by Stuart Woods
He left the backhoe idling, went back into the garage, started the Navigator, and drove it out to the hole. It was a little awkward among the piñons, but he maneuvered the SUV alongside his hole, then he switched off the ignition. He got back onto the backhoe and drove it toward the Navigator at a ninety-degree angle, then stopped eighteen inches from the vehicle.
He got the backhoe’s blade under the SUV and began to lift it from the side. Soon, the Navigator toppled over onto its side into the waiting hole. The noise of it hitting bottom was muffled by the vertical sides of the hole and the surrounding piñons.
Teddy turned the backhoe around and used the earthmoving blade to push the soil back into the hole, taking another half hour to fill it, then he drove the backhoe over it a few times to pack down the soil. After he had used a piñon branch to smooth the earth, there was nothing left to see.
He returned the backhoe to the building and hosed off the dirt and dust, then locked up for the night. He freshened up and changed his clothes in the men’s room, then walked across the road to Sally’s Diner.
The three young people were sitting in a booth, finishing their dinner. He waved to them. “Your tire will get in on the eleven-o’clock bus tomorrow morning,” he said to them, “and I’ll get it right on your vehicle.”
He sat down on a stool at the counter. “Evening, Sally,” he said.
“Evening, Billy.”
“You got any meat loaf left?”
“Sure, I do.”
“Any bourbon left in that bottle?”
“Enough for two,” she said, filling a pair of glasses with ice and pouring some. They both took a swig, and then Sally served both of them some meat loaf.
The three young people walked over with some cash for their check and left it on the counter. “Thanks, Sally,” Peter said.
“You kids may as well sleep late,” Billy said. “I’ll have your car ready by noon.”
“Okay, thanks,” Peter said. “Good night.”
“Good night, then,” Billy said, and the three of them left for their rooms.
“Who was in the Navigator?” Sally asked.
“A couple of guys. I filled them up and they drove on. I tried to sell them one of your rooms, but they seemed to be in a hurry.”
Stone came down before dinner to find Dino and Mike already having a drink. He sat down, and the butler brought him a Knob Creek on the rocks.
“We’re having a guest for dinner,” he said to his friends.
“Anybody we know?” Dino asked.
“No, someone newly arrived from London. Her name is Emma Tweed, a fashion designer. She’s staying in the old guesthouse behind the bushes, and I found her in our pool this afternoon.”
“Typical,” Dino said to Mike. “He finds them everywhere.”
The doorbell rang, and the butler ushered in Emma Tweed. She was wearing a multicolored silk dress with a low neckline and a short skirt. Stone made the introductions, and the butler brought her a martini. “I had hoped that my son, his girl, and Dino’s son would join us this evening, but they’re somewhere in New Mexico with a flat tire.”
“I’m sorry to miss them,” Emma said. “I have a twenty-three-year-old daughter who has left school. She arrives tomorrow.”
“My son, Ben, will be delighted to hear that,” Dino said.
“Beautiful dress,” Stone said. “One of yours?”
“Indeed,” Emma said. “I hardly ever wear anything else.” Her blonde hair was swept straight back and fell nearly to her shoulders; she had a light tan and seemed to be wearing hardly any makeup.
“Were you a competitive swimmer in your school days?” Stone asked.
“I was. I’m surprised you could tell.”
“Something about your proportions,” he replied.
“Ah, yes, my shoulders. I can’t hide them.”
“And you shouldn’t.”
“Well, gentlemen, I know why Mr. Barrington is here, what’s your excuse for getting away from winter in New York?”
“Getting away from winter in New York,” Mike said. “Who needs an excuse?”
“Mike is also on the board of the hotel,” Stone said. “He also runs the world’s second-largest security company.”
“And you, Mr. Bacchetti?”
“Please, let’s do this on a first-name basis,” Stone said. “Dino is shy, so I’ll tell you that he is the chief of detectives for the New York City Police Department.”
“I feel safer already,” Emma said, “in safe and well-qualified hands.”
“What is your daughter’s name?” Dino asked.
“Tessa. How tall is your son?”
“Six feet.”
“Is he intimidated by tall women? Tessa is six-two.”
“Ben is not intimidated by anything—certainly not tall women. How does Tessa feel about men shorter than she is?”
“She has learned not to use height as a measurement of character,” Emma said. “After a few mistakes. I think she actually prefers looking down at men.”
“Then they should get along well.”
“Why are the children in New Mexico?”
“They insisted on driving from New Haven, Connecticut, where they have all three just graduated from Yale, to their new work in L.A.”
“Which is?”
“They are a team: Peter, my son, writes and directs films. Ben produces them, and Hattie, Peter’s girl, writes their scores.”
“Such creativity!”
“It spills out of them. Has Tessa chosen a career?”
“It has been her dream since childhood to be an actress. She’s fresh out of RADA—the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts.”
“And she’s seeking her fortune in L.A.?”
“She’s having a look at it. She’s never spent a winter in a warm place, and I’m afraid she may like it here too much.”
“Everybody falls for the weather,” Stone said. “It’s a pity she’s not here this evening. We’re expecting one of Hollywood’s most famous actresses, Charlene Joiner, for dinner. She said she’d be a little late.”
“Uh-oh,” Dino said. “Stone has fixed you up, Mike.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Stone said.
“Okay, I’m surprised,” Mike replied. “Charlene Joiner! Imagine!”
The doorbell rang, and Charlene swept into the room, all smiles. Big kisses for Stone and Dino and firm handshakes with Mike and Emma. “I’m so sorry to be late, but we wrapped a film an hour ago. I changed in my trailer.”
• • •
“I’ve seen your two most recent films with my daughter, who’s an aspiring actor,” Emma said. “We both thought you were splendid.”
“Thank you so much,” Charlene said, beaming. “I’ve had a good run of luck with directors and scripts lately. Is your daughter in town?”
“Arriving tomorrow.”
“Then you must let me arrange a tour of Centurion Studios for her.”
“She would love that.”
“I’m sure Ben would be delighted to conduct the tour,” Dino said. “Charlene, our boys, Peter and Ben, are arriving in a couple of days, along with Peter’s girl, Hattie Patrick.”
“Yes, I met them at the grand opening of the hotel, and I heard Hattie perform at the piano, too.”
“Yes, I had forgotten.”
The butler came into the room. “Dinner is served,” he said, and they all went in.
• • •
After dinner and brandy, Stone walked Emma back to her cottage. “I do like the dress,” he said. “You look almost as good in it as you do out of it.”
She laughed. “You’re not going to let me forget this afternoon, are you?”
“Why should I? I’ll never forget it.”
They stopped at her door, and she opened
it. “It sounds like we’re both going to be pretty busy after tonight,” she said. “Would you like to come in?”
“I’d like that very much,” Stone said, and went in. Things progressed very quickly after that.
• • •
After breakfast, Peter, Hattie, and Ben walked across the highway with their bags and put them into the rear of the Cayenne, then Peter went into the office to pay his bill.
Teddy took his credit card and ran it, then Peter signed it.
“Thanks for making this go so smoothly,” Peter said to him.
“There’s something you should know,” Teddy said. He held up the little GPS transmitter. “I found this in the wheel well of your car. You were being tracked by someone.”
Peter looked at it closely. “So we’re not crazy. We were all sure that we were being followed, and for a long time, too.”
“You won’t be followed anymore,” Teddy said. “I had a brief conversation with two Russian gentlemen in a big black SUV, and they turned around and went back the way they came. You have any idea who they might be?”
“My father had a problem with some Russians recently,” Peter said. “He told me to watch out for them.”
“Your father was right—they were not nice people. Who is your father?”
“His name is Stone Barrington. He’s a lawyer in New York.”
Teddy knew that name; he had met the man on the island of St. Marks a few years back, and he had been in the company of Holly Barker, who was with the CIA. “Well, he’s a smart guy. Tell him about this, and listen to his advice.”
Peter wrote down his cell number. “Billy, if you should find yourself in L.A., this is my number. We’re all going to be working at Centurion Studios. You seem like a very capable man, so if you’re ever looking for work out there, call me.”
Teddy tucked the card into his pocket. “You never know,” he said.
The two shook hands, and the young people got into the Cayenne and drove away.
• • •
Once on their way, Peter said, “You’re not going to believe what Billy Burnett just told me.” And he told them.
Teddy Fay waved off the kids in the Cayenne, then he went back inside and began to put the office and shops in good order, pending the return of Tom Fields after a few days off to see to his wife during her recovery. He was interrupted only a few times by cars stopping for gas, and by the arrival of Bobby after school. Teddy had already managed to broaden the range of the boy’s skills with cars, and he could see him becoming more confident in his judgments.
Teddy found a few minutes to walk the few hundred feet to where he had buried the black SUV containing the bodies of its Russian operators. It had been windy during the night, and the site was not only undisturbed, but now invisible.
He was walking back to the filling station when he heard the whistling of a turbine engine overhead. He looked up to see a single-engine airplane circling the filling station’s airstrip, much as he himself had done a couple of weeks before. Shortly, the aircraft turned on a final approach to the strip, but the pilot seemed to be having problems with setting the power for landing. He abandoned his first approach and went around, but continued to have problems with airspeed, rising and falling on approach. His landing was hard and barely controlled.
Teddy waved him over to a parking spot and waited while the pilot took five minutes to get everything shut down as per the checklist. The airplane, he knew, was a late-model Piper Malibu Mirage that had been converted to a turboprop with the installation of a Pratt & Whitney jet engine turning a propeller. Teddy had read articles about it and had even ordered a brochure from the engine converters, JetPROP Aviation, in Spokane, Washington. He had considered buying one, but had never managed to make the decision.
Finally, the pilot exited the airplane via the little airstair door, mopping his face with a handkerchief. “Shit!” he said, as he approached Teddy, his hand out. “That was a really shitty landing, wasn’t it?”
“I’ve seen worse,” Teddy said, “but not much worse.”
The man laughed. I’m Howard Strunk,” he said. “I just bought this goddamned thing, and I miss my old 182 bad.”
“Have you had any instruction in it?” Teddy asked.
“I had one day with a guy,” Strunk said, “then he got the flu, then I got the flu, and by the time I was out of bed, he was long gone. I reckoned I just needed some time in the left seat and I could do it alone. I’m starting to believe I was wrong. You got any jet fuel here?”
“I’m afraid not,” Teddy said, “but from what I’ve read about that airplane, you can add enough 100 Low Lead aviation fuel to your tanks for a flight over to Gallup, where they’ve got Jet A.”
“Have you got a cold drink around here?” Strunk asked.
“Sure, come on inside, and we’ll find you a Coke.”
Strunk stopped at Teddy’s 182 RG and walked around it. “Can I have a look inside?” he asked.
“It’s unlocked.”
Teddy waited while Strunk had a good look at the avionics, then he took the man inside and put a cold Coke in his hand. Strunk collapsed into the old leather armchair in the office. He downed the Coke in one long swig. “Gotta get my blood sugar back up,” he said. “Haven’t eaten all day.”
Teddy got him some cheese and crackers from the vending machine and another Coke, and he gradually stopped looking so shaky.
“Where you from?” Teddy asked.
“Las Vegas, New Mexico, east of Santa Fe. I been flying around all day, trying to get a handle on that airplane, and I haven’t made it.”
“There’s a motel over there, if you want to get a night’s rest,” Teddy said. “If you don’t want to add the 100LL to your tanks, I’ll drive over to Gallup and get you fifty gallons of Jet A in jerry cans.”
Strunk thought about that. “Is that your 182 out back?”
“Sure is. It’s a retractable.”
“Nice one.”
“Thanks. I do all my own maintenance, and I put a Garmin glass panel in it.”
“I saw that.”
An idea was forming in Teddy’s mind, and he thought that all he had to do to make it work was nothing.
“Now, that is my kind of airplane,” he said, “and you’ve made it beautiful. How old is it?”
“One of the last dozen manufactured, before they shut down, then started up again,” Teddy said.
Strunk asked some questions about the avionics and seemed satisfied with the answers. “Would you consider a trade?” he asked.
“You mean a swap? Mine for yours?”
“That’s exactly right. I’ll give you the deal of a lifetime.”
“You mean you want to take a bath on that like-new turboprop, just to get back into an airplane you feel comfortable in?”
“I can afford the bath,” Strunk said. “I’m an impatient man, and I’m what you might call a highly motivated seller. Can I see your logbooks?”
Teddy went to the office closet and retrieved a nylon briefcase. “All the records are in there,” he said, handing it over.
“Mine are in a leather bag on the rear seat,” Strunk said. “You go have a look, then we’ll talk.”
The two men perused each other’s logbooks, and Teddy began to get excited. The Mirage had had only a hundred hours on it when the conversion to turboprop took place, and only twenty-two hours since. He put down the bag and walked back to the l82.
“Satisfied?” Strunk asked.
“It’s a very nice airplane,” he said.
“Let me make you an offer,” Strunk said, scratching his head. “You give me your airplane and half a million dollars cash, and you’ve got yourself a brand-new, almost, JetPROP.”
“Any liens on it?” Teddy asked.
“None. I pay cash for everything. Tell you what, if you haven’t go
t the half million in cash, I’ll give you a short-term loan with a balloon in a year—give you time to arrange financing.”
“I pay cash for everything, too,” Teddy said, “but I’ve only got four hundred grand on me.”
Strunk laughed loudly. “On you?”
“In a deposit box not half a mile from here,” Teddy said.
“I hadn’t reckoned on that big a bath,” Strunk replied.
“It’s the best I can do,” Teddy said. “Or you can take a bus back to Las Vegas and send somebody over here to fly your JetPROP back to you. After seeing that landing, I don’t think you ought to do it yourself.”
Strunk held out his hand. “You go get your four hundred grand,” he said, “and we’ll download some paperwork from the Internet and make it official.”
And so the deal was done. Two hours later, after a title search and the signing of a bill of sale and the relevant FAA documents, Strunk started the engine of the 182 RG, raced down the airstrip, and headed west.
Teddy climbed into his new JetPROP and looked at the panel. It had the latest Garmin 1000, three-screen system; it was just beautiful.
Teddy found the operator’s and avionics manuals in the rear of the airplane, went back into the filling station, settled into the leather armchair, and turned his photographic memory to the memorization of everything. He paused once, to close the filling station, then went back to reading. As darkness arrived, he closed the manuals, locked up, and walked across the road to where Sally was waiting with his dinner and a bottle of bourbon.
“I bought me a new airplane,” he said to her as he took the first bite of her meat loaf.
Sally sighed. “Well,” she said, “I guess that means you’ll be moving on, Billy.”
He nodded silently and sipped his bourbon.
“You know,” she said, “you’ve never talked about your past, but I think it must be one hell of a past.”
