Ragged Man (29 page)

He removed the tool box shoe from his feet and set it next to the gas can. Then he picked up the can and shoved it through the opening into the back seat. It was time for his escape.

He thrust his head through the opening and learned that it was going to be a tight fit. Tight but possible. Arms first, he squeezed through, scraping chest and back, but he’d been through so much he was immune to the pain, as the rough metal cut through his tee shirt and into his skin. Once the top half of his body was through, his waist, legs and feet followed easily.

Out of the trunk, he pushed the top half of the seat back into place and climbed over into the front. He opened the glove compartment, looking for matches and smiled when he found several packs. The Ragged Man was a smoker. He took a pack out, then reached into the back for the gas can.

He poured gasoline over the front and back seat, then stepped out of the car into the cool evening. With a start, he realized he was in the woods, at the end of a dirt road he knew well. If he followed it back the way the car had come, he’d wind up on the twisting winding road that led up the hill to home, but he had no intention of going that way. If he went on into the woods he would find an animal trail that he had played on often. He could follow that around and up the hill and maybe get home without running into the Ragged Man coming back to his car.

He took off his Levi’s and soiled underwear. He put the jeans back on, tossed the underwear onto the front seat and struck a match. There was no breeze. The match lit easily and stayed lit. He tossed it onto the front seat, and the interior of the old brown Ford Granada burst into flames. He turned away from the fire and jogged into the familiar darkening woods—heading home.

He was free. He had freed himself, and he had done it without the Dome Ring and its magic power powder.

Chapter Nineteen

“
It’s me, Harrison,” Rick said, shoulders slumped. It was out of his hands now. He’d tell Harrison about J.P. The FBI would be alerted. They’d do things by the book. He hoped it would be enough, but he was afraid it wouldn’t be. The man who kidnapped J.P. had killed before, he wasn’t about to stop now.

“
I’ve been wanting to talk to you for the last six or seven months, so it sure is a lucky coincidence, me running into you here tonight, so far from home,” Harrison Harpine drawled, his florid face grinning wide.

“
What for?” Rick asked, shoulders picking up. Whatever it was, it wasn’t anything that was going to land him in jail, not if he’d been looking for him for that long, and not with that grin.

“
I hear you gave a thousand dollars to Sturgees’ re-election campaign last time around,” Harrison said. He was wearing a red, white and orange plaid sportcoat that he couldn’t quite get buttoned over his beer belly and didn’t match his dark blue slacks.

“
I didn’t know that was public knowledge, but so what?” True enough, he’d given the money, but it wasn’t because he’d liked Sheriff Sturgees, he just couldn’t stomach Ozzie Oxlade. Ozzie and his brother Seymour ran the used car dealership across the way in Palma. A pair of sleezeballs to the nth degree.

“
Oh, yeah, anybody can find out who gives. They gotta post a list. It’s the law,” he said, looking down at the three of them sitting in the booth. Rick didn’t move. Katherine scooted over and Bob Mitchel followed her lead, giving Harrison room to sit.

“
I didn’t know that, but it doesn’t make any difference. Why should it interest you?” Rick said, but he could guess.

“
You gonna pass some of your money around Palma way?” He folded his hands on the table.

“
Chief, you don’t run for election. You’re appointed.”

“
Yeah, but the mayor’s not. He needs all the help he can get. It’d be a big feather in my cap, if I could say I talked to you and persuaded you to give to his campaign.”

“
He won’t face the voters for another year yet.”

“
Let’s face it, Mr. Gordon. He’s been in office a long time. Some people are already talking about a change. We’re just trying to get all our ducks lined up in a row, so to speak. Can we count on your support?”

“
I’d be glad to help out.” Rick didn’t particularly like Chief Harpine and he didn’t like Mayor Clifton Wood at all, but he wanted to keep Harrison Harpine happy tonight. If that meant he had to shell out a thousand dollars to help Wood get elected, then so be it. If he survived the next few days without winding up in prison, he’d be more than happy to contribute.

“
That’s great, just great.” Harpine beamed.

“
What are you doing here anyway?” Rick asked.

“
I was supposed to get a flight to Frisco, but they were overbooked, so I get to wait till morning.

“
You going up to Palma-Tampico?” Bob Mitchel asked.

“
Yep, just came down for a homicide convention. We don’t get many murders up in our neck of the woods, but I like to keep up. Also I get to meet cops from all over the country, you never know when that’ll come in handy.”

“
You go to a lot of conventions?” Rick asked.

“
Every chance I get,” Harpine said.

“
So you know a lot of cops.”

“
Bet I know someone on every force in America” Harpine said. “I got a computer database full of contacts.”

“
We’re going up in my plane. You want to hitch a ride?” Rick said. He didn’t want Chief Harpine on the plane with him, but more than that, he didn’t want the man sitting in a lonely motel room watching the news, then calling up some of his many contacts.

“
When you leaving?”

“
That’s up to Mr. Mitchel. He’s the pilot for the first leg.”

“
I’ll go by the flight school and pick up that logbook,” Mitchel said. “Then I’ll grab a few things and meet you at the plane.”

“
You know where it is?” Rick asked.

“
Old One-Six-Tango, yeah I know were she is. Heck, I know where every plane on this field is.”

“
Bob spends his life at the airport,” Katherine said.

“
Yeah, some nights I even sleep on the couch in the back room at the school. Since the wife died, doesn’t seem much reason for going home.”

“
Hey, what’s with the bird?” Chief Harpine said twenty minutes later as he climbed into the back of the plane.

“
A racing pigeon I picked up for J.P. Donovan,” Rick lied, not wanting to explain.

“
There’s a rumor going around that you’re sweet on his mama,” Harpine said.

“
Just a rumor, Chief,” Rick said, but he wondered if that wasn’t a lie, too. He brushed the thought from his mind as he walked around the plane, checking the flaps, oil level, rudder, ailerons and the fuel, making sure there was no condensation in it.

“
You seem to know your way around a plane,” Mitchel said.

“
Yeah, well, I’ve preflighted this one enough, I could do it in my sleep.”

“
I’ll bet you could fly it in your sleep, too. You just need a little confidence.”

“
Checking it over and taking it off are two different things,” Rick said, feeling a slight tingle at the base of his spine.

“
Don’t worry about it, you’ll be fine,” Mitchel said, climbing in the right side of the plane. Rick heard the older man grunt as he pulled himself in. “These old bones don’t do anything anymore without aching and hurting,” he said.

“
I’ve got a few aches and pains of my own.” Rick strapped himself into the pilot’s seat, turned the master switch on, visually checked the flaps from the inside of the plane, like he’d done earlier, by flipping the flap switch up and down. He rotated the yoke, checking the ailerons, moved the foot pedals, checking the rudder, then he looked at Mitchel.

“
Mixture,” Mitchel said.

Rick set it for full rich.

“
Carb heat off,” he said.

Rick set the carburetor heat.

“
Fuel gauges.”

Rick checked them, saw that both tanks were full. He gave a silent thanks to Christina.

“
Prime the engine.”

Rick pushed and pulled on the throttle, a strong, quick three times.

“
Ignition.”

Rick started the plane.

“
Oil pressure.”

Rick checked it and saw it climb into the green arc.

“
Brakes on and bring it to about a thousand RPM.”

Rick tapped the brakes and pulled out the fuel control knob till the tach needle climbed up and settled at a thousand RPM.

“
I already checked the weather,” Mitchel said, “clear with about five knots coming out of the west.”

Rick looked at the wind sock, sure enough a slight wind was blowing right down the runway.

“
All right,” Mitchel said, “we’ll fly directly over Los Angeles International, through the VFR corridor, at fifteen hundred feet.”

“
What’s that?” Harrison Harpine asked from the back seat. Rick thought he sounded tense.

“
According to VFR, that’s Visual Flight Rules, private pilots and their small planes are allowed to over fly the airport northbound at that altitude. We’ll be too high to interfere with traffic landing and taking off and too low to interfere with commercial traffic passing overhead,” Mitchel said.

“
So we’re going right over LAX? I’ll be right on top of the big jets?” Harpine said.

“
Yes, sir, right on top of them,” Mitchel said.

“
Hot damn, wait till I tell the boys.” He didn’t sound tense anymore, more like a child going for ice cream.

“
I’m going to dial in the Gormon VOR.” Mitchel bent forward, turned the knob on the VOR radio. “We’ll fly that fix as soon as we’re over LAX. All you have to do is keep the needle centered and it’ll guide you safely through the pass in the mountains and out of the L.A. Basin. I’ve got all the frequencies for the stations all the way to Bakersfield, but they’re really not necessary, because we can fly the highway.” Interstate 5, a road straight as an edge, cut through California from L.A. through Bakersfield to Sacramento and beyond.

Five minutes later they were through with ground control, through with the runup, through with the controller in the tower. The engine was purring, the prop was turning, the plane ahead had just lifted off and then Rick was facing down the four thousand feet of runway, trying to slow his rapid heartbeat.

“
Everything seem familiar?” Mitchel asked.

“
Yeah,” Rick said.

“
Nothing out of order?”

Rick ran his eyes over the controls, made a last check of flaps and rudder. “Nothing.”

“
Then you’re ready.”

“
Hey, wait a cotton pickin’ minute. What’s going on around here?” Harpine piped up.

“
Calm down, Mr. Harpine, we’re getting ready to take off.”

“
Does he know how to fly this thing or what?”

“
Not now, Mr. Harpine,” Mitchel said.

“
No! Now’s the time. Turn this thing off. I want out!” The smooth syrup was gone from his voice. He was shrill now.

Rick stomped on the brakes, pulled the throttle all the way out.

“
No, I want out!” Harpine shouted.

Rick released the brakes and the plane responded, shooting down the runway like a horse given its head.

“
Stop!” Harrison Harpine screamed.

“
Shut up, Mr. Harpine!” Mitchel screamed louder. Then to Rick, “Start your roll at about seventy or seventy-five.”

Rick kept his concentration on the long runway. In an instant it would be too late to abort. He looked at the airspeed indicator. Forty, forty-five.

“
Let me out of here!”

Fifty, fifty-five.

“
Sweet Mother of God, I’m going to die!”

Sixty, sixty-five and he started to ease back on the yoke.

“
Shit, shit, shit, stop it!”

Seventy, and he pulled back a touch harder.

“
You’re both under arrest. Stop this now! You are under arrest! This is an order!”

Seventy-five and Rick felt the wheels start to leave the ground as he pulled back a little harder.

“
Now, motherfucker! Shut it down!”

Eighty, eighty-five and he pulled back more. They were well past the point of no return.

“
Noooo!” Harpine screamed as they left the ground.

Tense, Rick smiled as he kept the back pressure on the yoke, the familiar tingling sensation shooting through him.

“
Feel the rush?” Mitchel said.

“
Yeah,” Rick answered.

“
Some people were just born to fly. You’re one of ’em. Every time you leave the ground that rush will get to ya. Like a runner’s high, like drugs. Makes no difference the type of plane—jet, helicopter or single-engine-land. It’ll even attack you in tourist class on a 747.”

“
Yeah,” Rick said, again. He knew exactly what the man was talking about. He relaxed the pressure on the yoke a bit, guiding the plane, flying the plane.

“
Wanna do a touch and go?”

“
What’s a touch and go?” Harpine squeaked from the back.