A Will To Murder (31 page)

Up ahead Bradley was making for the airplane.  “No!” Eric cried, seeing this.  “They’re right behind us!”

“It has a radio, idiot!  We can call for help on it!”  Bradley flung the wheel chock aside as he ran past the plane’s nose and opened the pilot’s door.  Eric glanced back and saw Bernie running crazily towards them.  Irv was splashing around in the water tank, Jac was shrieking and trying to scrape herself off, and Floyd was scrambling all over the ground.  The ginger cat was loping towards the plane.  They might have time for a very fast call.  The reporter opened the passenger door of the aircraft and climbed in.  Smith was reaching under the control panel to get at the wiring.  “Hurry!  Get on the radio,” Eric gasped.  

Someone pounded on the door.  “Let me in!” Bernie called woozily.  Eric, who had seen her throw the gun into the water tank, made a decision.  He opened the door and jerked her in so hard that she banged her head on the roof.  

“Sorry,” Eric said as she fell into the back seat.  Bradley jumped out of the aircraft and ran to the front.  “What are you doing?” Eric cried.

Now Smith reappeared, getting back into the pilot’s seat with the ginger cat.  “I was retrieving this little dear.”  He dropped the cat into Bernie’s lap.

“Call!  Call!” Eric yelled wildly.  

“Don’t worry.  I’ll take care of things.”

Bradley poked at the loose wiring again.  “This is something I learned from one of my step-dads.  I’m hot wiring the plane.  Let’s see, fuel selector valve on, parking brake off, engine started according to manufacturer’s instructions, throttle setting, mixture control setting, priming, radio and navigation turned on--”

“What!?” Eric squawked.

“--look both ways to see if the runway is clear--,” Bradley sang out.

The plane’s engines started, and Smith set them rolling down the runway.  Eric grabbed at his seat.  “AAAAAAAAAA!  You don’t know how to fly one of these things!  Leave us down!  Leave us down!”

“I do too, and it’s too late.”  The plane was rolling faster and faster.

“Brake!” the reporter yelled.  “Brake!”

The plane left the ground in one powerful swoop.  Bernie’s mouth was open.  “Do you really know how to fly?” she squeaked.

“--check to see if instruments working,” Bradley continued.   “Hey, put your seatbelts on, dummies.”

“Damn it all,” Eric howled.  “You can’t even read one of these dials.”  His fingers worked shakily at the seatbelt.

“I recognize the fuel gauge,” retorted Smith as the plane climbed.  “See?  It has an E and an F on it.”

“Is that all?” Eric gurgled.

“Of course not.  There’s the altimeter, Mr. Smart Alec.”

The reporter turned even whiter.  “Oh, my God.  I’m in the most extreme fear I’ve ever experienced in my life,” he said, his voice turning mushy.  This remark was followed by Eric sliding sideways in his chair.  The cat, terrified, stood on its hind legs and began to lick Eric’s arm frantically, trying to revive him.

 A minute or so later, Eric came to.  “Have we crashed yet?” he asked feebly.

“God, you have no confidence.  Now that you’ve finished your little nap, why don’t you call for help on the radio?”

“I don’t know how to do that!”

“Just open your jaws and talk, dummy.  Here’s the microphone.  Press the button on the side of it.”

Eric shaking fingers dropped the microphone.

“Oh for God’s sake, let me do it.  Sheesh.  Pan-Pan. Pan-Pan Pan-Pan.  This is a Cessna.  We’re lost.  Any station receiving, acknowledge please.”

After a moment there came a crackle, and a reply.  “This is Glenwood Tower.  What’s your I.D., Cessna?”

“Don’t have one, Tower.  It’s a long story.”

“Affirmative.  You’re Cessna 126, then.  You say you’re lost?”

“That is correct.”

“Cessna 126, what’s the color of your aircraft, your last known position, heading, and altitude?”

“We took off from an airstrip at the Green Mountain Racetrack near Chichiteaux, Vermont, about five minutes ago.  We’re heading--” Bradley scowled at the dials as he read the coordinates and their speed off to the tower.  “And we’re sorta off-white.”

“Oyster cream,” said Bernie in a trance-like voice.  “Irv had the plane painted oyster cream a few months ago.”

“Corrected.  We’re oyster cream.  Over.”

“Affirmative, Cessna.  What are your intentions?”

“To get down!” Eric bawled into the microphone. “Give us a place to land, for God’s sake!”  

Bradley elbowed his friend in the stomach.  “Excuse us, Tower,” said Smith haughtily, “my companion has no air manners.  We need to land, and we don’t have any maps.”

“No manners noted, Cessna.  Can you circle back and land at the Green Mountain Racetrack?”

“’Fraid not.  Bad people were shooting guns at us, and we borrowed this plane to escape from them.  The evil creeps need some cops on ‘em.  Can you call the police and tell them to head for the racetrack and round up a Jacquelyn Salisbury, an Irv, and a Floyd?”

“Floyd Fowler,” Eric added.  

“Request acknowledged, Cessna, your nearest airport is here at Glenwood.”  The tower added the coordinates.  “Please activate your emergency locator transmitter.”

“Affirmative.”

“We have you on our radar, Cessna.  Let me give you your coordinates.”  A moment later the tower came back with the numbers.  “Cessna 126, weather to Glenwood Airport clear.  Who is this, by the way?”

“That’s a long story, too.  You see, there were these scumbags.”

Eric snatched the microphone away and yelled into it, “Goddammit, this is an emergency!  We absolutely have got to land!  This pilot doesn’t know how to fly!”

Bradley leaned over.  “I do too!”  Smith insisted.

“He does not!  Look, have an ambulance and a plethora of cops ready.  Over.”

“Ambulance, plethora of cops, noted, Cessna.  How many on board?”

“Three!” Eric babbled.  “No, three and a half, we have a cat!”

“Hey, a cat’s not a half!  That’s perfectly insulting,” retorted Bradley into the microphone.  “We’re four.  We’ll radio you if any developments occur.”

“Affirmative, Cessna.  Are you sure you know how to fly?”

“Positive, Tower,” said Bradley, nettled.  “I went through flight school, okay?”

“Noted.  Inform us of any significant landmarks as you pass them, and advise when you have the airport in sight.  We’ll radio you if your heading drifts.”

“Affirmative,” Smith replied.

Bernie’s eyes were huge, and she gazed at Bradley with worship.  Eric felt sorry that he’d thought her such a dim-witted waste of life.  “Are you okay?” he asked her.

“Yeah, I guess so.  I joined you guys because I didn’t think that Irv would try to kill you.  I knew he wasn’t great, but--”  She still sounded stoned, and was petting the howling cat to calm it.  The terrified animal was huddled in a corner of the backseat.   

“You didn’t ask if
I’m
all right.”

“I can see you are, Mr. Fat and Sassy.”

“Say,” Smith asked.  “What’s that cat’s name?”

“Booger.”

“What a stupid name for a cat!  That’s exactly what a thug
would
name a cat.”  Bradley reached behind to give Booger a scratch.

“WILL YOU PAY ATTENTION TO WHAT YOU’RE DOING!?” Eric shrieked.

“I
am
.  Now stop screaming.  You’re scaring the cat.”

“I hope we have enough gas to make it,” said Eric tightly.  Although he wasn’t sure which was the fuel gauge, the needle on one dial was dropping to the bottom.  Bradley paid no attention, for he had just seen a runway.

“Glenwood Tower, this is Cessna 126.  We have you in sight.  Requesting clearance to land.”

“Glenwood Tower to Cessna 126.  Cleared for landing.”

“Affirmative.”

Bradley began to circle towards the end of the runway.  “Do we have enough gas to make it?” Eric repeated.

Startled, Bradley glanced at the fuel gauge.  The runway was only a few hundred yards off now, and they were not quite lined up.  “By God, we don’t!  We’re going dry!  Mayday! Mayday!”  Bradley yelled into the microphone.  That was all Smith had time for.  The plane’s engine quit.  

There came a great quiet, broken only by the sound of Bradley saying, “Oops.”

Three faces whitened and the cat wailed.  Smith dropped the nose of the aircraft.  The concrete runway was approaching them fast through the windshield.  “I just hate landing with a windmilling propellor,” Smith complained.  “It makes things so choppy.”

The front wheel struck the grassy field short of the runway with a spine-jarring bang.  A second thud announced the rear wheels had landed.  The Cessna bounced insanely over the grass, then smoothed out as it rolled diagonally across the runway.  “Stop us!  Stop us!” Eric shouted.

The plane continued to roll, then began to bounce madly again as it left concrete for grass at dizzying speed.  “We’re heading for the control tower!” Eric yelled.  “Stop! Stop!”

“I can’t!  The brakes aren’t working!  They must have overheated!”

The base of the control tower was rapidly approaching.  “Turn!” Eric shouted wildly.  

The view swivelled, revealing a placid scene of grass.  But the scene continued to revolve further, and the side of a hanger suddenly filled the windshield.  There came a metal singing as the propeller sheared off, and a terrific clang as the plane punched through the side of the hanger, folding metal. The passengers were thrown hard against their seatbelts, and the cat clawed himself loose from Bernie. “Ouch!” said Bernie, sucking her scratches.

“Oops,” said Smith again.  “Crunched Irv’s plane.  Well, he deserves it.  You little sweetie,” he said to the pathetically mewing cat.  “Did you bump your little nosie?”

“I’m going to bump
your
little nosie when we get out of this aircraft!” Eric raved.  

“Hey, I just saved your life, okay?  Is this gratitude?”

The reporter only pawed at his seatbelt and shoved the door open.  Springing out, he stumbled through the hole in the hanger, went over to the runway, and fell prone on the concrete.  Smith and Bernie climbed out more leisurely.  The ginger cat was clamped to Bradley’s side, held there by Bradley’s arm, and this seemed to calm the beast considerably.  The cat stopped struggling and let its legs dangle limply.  

Flashing lights of emergency vehicles were moving towards them as Eric kissed the runway.  “Ground, hard ground,” the reporter mumbled.

“God, Eric, don’t you know you can glide these things even after their engines quit?  You know, wings and stuff?” Smith said.  “And wipe those cement crumbs off your mouth.  You looked deranged.  Hey--media!”

A TV cameraman from the local station had arrived, and Bradley waved at him.  

“Tire-streaked runway,” said Eric dazedly, sitting back on his haunches.

“Eric, do me a favor.  Go to the airport snack bar and drink a stimulant.  You look awful.”  Bradley dug a dollar out of his pants and handed it over.

“WHY THE HELL DID YOU TAKE OFF WHEN WE DIDN’T HAVE ENOUGH FUEL?” Eric shouted, ignoring the money.

“Well,
excuse me
.  There were people shooting guns at me, okay?  I didn’t have time to look.”

Two policemen scooped Eric up and hauled him off in the direction of the airport. “Under arrest, am I?” Eric babbled.  “Good.  Put me in a nice solid jail cell and I’ll be fine.  Solitary confinement, please.  I need some quiet.”

“Drunk, high, or crazy,” one cop said to the other.  “Looks like we’ll have to give him a few tests.”

“Hey, I wasn’t even driving.  Flying!  I meant
flying
.  
He
was flying.”

“It’s cool, I know how to do that,” Bradley told the policemen.  “Have you arrested those people at the racetrack yet?”

“We’ve picked up three persons for questioning.  I expect you have an interesting story to tell us.”

“Sure.  Eric doesn’t need that ambulance, by the way.  He’s just being silly.”

“How are you supposed to know?  You almost killed me!”  Eric tried to shake off the policemen, but they hung on anyway.

“Hey, I need some help,” said Bernie, holding out her badly scratched arms.

“You probably have blood poisoning,” said Eric.  “That cat’s vicious.”

“You bastard!” said Bradley.  “You threw this sweet little kitty, but he forgave you and even licked you back to consciousness after you fainted.  Eric, you’re a jerk.  I really don’t think he needs that straightjacket,” Smith told the paramedics.

Chapter 18

“She did it for money,” said Hamilton.  The lawyer was standing in the living room of Rollingwood, facing Armagnac, Mrs. Marshpool, Rose, and Bert.  

“No!” cried Rose.  “Jac and Phil were rich.”  

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Cummings.  The Salisburys were actually in debt.  Your sister owed ninety thousand dollars because of her gambling at the racetrack.”

“She’d been betting at the Green Mountain for years,” Armagnac interrupted.  He did not meet anyone’s eyes.  “I knew, and so did father, because he always paid off her debts.  But last month he said no more.  Jac refused to believe it.”

“The Salisburys had plenty of other debts as well, all caused by Jac’s spending,” the lawyer continued.  “Phil was not even aware of the ninety thousand.  Jac, unfortunately, didn’t learn until the will reading that her father had disinherited her, and I didn’t know that James had quarreled with his daughter about her gambling until Mr. Boyle here mentioned it.”  

Boyle’s eyes flickered uneasily in Hamilton’s direction.  “I hadn’t thought it pertinent to tell anyone while Father was still alive--private family business and all--and after Father was dead, it was too late.”

Yeah
, Bert thought cynically,
you would have inherited a bundle with both your sisters out
.

“Mr. Salisbury had taken out a huge loan to pay down several of his wife’s other debts.  Jac could have sold some of her jewelry--I believe she had a valuable sapphire necklace--but Mr. Salisbury said the amount wouldn’t have cleared even a small part of her debts.  Also, he said your sister went berserk when he suggested they sell some of their belongings.  Your sister had a horror of appearing poor, I take it.”