Ragged Man (27 page)

He joined the crowd, acting like another innocent bystander, and watched. After awhile two of the police cars left. Some of the crowd left. One of the remaining two police cars left. Two uniformed policemen draped a yellow banner across the front door bearing the words Police Line Do Not Cross. The last black and white left. More of the crowd left. The crime lab van stayed and Rick wandered away with the last of the crowd.

He felt so useless, with nowhere to turn, no one to turn to, no friend he could count on for help. He was truly alone, like he had never been before. Everybody he loved was either dead or gone and if he failed to get to Tampico in time, failed to find the boy once he got there, and failed to stop the killer, then J.P. would be dead, too. He didn’t know how he would or could save the boy, much less get to Tampico. It all seemed so impossible.

And even if he was able to get the keys to the plane, he still had to get to the airport. He damn sure couldn’t take a taxi. The last thing he needed was for an underpaid cabby to alert the police. He also couldn’t rent a car, for if he was worried that the police had given his description or possibly his photo to the city’s cabbies, then they also would have the rental companies covered, too.

And once he got to the airport, he had to fly the plane, something he hadn’t done in over ten years. And he not only had to fly it, he had to fly it over five hundred miles, at night. And even if he accomplished that, he still had to land. Ten years was a long time, and landing an airplane, even a small Cessna, required experience and perfect precision.

He thought of Ann and how she had always encouraged him to try the impossible. She was the one who had pushed him to branch out into CDs, to learn to fly, to learn off road racing, to race, to travel to the most dangerous parts of the world. He imagined hearing her clear voice.

“
Bury your doubts. The keys will be there. You will be able to fly the plane. You will get there in time. You will find J.P. and you will save him. Be positive, be strong, get mad, get even.”

Hot anger burrowed into the river of blood running through his veins. It was now, more than ever, clear to him that J.P. had seen a Bowie knife on the porch the day Ann died, and that meant that the man who had J.P. was somehow, someway responsible for Ann’s death. He had taken away the life of his love and Rick was going to make him pay.

He found himself wandering back toward Christina’s, where he saw that the crime lab van was still there, but he hadn’t really expected it to be gone. They would more than likely be there most of the day, he thought, and then he saw it, parked two houses away from Christina’s. A beautiful 1956 Chevy Nomad.

An idea began to form, but it would mean some shopping. He smiled to himself, despite his desperate situation, because it felt good taking action, acting instead of reacting. He walked up to Second Street, the trendy shopping area of Long Beach’s Belmont Shore District. McCain’s Records was just opening and Elliot’s Hardware next door already had customers inside and down the street was the small, but high priced Kornyphone Stereo Store next to Howdy’s Candies. He’d be able to get everything he needed in just a few blocks and satisfy his sweet tooth as well.

At McCain’s he bought Brainwashed, the George Harrison CD that came out shortly after his death. He bought a portable CD player to listen to it at Kornyphone’s and at Elliot’s he bought a claw hammer and a screwdriver. He decided to pass on the candy, instead buying a ham and cheese to go at the Toasted Deli and then he went back to the motel, where he ate his sandwich, then stretched out on the bed nearest the door and listened to the gentle Beatle till he fell asleep.

He didn’t wake till well after dark.

* * *

He approached Christina’s empty home with caution. It was a clear night. The neighborhood was quiet. The crime lab van was gone, but the yellow police warning tape was still pasted to the front door. He kept walking and turned the corner when he reached the end of the block. Less than a minute later he turned a second corner and approached the house from the alley behind.

When he came to her back gate, he ripped off the yellow banner, opened it and went into the backyard. He walked to the back door like he belonged. He stepped up to the porch, wrapped a wash cloth that he had lifted from the motel around the hammer’s head and, like he’d done it a thousand times before, he tapped the laundry room window, sending shattering glass inside to cover the washer and dryer.

With his arm in the window, he was able to reach the security latch that helped keep the back door locked. He had no problem with the double deadbolt, he simply used the key Christina had given him over five years ago.

He didn’t have to look long or hard for the keys. They were on a key hook next to the refrigerator. He pocketed the key ring, then left through the back door, going out the back gate.

He retraced his steps up the alley and around the block, till he was again in front of her house. He continued on, till he came to the ’56 Nomad, where he again brought the washcloth covered hammer into play, swinging it against the driver’s side windwing, sending shards of safety glass over the front seat as he had sent glass over the washer and dryer. And for the second time in a matter of minutes, his arm snaked in a window where it didn’t belong to unlock a door.

He swept the glass from the seat. Then he took the screwdriver out of his back pocket and reached under the dash, pushing the metal end of the screwdriver into the ignition, making a connection between the positive and negative posts. The car started just as they all did during fifth period lunch when he had been in high school. He would not have been able to hotwire any car made in the last thirty years, but in the good old days, when everybody left their doors unlocked, any kid with a screwdriver or the tin foil from a pack of cigarettes could start a car.

He drove back to the motel, where he retrieved Dark Dancer. He left the key on the television, hopped back into the car and settled back for the short ride to the airport, listening to oldies but goodies on a push button radio that was just about a half a century old.

Fifteen minutes later he was standing in front of the red Cessna he’d sold to Christina so long ago, during better days.

He unlocked the door and climbed in. He set the caged bird in the back seat, removed the control wheel lock, checked to make sure the ignition switch was off and turned the master switch on. He visually checked the flaps by flipping the flap switch, raising and lowering them. He tried to think of what to do next. Then the folly of what he was attempting hit him. His hands started shaking. He started to sweat. He studied the controls. Did he pull the carburetor heat out or leave it in? What was the frequency for ground control? It had been too long. He had no business flying. It was a stupid thing he was doing. There was no way he was going to get to the runway, much less take off.

He flipped the master switch off. He needed help and there was nowhere he could turn. Then he thought of the Flight Room. A café with a bar across the street from the airport. Pilots used to hang out there. He bet they still did.

“
Hang in there, Dancer,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

Ten minutes later he took a seat at the only empty table on the café side of the Flight Room. The bar was through a red curtain, past the restrooms at the back of the café. He’d have no use for anybody over there. Any pilot worth his salt wouldn’t fly tonight if he was already drinking.

“
Can I help you?” The voice had a musical lilt to it. He looked up as the waitress handed him the menu. The Flight Room had been in the same location, serving pilots as long as he could remember. It hadn’t changed. Even the smile on the aging waitress with the sweet voice was the same.

“
I remember you,” Rick said.

“
And I remember you.” The waitress smiled, blue eyes twinkling.

“
Uh oh,” Rick said.

“
Why, uh oh?” she asked.

“
It’s been a long time and I didn’t fly for that long. I got my license and maybe only flew for six months, before I sold the plane and stopped coming in here.”

“
You remembered me, why shouldn’t I remember you?” She smoothed her skirt and gave a quick glance around the cafe to see if anybody needed anything.

“
There were only two waitress here when I used to come in, easy for me to remember them, but you must see hundreds of customers,” Rick said.

“
You were different,” she said.

“
How so?”

“
You flew every day, but you didn’t fly.”

“
I could never really understand what made them stay up. In the back of my mind, I thought I could fall out of the sky at any second, so I wanted to be ready. I may not be the best pilot on the planet, but I can put a Cessna 172 down on a postage stamp in a hurricane.”

“
I believe it,” the waitress said, still smiling, then adding, “My name’s Katherine Spencer.”

“
No relation to Susan Spencer up in Tampico?”

“
My sister, you know her?”

“
I live up there now,” Rick said, thinking, wondering if he could ask this woman for help. “Susan’s one of my best friends.”

“
You know how she used to work in the diner, saved up her money, then bought it?”

“
Yeah,” Rick said.

“
Well, this is my place. I own the Flight Room now,” she said.

“
Really.”

“
You’re in trouble, Rick Gordon. They’re saying some pretty awful things about you on the radio.”

“
I can imagine,” he said. “Why didn’t you get on the phone and call the police the second I walked in?”

“
Because Susan called right after I’d heard it.” She slid into the booth opposite him. “I remembered you and I brought it up. She said it had to be hogwash. She said she knew you and that it absolutely wasn’t true.”

“
And you believe her,” Rick said, wary.

“
We’re twins, not identical, fraternal, but we’re close. We think alike, no, not alike, the same, identical. What I experience, what I see, what I believe, what I feel, all that I am, she knows. Like I know about her. We talk everyday. We may live over five hundred miles apart, but we’re as close as two humans can possibly be. If Susan says it’s hogwash, it’s hogwash. I’d sooner doubt the sun was coming up in the morning than doubt her word. Now, how can I help you?”

“
I need to get to Tampico, yesterday. I have my old plane, but I can’t fly it. It’s been too long. I need someone to fly me up.

“
I’ll ask around. Meanwhile you look like you need a hearty meal. Meatloaf’s the special tonight. I can have it on your plate before you can blink. It’s on the house.” She slid out of the booth and true to her word, Rick was tucking into meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy in no time at all.

He was halfway through the meal when she returned. She slid into the booth like they were old friends, while he swallowed a delicious bite of her meatloaf.

“
I found someone,” she said. “I told him you were supposed to meet a pilot here to take your plane up to Palma-Tampico. He’s only going as far as Bakersfield, but it’s a start and it’s in the right direction. He’ll fly your plane for free, seems he got here a little too late to meet his ride. He thinks you’re a godsend.”

“
Sounds like a match made in heaven. Where is he?”

“
Finishing his dinner in the bar.”

“
Has he been drinking?”

“
No, he’s a regular, Bob Mitchel. Flew B-29s in World War II. Been flying out of here ever since. Teaches flying at Condor Aviation. He doesn’t drink, he just prefers the atmosphere in the bar.”

“
Hey Katy, that the guy?” a deep base voice boomed across the restaurant. Katherine waved as Rick turned his head. A big man, with penetrating blue eyes and a shocking silver mane, waved back as he approached the table. Rick started to get up. “No, don’t get up on my account,” the man said, hand out.

“
Rick Gordon.” Rick shook his hand as he sat down next to Katherine and for a second he felt like kicking himself. How could he have been so stupid as to give his real name. What if the guy had seen the news.

“
Katy tells me you want someone to fly your plane up north.”

“
That’s right,” Rick said.

“
You the same Rick Gordon that used to fly One-Six-Tango in the pattern every morning, before Christina Page bought it out from under you?”

“
The same.” Rick thought he was about to be busted. “How do you know about that?”

“
Worked the control tower for twenty years. I’ll never forget you taking off and landing, taking off and landing, touch and go, touch and go, but it was the power off, side slip, practice emergency landings I remember best. You’d dump the power halfway through the downwind, go into the slip and drop like a rock, then straighten out at the last possible instant and set it down, squeaking the wheels on the numbers every time. It was beautiful to watch. She sell you the plane back?”

“
Yeah,” Rick lied, relieved that the man apparently wasn’t aware of his present problems. “She wants to buy something a little bigger and a little faster and I kind of missed flying, so it worked out all the way around.”

“
So what do you need a pilot for?”

“
I haven’t flown in ten years.”

“
Shame.”