Jerry didn't actually flinch this time. "I'm glad everyone is ok," he said.
"Sweetheart," Stasi said, and smiled for the camera flash.
Alma stood by Jerry, watching Henry, Mitch, Lewis and Stasi talking to the police, Mitch still dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. For once the police had nothing to say to Alma or Jerry. Stasi was obviously the center of attention, gesturing wildly and animatedly. From the bemused expression on Henry's face, Alma could bet that anything unusual in the story was being washed away by a torrent. The police wouldn't even remember to ask by the time she got done.
"Doesn't seem fair, does it?" Alma said, taking Jerry's arm.
"What doesn't?"
"She helped us win the race and now she's high and dry again," Alma said.
Jerry sighed. "You want to give her money. Al, she broke into Henry's safe and burgled him! Yes, she was helpful in Pensacola, and yes, she's been helpful tonight, but Al…" He shook his head. "You know the nicest thing you can say about her is that she's a crook."
"I can think of a few nicer things to say," Alma said, watching Lewis talking to the police under Stasi's attentive eye, keeping all the stories straight. "We're not so different."
"The colonel's lady and Rosie O'Grady are sisters under the skin?" Jerry quoted, raising an eyebrow.
"Something like that." Alma leaned on his arm. "Jerry, where do you think I'd be if I'd never met Gil?"
Jerry blinked. "What?"
"Where do you think I'd be?" Al shook her head, looking across the crowd. "You know what I was when you met me, an ambulance driver, a girl who knew what was what and didn't take any guff, but what do you think I'd have been when the war ended? I've never had any graces or accomplishments, nor a single class over junior year when my Pa died. He left me forty dollars and a saddle. What kind of work do you think there is for a girl cowpoke? Maybe I'd be a wildcatter? Work an oil rig? Cut stock?" She gave Jerry's arm a squeeze. "You think anybody would hire me for those kinds of jobs if I weren't a man, and tell me what respectable job I could do? Be a school teacher without a diploma myself? A nurse?"
"You're a fine nurse," Jerry said. "And I ought to know."
"Nursing school costs money, Jerry. Not so many scholarships for girls who can't recite and stand up straight." She shook her head again. "I loved Gil, no doubt about that, but there's also no doubt he was a fine thing for me."
"That's not why you married him," Jerry said.
"No, it's not." She tightened her fingers on his arm. "But it's true what people said, a good catch for a girl like that, a man with education and a pension coming, the kind of man who buys a house for cash and sets up his own business. If she's got to nurse him a bit, well, that's what she pays for what she gets."
Jerry looked vaguely appalled. "That's not what happened."
"It's not. And it is. Don't you think Gil was aware what a good thing he was doing for me?" She didn't let her voice shake. "He left me my freedom, Jerry. He left me wings and a business and a home and he made sure I'd never have to scrape around from town to town like she does. The only difference between the colonel's lady and Rosie O'Grady over there is that she never had Gil like we did."
"Everything he touched, he transformed," Jerry said in a low tone.
"Especially us." Al blinked hard. "All the terrible ways our stories could have ended, if Gil hadn't been bound and determined to save the world…"
"I'd have died alone in that boarding house," Jerry said. He laced his fingers with hers tightly. "I couldn't have done it alone, Al." He looked away. "Waifs and strays, all of us. Mitch too. A pack of pound puppies Gil took in and turned into a family."
"Sometimes pound puppies make the best dogs," Alma said. "Don't you think we owe it to Gil to give her a chance?"
"You know if you put it that way I can't say no," Jerry said.
Alma nodded cheerfully. "I do."
Jerry let out a breath. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to offer her a job," Alma said. "A legitimate job, working for Gilchrist Aviation as our new office clerk."
"Do you actually need an office clerk?" Jerry asked. "I've never heard you say you wanted one before."
"We could probably use one," Alma said. "Handling the office drives me crazy, and we can pay her out of the winnings that go into the business. And it's better than giving her a lump sum. If she takes off she doesn't get paid anymore, but if she stays and works she keeps on getting a check. And jobs aren't easy to come by these days, especially with no references."
Jerry shook his head. "Only you would hire a jewel thief to work the front office."
"Besides, she can teach Lewis," Alma said practically. "You know perfectly well that none of us have the right mix of skills to go any further with him. He needs a medium, and that's what she is."
"I do see the value of that," Jerry said. "But Mitch won't like it. And he is the co-owner."
"Oh, Mitch will be ok," Alma said. "I expect he'll get used to her."
Stasi looked around the room in the Biltmore Hotel with satisfaction. This looked exceedingly comfortable, even though it was one of the smaller rooms, with a big fluffy bed with a headboard of white quilted leather and a window that looked out toward the water. Not that you could see the ocean from this angle, but it was there even if you couldn't. Three floors below there was a terrace that opened onto the ballroom, palm trees in pots nodding in the breeze, a few little tables here and there to catch the view, little lanterns hung among them to make a fairyland. The music drifted up from the orchestra playing in the ballroom below. And there waited an actual bed, nice and flat, with perfectly enormous pillows and soft, soft sheets. It was big enough for a small army, much less for just her.
Mitch opened the door and came in, taking off his wet tie, and stopped short when he saw her. "I'm pretty sure this is my room," he said.
"Really? I'm practically certain that Mrs. Segura said it was mine," Stasi said airily.
The ghost of a smile crept over his face. "I'm pretty sure she didn't, but it's ok. I'll share with Jerry."
"It would be gallant," Stasi said. "Unless you'd like to share with me. With a sword down the middle of the bed, naturally. Though we probably wouldn't need it, as that bed's so big I doubt we could find each other in it if we tried."
"I think I'll take my chances with Jerry. Let me get my suitcase."
"Of course," Stasi said. The orchestra was still going, an upbeat number that was cheerful and bright. "You can probably trust me not to take terrible advantage of you, though I imagine I could ruin your reputation for being an upright all-American hero."
"More likely the reporters would turn it into a terrible rivalry between me and Jerry." He sounded amused. "Here I am, going after Jerry's fiancée, after all we've been through together."
"Are you cheating on Alma with me?" Stasi asked. "How positively caddish of you, given that she's cheating on you with Jerry."
"And on Lewis with me." Mitch shook his head. "You know that's not true, right?"
"Yes, darling. I'd figured that out."
He picked up his suitcase from the bench along the wall and sat it by the door. He still squelched a little when he walked. "What were you and Alma talking about for so long?"
Stasi wandered over to the window, smoothing her hair back from her forehead. "She offered me a job. At Gilchrist Aviation. Working in the front office. I'd be your typewriter girl."
"Can you type?"
"No." The moon was postcard perfect across the tops of the palm trees, swaying hauntingly in the wind. "But how hard can it be, darling?" Stasi shrugged. "LA has gotten awfully hot for me. It might be a good idea to get out of town for a couple of months and lie low until things settle down."
"I can see that." Mitch came around the bed and stood beside her at the window, looking out at the night, just as he had at the terrace rail.
She looked sideways at him, wondering how to ask. Perhaps flat out was just best. "And the necklace scrambled
your memories?"
He shook his head, not looking at her. "No, that's just me. I told you I was a lunatic."
Stasi shrugged. "Well, as insanity goes, I suppose it's not so bad. Lots of people have things they'd like to forget, darling. It's just that your brain has managed it."
"A little inconvenient, don't you think?"
Her voice was light, she supposed. "Only if you go wandering off again. But I expect I could keep an eye on you and drag you back if you do. After all, if the worst you're going to do is go on a bender every few years, that's practically normal, darling."
Mitch looked at her sideways, eyebrow rising. "Compared to what?"
"Aren't you relieved to find out you're not an axe murderer?"
His mouth tightened. "And that one of my best friends is?" He took a deep breath. "Jeff was real good to me, a good guy, a good man. The war did this to him. He was the kind of guy you could always count on. He had your back. No, I'm not relieved to find out he's an insane murderer. This isn't a win, Stasi. Not for me."
She glanced away, back out at the trees, so she wouldn't see anything she shouldn't in his face. "What's going to happen to him now?"
"There isn't any evidence to link him to the Axeman's murders. Just a guy who's off his head raving and confessing to stuff that was in the papers years ago. And Henry's not going to press charges about the necklace, especially given that he knows Jeff didn't actually steal it and it would be kind of hard to come up with evidence that he did when he was in New Orleans at the time it was stolen in LA. So I expect he'll go back to a sanitarium." Mitch's voice sounded choked. "That's probably the best thing that can happen. Milly will be his guardian and he'll be locked up somewhere for the rest of his life."
"Well," Stasi said. "Maybe he'll get out. Maybe he'll get better and he'll be well again."
Mitch looked at her evenly. "You know there some kinds of wounds that never heal."
"I know that," Stasi said.
The melancholy strains of Goodnight, Sweetheart floated up from beneath the trees, the band starting their last number, sweet and sharp as knives.
"Dance with me," she said, and turned toward him. "Dance with me, darling. I haven't had a dance all night."
"If you like." He looked bemused, but he did it anyway, damp tuxedo and all, one hand at her waist and the other clasping her hand, and she rested her head on his shoulder. He moved well, slow steps that were easy to follow.
"You're a good dancer," she said.
"I used to like to dance," Mitch said.
Stasi smiled. "Then dance with me until the music stops."
SILVER BULLET
For Kathryn McCulley
Student, daughter, and friend
For my brothers,
Don Sakers and
Thomas G. Atkinson
Prologue
Colorado Springs,
1901
Nikola Tesla picked his way down the steep hillside under a sky washed clean by the previous night's thunderstorms. The grass was still damp, and slick enough to make him watch his footing with even more care than usual, so that he was well into the clearing where he had left the receiver before he realized that someone was there before him. He stiffened, ready to shout, and in the same instant saw that it was a child. A girl, actually, a girl in dungarees and a faded blouse with a long blonde braid falling forward over her shoulder. She had a walking stick in one hand, a heavy branch scavenged somewhere on the mountain, and Tesla braced himself to shout again, for fear she'd touch the device and hurt herself. But, no, she was keeping well clear of it, just squatted beside it, staring at the blackened casing and the wires that trailed out of it. Tesla caught his breath, relieved that she had at least that much sense.
"Young lady. What are you doing here?"
She looked up, not startled but a little wary. "Oh. Am I on your land?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry." She came to her feet, a tall girl, blue-eyed, maybe eleven or twelve years old. Or perhaps younger: usually girls lost that direct gaze by the time they were ten, and he was no real judge of such matters. "I didn't see it posted."
Tesla couldn't remember if the property was marked on this side, and looked down at the damaged device instead. It was blackened and broken, a few wires melted to bright puddles, and the girl cleared her throat.
"I think it got hit by lightning," she said. "I'm pretty sure one of the bolts hit around here last night."
Tesla blinked. "You were watching the storm?"
She nodded.
"And you weren't afraid." He made it a statement, not a question, seeing the answer in her eyes, but she responded anyway.
"Not particularly. It was mostly up here, and we have a lightning rod, all the base houses do. So I figured I was safe as long as I didn't go out."
An Army brat, Tesla thought. That explained why she seemed older than her years, though not what she was doing this high on his mountain on what was surely a school day. "And why are you here now?"
"I'm looking for thunderstones," she said.
Tesla blinked. "There's no such thing."
"Are you sure?" she asked. "I mean, yes, I know that's what the books say, but Maria Consuela has one, and she swears on all the saints that her Aunt Pilar found it in the pit where the lightning struck. So after last night, I thought — I'd never have a better chance to find out for myself."
"Which is why you're not in school," Tesla said.
She looked contrite. "We already did this reader at Papa's last posting, I'm not missing anything important." She scuffed one toe in the grass beside the device, clearly searching for a change of subject. "Was this — did you put this out to catch the lightning?"
Tesla blinked again, unable to suppress a smile. It wasn't often that someone guessed correctly about his work. "Very good," he said. "Though attracting it to the receiver wasn't the intent of the experiment."
"It really burned it up," she said.
"Yes." Tesla knelt on the damp grass, carefully parting the broken casing. "A small problem I'll have to solve, if there's to be any serious transmission of electricity over long distances."
"Papa says — and Miss Hoffmann, too, she says that electricity attracts lightning," the girl said. "Because it is lightning, or maybe because lightning is electricity…." Her voice trailed off doubtfully, and Tesla gave her an encouraging nod.
"Yes, she's quite right, they're the same thing. It's merely that one has been harnessed for use and the other hasn't."
"Like a mustang and a saddle horse."
Tesla couldn't help smiling at the very western metaphor, imagining himself putting saddle and bridle on the streamers of electricity produced in his lab. "A bit, yes. May I borrow your stick?"
She handed it over without question, and Tesla used it to lever the remains of the device out of the rain-softened ground. There was more damage than he had expected, and he couldn't control a sigh as he tucked it into the pack he had carried down from the lab.
"Maria Consuela says that ghosts are electricity, too," the girl said, frowning. "That's why they glow."
Tesla considered. "Human beings certainly have an electrical charge, but once they're dead — though I suppose the soul could be electrical in nature." He smiled again, amused by the notion, but the girl's expression remained serious.
"Ghost lights could be electricity. At least that's what Papa says."
"They could." St. Elmo's fire was certainly electricity.
"I bet that's what's up at the Silver Bullet."
Tesla turned sharply. "And what do you know about that?"
She hunched her shoulders just a little, but managed to meet his eyes. "Just what people say. There are lights at the minehead, when there haven't been miners there for ten years. They're supposed to be the lights of miners killed in cave-ins, or something. Papa says that's not true, though."
"There are… things in the Silver Bullet," Tesla said. "I've done some work there myself, and it's a haunted place." He paused, seei
ng the flash of fear cross her face, and gave an apologetic shrug. "Look, since you're here, how about you make yourself useful? There are three more of these. Help me collect them, and I'll show you how the experiment was supposed to work."
The girl grinned, all fear forgotten. "Really?"
Tesla nodded. "Really."
"And can we look for thunderstones on the way?"
"You can keep any thunderstones you find," Tesla said.
Chapter One
Los Angeles,
November 11, 1932
Lewis crouched by the Terrier's open door, the thick harness cinched tight around his torso. Below him the chaparral was faded and dry, the end of autumn in the hills outside Los Angeles, a faint puff of cloud of smoke on the horizon. They'd been talking about fires in the hangar before they took the Terrier up for this latest test, the mechanics muttering in Spanish by the back door, the engineers talking quietly in English as they waited for the inventor to explain the mail hook, and Lewis hoped it was just cloud. The last thing they needed was a wildfire up in the hills, tightening nerves already stretched to the breaking point.
Not that the first few days' testing hadn't gone well. This new version of the Terrier was a honey, and Henry was showing them all sorts of new equipment that they could backfit onto the older Terrier they had at home — the Terrier that Henry Kershaw was still showing in his advertisements, the one that had won the Great Passenger Derby only eight months before — and if part of their job was to talk nicely to reporters and Henry's potential investors, well, they'd known that going in. It was just that today's job was going less well.
Lewis glanced at the winch bolted to the cabin floor behind him, the rubber-lined maw of the catch bin open above it, heavy-duty springs holding it in place. They were supposed to absorb the shock of the mail bag as it was catapulted up the wire, but neither he nor Mitch were convinced they were going to work as advertised. So far, however, they hadn't managed to get the wire onto the target at all.
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 68