn’t help flinching— one more reminder that he was a cripple — but he schooled himself to impassivity and offered Miss Rostov his arm. She had managed to find a dress of Alma’s that would fit her, and though it hung loose on her skinny body she moved like the countess she claimed to be.

  Not that Jerry believed that for a second. A cheap grifter, getting too old to get by on looks alone, so why not try a different con? Spiritualism was a good game, especially when you could tie it to exotic Russia. Except that her talent was real. That was one of his gifts, to recognize talent in others, and he could feel it in her, humming in her fingertips where she rested them lightly on his crooked elbow. Real, and she knew it, used it knowingly and with care: there was none of the tangling, the static, he felt when someone tried to use their gift without understanding what they had. She wasn’t trained in his traditions, but she knew what she was doing. The stream of her gift ran straight and clear.

  She looked up at him, not smiling, the circles dark under her eyes. “Well, darling, do you like what you see?”

  You could take that half a dozen ways, Jerry thought. “How’d you find Mitch?”

  She blinked once, and then a penciled eyebrow rose. “I asked the Dead. They know everything, darling, especially in New Orleans.”

  She expected him to scoff, he realized, but in fact he did believe her. It was probably the first thing she’d said to him that he did believe. “You must have made some pretty promises for that.”

  She looked away, one corner of her painted mouth quirking up in a wry smile. “Not that it really matters, but, yes, I did.”

  “I’m curious,” Jerry said. And he was: what had she thought it worth, and why?

  “I told them I would be their medium,” she said. She must have seen his expression change, because she shrugged, tossing her head without disturbing her jet-black hair. “So, yes, darling, I’m in for a few days of tedium when this is all over.”

  “I reckon so,” Jerry said, startled out of his careful vowels and proper grammar. That was more than tedious, it was hard work, hard as digging ditches except that there was always the chance that some discorporate soul might try to take up permanent residence. And it was also a bargain easily broken, at least in the beginning. All right, Miss Rostov was probably planning to keep her end of the deal primarily out of self-protection, but there were plenty of mediums who’d try to weasel out of it.

  They had reached the area in front of the tower where bleachers had been set up, and he swallowed any further questions as a referee bustled up to them.

  “Dr. Ballard,” he said, consulting his clipboard. “And — Miss Rostov, is it?”

  “That’s right.” Stasi favored him with a wide smile.

  “Oh, Dr. Ballard.” That was Miss Saltonstall, hurrying toward them, her sensible heels clicking on the pavement. “I wondered — oh.”

  She flushed to the roots of her hair, and Jerry tipped his hat, giving her a careful smile. “If it’s what I think,” he began, and she shook herself.

  “I thought — since we had to withdraw I thought I might be able to run in your place. If that would be helpful.”

  “It’s very kind of you to offer,” Jerry said, and suppressed a curse as Carmichael came to a stop beside him.

  “An embarrassment of riches, Doc,” he said. “You’re quite the ladykiller.”

  Jerry flinched at that, and Miss Saltonstall lifted an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?” Her voice was cut crystal, Brahmin to the core.

  Even Carmichael seemed momentarily taken aback. “I just —”

  Miss Saltsonstall swept on without waiting for him to finish. “Dr. Ballard is a friend — a former colleague — of my Uncle Philip, the current Senator. I’m sure you’ll excuse us if we have a private conversation.” She hooked her hand through Jerry’s free arm and drew him away, Miss Rostov following gracefully like a kite on a string.

  “Neatly done,” she said, nothing put out, and Jerry nodded.

  “Is he a senator? Your uncle, I mean.”

  Miss Saltsonstall grinned. “A state senator. But he did used to teach classics before he went into politics, so you’re sort of colleagues.”

  “Thank you,” Jerry said.

  “I should have guessed you’d have made arrangements,” she said, and smiled at Miss Ivanova, all embarrassment overcome. “I’m glad.”

  “Miss Rostov was kind enough to volunteer,” Jerry said, feeling clumsy again. Harvard had taught him to move in good society, but nothing had ever taken away the sneaking sense of fraud every time he tried it.

  He made the introductions, and when Stasi offered her case, lit cigarettes for both of them. He lit one for himself as well, inhaled the smoke as though it might help somehow. “How’s McIsaac doing?”

  “Better.” Miss Saltsonstall sounded grateful to be on more solid ground. “His wrist’s broken in a couple of places, but the doctor thinks it will heal cleanly. If he doesn’t put stress on it too soon.”

  “And your brother? And Mr. Newhouse?” Behind her, Jerry could see the organizers laying out the suitcases and the contents.

  “Bruised and shaken up,” Miss Saltonstall answered, “but not seriously hurt, thank goodness.” She held out her hand. “Good luck, Miss Rostov.”

  “Thank you, darling.” The two women clasped hands, and Miss Saltonstall moved determinedly away.

  “Are you ready?” Jerry asked, and glanced down at her feet. She was still wearing her black pumps with the high heels that she’d been wearing at the Hotel Denechaud. “I mean — can you run in those?”

  Miss Rostov extended one foot, considering it critically. “Darling, all I’ve been doing in these shoes is running.”

  Jerry grinned in spite of himself.

  “Besides,” she said. “The point isn’t to go fast. It’s to show lots of leg and make the photographers happy. And be faster than the others.”

  “We need the time,” Jerry said. If they hadn’t, he would never have let her do the job. For an instant, he wished he could call Miss Saltsonstall back. He trusted her, which was more than he could say for the so-called countess.

  “Darling, don’t worry,” she said. “They don’t want to see my legs.”

  Jerry couldn’t help laughing at that. She waggled her fingers at him and went to join the others.

  The race itself didn’t take long. Jerry leaned heavily on his cane, easing his stump, while the announcer ran through the rules. When the starter’s gun went off, each passenger had to pack her suitcase — the table was stacked with clothes and shoes and what looked like an alarm clock for each of them. Once packed and secure, they were to take off for the opposite end of the course, where they had to hand over the suitcase to a referee to confirm that everything was there, and run back to the starting point. And if any of the alarm clocks went off — the announcer sounded almost indecently gleeful at the idea — that person had to stop and turn it off before she could continue. Silly season, Jerry thought, and remembered Pelletier’s comment at the beginning of the race. Games for dames. He was shamefully glad he didn’t have to play.

  The passengers took their places, four women and one man, all that was left of the teams who had started the Great Passenger Derby. The trouble was, they’d lost enough time that they were still behind some of the teams who’d dropped out. They’d pass them tomorrow, but — that only put them into fifth, out of the money. Jerry shook the thought away, and the starter lifted his gun and fired.

  The passengers leaped into action, tossing clothes i
nto the cases, jamming the lids down and fumbling with the old-fashioned straps that held them closed. Pelletier got his fastened first, swung away, only to have the alarm clock go off with a muffled clamor. Jerry saw him swear, but he dutifully stopped and silenced the clock before moving on. Miss Rostov was third away from the table, but she made up time as she ran, the suitcase banging at her knees. Mrs. Jezek took three steps with her suitcase, stopped, and kicked off her pumps, to start again at a better pace. The girl from Consolidated was ahead of her and gaining, holding her skirt out of the way with one hand.

  Jerry swore under his breath. All they needed was for Consolidated to get more bonus time — but then her alarm clock went off, and Miss Rostov surged past. She was first at the referee’s table, smiling and vamping as he went down the list, then snatched up the suitcase, empty now except for the alarm clock, and darted for the finish line.

  “Come on,” Jerry said, through clenched teeth. He felt like he was betting on a long shot at Santa Anita. “Come on…”

  The alarm clock went off. Miss Rostov stopped, glanced over her shoulder to see Pelletier and Consolidated coming fast, and banged the suitcase on the ground. The alarm clock went dead, and she sprinted for the finish.

  “It counts,” Jerry said. “Oh, God, let it count…”

  Miss Rostov swung the suitcase onto the table with a triumphant cry. The nearest referee opened it, looked at the alarm clock, and nodded.

  “First place to Gilchrist Aviation!” The announcer’s voice crackled from the loudspeaker. “First place, and the fifteen minute bonus, for Gilchrist Aviation!”

  It would work out to about seven minutes off their deficit, Jerry thought, as he shouldered his way through the crowd to collect Miss Rostov. Consolidated and Comanche had both gotten small bonuses, but overall they’d made up more time. If he had the numbers right, they were less than an hour behind.

  And he never could have done that, not in a million years. He wasn’t even sure he could have made it to the end of the course without falling. Miss Rostov turned away from the judges, her winner’s bouquet tucked in one arm — very like the winner at Santa Anita, Jerry thought. She gave the photographers a final wave, and Jerry tipped his hat.

  “Thank you,” he said, and she gave him a startled glance.

  “You’re welcome, darling.” She tucked her hand into his arm, and they started back toward the hangar.

  Their hotel room in Pensacola was a suite — two bedrooms with a small sitting room in between, beautifully appointed with white French Country furniture and pale blue walls, a glorious view of the Gulf of Mexico through the windows. Alma twitched the curtains aside and looked out. It was a gorgeous evening, seventy nine degrees, wind out of the south southwest at five miles per hour, perfect flying weather. Tomorrow was supposed to be warmer with a chance of thundershowers. If they weren't starting tomorrow in dead last place…

  Alma leaned her forehead against the window. They'd come so close. But not even the best flying in the world was going to make up an hour of time. They might finish fifth or even fourth rather than dead last. Third place would get them $5,000, a ten-fold return on the entrance fee, not leave them flat broke, but that would require some kind of minor miracle. Maybe a complete breakdown from one of the leaders. That was possible. But three or four breakdowns? No, they had lost. She couldn't see any way out. Not this time. The late start from New Orleans had doomed them.

  At least Mitch was making sense now. He hadn't been, and that disturbed her more than she could say. She was protective of him, she admitted to herself, as if he were the younger brother she sometimes felt he was. Maybe that was guilt. Gil had said so, once. "Al, nobody could have done anything. You did your best." She had, first aid on the field, but there were things that were beyond her. No reason to feel guilty for not making a miracle.

  Which brought it back to that again. She couldn't make miracles. Magic didn't let her pull rabbits out of her hat to repair everything.

  Lewis came and leaned against the window beside her, arm companionably about her waist. He looked out at the sea, steady and solid as always. "I wish we hadn't taken out the auxiliary tank in Little Rock," he said.

  Alma nodded. "If we could skip the refueling stop in Lake City we'd still have a chance." She blew out a long breath. But wishes weren't horses. They'd left the tank, and Henry didn't even have a shop in Pensacola, nor anywhere near enough to get it by morning. His nearest shop was in Miami, and if they were in Miami they would have already won. She looked out over the sunlit sea.

  And then it came to her in a moment, something so risky… It might work. It might just work. It would depend on the tiniest of margins, just a hair.

  "Lewis," she said, turning away from the window, "Do you have that almanac of airfields handy?"

  "It's in my bag," Lewis said and went to get it. He knew better than to ask.

  Sheets of hotel stationary, a pencil… It might work. It just might work. It would depend on the fields. The map was right in front of her in memory. "What kind of field is there in St. Petersburg? Or Sarasota?"

  Lewis paged through wildly. "Um, Alfred Whitted in St. Petersburg is under construction. That doesn't help. Fuller Airport in Jungle? Doesn't have full field service. How about Sky Harbor Airport on Weedon Island? It says there's regular passenger service from Eastern Air Transport and National, so it should be a full service field."

  "Weedon Island," Alma said. "Where's that?"

  Lewis frowned. "In Tampa Bay," he said. "It's a little further." He looked up at her. "Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?"

  "Yes," Alma said. Her eyes met his, daring and willing to try whatever the plan was. "You know I am."

  "Will it work?"

  "I need the exact mileage," Alma said. "You've got to get me an almanac. I need the exact mileage to Lake City and to Weedon Island."

  Lewis jumped up. "I'm sure there's a Florida map downstairs at the desk."

  "That will do," Alma said. The exact miles. She thought it was about the same, though Weedon Island was much further south. Their fueling stop was supposed to be Lake City, a long flight across the Florida panhandle, and then turn south for Miami. But if they could refuel in Tampa instead…

  Straight across the Gulf of Mexico, a flight on the edge of their fuel over open ocean, with no margin for error… It would make up time. It might save an hour, maybe a little more. But if they miscalculated, even by a tiny amount, there would be no second chances. They'd have to ditch in the Gulf of Mexico miles from land, and nobody would even know where to look for them. For a moment, she wished she could grab the long distance operator, call Henry and tell him the new plan, but he would be on the train to Miami already, unreachable. A cable, maybe, sent to the hotel to wait for him, just as insurance. But if they told anyone what they were going to try to do, even the Western Union operator, a reporter would get hold of it. Then one of the lead planes would try it too and they'd still be behind. Their only chance was if nobody else was desperate and crazy enough to try it. It was crazy. But it just might work. It might work if the numbers added up.

  Jerry listened to the sound of water running in the adjoining bathroom — Mitch taking a bath and getting cleaned up after last night's romp through a graveyard and drinking binge — which was all to the good. Mitch would be busy for a few minutes while Jerry figured out what to do with the necklace. Like it or not, they were stuck with it for another 24 hours. Short of just leaving it in the hotel, which would be incredibly irresponsible as it would mean the necklace would fall into the hands of some random innocent person, they needed to hang onto it until they could give it back to Henry.

  Of course if the bogus Countess hadn't stolen it in the first place it would still be secure in Henry's nice, warded safe! This was absolutely all her fault. If she hadn't stolen the damn thing none of this would have happened, including whatever had broken Mitch up so much in New Orleans. They'd still be in first place, and Mitch wouldn't have that haunted look on his
face. He'd been kind of a mess when he'd first come to Colorado at Gil's invitation. Of course Jerry'd had problems of his own at that point, still learning to walk on the wooden leg, still trying to figure out what his life might look like. But once he’d wrestled his own life into something like order, and seen what Mitch was going through, he'd figured he was better off than Mitch.

  He'd said as much to Gil, curled up in the four poster downstairs in the drawing room they'd turned into Jerry's room so he wouldn't have to climb stairs, the rain beating down on the tin roof of the porch outside. Gil had grinned, his hand straying over Jerry's chest. "You'd rather lose your leg than this?"

  "Any day," Jerry had said fervently, and he meant it. His leg wasn't essential to who he was. It wasn't the thing he'd feared, a head wound that would take his mind away, leave him grasping for simple sums, all stories erased, all knowledge forgotten. It wasn't the end of intimacy, the end of this. Gil loved him as he always had. He could see the day — not today, not soon, but someday not infinitely far away — when this might feel normal.

  Jerry shook his head. Not normal, not quite. Not ever. But not terrible either, even without Gil. And losing Gil had been worse than losing his leg.

  Mitch had been on thin ice then, but Jerry'd thought it was better. It had been years since Mitch seemed out of it, years that he'd seemed cheerful and laid back, but Jerry supposed it had all been lurking just under the surface, kept at bay with friendship and flying. Mitch had a lot of friends. He had the kind of easy comraderie in the American Legion that Jerry had never been able to manage — too much of an egghead to talk football and motors. Mitch moved back and forth between worlds seemingly without effort, following Jerry's excitement about some new inscriptions deciphered from an ancient temple and talking sports at the Legion. It was easy to miss that nothing seemed very deep, nothing cut to the heart of it. You could talk to Mitch all day and not realize you were the one doing all the talking, come away from it thinking he was a great guy and not adding it up that you didn't know one single thought of his deeper than an eggshell. Whatever was going on in his own private world, it stayed private.