The Jumpmaster pointed at his plane with a conspicuous grin. There were three planes in the small hanger. Two white planes and a green and yellow one that the pilot had indicated. “You’re lucky F-Bob hooked me up with his sister-in-law, otherwise I’d be watching Discovery Wings, man.” Then he winked at Teddy, “Not that you’re a little hottie, but traveling exclusively on instruments in the dead of night isn’t my idea of a great Sunday night bash.”
Teddy stared at the plane. It was true it didn’t appear anything like her father’s Learjet. It was a monoplane, a single straight surface of wing that cut across the top of the structure. A single propeller in front, painted electric green and spastic yellow, with the words, Jump or Die, emblazoned across the sides. The numbers of the plane were on the bottom of one wing and on the top of the other side. “Fitch,” she said hesitantly, hating the quaver she couldn’t keep out of her voice. “I’m not sure if this is...”
Fitch didn’t answer her; a stony expression carved across his face. He took her arm and kind of dragged her forward.
Jumpmaster, dressed in a matching yellow and green jumpsuit, shrugged. “It’s a 1946 Fairchild, sweetie,” he explained almost lovingly. “Manufactured in Dallas, Texas by the Fairchild Engine & Airplane Corporation. Knowing about a small plane makes you feel better, right, Fitch?” Then he thumped his chest with both fists. “Manly men fly plane.”
“Absolutely,” Fitch agreed instantly. He kept his strong fingers wrapped securely around Teddy’s arm as she tried to lag behind.
Jumpmaster went on blithely, ignoring Teddy’s obvious fear, “It’s got a wingspan of 36 feet and four inches. The length is 23 feet and 9 inches. The wing area is 173 square feet. It’s got a gross weight of about fifteen hundred pounds. This, my little cutie petootie, is a high-winged monoplane. Bigger than a Cessna 180, it’s fabric covered with wheel spats. The fuselage is made of steel tubing, the wings have spruce spars and ribs. This baby can use almost any airfield today. I think I could land her on an aircraft carrier, if they’d let me.” Jumpmaster gingerly caressed the side of his beloved plane, as if the oil from his flesh would stain the polished exterior of the plane.
Teddy dug her heels into the pavement of the hanger as much as she could. She muttered crossly, “It’s covered with fabric.”
“And it’s been flying, without crashing, for over fifty years,” insisted Fitch. “Try not to be so obstinate.”
“It’s not obstinate to have a legitimate fear of flying in a cloth-covered, glorified toaster,” Teddy snarled.
Jumpmaster appeared genuinely shocked. He stroked the Fairchild’s glistening flank once and said out of the corner of his mouth, “She doesn’t really mean that.”
“We ready to go?” Fitch asked, patting Teddy’s arm even while he was inching her to the side of the plane. He really didn’t want his scarlet-haired super-fugitive to address the fact that the Jumpmaster actively spoke to his pride and joy, or that it said, ‘Jump or Die,’ in foot-high letters across the sides of the plane, or that the plane was much older than both of them combined. So he changed the subject, rapid-fire, and kept inching the pint-sized bundle of rollicking runaway forward, using his forearms and legs as leverage.
“Gassed up. Some sandwiches in the back, along with a cooler of Pepsi and I think F-Bob’s sister-in-law threw in some brownies.” Jumpmaster consolingly stroked the side of the plane once more and shot Teddy a mildly suspicious look. “Just need to file a flight plan.”
“Seattle,” said Fitch immediately. At the same time, Teddy said, “Mexico City.”
Jumpmaster sighed visibly. “Don’t suppose either of you children has any money.” When neither one of them answered he sighed again dramatically. “Good thing F-Bob’s got some cash in the bank. And that his sister-in-law is such a hottie.”
So after Teddy had been forced into the plane, they taxied out to the darkened runway. In the interim the lights had been turned off, but Jumpmaster laughed at Fitch’s suggestion that they needed to be turned back on, then pointed out, “Maybe you should disengage that girl’s fingers from her arm before she makes herself bleed.”
When the two front wheels lifted off the dirt runway, a northern wind made the initial take-off a little choppy, Fitch managed to convince Teddy to let go of her arms. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about the darkness enveloping them, and that the reverberation of the wind lifting the wings of the plane, as well as the rumbling purr of the engine, sounded more like a growl of a terrified animal to her sensitive ears.
“So where are we really going?” yelled Jumpmaster.
“Louisiana,” bellowed Fitch. “Where in Louisiana, Teddy?”
“Shreveport’s the closest big city,” she said, and then had to repeat it, louder. Then she leaned her head back against the seat, watching the back of Jumpmaster’s head, and incredibly she fell asleep.
•
Captain Randall Judd waited patiently in the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Department’s exterior offices. Dressed in a full Army-green class ‘A’ uniform, with his seams correctly lined up, and every medal polished to an exceptional luster, he capably held his saucer cap in one hand and studied the most-wanted posters on a bulletin board near the entrance. Twenty-five minutes later, a young woman gestured him toward the glass doors that led to the interior of the department and held a button that detached the lock on the doors.
Judd pushed the door open and followed the young woman dressed in civilian attire. She rapidly turned her back on him and spoke over her shoulder as she walked, “I’m Robyn Elliot, Sheriff Bird’s secretary. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting...” she peeped over her shoulder at the Army officer, “uh...Lieutenant?”
“Captain,” he corrected politely.
“Captain,” she repeated, and didn’t pause as her three-inch heels tapped over the tiled floor of the long hallway they were traveling down. The same height as he was with the heels on her tiny feet, she tossed a blonde mane of hair over her shoulder and proceeded to hurry down the hallway, as if they were late to some important meeting. Several comments issued out of the side of her mouth as she marched through the building, “Sheriff Bird is extremely busy, as I’m sure you’re aware, and the past few days have been hectic. The things that have happened around here. Oh, and not just the two murders at the hospital but then the one at the Lee house, but I guess you know about that already. And then there was all the fuss over at a bank yesterday. Someone tried to rob it and five people swore it was Fitch Lee and Theodora Howe who had done it. The truth was it was a fat, balding carpenter from Salem, who gambled all his money away at an Indian casino. How do they get two kids out of that?”
Judd made a noise he hoped sounded like neutral agreement, patently unsure as to what he was agreeing with. He did not care to be kept waiting, but the state of affairs was an emergency. The general had set him upon a task and he understood the gravity of the undertaking. Although it was personal in nature Judd did not mind the procedure. Anything that affected the office of the Director of the National Security Agency had to be taken in earnest.
Robyn Elliot continued to speak, “...Interesting to work in Washington, D.C. The NSA of all things. You can tell me, do they really record all the phone calls ever made?”
Judd almost sighed. “No, Ma’am,” he responded tactfully. “The NSA’s mission is to coordinate, direct, and perform highly specialized activities in order to protect the United States information systems and produce foreign intelligence information.” The statement could have come rote from a pamphlet entitled ‘About the National Security Agency.’ He almost smiled to himself. He was fairly sure that the words were verbatim. It was tiring having to explain the NSA’s role, and not go into further detail. People on the outside perceived the agency as a super-spy outfit, but it was more of an intelligence-gathering asset. Most of the work that he had seen performed at Fort Meade, Maryland was fairly mundane stuff, if truth be told. No James Bonds running around the fort trying to stop Goldfinger a
nd Dr. No with wrist watches that had lasers in them and cars that turned into submarines.
“Oh,” said Robyn respectfully. “I’ve never met anyone who worked for the NSA before.” She stopped at a closed door and tapped twice. A gruff voice bellowed, “Come!” Then the secretary turned to Judd and murmured, “Don’t let him scare you. He’s all bark and no bite.” She held the door open and let him enter.
Judd nodded at her and said, “Ma’am,” once more, before passing through into Sheriff Hereward J. Bird’s inner sanctum. The man himself, fully six foot four inches and weighing as much as three hundred pounds, had his back to the door as he poured himself a cup of coffee from a machine that sat on a table on one side of the room. The big man wore a khaki uniform with a Sam Browne belt around his middle, and a gut that visibly protruded.
Judd stopped for a moment and surveyed the territory before him. Bird had spent some time having the walls lined with a golden-hued wood that made the room glow in the morning light. The desk matched the wood on the walls. There was a large leather office chair behind the desk, and two comfortable looking leather seats in front. To one side there was a bookshelf full of legal tomes and state laws that the older man must find useful when he needed them. One wall had framed diplomas and certificates. Another wall had stuffed ducks, posed in flight, as they must have appeared before Sheriff Bird shot them.
“I didn’t shoot them,” said Bird. Judd swiveled his head back to find that the big, heavy man had turned almost soundlessly and was studying Judd as much as he had been studying the office. Judd found it disturbing that his thoughts had been so readily apparent. “My father was an avid duckhunter. Some of those ducks are older than I am. That one’s a Gray-Tailed Norther. I believe it went extinct somewhere around the seventies. Not that my father would have cared, but he bagged that one in the forties.”
Judd produced his hand, ready to give Bird a strong handshake, indicating his readiness to relate to the other man on his level. Sheriff Bird analyzed his outstretched hand minutely and then transferred the cup of coffee to his other hand and then shook it with his right hand, a strong, right-handed grip that said volumes about both men. “I’m Randall Judd, adjutant to General Lee.”
“You want some coffee, there, Adjutant Judd?” Bird wondered aloud, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
Bird was an ugly man. He had a face like someone had once smashed it in with a sledgehammer. But there was something about the eyes that interested the younger man, something that told him not only that Bird wasn’t stupid, but that he was extremely canny. It gave credence to a verbal warning the general had given his adjutant before he’d left the previous night, “Don’t let his appearance fool you,” admonished Bishop. To Bird Judd replied, “No, thank you, sir.”
“Pity. Irish cream blend my secretary bought at one of them fancy places up the coast. It’s de-caf, but I done added some caf into it, if you know what I mean.”
“No, sir. I’ve had a pot and a half already. I’ll be spending half my time in the latrine today as it is,” Judd decided that up front and forward was the best approach with this man. “The general sent me on a special task. He informs me that you have met before.”
Sheriff Bird wrapped his hands around his coffee cup and walked around to the back of his desk. He plopped himself down in his desk chair and the floor shook. “Sit down, willya,” he muttered and pointed at a chair.
Judd sat and the older man chuckled when he saw how straight the Army officer was sitting in one of the leather chairs.
“Relax, Captain,” said Bird with a low guffaw. “You look like you have a corncob stuck up your butt.”
Judd’s eyebrows rose eloquently. Sheriff Bird had a visceral way about him. It wasn’t unknown to Judd, as he’d spent half his life as an Army brat, and the remainder in ROTC or the military.
Then Bird sighed, “Forgive my fucking French. I’m downright earthy, so my wife tells me. And yeah, I have met the general and I’ll be honest with you. I believe what I called the man was, ‘A-1, living, breathing, walking, talking butt-snatching, asswiping motherfucker.’ I believe those were the exact words I used to describe him the last time I said something about him.” He lazily scratched his chin. “And I stand by my words.”
Judd stared at the other man. Finally, he said, “That’s a pretty apt description of the general, all right.” He paused. “But he cares about his son.”
Bird suddenly lost all nonchalance. “Fitch don’t seem to be a bad boy. Full of spit and vinegar. He’s an uppity little cock of the walk. But a killer? Man, I don’t go into a case with a preconceived notion. I seen men I called my friends turn out to be back-stabbing, guttersnipes who stole pennies from their own families, but Fitch. Goddammit. I wanted something more out of this. And I been expecting a call from his royal generalness.”
“The general wanted me to get a report of your progress on the first murders. He has informed me that all information is confidential in nature and will not be shared with the media or legal assistance, if that is the outcome.” Judd’s eyes fastened with Bird’s, the unspoken part of what he was saying coming across loud and clear.
Bird leaned way back in his chair. He took a sip of the coffee he still held in one hand and did not lose eye contact with the younger man. “You mean,” he said, presently. “Your boss wants to know is his son culpable of something?”
“I believe that the general’s concern is to the well-being of...”
“Cut the crap, Captain,” Bird interrupted. His beady eyes ate Judd’s appearance up and were all but ready to spit him right back out. “Tell me straight up. Does the general think his boy is guilty of something?”
“I’ll cut the crap,” snapped Judd, “if you will. Fitch isn’t guilty of shit. If that’s the way I need to put it, then I’ll put it that way. He’s smart, and he’s quick, and he has a tendency to put his big foot in his mouth, but a murderer. Hell, no. And if he’s guilty of anything it might be that maybe he believes in the innocence of others.”
“You mean that little girl. Those folks over to the hospital told me she was mighty cute, too. But then that Fed done told me that she murdered her parents.” Bird paused and took another sip of coffee. “That she killed that security guard in the hospital and maybe the reporter, too. Then maybe her or Fitch up and kilt the other Fed in the beach house.”
“The gun that was used to murder the security guard and the federal officer in the Lee home was appropriated in a house in the mountains of Oregon, late yesterday,” said Judd. “One of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department officers managed to check it into evidence before the federal officers could get to it. Their forensics people confirmed that Theodora Andrea Howe’s fingerprints were on the exterior of the weapon, as well as one latent print belonging to Robert Wren, the man whose home the weapon was found inside. General Lee requested that they check the bullets inside the weapon for prints. Those prints were identified this morning.”
Bird leaned forward. His expression was intent as he figured out what Judd was telling him. His eyes sparkled with energy. He had been dreading the days to come because he knew that he was going to have to step out onto a limb of a huge tree and then saw it off behind him. But here was something else, something that gave his theories more than a little credence. “You don’t even need to say it. I’ll tell you why. My little theory, you see. The little girl found out that she was on TV, bigger than life. She tried to get out of the hospital, only to run into the two Feds. She managed to get away from them, one of the nurses tells me they think she crawled out on the ledges outside the third floor windows, crawled back into another one, and then managed to drop down a laundry chute. Then maybe she tried to get a security guard to protect her. So one of the Feds shoots the guard. Same weapon, right? Don’t answer.”
Bird paused and withdrew a cigar from his desk, putting the coffee down. He reached behind him to open the window as he lit the cigar. After the tip began to glow, he exhaled the smoke so that the breeze
pulled the haze outside. Then he said, “But here’s the kicker. The same Fed, who’s still alive and well, says that the gal took care of those two in the hospital before he got there. But I got a heap of journalists who tell me that the reporter, whose neck was broken, followed the Fed downstairs. Not the other way around. So she managed to get his weapon away from him. That’s how she got away. And she could have shot the Fed too, in the hospital basement, if she had been the one doing the shooting to begin with.”
Judd stared at the sheriff.
Bird went on, “But I think she ran away and just happened to run out in front of Fitch Lee’s Jeep, as he was passing by. Dint know her. The people she worked for out at Sullivan’s Bay say she dint have no friends. A shy kinda gal. Slept on the beach sometimes. So this little girl with a gun in her hand forced him to drive her to his house, and then one of my dipshit deputies took the other Fed to the Lee house. I think our fair-haired Fed was expecting her to go for the tour boat instead, which is where he went. But instead she went to Fitch’s house and ran into the one who ended up with five shots in him. I guess you’d have to ask her why. And something happened there. I think our girl had to shoot him in self-defense. So when you say you found prints on the bullets. I say they belong to John Gower.”
Flight of the Scarlet Tanager Page 28