This thing had just been waiting to happen, Jerry thought. Yes, the necklace started it, but it just built on the pain that was there. That's what it did. That's what it was designed to do. It could only plow a fertile field.
Well then, Jerry said to himself grimly. Time to get busy. Time to figure out how to contain this thing for another 24 hours.
Ideally he'd have some kind of prepared container to keep it in, a silver or lead box properly warded to neutralize its power. However, as usual, things weren't ideal. Hotels in Pensacola didn't generally have lead boxes lying around. His best bet was wood, and that at least he could get.
Jerry rang for the bellboy, meeting him at the suite door and pressing a dollar bill into his hand. At least he still had some cash. "Can you get me a box of Havana cigars? And keep the change."
The boy grinned, gap teeth showing. "No problem, mister. You want Hermosillos? Or I can send out for something different."
"Hermosillos will be fine," Jerry said. They came in a nice wooden box. "You have them at the desk?"
"Sure thing," the bellboy said. "And twelve kinds of cigarettes. I'll be back before you count to ten!"
"That's fine," Jerry said, and he waited by the door, wondering if anybody had a supper plan or if that was one of those things that had slipped everyone's mind. Alma and Lewis were in their room, and the countess was nowhere to be seen. Maybe she'd taken herself off to greener pastures. It could happen.
Once the boy returned, Jerry took the box into the room he shared with Mitch. The sounds of splashing from the bath told him Mitch was still busy for a few more minutes. He tipped the cigars out into his suitcase and methodically stripped the labels off the box. This would do for now. Instead of a lead lining he'd have to use his silk handkerchief, but silk was a perfectly reasonable material for this.
Jerry stood, turning off the lamp so that only the evening light came in through the window, thin undercurtains drawn though they stirred a little in the sea breeze. He closed his eyes, composing himself and reaching for the center of calm, for that cool certainty that stood in the stillness, the point where the universe stood poised. "Ateh malkuth ve-gevurah ve-gedulah le-olahm." The motions were second nature, the Kabbalistic Cross painted across his body with his movements, calling upon the powers of the Archangels and of the Most High to protect him, to clear the space of all malevolent energies. In a way, for all its trappings of high ritual, what he did was quite simple. Instead of casting a circle and asking its mighty guardians to temporarily ward the space of a room, he called them instead to a circle much smaller, collapsed to the size of the cigar box. Instead of knife in hand to delineate the wide spaces of the circle, he had a fountain pen instead. The pen is mightier than the sword, Jerry thought with an inward smile. This was one instance where that was quite literally true.
Instead of setting each quarter at a cardinal point around the room, east and west, south and north, he marked each in ink on a face of the box. "On my right hand, Raphael," Jerry said, drawing the symbol on the right end of the box. "On my left, Gabriel." Michael went to the south, as though the box itself were a map or a compass face, Uriel to the north side with its box flap. Ink was not much to seal such a binding, not even consecrated ink, but just indigo from the hotel bottle on the writing desk, but it would hold for 24 hours. Quick and dirty.
Do we ever do it any other way? Jerry thought. For all that he sometimes disagreed with Henry, he missed the beauty of the large rituals, of the meticulous planning and grace that comes from having all the right things, not just making do.
And that was distraction, which he should avoid. Perhaps it was the necklace, pushing in the only way it could, trying to find a seed of dissatisfaction to grow.
No, Jerry said silently, and put the necklace still knotted in the silk handkerchief inside the box. He closed the lid, hand flat against the smooth surface. "Amen," he said, and bent his head a moment, eyes closed in service. "Amen." When he opened them the room seemed lighter, though it had actually grown darker, sunset over and night falling. The sounds in the bathroom had stopped. Presumably Mitch had gone out into the sitting room. Yes, he heard his voice and the voices of the two women. Which meant the countess was still here.
Jerry put the box in the bottom of his suitcase and closed it up tight. That was the best he could do for now, and it was enough. It would hold long enough for them to get to Miami, and that was all it needed to do.
He opened the door to the sitting room, and Alma looked up, warmth in her face. "Room service is on its way up. I thought that might be the best thing tonight since we're all tired." And tired of dealing with the press, Jerry thought, though of course Al didn’t add that.
"Absolutely," Jerry said. "I'm ravenous."
Stasi turned over on the rather narrow couch in the main room of the hotel suite, pulling the spare blanket around her. The windows were open to catch the breeze off the sea, drawing in voices of the last diners finishing their drinks on the terrace below. One bedroom was for the Seguras and the other for Mitch and Jerry. It had been a fairly wordless agreement that if anyone was taking the couch, and the room with the outside door with no one else in the room, it wasn't going to be Mitch. Which meant either Jerry shared the other room with Mitch or she did, and it would hardly be decent for her to. So she got the couch.
Not that this didn't make it easy for her to simply trot off. All she would have to do would be open the door and go down the hall. Very easy to disappear. No trouble at all. Maybe they hoped she would. Or figured she would. That would be like Mrs. Segura. She'd let her go, or at least give her the opportunity to, with hours of head start and nobody bothering to follow in the morning. Nobody would have time, and probably nobody would care what had happened to her. She was simply a picaresque adventure that had crossed their lives, an entertaining story for after dinner drinks one day.
Stasi squeezed her eyes shut. And that's what she ought to do. Get up, put on her one pair of shoes, fish the money she had left out of where it was pinned in her combinations, and figure out what to do next. A cab to the train station and go…somewhere. Another town where nobody knew her, another new beginning, another dead end. Not enough money left for the train all the way back to LA, but there were other towns.
She'd work it out. She always did.
Only she was so tired. It had been a long night spent chasing and running and hiding in a graveyard, and then a long day after. So tired, bone tired. The couch was thin and uncomfortable, but it was flat and it was warm, the whisper of the sea breeze over the blanket, the voices of people below. She could just close her eyes for a few minutes. She could rest a few minutes before she left, before it was time to start over again. It wouldn't hurt to just stay a few minutes longer.
Henry made his way to the dining car for the night’s final seating, the evening paper from their last stop tucked under his arm. According to it, the Harvard team was out after an impressive crash, and Gilchrist Aviation, having gone from first to last by missing their takeoff time, had made back thirty-five minutes of their deficit. He nodded to the steward, slipped him fifty cents with a murmured “private, if you can,” and was led a moment later to a table at the rear of the car. The waiters came hurrying with water and iced tea and the menu, and he tried to focus on his choices.
Why the hell had he ever agreed to sponsor Gilchrist anyway? Ok, yes, the publicity had been good, but this latest stunt was only going to undo everything. His planes were going to be associated with a scandalous aviatrix who’d disappeared, failed to show up at the biggest event of the race, and reappeared with a black eye and a strange woman to add to her male harem — no, that didn’t bear thinking about, and he hoped none of the papers decided to make anything of that aspect of the story. You couldn’t get away with that even in Hollywood.
What in God’s name was wrong with Sorley, anyway? Henry had always picked him for the reliable one. If Ballard was right, and it was the necklace — well, that was one more thing to worry about lat
er, after he’d dealt with the disaster that was the Great Passenger Derby. The last thing he needed was for Republic to be associated with unreliability.
“Take your order, sir?”
Henry glanced up at the hovering waiter, ordered the steak dinner as the most predictable choice, and accepted another glass of iced tea. What he really wanted was a stiff scotch, but that would have to wait until he was back in his sleeper. He should have known better than to sponsor Gilchrist. Yes, they’d saved his life on Independence, and probably the business, too, but right now they were on the verge of costing him far more than the eight hundred dollars in entrance fees, or even the lost prize money.
“Henry? Major Kershaw? It is you, isn’t it?”
Henry looked up again, frowning for a moment before he recognized the man. Older, yes, and a bit heavier, shadows dark as bruises under his eyes, but it was still Jefferson Lanier. He and Gil had both been sorry when Lanier was posted away from the Veneto; he’d been a good comrade on the lines and in the Lodge. “Jeff,” he said, with genuine warmth. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m on my way to Miami,” Lanier answered. “Family business. I suppose you’re heading for the finish line?”
“Yes,” Henry said, and motioned to the seat across from him. “Have you eaten? Why don’t you join me?”
“I ate already,” Lanier said, “but if you don’t mind, I’d be glad of the company.” He slid onto the bench across from Henry, and the waiter bustled over. Lanier accepted a cup of coffee, and leaned back against the burgundy leather. “It sounds as though you’ve been having quite an adventure.”
For an instant, there was an odd note in his voice, almost gloating, and Henry gave him a sharp glance. Lanier’s expression was open, relaxed, and Henry decided he’d imagined it.
“A bit more of one than I’d hoped for, I’m afraid.”
“What in the world happened to your team?”
Definitely an off note, Henry thought, and couldn’t hide a frown. Lanier spread his hands.
“Sorry. You know Mitch Sorley was a friend of mine. I was real sorry when he dropped out of sight after the war.”
They had been close, Henry remembered, and he knew how the loss of those wartime friendships could smart. “I wish I knew. Al — you remember Alma Sullivan, she married Gil Gilchrist right after the Armistice. She was in the Lodge, too, but after you were transferred.”
“She was one of the ambulance drivers,” Lanier said. “Tall blonde. Yeah, I remember her. Nice girl.”
That was one adjective Henry would never have chosen, but he didn’t disagree.
“I’ve been following them on the radio,” Lanier said. “It’s been quite an event. That stunt you pulled, with the extra fuel tank — damn smart.”
“Al is damn smart,” Henry said. “That was all her idea.”
The waiter returned with his dinner, a decent-sized steak with mashed potatoes and mushrooms and a wedge of lettuce on the side. The meat was tough but tasty, and Henry wrestled with it, paying more attention to it than the conversation. He hadn’t realized until the food appeared just how hungry he was. And Lanier was good company, happy to hash over the old days and genuinely glad to hear about Henry’s business. He was less willing to talk about himself, and Henry guessed that the family was hurting. He tried a couple of careful questions, but Lanier deflected them deftly. There was nothing to be ashamed of, Henry thought. Plenty of people were in trouble these days, out of work and out of luck. But Lanier had always been painfully proud.
The waiter brought pie and more coffee for Lanier, and at last Henry settled back, replete. Lanier gave him an almost wistful smile.
“I envy you,” he said. “Even if you don’t win — it sounds like it was a hell of a ride.”
“It has been,” Henry said. “It certainly has been. Look, I’m giving a party the night of the finish.” And a useful investment that was turning out to be, his last chance to make sure Republic got good press and would be remembered as something separate from Gilchrist Aviation. “I have a house in Coconut Grove. If you’d like to come, you’d be more than welcome.”
“That’s really nice of you,” Lanier said. “I believe I will. I’d like to see Mitch again.”
Stasi woke to bright sunlight in her eyes and the sounds of tentative footsteps. The sun was rising somewhere behind the hotel, and the sea was smooth as glass under the dawn, pink clouds streaking the sky with impossible tropical colors. Mitch Sorley stood beside the windows in shirt and pants, barefooted since his shoes must have been set out to be polished. He had big feet, and his white shirt was rolled up halfway to the elbows, baggy and not freshly pressed at all. "Red sky at morning," he said, one hand on the window screen.
"Sorry. What does that mean?" She sat up, pushing her hair back out of her face.
"Bad weather later." There were creases at the corners of his eyes from squinting into the sun. He must be forty if he was a day, or nearly so, and the years hadn't been good to him. Well, she could talk. Looks lasted longer if they were tended, but it was a bit hard to keep up a routine with cold cream while on the lam.
"Lovely," Stasi said. "I expect we won't enjoy that."
"We?" He looked around with a quizzical expression on his face.
"Of course, darling," she said, the decision made in that moment. "I'm coming on to Miami with you."
"You are? Why?"
Stasi shrugged. "Look at this place. There's nothing here. Miami has far more potential for mayhem."
"I'll believe that," he said. "South Beach and Coconut Grove, playgrounds of the rich and dissolute."
"My kind of town," Stasi said. She shoved the blanket back and stretched. Alma's dress was much too big on her, designed for curves, not angles. "I like rich and dissolute. Or rich without dissolute. And dissolute without rich has some potential."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "You make a good living as a jewel thief?"
Stasi got to her feet and padded across the carpet to look out the window beside him. "It comes and goes." She reached around him and rummaged in his front pocket to pull out his pack of Camels. "Frankly it's not all glamour, darling. But it's often better than the alternatives. How's aviation cracking up as a career?" She tapped one out of the box quickly.
He reached in his other pocket and got out his lighter. "I live over my friend's garage and fly planes." He didn't look at her as he lit her cigarette. "As you say, it's not all glamour but it's better than the alternatives."
"Well," she said, bending her head to take the first draw, the cigarette still between his fingers. "I suppose saving the world never pays very well." She took it out of his hand. "Oh, that's perfect! I'm simply useless before my first ciggy."
His eyebrows rose. "Alma told you that?"
She shrugged.
"I guess it sounds crazy, doesn't it?"
Stasi lifted her head, blowing the smoke out through the screen. "Darling, revolutions always do. And most of the time the world just goes right on doing what it was, only maybe worse. Rich people play and poor people starve and so on to the end of everything. And all the guns and cannon can't do anything except change who the masters are, not a hair's breadth of difference between them. Ideals kill, darling."
Mitch shook his head, his eyes meeting hers. "No. People kill."
She stopped, the cigarette halfway to her lips, feeling stark and naked in the morning light, though she was completely dressed. "You really do think you're saving the world. You — the Lodge — you people. You really believe that."
"We're trying," he said simply.
She put her hand on his arm, sleeve and flesh beneath it, warm and alive. "The world can't be saved."
He shrugged. "Maybe not. But what else am I doing with my life?"
No speeches. No oaths. No promises that no one could keep.
"Well," Stasi said. "If you put it that way."
The door to the Seguras' room opened and Alma emerged, Lewis behind her. "Good, I'm glad you're up, M
itch. I've got an idea I need to talk to you about."
Chapter Nineteen
The weather report was better than Alma had expected after the shocking pink clouds at dawn: there was weather behind them, yes, and the usual chance of scattered thunderstorms across the panhandle, but nothing they shouldn’t be able to avoid. There was a bit of a headwind, though, not much, but predicted to last the entire trip, and she scowled over her calculations, running them twice and then three times, before she was sure of her result.
“Well?” That was Lewis, leaning into the cabin. The others had left her the privacy in which to work: they all knew, even the countess, that this was their only chance of winning. If they couldn’t make the jump to Weedon Island, there was no real point in continuing.
Alma looked at the numbers straggling across the page, line after line of figures, each result worked and reworked half a dozen times. “We can do it,” she said, and saw the smile break across Lewis’s face. If she said it, he believed her, and for a moment the responsibility terrified her. But she knew what she was doing, knew her job, and the numbers didn’t lie. “As long as the headwind doesn’t pick up more than another 15 knots — and that’s highly unlikely, given the weather pattern, we’re more likely to see the wind change to a cross wind once we leave the coast — we’ll make it. We’ll even have a little margin for error.”
“I’m not planning on making errors,” Lewis said solemnly, but amusement was lurking in his eyes. “Mitch says they’ve packed the fuel cells as full as they’ll get.”
“Good,” Alma said. For a moment, she wished again that they hadn’t removed the supplemental tank in Little Rock, but there was no point dwelling on things that couldn’t be helped. Outside the hangar, she heard the familiar roar of a Ford getting ready for takeoff. “Let’s get started, then.”
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 62