Night Flight

by Donna Ball

  He was slowly getting his breath back, a man who was no more used to sudden bursts of speed—or terror—than she was. "Cathy," he insisted quietly, "what happened? Why are you doing this?" His voice, so calm, so soothing, so in control. The same voice she had heard before, urging from her now as it had then her most precious possession—her trust.

  The sound of his voice confused her. She flexed her fingers on the gun for reassurance. "Who are you?" she demanded hoarsely. "How did you find me?"

  His brows drew together a little in disturbance. "You know who I am. You called me."

  "Don’t lie to me!"

  "I'm Dave Jenks. You called me for help."

  "You tried to kill me! I saw you! You would have shot me back at the mini-mart if you could have, and later, when I called for help from the shopping center you came instead, looking for me with your gun! Did you think I wouldn't remember? Did you think I wouldn't recognize you?"

  Dave's face cleared as it suddenly all came together for him. "For God's sake, Cathy, I'm a cop! Of course I have a gun. That was my partner who got killed back there—"

  "And Kreiger? Is he your partner too?"

  He said urgently. "Where is he? How did you get away from him? Did he—"

  "Shut up! I don't have to tell you anything!"

  As he blurted out his barrage of questions he had taken a step toward her. Cathy jerked the pistol at him and he stopped.

  Keeping his hands visible, palms up, near his waist, Dave said, "Listen to me. I'm on your side. There's a lot you don't know, a lot you don't understand—a lot I don't understand, but I'm not going to explain it to you here in this parking lot, at gunpoint. I want to help you, but you've got to trust me."

  Her head was spinning, aching, she couldn't think. She didn't want to think, she didn't want to understand. She just wanted it all to go away.

  "Come on, Cathy . . ."

  He moved toward her again, and she jerked the gun, her finger settling soundly on the trigger. Again he stopped, but it seemed more of a polite gesture than a worried one.

  "What are you going to do?" he asked. "Shoot me? And then what? You're in trouble, Cathy, more than you know, and if Kreiger is still at large, and I think he is, it's only going to get worse. I'm the only friend you've got right now, so for God's sake put down the gun and let's talk."

  "No."

  Her voice was hoarse, broken on even that one syllable. She gripped the gun as if it were a lifeline, but Dave could see uncertainty in her eyes; the slightest hint of a waver. She was a woman battered by exhaustion and terror, hovering on the ragged edge of collapse, and Dave knew better than to bet his life on which way she would turn if pushed too far. But that was exactly what he had to do.

  He knew Cathy Hamilton. Over the past few hours he had made it his mission to know her as well as anyone had ever known her, and that meant more than just assimilating a collection of facts. She had become real to him; pieces of a puzzle he had put together to form a living, breathing being, with feelings and motives, actions and reactions he knew as well as he knew his own. But now was the time he would find out whether he had put the pieces together right, and he knew he would only get one chance.

  He said, "I know you're tired. I know you're not thinking clearly. If you were, you'd realize that if I really wanted to hurt you I would have come after you with a gun just now. I didn't

  have to let you pull a weapon on me."

  That made sense to Cathy. She was tired. She couldn't think of an argument for what he said. Or maybe it was just that she wanted to believe him, just that his voice was so convincing . . .

  She realized the tip of the gun had dropped down and she moved it level again with a snap. Her arms ached with the effort of holding it. She said sharply, "No. You want to take me back with you. I'm not going back, I can't go back-"

  "I'm not going to take you back," he assured her. Soothing, gentle, sincere. So easy to believe. "I know you have to get to Jack. I only want to make sure you get there safely."

  Jack. It was as though a door had been opened with that single word, opened just a crack, but it was enough to allow the emotions to come seeping through, and the memories, and the needs. They pushed the door wider, and wider ... she tried to fight the shaking in her voice, she tried to keep the gun steady. She tried to stay strong, but it hardly seemed worth the effort.

  "Jack," she whispered, trying not to make it a plea. "What —do you know about him? Is he . . ." She couldn't say it.

  "He's in bad shape, Cathy," Dave told her soberly. "I wish I had better news, but I don't. He's in intensive care, and unconscious, and that's all I know. But he's alive."

  Alive. It wasn't possible. She knew it wasn't possible, with all the horrors that had overtaken her, that she should be spared that, the grandest horror of all. Yet when Dave Jenks said that her brother was alive, she believed him. She wanted to believe him, so desperately . . .

  "Don't lie to me!" she screamed at him. The cry was ripped out of her throat, almost as though it had come from a source other than herself, and it hurt. "I'll kill you, I swear to God I will! I'm not having any more lies, I'm not going to be tricked again, I'm not!"

  "Cathy, for God's sake-"

  A sudden sound startled her-somewhere between a creak and a crash—and a wedge of light burst over her, pinning her in its glare. She blinked and instinctively averted her face, and she knew in that second, or in any that followed, Dave Jenks could have disarmed her without so much as a whimper of resistance on her part. But he didn't. It could have been that he too, was startled; it could have been that there wasn't time, or he was afraid to take the chance—but Cathy knew on some deep instinctual level even then that it was none of those things. He simply didn't do it.

  It was the cook who walked into the square of light cast by the open door, a barrel of trash in his hands. He stopped with an almost comical abruptness, staring at them; he exclaimed, "What the hell?" and then he dropped--or perhaps he threw—the trash barrel and ran back inside, slamming the door hard behind him.

  Cathy stood there shaking in the dark, and after a moment Dave spoke again, quietly, as though nothing had happened to interrupt them. "If I could think of a lie that would get you to trust me, I'd tell it. But I can't. I can only tell you what I know and none of it looks good for you, Cathy."

  "Please." Her voice was small, tired, straining to remain steady. "Please just let me go. Just go away and let me go."

  "Yes," he said slowly, "I could do that. But I came all the way from Portersville so that I wouldn't have to have you on my conscience, and if I let you walk away now you'll be dead before another night falls." He glanced toward the back door, now just another shadow among shadows. "He's calling the police, you know. I don't think you want that. I'm out of my jurisdiction, there nothing I can do officially to help you. I'm risking my job just by coming this far, and if there's a police report my ass’ll end up in jail just as quick as yours. Only I'd probably get out in an hour or two. I don't know about you. What's it going to be, Cathy?"

  No, she couldn't let the police find her. She had to run. She had to get out of here, she had to find some place safe to hide, and think. . . . But she was so tired, and there didn't seem to be a safe place in the world.

  The small muscles in her wrists strained and trembled to keep the gun held steady. And what she said next was not what she had intended to say at all. "How—do you know about Jack?"

  His voice was gentle as he took a step toward her. "Words and music, isn't that what he used to say?"

  "Stop it, please, don't come any closer!"

  "What do you think he would say now?"

  He was still coming toward her, and she couldn't make him stop. "Don't, please! Don't make me—"

  He was half-a-dozen steps from her now. He said, "You're not going to shoot me, Cathy. Just put the gun down."

  She didn't want to. She didn't intend to. But the gun was so heavy and her arms were so tired, and she was tired of running, and he was
right. She couldn't pull the trigger. Tears flooded her throat, brimming over into her eyes as she let her arms drop. "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know what Jack would say . . ."

  He was beside her in an instant, and it seemed then the most natural thing in the world that his arms should go around her, his strong hand pressing her head to his shoulder as the tears overflowed. "It's okay, Cathy," he said. He was breathing deeply, as though with a deliberate effort to calm himself. "It's going to be okay."

  She cried, though she hated herself for crying, because she was tired and she couldn't stop herself, and because he was strong. And it was good, for just a short time, to lean on someone and to believe she could trust him. But she fought it, she struggled to maintain control, and

  in a few minutes she managed to stop the tears.

  Gently, Dave removed the gun from her hand. He glanced at it, and then at her. He flipped a small button, which, Cathy realized after a moment, released the safety catch.

  "The first thing we're going to do," he said, "is teach you how to use this thing." He snapped the safety back on and zipped the gun in the front pocket of his windbreaker. "But right now we'd better get out of here. I figure the police are about five minutes away."

  He touched her shoulder and his urgency communicated itself through his fingertips more clearly than words could have done. She hurried with him around the side of the building.

  And even though she knew it was foolish, even though all the wisdom she had earned tonight warned her otherwise, Cathy did believe suddenly that everything would be all right. She wasn't alone anymore. She wasn't helpless anymore. Dave Jenks was on her side. He would take care of her.

  They moved quickly through the bright light at the front of the building toward his waiting car, and Cathy tried not to look at the windows, where she knew people were staring out at them. Instead she cast a quick glance at Dave. "Where are we—"

  The explosion of a gunshot tore through the night, and Cathy hit the asphalt hard as the impact of Dave's body flung her forward.

  **************************

  Chapter Eleven

  It took only seconds. In Cathy's mind a voice was screaming, No, it can't be, this can't be happening, don't let this be happening! as her hands scraped the asphalt. But before her knees struck the ground someone grabbed her shirt at the back of the neck and jerked her to her feet, launching her toward the car.

  "Keep your head down!" Dave Jenks shouted. "Run!"

  He had left the driver's-side door open when he had been forced to chase her, and Cathy scrambled inside. He was right beside her, pushing her hard across the seat. "On the floor! Stay down!"

  But Cathy was thinking, He was supposed to be dead but he was alive! Somehow that impossibility seemed to relate to Jack, and there seemed to be hope, as astonishing and improbable as it was. But then there was another explosion, and the back windshield of the car starred into thousands of round-edged pieces.

  Dave exclaimed, "Jesus Christ!" The starter screamed and Cathy doubled over, her hands covering her head.

  The car lurched backward, slamming Cathy's head into the dashboard, then spun around, throwing her shoulder hard against the door. A third bullet screeched off the metal fender and Dave muttered, "Shit!" Then, "Hold on. I haven't driven like this since I was a teenager."

  He pressed the gas and the tires squealed as the car swung across the parking lot.

  It would have been a blatant untruth to say Cathy wasn't frightened. Adrenaline surged through her and her pulse roared, and incredulity mingled with shock to form a peculiar state of numbed horror; but the stark, raw-edged terror that had afflicted her for most of the night was gone. Perhaps she had reached a point beyond terror, perhaps she had simply learned to deal with it, or perhaps it was because she was no longer alone. Beneath the fear she was thinking clearly, beneath the adrenaline rush she was aware. She heard the tires scream and felt the back end of the car sway as Dave made a reckless left turn, and she heard the tone of the pavement beneath the tires change as the roadway did. Finally, when the car's speed grew steady and the fishtailing turns ceased, she eased up in her seat.

  The road was dark before her, punctuated on either side with the faint gray outlines of trees that seemed to be passing much too fast, much too close. They were driving without lights. She gripped the upholstery, pressing her lips tightly together, and did not look at the driver. Instead she cast a quick glance over her shoulder, where she was sure she would see a car following them at the same breakneck speed.

  She saw nothing.

  "Kreiger," she managed at last. Her voice was tight and breathless. "It was him, it had to be-"

  "It was him," Dave agreed grimly. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his expression fierce with concentration as he peered at the darkened slice of road ahead of them. "How did you leave him?"

  The question was more of a command than a request, and Cathy answered as succinctly as she could. "I—he took me to a dirt road, beside a vineyard. I don't know where it was, I wasn't watching. ... I had pepper spray and I managed to get away, but he chased me. I hit him with a tool handle. I —I couldn't knock him out, but I got his gun."

  As she spoke, a strange duality overtook her. Part of her stood aside, listening with incredulity and admiration to the tale of adventure. Another part of her relived it with all the drama and the terror her words could never convey, and that part understood the implications of what had just happened at the truck stop. She tried to keep her voice steady as she said, "How did he find me? How could he have found me?"

  Cautiously, hoping the action would not be his last, Dave reached forward and switched on the headlights. He kept his eye on the rearview mirror. Nothing happened. He flashed his brakes. No gleam of metal appeared in the reflected light. As far as he could see, they were alone on the winding stretch of country road. He relaxed a fraction, allowing himself to concentrate on details beyond the scope of their immediate survival.

  He glanced quickly at Cathy and did not like what he saw lurking in the back of her eyes. So far she had inspired nothing but amazement in him; she had coped with and survived more than he ever would have given her credit for, and as much as he would have liked to tell her it was over, and everything was going to be all right, he couldn't. The worst had only begun and he couldn't afford for her to fold now.

  He said, "He must have followed you."

  She shook her head, her voice low and dull. "He couldn't have, I would have seen him. But it doesn't matter what I do, does it? He just keeps coming and coming . . ."

  Dave said sharply, "He's not the goddamn Terminator. He followed you, that's all. How did you get to the truck stop?”

  "I walked—along the side of the freeway, until I saw the exit . . ."

  "Then that's it. You wouldn't have been hard to spot. He got off at the first exit and waited for you."

  "Then why didn't he kill me when I first got there? Why wait until--"

  "He doesn't want to kill you until you've told him what he wants to know." He darted a look at her. "You didn't tell him, did you?"

  Cathy felt the fine muscles just beneath the surface of her skin begin to tense. Another car, another stranger, and the interrogation began again. She said stiffly, "No."

  He nodded once. "Smartest thing you ever did in your life, trust me."

  But she didn't. She couldn't. It could all be starting over again, and she couldn't run anymore. She turned in her seat, looking at him steadily. "I guess you want to know, too."

  Dave gave a dry little snort of amusement. "Believe me, lady, that's the last thing I want. People with that kind of information don't live very long."

  And then, as though suddenly realizing how that sounded, he cast her an uncomfortable, apologetic look. But Cathy barely noticed. It was possible. He could be exactly who he claimed to be. Maybe he wanted nothing from her. Maybe he was just doing his job. Maybe he was on her side.

  She said, "But ... he tried to kill me back t
here."

  Dave's face was tight and sober. "Not you. Me."

  Cathy sank back against the seat, feeling limp and beaten. She knew there was more she should ask, more she needed to know, but the details, at that moment, seemed unimportant. She knew too much already, and everything she learned only made the nightmare loom larger.

  After a time she said, a little hoarsely, "But we've lost him now. Nobody's following."

  Again, Dave wanted to remain silent, to agree with her, to keep the worst to himself. But after all she had been through, she deserved more. " Kreiger is a rogue government agent. He’s got contacts and equipment I can’t even guess at. He doesn't have to follow. He'll put out an APB on the car and throw up roadblocks. We won't get out of the county."

  Dave looked at her, but she was staring out the window. Her profile, what he could see of it, was unreadable. He wondered if she had even heard him.

  After another moment he had his answer, but it was not what he expected, or wanted. "Take me to my car." Her voice was dull, and the words were spoken with the methodical deliberation commonly found in the drunk and the exhausted. "I have to get to the hospital. My brother was in an accident."

  "I know. I'll get you there as soon as possible. But your car is even better known than mine. We have to — "

  "My purse," she said. "I've got to get my purse back. My keys, my money, my driver's license . . . you can't even cash a check without a driver's license."

  Dave felt the skin at the back of his neck prickle. Don't do it, Cathy, he thought. Don't lose it on me now. We've got a long way to go and I can't carry you the rest of the way . . .

  He said carefully, "Cathy, listen to me."

  She turned her face toward him. He glanced at her and was surprised by what he saw. Her face was pale, and shiny in places with tears, but her expression was calm, her eyes rational. She said softly, "I know. Somebody's trying to kill me and I'm worried about cashing a check. But sometimes it's easier to think about the small things."