by Ed Miracle
When he opened her canopy, the scent of leather invited him to slip into her interior and be absorbed. Controls came perfectly to hand. A twist of the mystery key in her master switch produced the sigh of tiny fans, then the glow of flight instruments on her screen. Hello, Handsome. The lady could flirt. She was sleek and primed with fuel, bejeweled with the latest avionics. Everything about her cried out to be touched and to be flown.
What was he supposed to do? Had Machen entrusted him with his personal mistress-of-the-air to escort her to some future rendezvous? Or had he given her outright, to have and to hold? But that’s crazy. Nobody gives away an airplane. What did The Fugitive want? From a pouch at his knee came the Owner’s Manual, with two words scrawled on its cover: Share Me.
Everett licked his lips. He recalled Tiffany Lavery’s comment at the mall three weeks ago when she abandoned her bicycle. “I have another one—identical actually.” That’s how you give away an airplane, you copy it and share the copy. Identical, actually.
Yet this Share Me idea seemed to run deeper and less gracious than a plain invitation. Once you accepted a free copy, shouldn’t you share it? Make another copy to give away because that’s only fair? People would expect that. So sharing would snowball, if it was free, into a social obligation. People would expect it. Then they would demand it.
Still, it broke tons of cosmic inertia. How could he refuse?
Though Bobby would kill him. He had crossed a line this morning, helping Marcy, and here was another boundary, flashing red. Could an airplane be just a copy-table bauble, belonging to whoever used it? What harm could there be in flying her, keeping her, copying her? What did it matter if her previous owner was a notorious fugitive? She could be his now, if that’s what he wanted. Until he made his own decisions, he would just be somebody’s pull-toy, Bobby’s marionette.
He climbed from the cockpit and shoved open the hangar doors, flooding the bay with daylight. A steady pull on a tow hook rolled Philip Machen’s crimson mistress into the open air, her thin arms outstretched to receive the warm sun.
Everett sat in the cockpit, reading her specifications, memorizing numbers. Then he fastened his harness and drew down the canopy. When he spooled up the fan-jet, she glided forward, eager and confident. A pair of crows lifted away as he aligned her with the runway. Levering ten degrees of flaps, he scanned the pattern for traffic. Then he fed the throttle into its stops and released the brakes. Slender Lady surged a hundred feet before leaping into the air. Arcing vertical, still accelerating, he fed in a roll.
“Yeeeeehaaaaa!”
At ten thousand feet, he pushed her nose over, and the airspeed zoomed, setting up a vicious rattle. He was overpowering her skinny wings. He throttled back, cleaned up her appendages, and the vibration stopped. At 60 percent, she held 200 knots, straight and level. A quick calculation of fuel-flow versus pounds-remaining revealed they could reach Denver without refueling. Or Mexico. Or Canada.
He slipped her into a languid figure eight, scanned for traffic, then hauled the stick into his lap. G-forces made him gasp. The lady did screaming-tight loops. He caught his breath and did another, and another. She could loop faster and harder than he cared to endure. She could loop his brains out or pull off her wings, whichever came first.
“All right!”
He tried an Immelmann, then a floppy Hammerhead. He drew back the throttle, lowered the flaps, and hovered kite-like, barely doing thirty knots. He could land her in a parking lot if he wanted to.
To his right, the snowy Sierras gleamed. To his left, beyond the East Bay hills, San Francisco wedged itself between the dim bay and a shimmering sea. How could anyone traipse around day-after-day in earth-bound ruts, having once flown through a wide-open sky? Up here, out of reach, every minute could be a celebration, affirming his right to breathe. He was right to fly her, right to take her. They belonged together, up here, doing this.
He didn’t need to obey Philip Machen or pretend that he cared enough to oppose him. Protecting Makers or destroying them weren’t his fights. There had to be a middle way, a path between the extremes. No doubt he should copy this fabulous machine, to share her with others, but nobody was going to push him into doing stuff he didn’t want to do.
Just now he needed a name, something historical, to honor his lady of the skies. Glamorous Glennis had been a great beauty in her time, so that would be it.
He powered up and raised the flaps. There might be answers he would never know, but there was no question what he would do. He had found his place in the world, his path forward, and he couldn’t wait to show Bobby.
Soaring west on idle thrust, he descended from 6,000 feet. The Altamont Pass, so daunting from the ground, slid beneath him like crumpled green paper, a procession of ant-cars and bug-trucks traversing its folds. He descended rapidly, skimmed the warehouses east of Livermore, stayed low to hide his profile, and angled toward Poppy Ridge Golf Course. When the vineyards appeared, he banked west to skirt Livermore’s southern flanks.
Between the wineries and the gravel pits, Jesse Cardoza had windrowed his hay in a north-south direction. Everett could land between rows, so long as the crosswind stayed light. He skimmed Jesse’s house and barns, picked his row, and muscled a sharp right turn. Dumping power as he raised the nose, he kicked the rudder and plunged, hawk-like. He could balloon again by hauling down the flaps, but he feared overshooting, so he lowered the landing gear and popped the spoilers to shed lift. Then he drew back the stick and settled rapidly.
All was peachy until Jesse’s hay bailer appeared, dead ahead. He hadn’t noticed its rusted hulk, lurking in the center of his chosen aisle. He jabbed left rudder, then right, in a wild yaw, barely aligning again as the wheels struck in the adjacent row. On his second bounce, the right wingtip snagged some mounded hay and spun him thirty degrees to a jarring halt. Glamorous Glennis had arrived none too elegantly. With a thumping heart and an empty head, he killed the engine and released the canopy. So this is love.
Jesse Cardoza’s one-ton truck careered onto the field and bounced toward him. When it juddered to a stop nearby, two men got out, and the driver raised a rifle. When Everett removed his headset and sunglasses, its barrel swung aside.
“Jesus Christ. What are you doing, Everett?”
Bobby said this, but Jesse’s eyes were saying it too. The rancher scowled and laid his .223 on the hood of the truck.
“Hi, Dad. Hi, Jesse.”
In scuffed Wellington boots and a Rural Supply ball cap, Jesse Cardoza was one of those men Bobby called wiry. Despite his button-straining belly, there was no doubt Jesse could draw a barbed wire fence as taut as a banjo string with his bare hands, which was Everett’s first memory of him. He still walked pigeon-toed too.
Everett stepped from the cockpit and couldn’t help smiling.
“Where have you been?” Bobby demanded. “And what’s this?”
“My airplane.”
Two sets of eyebrows shot up.
“Good to see you again, Jesse.” Everett tried a casual tone. “Sorry I couldn’t make it this morning. Got sidetracked.” He offered his hand, knowing what was coming. Jesse always squeezed an order of magnitude too hard. Everett endured the ritual and returned Jesse’s grin, which was fierce and friendly.
“Good to see you, Everett. I think.”
Bobby seemed unsure, as well. “What’s this all about, Son?”
“We need to copy this plane.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Tracy.”
“Why’s it here?”
“I’m . . . taking care of it.”
“Take it back.”
“Nobody’s there.”
“Are you nuts? Nobody saw you take it, so it’s yours?”
“I didn’t steal it, and I’m pretty sure it’s a copy.”
“Copy, schmoppy. Take it back.”
“It’s mine, and I want to make more of them if you guys will lend a hand.” Jesse was enjoying this, but the twinkle in his
eye could turn to cast iron the instant Everett gave a weak response. “We can fly to Canada, Dad. To find Mom and Melinda.”
Bobby staggered. His shock turned to disgust.
“Where’s your Honda?”
Everett jerked his head eastward.
“So how are you getting to work tomorrow?”
Everett shrugged.
“Did General fire you?”
“No. I just have this airplane now. We can fly, Dad. We can go anywhere we want and start our own service.”
“Who? Who gives away airplanes?”
“She’s our ticket, Dad.”
“Somebody is searching for this thing, and you brought it here? So now Jesse’s in trouble too? Is that how you repay a friend? Get it out of here, or so help me I’ll call the cops myself.”
Jesse’s twinkle disappeared. Without a word, he returned to the truck and stashed his gun behind the seat. Bobby paced the length of a wing, waving his hands.
“Why couldn’t you steal something small?” He grabbed a wingtip. “C’mon, help me turn it around.”
Everett shook his head, kicked at the oat stubble.
“Soil’s too soft here for takeoff. She needs a hundred feet of hardpan.”
“What were you thinking?” Bobby threw up his hands. “What are we supposed to do with a damned airplane?”
“Cover it up.”
Bobby snorted. “Before the cops find it.”
“Or the satellites.”
“Damn, Everett, whose plane did you take?”
Now Jesse strode over and planted himself under Everett’s chin, bumped him belly-to-belly. “Tell us straight, kid.”
Everett squirmed. “This morning I helped Marcy Johnson interview Philip Machen. He gave me the plane.”
Bobby flung his ball cap to the ground and stomped it. Even Jesse backed away. “Jesus,” he said, and his hands clutched at the empty air.
“You stupid shit.” Bobby twisted. “Now you’re playing footsie with a maniac, and he’s bribed you. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“You’re just jealous ‘cause I did something without you. Something important.”
Bobby charged, knocked him down, and pummeled him with open-handed slaps. Everett put up his hands but deflected only half the blows. Jesse took approximately forever to get a bear hug around Bobby and to pull him off. When the thrashing and the cursing subsided, he rolled Bobby across his hip like a bale of hay.
Bobby lay on his side, gasping. After a while he got up, brushed himself, and trod away, plucking straw and dirt from his ball cap.
Everett spit blood and mucus. Keep going, you bastard, just like Mom did. I should have gone with her, but you wouldn’t say it. So I stayed. For you.
Jesse fetched a white pouch from the truck, which he twisted and laid on Everett’s face. The cold pack turned colder as Everett pressed it to his mouth. Without a word, Jesse returned to the truck and backed it away, churning through the field in reverse.
Everett lay on the oat stubble and surveyed the sky, found it bluer than it had been all spring. Not a bird or a cloud or a plane.
Whenever he took matters into his own hands, Bobby criticized. That was the pattern. But he didn’t have to take it anymore. He had flown to the ranch to take his father with him—didn’t the jackass know that? No matter what the world did about Makers, this plane was his future, his and Bobby’s.
The roar of Jesse’s one-ton returned, and Everett sat up. Bad idea. The spins twirled him somewhere between the earth and the sky, so he laid back down. Knowing Jesse, it would be chainsaws and hay hooks to chop up Glamorous Glennis, to haul her off in pieces. But instead, the gruff old Portuguese parked nearby and looped a tow cable through his hitch bracket, playing it over to Everett.
“Get up kid. You’re milking it. Help me get this pile of parts over to the barn. I got some tarps to cover it up if you’ll get off your ass.”
Everett blotted his mouth on his sleeve, inspected the spot for blood.
“People still need pilots, don’t they, Jess? I mean besides the airlines? That’s what I’m going to do. Take people where they want to go, in this plane.”
“Your dad is right. You’re dumb as a fish fart, but maybe not a criminal. So get up.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Everett and Jesse had just covered Glamorous Glennis when a dark gray sedan crunched up the driveway and stopped at the barn, not the house. Only Bobby and the Cardoza’s knew Everett was here. How could anyone have found him so soon? Were they watching when he landed? Or had Bobby really called the cops? This was not the best moment to have a .32 pistol in his back pocket.
The lone driver parked and got out. It was Hollywood, the FBI crewcut from Ms. Lavery’s place, the one with all the questions. Same blue suit and leather shoes. He removed his sunglasses and grimaced as if pained to ask for directions. He nodded to Everett but approached Jesse.
“Mr. Cardoza? My name is Leslie Parker, Federal Agent. Mr. Aboud and I have already met.” He flipped open his badge wallet and grinned like a model from a toothpaste ad.
The king of Portuguese staredowns ignored the badge and locked onto Parker’s eyes. Agent Parker stared back, more amused than surprised.
“Mr. Aboud, may I have a few words with you, in private, please?”
Jesse puffed his considerable chest and answered for him. “What do you want, Officer?”
“Philip Machen, actually.”
“Not here, actually.”
“But you know where he was this morning, don’t you, Mr. Aboud?” Parker still hadn’t taken his eyes off Jesse. “Unless Mr. Aboud wants another ride to our facilities, I hope you will excuse us, Mr. Cardoza. Thank you for your cooperation, sir.” He cut the chit chat by turning to Everett.
Jesse shrugged and ambled to his truck, grinning all the way. He had won the staredown. He hopped onto the flatbed and sat with his Wellington boots dangling.
“Whatever happened to your face, Mr. Aboud?” Parker approached him.
“I was wrestling an aardvark.”
Parker nodded, tucked away his badge.
“And what do we have here?” He peeled a tarpaulin, exposing a cherry-red wingtip.
“My airplane.”
“Registered to you, is it?”
Everett looked away. For all he knew, it wasn’t registered to anyone. And where the hell is Bobby? Doesn’t he want to see this?
Parker scanned the yard, too, then flipped more canvas until he reached the cockpit. He stood there, listening perhaps to the gob of plastic in his ear. He glanced again at Everett and Jesse. Then he produced a notebook and scribbled numbers from the cockpit. When he finished, he left the canopy open and the tarpaulins scattered.
“Tell me,” he said, “how does a shoe clerk afford his own private jet?” Parker drew closer, removed his sunglasses. “Payment for services?”
“You wish.” Blood had clotted in Everett’s nostrils, and he sounded stupid, even to himself. “I only met him this morning, Mr. Parker. We didn’t talk. He gave me the key to the plane and told me to keep it, that’s all. He didn’t say why.”
“Nice man. Generous.”
Everett showed him the key fob and explained how he didn’t know it was for an airplane until he went to Tracy. “It’s not a bribe,” he said.
“Yet you flew it here and told no one. Not even Ms. Johnson.”
Sweat trickled between Everett’s shoulders. Do they have Marcy too?
Parker squinted. “Did he recruit you?”
“He fed us breakfast, and we did the interview. There was no time for anything else.”
“Before the interview, did he say or do anything unusual? Any kind of ritual or gesture? Did he use the word secular or humanist?”
Everett shook his head. “He wanted breakfast without agendas.”
“So what’s your impression, Mr. Aboud? What is Philip Machen all about?”
Everett shrugged. “He believes his own shit.”
“And?”
“Saving the world.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“But he does.” Parker drew within cologne range. “Behind all that posturing this morning, what do you suppose he really wants?”
“Forgiveness?”
“Hardly.”
Another shrug. “He wants it to happen,” Everett said. “He knows what’s going to happen, and that’s what he wants.”
“Ah, yes, the plan. Chaos and anarchy. Destroy America so he can thump his chest, take our scalps, and count his coup. But where does that kind of thinking come from, Mr. Aboud? That book he published on the internet, its title is Maker Advent. Now, that’s a religious word, advent. It means a progression toward something that’s coming or a person who’s coming. A prophet, maybe. People say he’s a nonbeliever, because of his father, but that’s not true, is it? You said it yourself. Philip Machen believes his own shit.”
Everett crossed his arms, looked at Jesse, who looked back just as dumb.
Parker donned his sunglasses, concealing the gleam in his eyes. James Bond had fleeced the casino, but what had he snatched?
“Thank you for your efforts this morning, Mr. Aboud. Your video will be of help to us. And thank you for this little chat. I will say in your file that you cooperated.” He offered his hand.
Everett shook the FBI’s hand, certain he’d been gulled.
“You and your father live here now, is that right?” Again Parker surveyed the yard. “You will call me then, if Mr. Machen shows up, wanting his airplane?”
Everett nodded his throbbing head.
Parker grinned like a lottery winner.
“If I were you, Mr. Aboud, I’d stay here on the ranch, where it’s quiet. I wouldn’t go traveling. I wouldn’t do more interviews.” He strode to his car and opened the door. Before him, Glamorous Glennis lay exposed and vulnerable. “Try not to kill yourself in that thing. They’re not safe, you know.”
