Gone Too Far (6 page)

It was a brand-spanking-new North American P-51D Mustang. (I know, I know, this means nothing to you! Suppose instead that I say that a Mustang moves at 435 miles per hour—what a thrill to fly that fast!) This plane had been used for training out in Iowa, and, boy, this baby could fly. I had some fun, all right. I was sorry to land at my final destination in (CENSORED).

I was sorrier still when I caught sight of a newspaper and saw the casualty lists from Tarawa.

That news from the war in the Pacific has made us all somber, I’m afraid, and it didn’t seem as if there was much this year to be thankful for. I know you miss Walt very much, and I’m sure he must be missing you and the baby dreadfully.

Still, I wanted to let you know that regardless of this wretched war, I myself have much to be thankful for this year, and high on my list is my friendship with you and Walter. It’s occurred to me as I’m sitting here that I never told you the details of how it was that your husband came to bring me to your house that night more than a solid year ago.

So here goes. I hope it will make you laugh, or at least lighten your heart.

I was flying a clunker of an old P-40 from Memphis to the airfield in Tuskegee. That’s always the scariest job—taking up an aircraft that has just been pulled out of mothballs. Forget the normal checklist—I nearly overhauled the engine, checking to make sure that thing wasn’t going to fall out of the sky with me inside.

But despite my makeshift tune-up, this P-40 developed a bad case of the hiccups when I was about 130 miles outside of Tuskegee. I pushed on, hoping I’d make it those last few miles. I knew that if it got worse, I could always look for a place, a field or even a flat stretch of road, to set that puppy down.

But I didn’t want to do that. After landing somewhere other than an airstrip, taking off again would be a pain in the you-know-what.

I turned on the radio to let Tuskegee know that I was having some problems and—I swear to you—the switch came off in my hand. There wasn’t much I could do to fix it. I could only sit back and fly.

But then there it was—the airfield. Right in front of me. I said a quick prayer of thanks. (That “God is my copilot” thing is no joke!)

I flew by the tower, signaling that my radio was out and that I needed to land immediately.

They gave me the go-ahead, using flags to signal me back, and I turned to come around and land the plane.

Only that P-40 stalled on me. It coughed, and it choked, and then I was in this large piece of metal that was falling fast—too fast—toward that landing strip.

I swear to you, my life—all twenty-eight pathetic years of it— flashed before my eyes. I remember thinking about that too-handsome captain I’d met two weeks earlier in Albuquerque. I remember thinking that I should have danced with him. (And yes, dearest friend, I am being euphemistic when I use the word
dance
. Oh, how I love to shock you!)

But I wasn’t ready to go to my heavenly reward, and I used every trick in the book, and made up a few brand-new ones, to get that engine turning over again. I still don’t know exactly how I did it, but I did. I came within thirty feet of the ground, and by now I was going way too fast to land, so I pulled up, hard, and went around again. This time, though, I didn’t stall. This time, I brought that POS-40 in and landed it, neat as a pin.

So there I was, climbing out of that plane, shaken to h*ll and white as a sheet, thinking that I’ve got to go change my drawers. I was ready to kiss that dusty ground and spend about a week in church.

Only this man, this tall Negro man, comes running over to me, spitting fire.

“What in Sam H*ll kind of flying is that?” he shouted at me in his clipped Yankee northern accent. “How dare you fly so recklessly here! Not only did you endanger the lives of everyone on this airfield and yourself, but you came d*mned close to destroying this plane! We don’t have
half
as many P-40s as we need, and you nearly turned
this
one into a crumpled piece of metal, ready to be dragged to the scrap pile!”

You know me, Mae my dear, and it didn’t take long for my terror to turn into anger. And so I lit back into him, shouting over him as I pulled off my leather flight helmet. “I nearly died flying this piece of sh*t! That engine stalled on me when I went into that first turn, and let me tell
you
, Jack, landing that plane in one piece was a miracle similar to turning water to wine, and now I’m getting chewed out by a mechanic? I demand to see your commanding officer, and I demand to see him
now
!”

Well.

He’d stopped shouting and now this tall Negro man was staring at me, at my messy, blond, and very female hair. And as I stared back at him, I realized he outranked me by about a mile. This was no enlisted mechanic. No, this man had lieutenant colonel clusters on his uniform, and it said “Gaines” above the pocket of his shirt.

I looked down at the paper I was holding, and indeed, the name of the CO to whom I was to deliver this plane was Lt. Col. Walter Gaines.

He was clearly as stunned to see a pilot who was a woman as I was to see a lieutenant colonel and commanding officer who was not white.

I did the only thing I could think of to do in this situation. I snapped into a sharp salute and said, “Lieutenant Colonel Gaines, I beg your pardon, sir.”

I’d been trying to be a part of this man’s Army Air Corps since 8 December, 1941, and I can tell you that although I was a first lieutenant, I was only a WASP, and men weren’t allowed to salute me because I’m a woman. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t salute higher ranking officers if I wanted to. And I wanted to make it clear to your husband that my mistake had been from ignorance, not insolence.

Lieutenant Colonel Gaines gave me an answering salute and a smile.

“I’m glad you managed to land safely, Lieutenant Smith,” he told me. “You say you stalled when you turned?”

“Yes, sir. She was temperamental the entire flight, but she completely quit on me a little earlier than I wanted her to.” I took him over to the plane, and we messed around with engine for quite some time.

While we did that, I told him about the Women’s Auxiliary Ferry Squadron (that’s what it was called back then; it wasn’t until last summer they started calling us Women Airforce Service Pilots, or WASPs), and that due to the shortage of male pilots, the Army Air Corps was making use of female flyers for such home front assignments as equipment transport and delivery. In turn, he told me about the Tuskegee experiment—that due to the shortage of
white
male pilots, the Army Air Corps had begun pilot training for exemplary Negro men. He was the commander of a squadron made up entirely of colored pilots. What an opportunity! I was envious because there was a chance they’d see action, while it was clear that I never would.

As we checked that engine, it was also clear to me that Walter Gaines knew as much about airplanes as I did. And I knew that I’d impressed him as much as he’d impressed me.

Walter shook my hand as I climbed onto the bus that would take me to the white part of the air base, and he said, “That was some good flying today, Lieutenant.”

That made me feel proud, because clearly he was a well-educated man and a skillful pilot himself, and that should have been that. End of story.

Except later that day, in the early evening, I was sitting on a bench outside of the officers’ mess on the white part of the base, and who should come walking along the dusty road from the colored airfield but Lt. Col. Gaines.

He was taking his time because it was a hot summer evening. He lifted his hand to me in greeting, but he didn’t walk any faster.

“Waiting for the bus into town?” he said when he moved into calling distance.

I stood up. “Yes, sir.” I was supposed to catch a flight back to Chicago, but I’d come in a little late, and the next plane wasn’t leaving for three days.

I’m sure he noticed my flight bag, because he said, “You might have difficulty finding a room in town. It’s college graduation tomorrow.” He smiled at me. “On the other hand, there’ll be parties and celebrations going on. You should probably plan to stay back here on base tonight, though.”

“Well, now,” I said. “That creates something of a problem, sir, seeing as how I’ve just been informed that there’s nowhere here on base for a female pilot to be billeted.” I laughed, making light of it. “I’ll just have to throw myself on God’s mercy—find a church in town that has cushions on the pews.” This was not the first time this had happened to me, and I knew for a fact that Walter must have had similar experiences.

D*mn, standing there talking to me, he—a lieutenant colonel—couldn’t even sit down to wait for the bus because the bench was marked “Whites Only.”

I took my flight bag and moved over to the other bench, the one with peeling paint, so we could both take a load off.

“You know,” Walter said, as he looked at me, “you’re welcome to come home with me.”

And oh, Mae, you know me! My brain always finds the nastiest explanation for anything. Or maybe I was still thinking too much about that missed dance with that captain back in New Mexico, because I remember sitting there, staring at Walter in total shock, thinking he’d just invited me to . . .

Well. You know Walt, too. He’s a very smart man, and it didn’t take him long to figure out where my thoughts had flown, just from looking at the expression on my face. I’m sure my cake hole was hanging open!

Walter quickly apologized. I swear, the man began backpedaling so hard, it’s a wonder he didn’t end up three counties away.

After he was done clearing his throat, he said, “I can say with complete certainty that
my wife
,
Mae
, wouldn’t be adverse to your occupying the bed in our guest room.”

Me, I’m sitting there, relieved as all h*ll that I haven’t just been propositioned by a lieutenant colonel.

But I hadn’t yet answered, and the bus was approaching, and Walt said, “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to stay in the church.”

And I knew what he was
really
saying was “Unless like some of the ignorant folk around these parts you have some kind of problem staying in the home of good, honest, and upright colored people.”

I looked him in the eye, and I said, “I would not be adverse—in fact, I would be most delighted, sir—to sleep in a real bed in your guest room. Are you sure your wife won’t mind?”

He gave me a smile. And he said, “I’m positive she’ll enjoy the company, Lieutenant.”

And that, dearest friend, is how I came to meet
you
.

I’m out of space and must rush to get this letter in the post.

You and Walt and precious Jolee are always in my thoughts and my prayers. I hope your health is improving—you must think strong thoughts! I’ll try to stop in and see you soon.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Manuel Conseco, the head honcho of the Bureau’s Sarasota office, had come down to this crime scene himself. His team was taking fingerprints off every surface of that little house. They hadn’t yet removed the body, and they probably wouldn’t for a while. In fact, Sam had overheard a discussion about doing the autopsy right there in the kitchen.

Because, Jesus, Mary Lou had been there so long that, in order to move her, they were going to have to shovel her off the floor.

The forensics team had arrived, and they’d determined where the shooter had been standing just from the splatter marks of blood on the wall.

They also estimated how tall he was. And, assuming he’d held the shotgun at his shoulder, they figured he was just about the same height as Sam.

And wasn’t
that
convenient?

Sam had told his story about forty-eight times, to forty-eight different people, pointing out in forty-eight different ways that he’d been thousands of miles away when the murder had occurred. And yet Conseco had implied that they would want him to come downtown for additional questioning after his people were finished up here.

Sam wasn’t sure what else he could possibly say. He didn’t know anything about Mary Lou’s life here in Sarasota. Was she still attending AA meetings? Did she have any friends? Was she seeing anyone? He didn’t know, didn’t know, didn’t know.

He heard Noah shift his weight slightly, and he knew another FBI agent was approaching them. Time to answer those freaking questions all over again.

“Is he asleep?” a voice asked softly. It was a voice he’d recognize anywhere.

“I don’t think so,” Noah told Alyssa Locke.

What the hell was she doing here?

Sam opened his eyes and pushed back the bill of his baseball cap as she sat down beside him. Right in the grass. He’d expected Noah and Claire to risk getting their clothes dirty, but
Alyssa
?

She certainly got to Florida fast enough.

“Hey, Sam,” she said, as if they’d run into each other on some city street instead of her coming nearly a thousand miles to see him. She took in his beard and his shoulder-length hair—he looked remarkably like Jesus with a hangover these days—without a single comment or so much as a blink.

“I figured you could use a little moral support,” she told him. She was wearing her dark hair short, and with her pretty face, perfect cafe-au-lait skin, and big green eyes, it made her look almost fragile. Delicate.

He knew better. Alyssa Locke was tougher and stronger than most men he knew.

God
damn
she looked good, like she might’ve actually put on a pound or two in the months since he’d seen her last. She’d been too skinny back then, but now she looked . . . healthy again. Strong and healthy and female. More like the way she’d looked the last time he’d seen her naked.

Which had been too,
too
long ago.

“Have they estimated a date and time of death yet?” she continued. “Because as soon as they do, we need to get on the phone with Coronado and establish the fact that you were in California when it happened.”

“So I
am
a suspect.” Sam exhaled in disgust. “That’s just great.”

“It’s standard procedure, so suck it up,” she told him briskly. “Don’t take it personally.”

He laughed. “Yeah, right. Go into the kitchen and look at Mary Lou and then come back here and tell me not to take it personally when it’s implied that
I
did that.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the house. Glanced at Noah, who was listening to every word they said. “I’m sorry,” she said to him. “Are you with the Sarasota office?”

“I’m with Ringo—Sam,” he said. “I live here in town, and when he called, I came. I’m not a lawyer, but I know quite a few, and I’ve been encouraging Sam to wait before answering any more questions—”

“I’m on Sam’s side,” Alyssa interrupted. “We’ve—” She glanced at Sam. “—known each other for some years now. We’re friends. Mister . . . ?”

Sam laughed. Yeah, right. They were friends and he was having lunch tomorrow with the pope.

She gave him another look.

“Noah Gaines,” Noah said, clearly noticing all of it. Sam’s laughter, Alyssa’s sharp look.

She held out her hand to Noah. “Alyssa Locke.”

Now she was the one who was watching for any kind of reaction, which, of course, Noah didn’t give her because there was none to give.

When she glanced at Sam again, he shook his head very slightly. Noah didn’t know. As he’d promised her, Sam hadn’t told anyone about those nights—on two separate occasions—when Alyssa had come to his room and completely rocked his world.

Back before Mary Lou had told him she was pregnant. Back before Alyssa had hooked up with Max. The fucker.

“How’s Max?” he asked her now.

“Worried about you,” she answered.

Yeah, right.

“Do you have any idea who might’ve done this?” she asked.

“No.”

Something flared in her eyes at his uncooperative response. “Look, I know how hard this must be for you—”

“Yeah, and it’s
so
much easier now that
you’re
here.” Truth was, he had absolutely no idea who would want to kill Mary Lou. He had no clue at all. One of the aliens from outer space that his mentally ill neighbor Donny DaCosta saw lurking behind every bush would have been just as accurate a guess as anything else Sam might’ve been able to come up with.

Alyssa was silent for a moment. Then she said, quietly now, “I’m sorry you feel that way. Max wanted to send someone who knew you, and—”

“So he could ask you whether or not you think I’m lying when I say—again—that I didn’t kill her?”

“I know you didn’t kill her.” She usually looked around him, above him, past him, or even through him. But now she looked directly into his eyes and even held his gaze. It was the longest amount of time she’d ever allowed herself to do that—aside from those couple of nights that they both were naked, and he was making love to her. Just remembering the way she’d looked at him back then made his chest hurt. “I heard you when you said it the first time, Starrett, and I don’t need to ask again. Has there been any information on Haley’s whereabouts?”

“No,” he told her. She actually believed he didn’t kill Mary Lou. Man, now his throat ached, too. “All I know is she’s not in there. Haley’s not . . .”

His daughter wasn’t decomposing in one of the other rooms of the house.

“Thank God for that at least,” Alyssa said softly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Thank God for that.” Thank God. His daughter’s mother was dead—maybe killed in front of Haley’s eyes. And Haley—helpless and completely defenseless—was God knows where. To his complete and total horror Sam started to cry.

He’d thought he was succeeding at being stalwart, but really, maybe all he’d been was numb.

Before the FBI had arrived, before Noah and Claire had rushed over, Sam had gone inside and searched the house, every room, every closet, his stomach in a knot. Behind every single door, he’d expected to find Haley, her face as unrecognizable as Mary Lou’s.

Instead, he’d found the kitchen table set for three—with two adult chairs and one booster seat—and toys scattered across the living room floor. There was clothing in laundry baskets, clothing on bedroom floors, clothing hanging in closets and in dresser drawers. Shampoo and soap on the edge of the tub, and makeup and hair gels out on the sink counter.

It was a house that looked lived in and comfortable. Apparently, after she’d left him, Mary Lou had stopped spending every spare minute cleaning.

Sam had found a stack of papers and envelopes on the kitchen counter. Bills and the like. On the top were the papers for the divorce lawyer, signed and dated from more than three weeks ago.

Mary Lou hadn’t been messing with his head.

She’d just been dead.

He’d found lots of signs of life in that house as well as potential clues as to the time of day the murder had taken place—shortly before dinner—but he hadn’t found his baby daughter’s dead body.

The relief he’d felt was short-lived—replaced by fear. Where in hell
was
she?

“Give me a minute,” he said to Alyssa now as he struggled to get back in control.

Her eyes were wide in her face. “Sam, my God, it’s all right if you—”

“Give me. A fucking. Minute.”

She knew him well enough to stand up and walk away.

But Noah knew him even better. He put his arms around Sam, just like he’d done when they were kids back in Texas.

Just like Walt—Noah’s grandfather—had done for both of them more times than Sam could count.

“It’s okay,” Noah murmured. “You don’t have to be Superman. Don’t freak out just because you’re human, Ringo.”

Ringo.

Sam could remember the first time Walter Gaines had called him that. It was the day after Luke Duchamps broke his leg falling out of that tree. Noah had approached Sam—he was Roger back then—after the final bell at school and asked him if he wanted to come over again, this time to check out his grandfather’s new personal computer.

Roger was more interested in Walt’s cooking after having sampled it the day before. And sure enough, when they came in the kitchen door, Walt was stirring something in a big pot that smelled heavenly. The old man had a bad leg, bad enough to make him limp when he walked, and when he cooked, he often perched on a stool in front of the stove.

“Nostradamus!” he greeted Noah from his seat, with a broad smile. It was weeks before Roger found out that Nostradamus was some kind of fortune-teller and that Walt had started calling Noah that back when he was five for his propensity for saying “But Grandpa, what if . . . ?” Walt gave the pot another stir. “And his trusty sidekick, Ringo! Who’s hungry?”

Roger was. He was starved—and for far more than Walt’s cooking.

That was the day he’d met Dot, Noah’s grandmother and Walter’s wife. The day before, she’d been visiting her stepdaughter Jolee, Noah’s aunt, whose own daughter, Maya, had just given birth to Walter’s first great-grandchild.

Roger had been shocked when he met Dot Gaines. Shocked but also enormously curious. Enough to ask Noah about her.

“She’s white,” Roger whispered, as if it were a secret, even though Dot had gone upstairs.

Noah had nodded. “Yeah. So what?”

“So . . . you’re black.”

“Actually,” Noah said, “I’m at least a quarter white. My father was half white. And my mother, well, she looked black, but she was probably at least part white, too. Many African Americans are. Have you read much about what it was like to be black in America before the Civil War?”

Roger shook his head.

And Noah had proceeded to give Roger both a lesson in the harsh realities of slavery in America, in which a shameful number of babies born to female slaves were the offspring of their white owners, and a lesson in genetics, in dominant and recessive genes.

“The way I figure it, sooner or later everyone in the world will be the same shade of brown,” Noah told him.

Roger had wandered around Noah’s living room, looking at the pictures on the walls.

There was a wedding photo of Walt and Dot with a little black girl standing beside them. And there was a picture of an African-American woman holding a tiny baby. She was very pretty and smiling at the camera as if the person taking the picture had just told a good joke.

“Who’s that?” Roger asked.

“That’s Mae,” Noah said. “She was my aunt Jolee’s mother. She was married to Grandpa before he married my grandmother. She died during the war.”

“The Civil War?” Roger asked.

Noah didn’t laugh at his stupidity. He never laughed at stupid questions. He just gently corrected. “The Civil War was in the 1860s. Mae died during World War Two—you know, the one against Hitler and the Nazis. That happened back about forty years ago, in the 1940s. Look at this.” Over on the end table next to the sofa was a picture of Walt in a fancy uniform. “My grandfather was a colonel in the Air Force. It was called the Army Air Corps back then. He commanded a squadron of the Tuskegee Airmen—black fighter pilots. You ever hear of them?”

Roger shook his head.

“Soup’s on, gentlemen!” Walt called from the kitchen in his big, booming voice.

Noah smiled at Roger. “You will.”