by Don Porter
***
I stopped at the strip mall on the way to the airport and scrounged a cardboard box and a pile of Styrofoam peanuts to pack the glasses. The airline obliged with the morning jet, but it doesn’t go to Bethel. Jets from Fairbanks to Bethel go by way of Anchorage, and with only two flights per day to Bethel, the glasses would arrive on the evening plane. I can’t complain about that schedule because it is good for the charter business, including my current residency in Fairbanks. Sending the glasses counter-to-counter costs a few extra bucks, but it’s the fastest way. I delivered the package to the ticket counter in Fairbanks. Tim could pick it up at the ticket counter in Bethel two minutes after the jet landed.
Celeste was bright and bubbly. “Hi, Alex. I have your check here. Does this mean you’re leaving our fair city?” She brought an envelope to the counter and splayed her left hand out on the Formica, no wedding or engagement rings.
“Probably soon, but never know when I’ll be back. You know how the charter business is. Maybe next trip I can give you a call?”
“Sure, you can do that. My phone number’s on the envelope.” I was returning her smile when Freddy came out of his office.
“Hi, Alex, what the hell happened to you? Run over by a truck?”
“Sort of, a brewery wagon.” Celeste was listening so I added, “It gets lonely on long nights away from home.”
Her smile definitely turned to smug and she went back to her desk. Freddy was leaning on the counter again. He gave me an I-told-you-so smirk.
“I thought you had a charter to Stevens Village this morning.”
“Eleven o’clock. My passenger has to do some shopping.”
“Sure I can’t help you out with the trip?”
“No thanks, you’ve already helped more than enough with that one, but you did say you’re driving a Cessna 310?”
“Yeah, Bushmaster’s executive choice.”
“Perfect. I need a charter tonight. You know how the charter business is. If you have a pilot and a plane standing by, then you’re losing money, but if a customer calls and you don’t have a plane available, they’ll call someone else and you still lose out.”
“This isn’t a job for the Otter?”
“No, four executives from British Petroleum. Evening meeting in Valdez, stand by an hour and bring them back. They’ll appreciate a fast comfortable trip in the 310.”
“Sure, Vicki will like that. Our normal charter rate for the 310 is three hundred per hour, but you probably can negotiate a wholesale price.”
“No need. I’ll charge BP three-fifty. Be here at five o’clock?”
“Can do.”
“And Alex, see if you can shave and finish sobering up in the meantime?”
“Aye, aye, sir.” I slunk back to the rental. It struck me that the Otter wasn’t being loaded, and from the steady stream of flight tickets I’d seen in Celeste’s file, that must be unusual.
***
By four-thirty I was looking pretty good, had the 310 cleaned out and fueled. I’d left a note in the room for Angie, but was pretty sure she wouldn’t want to party. I figured she was safe at the Maranatha under a name that even her mother had probably forgotten. I taxied the 310 up to the flight line at Interior, but waited in the airplane. Somehow I didn’t want to bump into Celeste just then, and I wondered why. I was remarkably single, or would be if or when Angie and I got out from under the cloud, and there was no romantic attachment there. Connie had made it quite clear that we were not an item, although we did seem to be seeing each other exclusively. Still, maybe that was masochism on my part.
The Otter was still parked, and apparently hadn’t been out all day, so they must have caught up with the pipeline demand. At five to five, Freddy came out escorting four suits. He introduced them so fast that I didn’t catch any names. Freddy handed me the office key and I pocketed it; clearly I’d be back long after the office closed. Passengers settled down in the back seats, strapped themselves in and immediately opened briefcases. I called the tower for permission to taxi.
The flight from Fairbanks to Valdez is almost straight south, two hundred sixty miles, which is why Freddy wanted the 310. I trimmed us out at ten thousand feet, indicating a hundred seventy knots, which equals one hundred ninety-three statute miles per hour. We were an hour and a half from tarmac to tarmac, and that was all my passengers cared about. I hope I never get that jaded. Our route took us between Mt. Deborah and Mt. Hayes in the Alaska Range, across the Glennallen Flats with Mt. Denali and its buttresses clearly visible on the right, then into the Chugach Mountains and finally screaming down into Prince William Sound.
I don’t know any more spectacular flight on the planet, and my passengers were back there shuffling papers. Prior to the 1964 earthquake, I would have gone into town with them, but after the tidal wave wiped out the old town I wasn’t much interested, and these were not types I cared to cultivate. I stayed with the airplane while they took a taxi into town.
I strolled, stretched my legs, marveled at the jagged rock mountains with snow halfway down, then went back to the plane and took a nap. The copilot seat slides back and reclines, so it was more comfortable than the cot at the Maranatha.
Taxi lights wiped across the cabin and woke me. I slammed the seat upright, slapped my cheeks, rubbed my eyes, and jumped out to hold the door. My passengers seemed to be fumbling out of the taxi and had a little trouble climbing the steps onto the wing. As each one passed, I was treated to fumes reminiscent of the previous night. I checked that they did manage to get their belts buckled. One was already snoring, and the others had their eyes closed.
My watch said eleven-thirty, so Freddy’s hour of standby was off by five hundred percent, but that was fine with me. Standby time is at half charter rate and half pay for the pilot, but if you’re sound asleep, the more the better. I snapped on the master switch to light the panel before I closed and locked the door, which turned out the interior lights. It was darker than a lawyer’s heart, so an overcast must have moved in. I cranked engines, turned on taxi lights, and we rumbled to the end of the runway facing east. That made our departure over flats, then water.
The engines passed their checks individually, and those Lycoming gasoline burners made a healthy growl. I set flaps, released brakes, and when we broke ground, snapped off the landing lights. The lights of town fell behind us, and only the soft glow of instruments lit the universe. We ran up to five thousand feet, well above the local mountains, at ninety miles per and eighty percent power, and turned north.
At ten thousand I set up a cruise and tuned in the non-directional beacon at Glennallen. Flying on instruments is probably the most relaxing thing you can do. It’s like playing the world’s slowest video game. Tiny corrections of rudder keep the needle centered, once in a while a little pressure on the yoke maintains altitude, and you just sit back and let the airplane do its thing. Alcohol fumes in the cabin were approaching an explosive level, so I opened the cabin vent and turned the heater up a notch.
When we passed over Glennallen, I tuned the automatic direction finder radio to 660 kilohertz, which is KFAR radio on Farmer’s Loop Road in Fairbanks. That ten-thousand-watt beacon has been guiding aircraft over the pole since the 1940s, and it’s a clear channel so there are no false readings. When the VOR came alive we were sixty miles out with a heading of three hundred fifty degrees to Fairbanks, solidly over the Tanana. I reduced power, drifted down. Fairbanks Radio reported a five-thousand-foot ceiling and twenty miles visibility. They were right on in both cases. I parked at the passenger terminal and opened the door.
The sudden light and cold air threw my passengers into a tizzy, and I had some sympathy for them. They struggled for dignity, adjusted their neckties, buttoned jackets, and retrieved briefcases. I climbed down ahead of them and met each at the stair, making sure their feet hit the steps, and that each had his case. Once again, my passengers turned toward the restroom and I taxied down to the general aviation are
a.
At Interior some light flickered inside, maybe one of the offices with the door not quite closed. I spotted a car in the lot, but it was parked in shadow, possibly hidden on purpose. The rented Buick wasn’t in the lot because I had left it in the tie-down space when I moved the 310. That saves your spot and can be important if you’re coming home late. I went right on by Interior, moved the Buick ahead one length, and tied down the plane.
The lot suddenly seemed too well lit, but I slipped from plane to plane until I could see the parking lot behind Interior. Two cars that I didn’t recognize were parked in shadow. The flickering light was coming from Reginald’s office, the door not quite closed, and at least two or three people were moving around in there. I sneaked back to the Buick and headed for town with the office key still in my pocket. Whatever was going on in the office after midnight seemed like something I needed to check into, but opening the office door might be a quick way to get shot. I told myself I wasn’t being a coward. I just preferred a more oblique approach.
The hotel room was dark. I slipped in, closed the door silently, and tiptoed for the bathroom. Angie was breathing softly, apparently sleeping the sleep of the innocent. I closed the bathroom door before turning on the light, performed ablutions quietly and turned off the light before I opened the door. I was halfway to my bed when Angie snapped on her reading light.
“Hi, Alex. Do you always sneak in so quietly?”
“Shhh, don’t wake Angie. The poor girl’s exhausted.”
“You got that right. So what daring adventure kept you out half the night?”
“Not much of anything. I hauled some executives to Valdez, brought back some drunks, but something is going on at Interior. Someone is burning midnight oil.”
“You didn’t creep through the night and beard them in their den?”
“No, I slunk home, tail between my legs, but I do have a key to the office. I’ll sneak back when the coast is much clearer.”
“My hero. Good night, Alex.” She snapped off her light.
Chapter Eleven
We woke up slowly to bright sunshine outside. We lazed around, took turns in the bathroom, and sauntered down to the restaurant.
I had a hankering for potato pancakes and little pig sausages, but Angie went for the eggs Benedict again. The orange juice was fresh, and the decaffeinated coffee was good enough at the moment. It began to dawn on me that Angie was wearing jeans.
“Hey, don’t you have to go to work or something?”
“Well, Alex, it is Saturday, you know?”
“No, actually, I didn’t know. You mean people with real jobs have the day off?”
“That we do, and the vet called the station yesterday while you were out partying. We can pick up Turk today.”
“That might be a little awkward. Did you notice there’s a No Pets sign by the front desk? Maybe you could get some dark glasses and pretend he’s a seeing-eye dog?”
“We could do that, but we also could take him out to the house.”
“Won’t that be a problem, feeding him and such by remote control?”
“Not too bad. We’d need to check on him every couple of days, not a big deal.”
“Okay, let’s do it. I need to return an office key to Interior, then make a call to Bethel, and we’re good to go.”
I stayed on Cushman down to First Avenue and turned left into the Alaska Commercial Company lot. The gnome in the key booth cut me a duplicate office key in two minutes for three dollars. Naturally the key was stamped Do Not Duplicate, but most keys are, and it’s never stopped anyone yet. I didn’t have a good idea of why I needed it, but having my own key to the office felt like an ace in the hole. We drove out to the airport, but I parked Angie and the Buick at the Sea Airmotive hangar.
“Oh, oh, a new girlfriend at Interior and you don’t want her to see me?”
How the heck do women know things like that?
“Certainly not, but no one there has seen the Buick, and I want to keep it that way. You be a good girl, sit here and contemplate your sins, and I’ll be right back.”
“Okay, but if you take off for Valdez, I will be mildly irritated.”
“Hey, I left the keys in the ignition. If I’m not back in eight hours, you can go get Turk without me.”
I drove the company pickup down the flight line to Interior. Celeste wasn’t there, and Freddy didn’t spill out of his office. The sole occupant was the brunette who commanded the second desk, and when I came in she jumped as if she’d been shot and shoved papers under a notebook. I didn’t really see what she was hiding but it seemed to be just billing, not the slick cover of Playgirl Magazine.
“Hi, I’m Alex. Just stopped by to drop off the office keys and a billing from Bushmaster for the Valdez charter. We got in pretty late last night.”
She got up and came over to the counter, no smile, no expression at all, but she did have a face that belonged on a cameo and a remarkable figure that put me in mind of a tiger when she moved. I remembered my first impression when she and Celeste were both sitting at desks, and wondered why I had swayed so easily toward Celeste. I hoped I wasn’t guilty of the old Blondes have more fun cliché.
“Thanks.” She took the bill and the key, tossed the key on Celeste’s desk and carried the bill back to her own. I was dismissed, but I had the impression that this girl might be the cake and Celeste only the frosting. She opened a ledger exactly like Celeste’s and entered the Bushmaster billing. That seemed strange. Why two ledgers? I concluded that my knowledge of bookkeeping is no better than my judgment of women.
Thank heaven Angie was still waiting in the car and confirmed my latest impression that brunettes are to be sought after. We stopped at the strip mall. Angie bought a few things, mostly for Turk, and conned the cashier out of three dollars in quarters. I hit the booth outside and called the troopers’ office in Bethel. Tim came on the line, of course. He’s no more hip to weekends and their meaning than I am.
“Alex, I thought you were calling from Fairbanks.”
“I am, who says different?”
“The fingerprints. One glass was a bust, smudges and some horrible cheap lipstick, but the other had nice clear prints from a guy who’s known to be in Motown.”
“Motown?”
“Detroit City. He’s a soldier of fortune, alleged to be an assassin for hire.”
“What do you mean, alleged?”
“That means the FBI knows damn well who he is and what he does, but he hasn’t been caught and convicted, so he’s innocent until a jury of his peers…if they can arrest twelve of his peers. My advice is to find a new playmate, fast.”
“You mean he’s on a most-wanted list?”
“Not yet, but you should read his ads in the magazine. He will be.”
“So, the police do officially know him?”
“Not officially, but even cops can read magazines, and he was interesting enough to be checked out. He was discharged from the Marine Reconnaissance program as being undesirable, and that’s pretty darn undesirable.”
“Reconnaissance, like intelligence gathering?”
“Theoretically, but think Navy Seals or Army Rangers, trained in every nasty skill that the services pay people for and we arrest them for.”
“Thanks, Tim. I really appreciate this.”
“My pleasure. If one of you gets shot, which seems highly likely, be sure it’s him, unless he knows how to land on sandbars.”
“I’ll do my best. The secret to landing on sandbars is my St. Christopher medallion. It’s in the jockey box of Eight-Three Fox. Out of quarters, got to run.”
I walked back to the car and met Angie.
“Any luck?”
“Yep, Jody’s underwear is the real McCoy.” I unconsciously touched the pistol in my belt and Angie caught the gesture.
“Here we go again, damn stupid macho males protecting the poor helpless little woman. What the hell is going on?”
We headed across the Chena on a new bridge. I hadn’t known it was there, but the sign said College with an arrow, and it worked.
“Going to tell me that poor Jody is wasting away from incurable avarice and needs our sympathy?”
“No, I’m going to tell you that a state trooper in Bethel got an ID on one of the phony cops who came to your house.”
“And?”
“And, he’s a known assassin for hire. Now, do you feel better?”
“Damn right I do. Don’t drive past the dairy.”
I turned in. Angie and Turk had a joyous reunion, and I made the vet joyous with my credit card. Turk had a two-inch-wide white plaster stripe across his scalp, but otherwise he looked fine. Angie and Turk snuggled in the back seat while I drove us out the hot springs road. A black sedan with two male occupants was parked in the Rendezvous lot, but they had their heads down studying a map and showed no interest in us. I was wondering just how professional professional killers are, and what sort of resources they had. No cars were parked along the road or in the driveway.
The sun was almost warm. Fall had moved up a notch with most leaves yellow and reflecting back the sunlight. All was peace and beauty, including the special musty smell of autumn. I parked in front of the house. Angie and Turk went inside, and I leaned across the car top to keep a lookout and enjoy the warmth. I’d just been thinking how profound the silence was when I heard gravel crunch. A car had coasted to a stop on the road. In any other setting I wouldn’t have heard a thing, but in the silence of the woods there was no mistaking that sound, and my hackles went straight up.
I was thinking that Turk saved our lives the first time, but was probably the Judas if that crunch on the road meant what I was afraid it did. Someone had stopped without driving by to see if we were home. Either they had staked out the highway for a week or had just called the vet to ask about that beautiful husky. The vet wouldn’t have ratted us out intentionally, but would have had no qualms about telling an interested party that Turk was on his way home.