by Don Porter
***
The troopers were nice about it. They declined coffee but Jim seemed relieved that I hadn’t shot anything, not even porcupines. They shouldered rifles and walked back up the lane. The school bell rang to announce their departure, then rang again and Angie drove in with Turk still in back. She carried the groceries inside. I opened the car door for Turk, but he refused to get out. We had a tug of war, me pulling on his collar, him trying to dig his nails into the seat. Eventually I won, kept a grip on his collar and dragged him around back. He whined and bolted into his doghouse.
I took the pans inside, washed and refilled them, then set them just outside his house. He crouched and sniffed, walked all the way around the pans, but finally took a few slurps of the water. I went inside where the kitchen already smelled like a French restaurant.
Angie’s beef stroganoff was superb, lots of sour cream, and it complemented the generous dollop of bleu cheese on the salads. So did the pinot noir. The dining table was against the rear wall, the windows overlooking the backyard and what would have been a view of the river, if it hadn’t been too dark. Turk was once again master of his domain, settled down in his house, but chin resting on his paws outside. Across the room toward the front, the drive was just discernable. I did trust Turk to raise an alarm if anyone came within half a mile of us, but the silence of the bell was reassuring.
“Angie, this is wonderful. I’m so sorry we wasted all those meals in restaurants.”
“Not bad for a silver-tongued, lying Irishman. Want to rhapsodize about my eyes sparkling in the flattering glow of the overhead lights?”
“Yeah, that was the next subject.”
“Can it. You can help wash the dishes if you promise not to break anything.”
“Yeah, I’ve always heard about diners who couldn’t pay their bills and had to wash dishes. Mere money couldn’t begin to cover this experience. Can I set a drink on the drainboard, just to look at it and salivate while I perform this menial task?”
“Watch your mouth, buster, there is nothing menial about maintaining home and hearth.” Angie went to the refrigerator for ice and mixed two frosty rum and Cokes, but she set them on the drainboard while she washed and I dried. We carried our drinks into the living room. The wood Stan had laid in the fireplace was still waiting for a light. I looked the question, Angie nodded, and I touched my lighter to the paper under the kindling.
It was a companionable time; the fire was a perfect focus for our thoughts. Angie mixed more drinks, but we didn’t have a lot to talk about, and I kept getting distracted by the aggravating need to think and my total lack of fresh ideas.
“Alex, I’m beat. Long day in the halls of commerce, and the excruciating exertion of preparing gourmet meals has done me in. Can you find the guest room?”
“I think I’ll spend the night on the couch. I blew the day watching cars in the parking lot, so may as well spend the night watching the Buick in the driveway.” Angie parked her empty glass by the sink and disappeared into her bedroom. I mixed one more drink and settled down on the couch to waste the night.
***
When we pulled onto Second Avenue at five minutes after eight, Reginald’s Mercedes was parked in front of Monte’s Department Store. I drove on by and found a vacant meter six spaces ahead of him.
Angie gave me her perplexed nose wrinkle. “What’s the matter? Lost in this bewildering metropolis?”
“Not yet. Angie, that’s Reginald’s car in front of the store, and we need to know why.”
“You think it’s suspicious that a car is parked on Second Avenue?”
“Sweetheart, I’ve spent the last two days watching that car sit in the parking lot at the airport. Compared to that, this is earthshaking. Maybe he’s having breakfast at the Coffee Cup….” That got a vigorous headshake from Angie. “Maybe he went up to the station, but that’s Dave’s provenance. The movie doesn’t start for eleven hours, so he probably isn’t waiting in line. Besides, he should be at the airport in a few minutes, so something different is happening. If he needed a new handkerchief or a pair of socks, he should have bought those last night. Be a good girl, nip into the store, and just check on what he’s doing in there.”
“Gee, I don’t know. I don’t have your training and expertise as a gumshoe.”
“No problem. Turn your collar up, and there’s a false beard and mustache in the glove compartment. Slip those on so no one will notice you, and pretend to be shopping. You have a master’s degree in that.”
She slanted a skeptical glance from the corner of her eye, but climbed out and marched bravely into the store. Ten minutes dragged by, Reginald came out stuffing a paper sack into his overcoat pocket, climbed into his car and drove away. I impersonated an empty car and seemed to get away with it. Two minutes later, Angie was back.
“Was he buying machine guns?”
“Nope, he was at the jewelry counter looking at gold chains.”
“Aha! A present for his wife, so he has a guilty conscience.”
“Alex, don’t you ever watch the political ads? His wife died of cancer ten years ago. He’s running as an eligible bachelor, so he must have a girlfriend.”
“Is she in the ads?”
“No, why should she be?”
“Angie, one of the best things about Governor Bill is that Bridey has been buying his neckties for almost forty years. Every morning she sends him out to run the state with a peck on the cheek, so he’s always in the right mood. Also, we know that if he ever does anything dumb, Bridey will give him hell. He comes with a built-in system of checks and balances, and voters can relate to that.”
“Would having a girlfriend be a bad thing for the election?”
“No, a little romance might be a good thing, but it depends on the girl. If he were going to present us with a Jackie Onassis or a Princess Diana, she should be in every commercial, so why isn’t she?”
“So, maybe she isn’t Miss America. Alex, what does that have to do with people trying to kill us?”
“Depends on whose wife she is. Might be enough to get us killed and him, too. You go to work, I’ll take over the assignment from here.”
Angie treated me to a scowl and I peeled out. I’d seen Reginald turn left at Cushman Street, and that was toward the airport, but I didn’t want to lose him if he had another destination in mind. I made the stoplight, and spotted the Mercedes waiting for a light three blocks ahead. We convoyed sedately to the airport and Reginald parked in his usual spot. It was looking like a replay of yesterday until the F-27 finished unloading and Reginald came out of the office and climbed up the steps into the airplane.
I left the Buick and sprinted for the 310. By the time the F-27 trundled down the taxiway, I had the engine covers off, engines running and was pulling out to follow him. The pilot was on the radio copying his instrument clearance to Anchorage via Blue 27. I was right behind him filing a VFR flight plan for Nenana. He was cleared to go, I was cleared onto the runway and hold. The moment he broke ground it was my turn, and I jammed the throttles to the firewall.
He climbed up to his assigned seventeen thousand feet. I leveled off at ten thousand and set a high-end cruise. He had wanted the higher altitude for speed and engine efficiency, but all airspace above twelve thousand feet is controlled, so he had to follow Blue 27 and that took him on a dogleg directly over Summit Lake, where he had to report his arrival. I set a ruler line for Anchorage and rocked in my seat, trying to go faster.
I was actually ahead of him before he reached altitude, but then he inched away and angled off to the left to follow his clearance. When I passed Nenana, I called Nenana Radio and cancelled my flight plan. Reginald just might be in the cockpit of the F-27 and if he was, he’d hear me on the radio. He probably wouldn’t recognize my tail number, but why take chances?
“Eight Four Zulu, are you on the ground?”
“Yeah, are you asleep? I’m just parking on the village end.”
“Roger, Eight Four Zulu, flight plan closed.”
When I passed Mt. Denali Lodge, the F was a speck on my left, going over Windy Pass. I bored straight through Mt. Denali. That’s not as unlikely as it sounds. The picturesque profile we view from a distance, the one Sydney Lawrence painted, is actually a whole group of mountains ranging from fourteen thousand to seventeen thousand feet. Denali itself is a misshapen spire like the Matterhorn with glaciers winding between mountains like snakes.
I took snow off Mt. Silverthrone with my left wing, off Browne Tower with my right, and ignored the up and down drafts that tried to rip off the wings. I was over Willow when I saw the F-27 coming up on me from behind. I dropped the nose to lose two hundred feet a minute and kept the power on. That almost held our positions.
I reported Cape Mackenzie at four thousand feet and was cleared for a straight-in approach. Twenty seconds later, the other pilot reported the Cape at ten thousand and was vectored over Fire Island. I made a high-speed turnoff at the first intersection. A vacant transient parking spot by the tower was meant for loading. I locked up the parking brake and ran for the terminal.
Luck was in. Trish was at the Budget Rent-A-Car desk. I’d met her that spring, and I was in a hurry then, too, because the entire Russian Mafia was right behind me with Kalashnikovs. I laid such a line of blarney on her that time that she now assumes I’m the head of the CIA.
She saw me sprinting down the hall, assumed that civilization as we know it was threatened unless I got somewhere fast, and held out a car key for me. I handed her a credit card when I whipped by.
“Chevy Malibu, first stall.”
“Thanks, this afternoon.” I grabbed the key and kept right on running.
Chapter Nineteen
The F-27 was already parked at the Interior terminal, forklifts doing their dance, and Reginald was nowhere in sight. I had parked the Chevy and was still calming down when a Mercedes, the twin of the one in Fairbanks, pulled out of the employee parking lot and hit International Airport Road. Reginald was at the wheel and I locked on two cars behind him.
He turned right on Minnesota, left on Dimond Boulevard. (Yeah, spelled correctly. It’s named for Judge Dimond, not the gem.) We drove halfway to the mountains and turned right again on the old Seward Highway. The town tapers off and stops after the Peanut Farm Lounge, so we were headed for the Rabbit Creek Inn. Good choice for an assignation. Good restaurant, a view of the mountains across Turnagain Arm, and discreet unless you bumped into an acquaintance on a similar project. I should bring Connie there next trip.
We drove right on by the Rabbit Creek Inn, passed the flats, and continued on the crooked shelf of Seward Highway. That’s an exciting drive. The Chugach Mountains on the left try to squeeze the highway into Turnagain Arm and occasionally spill rocks onto the pavement. The Arm itself is either a picturesque fiord or a disgusting mud flat, depending on the tide, and the mountains around Hope on the other side are worth the drive. The road is so crooked that I didn’t have to worry about being spotted until we got to the million-dollar mile. That’s a straight stretch, entirely built on fill after the ’64 earthquake submerged the old road.
At Girdwood, Reginald turned left into the valley. Two cars coming from the Portage direction made right turns to follow him, and I survived the left turn behind them. Maybe he was headed for the Double Muskee Inn, wonderful romantic spot, view to rival Switzerland and food to dream about. I should definitely bring Connie there next trip.
Forty-foot spruce hung over the road, but through the gaps, a view of Alyeska Mountain reared up on the right. It was scarred by almost annual avalanches, and by the ski lift that rose above it all. Reginald turned right and headed toward the ski lodge. One of the cars ahead of me went straight, the other turned, and I was number three pulling into the gravel lot in front of the massive log lodge.
That was the perfect place for an assignation. Ski season was still a month away, but the lift was running so tourists could ride up to the top of the mountain and down again. The view from the top of that mountain is more than worth the twenty-minute ride and the freezing year-around wind. You’re surrounded by mountains with a glimpse of the Arm and far enough away that it always looks good. The restaurant is wonderful, its big picture windows looking up at the mountain and the bunny slope, and the bar is suitably rustic with a massive stone fireplace and a predictable Alpine motif. Perfect place for an après ski toddy. Definitely have to bring Connie here.
Reginald drove right through the lot and turned right on the service road toward the ski lift, then right again behind the row of detached chalets. It would have been a little pointed to follow him there, but the road only ran fifty yards behind four matching units. I parked in the lot facing the lodge and rolled down the passenger window. I saw the Mercedes pass behind the first two units, but it didn’t come out from behind the third.
A young athletic type bounded down the steps from the chalet and strode around the corner toward the back. This kid was a Norse Adonis, if that’s not too great a cultural stretch. Just over six feet, long blond hair, and a wisp of blond mustache. He had the slender athletic build of a professional ski instructor. In one minute he was back, and Reginald was right behind him. The kid opened the door and ushered Reginald in, but just before he disappeared, Reginald reached back and squeezed the kid’s bum.
I didn’t upchuck. I spun the Chevy around and burned the pavement back to the airport. I was strolling down the hall toward the rental booths this time, and Trish gave me her glorious smile.
“Hi, Alex, did you make it in time?”
“Yep, thanks to you. I can’t talk about it, but you and I averted an international incident.”
“What’s the matter with your face?”
“Just a little gunshot wound, nothing to worry about. How much for the car?”
“Company reimbursing?”
“Yep, deepest pockets in the world.”
“I thought so. I charged you for a full day, is that all right?”
“Trish, the only thing that mattered was speed, and we did it. We’ll let the General Accounting Office pick up the pieces.” I signed the contract, solemnly folded the copy into my pocket, retrieved my card, and thanked her with the ten-thousand-watt official smile. She blushed with pride. I stomped back through the building and out to the airplane.
I made it back to Fairbanks, refueled the plane, and was again on duty as the lot watchman by a quarter to three. I’d barely had time to get bored when a sleek Piper Apache with the gold star logo of Cordova Air landed. That was a good excuse to move my vigil to the coffee shop at the terminal. I made it to a seat by the window just as the passengers deplaned from the Apache. The plane taxied across the ramp and parked on the tarmac. The pilot climbed out and strode toward the terminal. I had been hoping it would be Tommy Olsen, and it was.
Tommy and I got to be good buddies down in Juneau. We’d both delivered legislators for an emergency session, got in just ahead of a storm, and were weathered in solid. We spent two days hunkered down in the Baranoff Hotel, most of it in the bar. A Taku wind tried to rip the islands out of the channel and deposited ice about two inches per hour on everything. That old hotel creaked and groaned, ice and water were screaming sideways up Franklin Street, but the bar was warm and very well stocked. I don’t remember a lot about those days, except that the waitress was named Donica and was the prettiest little mixture of Russian and Haida Indian ever born. Other than that, Tommy and I shared our life stories, sometimes drunk, sometimes sober, but the bond was established.
“Hey, Tommy, over here.”
“Alex? Kinda far from home, and what’s with the bandage? You prang an airplane?”
“Nah, Second Avenue bar and no backup. You here for a while?”
“Long enough to scarf down a hamburger and a cuppa joe. You?”
“Little longer, personal business.”
Tommy waved down a waitress and ordered a hamburger. I asked for co
ffee.
“I gather you’ve spent some time here recently. I noticed you made a flight for Interior.”
“No, not that I remember. I’ve been through a few times, seasonal fishermen heading home and such, but I haven’t stayed over.”
“You sure? You never flew that new turbine Twin Otter of theirs?”
The waitress brought our coffee and Tommy sipped. “Alex, I’m pretty sure. I have forgotten a few things. Sometimes I can’t remember which bars I’ve hit, and once in a while I can’t remember who I hit them with. That’s particularly awkward when she’s still in bed with me in the morning, but no, I don’t think I’ve forgotten any flights.”
The waitress slapped his burger on the table when she ran past with an armload of plates destined elsewhere. He glanced at his watch and stuffed his mouth full.
“My mistake. I thought I saw your name on a flight ticket, must have been someone else. Business good?”
He chewed and took a sip, but still had his mouth full. “Too good this week, probably nothing next. I’ve been to Kodiak, Anchorage, and now here since six o’clock this morning, and if I don’t get a two-hundred-mile-per tailwind, I’ll be late for a flight to Homer.” He shoved the rest of his burger into his mouth, tried to wash it down.
“I’ll get the check. See you around.”
“Thanks, Alex, I’ll look for you at the Baranoff.” He skipped out, still chewing. I signaled the waitress for a refill and watched Tommy almost run across the apron and scramble up into the Apache. He fired engines and was rolling. I could see him talking on the radio while he taxied toward the runway. He made an intersection takeoff rather than taxi back to the end, and he was gone.
I was perplexed. I was positive I’d seen Tommy’s name on a flight ticket at Interior. I remembered being surprised, but it didn’t seem like I could have been mistaken. I finished the coffee and paid the tab. The waitress was a pretty little thing with one too many buttons open on her blouse, so I tipped her two dollars.
A jet slammed down and shook the terminal when the pilots honked on the reverse thrusters. I made the excursion down to the passenger area and watched the arrivals, but didn’t see Dave or any obvious assassins.