by George Wier
We waited in silence in the night. The wait wasn't long. I heard the muffled roar of a propeller go abruptly from start to full speed, and seconds later a series of popping sounds.
“Crap!” Hank said. “They're shooting at someone.”
“What's going on?” Jennifer asked.
“You stay here with her,” I said while I opened my door and got out into the night.
I heard, “Dad!” from Jennifer as a I slammed the door. Instead of answering, I ran toward the airport.
*****
There was a time when I was young. That was a long time ago. Still, I infrequently exercised, and usually it was a game of one-on-one basketball with Jessica or her fiance. The two had been on-again-off-again over the last two years, but they had finally set a date, and it looked like they were in earnest about going forward with it. Driesel—and only I could have a son-in-law named Driesel—worked as a cameraman for one of the Austin news network, and Jessica was now a full-time Sheriff's Deputy. Anyway, these are the things you think about when you're running in the direction of a one-sided firefight.
When I got to the tarmac, the sound of the airplane engine was loud and growing louder. It took me a second to realize that I wasn't standing on the tarmac. The faint outline of a dotted white stripe ran between my feet and something dark was moving toward me, fast.
I flattened to the concrete at the last second and a hurricane of wind traveled over me, lifted me and rolled me over to where I was staring at the stars.
Three men came running up seconds later and stopped a few yards short of me.
“Was that Fenner?” I asked them. They almost jumped when they noticed me lying there.
“It was,” Bob Ross stated.
I got up and dusted myself off, apparently none the worse for wear. “Let me see your gun,” I said.
“Nothing doing.”
“Come on. I think I can bring him down. If I do, I'll say you fired the shot.”
Bob stepped forward and handed me his gun. It was hot and it was heavy and felt like a .357 magnum.
I turned and sighted in at the distant patch of blackness just headed over the darker line of trees at the end of the runway. Fenner was running without any lights, which was why I hadn't seen him and why he'd almost run right over me.
I settled the butt of the gun into my left hand, took careful aim, raised the barrel five degrees, and fired.
A blast of bright red and green barked from the business end of the gun, and I fought the kick, which was considerable.
The plane disappeared over the trees and silence ensued but for my heart hammering in my chest and pulsing in my ears.
There was a distant and muffled crunch and a brief flash, like the lightning of a coming storm.
“Shit,” Bob said. “I think you got him.”
*****
I did indeed get him. The next day I would come to find that my final shot struck the rear elevator and snapped the cable, effectively disabling the plane and sending Fenner Schoonover and the Bledgrave family's Beech Bonanza F33C into a cow pasture.
CHAPTER TEN
Bob Ross wouldn't allow us to go to the crash site. He had Deputy Carl Smith escort us back to the line of hotels along Sebastian Avenue, the town's main thoroughfare, where we checked into a La Quinta hotel for the night, one room for me, Jennifer and Morgan Freeman, and another for Hank. Once Jennifer was ensconced in bed, I had Hank stay with her while I walked two blocks down to an all-night Chevron service station that was all lit up like it was the center of the Milky Way Galaxy. There I bought a can of dog food, and just in case, a couple of very old hot dogs. I figured it was fifty-fifty as to which one little Morgie-Porgy would go for.
On the way back I called Julie and admitted to her that I'd shot down an airplane. She wasn't impressed.
“He who has to resort to violence, admits he was the first to run out of ideas.”
“Doesn't count,” I said. “There was no one around who knew how to shoot. It was a fleeing felon, so it had to be done.”
“Did you kill somebody?”
“I hope not. Maybe. I'll find out soon enough. Just...I'm sorry.”
“I'm sorry too. Come home as soon as you can.”
Back at the hotel, Jennifer was awake and waiting for me. She and Hank abruptly ended what sounded like a fairly heated discussion on the pros and cons of having a pet alligator.
Morgan Freeman opted for the hot dogs. He didn't want them cut up for him. Instead he whittled them down like a giant buzz saw eating a tree.
Somewhere around three in the morning, I found myself dreaming.
*****
There was heat lightning in the distance and I stood on a vast grassy plain. It could have been the Llano Estacado or it could have been Smallville, Kansas. But neither Clark Kent nor his alter-identity was in evidence. What was in evidence close by was a tall windmill. Hank came up and said, “What are you waiting for? They're thirsty. Soon they'll be hungry. If I were you, I'd try to stay on their good side.”
“Who?” I asked, but Hank shook his head. “You should check your back more often, old son.”
I turned and onward came perhaps a thousand sinuous brown and gray and mottled creatures. They were all ferrets.
I turned back, but Hank was gone.
“Thirsty,” I said.
There was one of those old-fashioned switches close by, the kind that is normally used by railroad brakemen to switch the trains to a different track. There were only two directions to move the thing, so I gave it a push in the direction opposite the way it leaned, but it seemed to be stuck. The ferrets came on, and as they came, they grew louder. Their teeth chattered and gnashed and it was not unlike the coming roar that some monstrous engine might make.
I threw my weight against the lever, and it began to give. I anticipated a loud whine, but instead it merely popped, like someone cooking the last few kernels of popcorn in the pan.
The water began flowing from the pipe at the base of the windmill and into the large circular trough. The ferrets arrived and streamed past me and into the trough, where they drank the water almost as fast as it came pouring out.
“Some dream,” Hank said beside me.
“Hey, where'd you go just now?”
“I went on ahead for a bit. You know, scouting things out.”
“Back so soon?”
“Yeah. The road ahead is pretty well blocked. We'll have to go back, I think.” He turned and pointed. My car was waiting there, and Jennifer was inside it, beckoning me.”
“It's too soon to just give up,” I said.
“It's always too soon,” Hank replied. “That is, until.”
“Until when?”
“Until it's too late.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That makes no sense.”
“Of course it doesn't. But that's from here. From over there,” he pointed toward the slate gray sky and the storm many miles on past the car, “it makes a lot of sense.”
“What's over there?”
“Where the road going back ends.”
“That would be home,” I said.
Hank nodded.
*****
I awoke at 5:24 a.m. with a start, sat bolt upright in bed and said, “Lorraine!”
*****
When I called the Sheriff's Office I got a dispatcher. No, the Sheriff wasn't in. He was probably at home asleep. No, there was no Lorraine Sands in the Sheriff's Office. Yes, there had been a plane crash last night. Who was I and how did I know about that? I started to tell her the story, but she stopped me, asked for my cell phone number and current location. I told her that Deputies Carl Smith and Bob Ross knew exactly where I was and they had my contact information. I ended up giving her the information again anyway.
When I hung up the phone, Jennifer was sitting there looking at me.
“What time is it?”
“Time for you to go back to sleep,” I said.
“I can't. I'm so hungry it hurts.”
> “Okay. Let's get ready and go get some breakfast.”
“Dad, I'm sleeping in the clothes I went to bed in. It's all I've got.”
I bit my lip. “Yeah, me too. Tell you what, breakfast first, then when the stores open, we'll get us both a change of clothes, then we'll come back and take turns with the shower, get cleaned up and changed, then go back out there and see if we can find Todd.”
“You mean Sam.”
“Whatever.”
“Deal.”
I knocked on the door to Hank's room. When the door opened, a crazy-looking old man greeted me with a frown. It took me a moment to realize it was Hank.
“Kid's hungry,” I said.
“This kid's hungry too. In fact, I'm hungrier than I am sleepy.”
“Let's go.”
“I'm too old for this kind of shit, Bill.”
“Me too, pardner. Me too.”
*****
We had breakfast at El Rancho Mexican Restaurante, the only eatery that appeared to be open at the ungodly hour of six forty-five in the morning. From where we sat I could see Morgan Freeman on the dashboard of my car, pawing at the glass and clamoring for our attention.
“We've got to find him some more hot dogs,” I said, and gestured outside.
“We have ferret chow at home,” Jennifer said.
“No crap?” Hank asked. “There's such a thing as ferret chow?”
“No crap,” she stated, a forkful of scrambled eggs poised before her small, delicate lips. In that instant I remembered another girl eating eggs beneath the fronds of a willow tree, a long time ago, and my stomach did a little flip. The girl was Jennifer's mother, Julie. They were both golden-haired with a tinge of red, and cut from the same cloth. I knew, abruptly, what Jennifer was going to look like when she was eighteen, twenty-five and thirty. She was going to slay many hearts.
Bob Ross entered the restaurant.
“Deputy Ross,” I called. “Want to pull up a chair?”
“Noticed your car outside. I'm glad you haven't left town. You've still got a report to write.”
“I know. Kid was hungry.”
“I'm not a kid,” Jennifer said. “I'm a pre-teen.”
“You're a pre-teen by about five years,” I said.
Bob chuckled and slid into the booth beside me. “Coffee,” he said to the waitress.
“Bob,” Hank said. “Did Miss Sands find a hotel room last night?”
“That's the thing. It's still last night, as far as I'm concerned. My shift ends in...” he turned his wrist over and regarded his watch, “five minutes. Except I don't think it'll be over anytime soon.”
“Why?” I asked.
“When you people came to town, you brought a...” he looked across the table at Jennifer, and I figured mental gears were stripping and grinding as he tried to switch words mid-sentence, “a crap-storm. First of all, you can't have a plane crash without the National Transportation Safety Board coming to town. There's a fellow due here from Waco in about half an hour to begin the preliminary investigation.”
“Investigation?” Hank said. “Hell, we know what happened. A felon tried to get away, and Bill shot him down.”
I frowned at Hank and gave a head shake in Jennifer's direction.
“I already know, dad,” Jennifer said. “Mom says you have a love affair with guns. I think she's right.”
“You hush up and eat. When the waitress comes back, make sure and ask for some sausages or something for Morgan.”
A coffee cup appeared in front of Bob, and he sipped at it, black.
“I know all that,” Bob said. “Still, it's the rules. They have to investigate separately and write a report. As much as I'd like to take the credit, I can't lie. It's federal, you understand.”
“Are you in trouble?” I asked. “I mean, for letting me take the shot? Or for that matter, am I in trouble?”
“No and no. Now, go ahead and ask me the big question?”
I breathed. “Is he alive?”
“Yeah. He's alive.”
I sighed, audibly.
“I know. You were worried about it. When we put him on the stretcher and packed him off to the hospital, I thought about calling you or stopping by to see you, but it was—”
“Too late at night already.”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks, Bob,” I said.
“Yay, dad! You didn't kill anybody!”
“What about Lorraine Sands?” I asked.
“Now she's disappeared.”
“Huh?” Hank asked.
“She was supposed to be writing a report. The Sheriff left the room and when he came back, she was gone. She hasn't checked into any of the local hotels. You guys have any idea where she went?”
“Not a clue,” I said. “Tell me, Bob, do you have any charging stations for electric cars in this town. Or anywhere in the county, for that matter?”
“Ha! No way. We're still stuck back in about 1975.”
“Yeah. Thought so. Well, she couldn't have gotten far. She had probably half a charge when we left Elysium yesterday. I'd say her effective radius is no more than twenty miles. What do you think, Hank?”
Hank scratched his unruly white head, took a sip of coffee, and said, “Sounds about right to me.”
“Then she's still here somewhere,” Bob said.
“Chances are,” I replied.
“Any idea where to start looking?”
“Well, another question, first,” I said.
“Shoot.”
“How did Reece come through the surgery last night?”
“I don't know. I've had too much going on. Tell you what, you folks finish your meal. I'll go out to the car and make some phone calls, and then when you're done, you can follow me to the hospital.”
“How about we just meet you there? We need a clothing store. Or two.”
Jennifer held up her hand. “I need a bath.”
“No, honey,” Bob said. “It's your father and this old geezer who need the baths,” he gestured toward Hank.
“Thanks a lot,” Hank said.
“Give us a couple of hours, if that's okay,” I said.
“Fine.” Bob got up. “Be sure and feed Morgan Freeman, kiddo. That guy looks like he's ready to start eating the upholstery,” he gestured out the window.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Two hours later the three of us were showered up and wearing new clothes, Morgan Freeman had a supply of well-cooked sausage patties—apparently ferrets need both a lot of protein and a limited amount of fat—and was busily eating them, and all four of us were at the hospital.
We left Morgan Freeman in the car where there would be adequate shade and plenty to eat, and rolled all four windows down an inch and half, just in case the day got hot and we were too long coming back. I didn't think there was much chance of that. My car told me that it was seventy-four degrees outside.
Inside the small one-story hospital building, there was only one wing of rooms, and there was only one cop to watch over both Reece and Fenner. I ascertained quickly, however, that neither man would be going anywhere soon.
Reece Schoonover—whom I figured was Fenner's younger brother—was pumped up on some pretty powerful drugs to help him deal with the pain of the gunshot wound and the surgery. I looked at his chart and saw that he was getting infusions by IV three times daily, along with some pretty powerful antibiotics. He snored softly, and I didn't figure him for a flight risk.
In the small Emergency Department, Fenner's was a different, if not worse, story. He was awake. He was also overtly loud. When he could he cursed the nurses, the doctors, the cop and anyone passing by his partially-pulled isolation curtain. I made it a point to pull it the rest of the way closed. Bob Ross had yet to put in an appearance, but I figured he had bigger fish to fry at the moment.
Fenner had his right arm in a cast from shoulder to elbow—which told me that there had been multiple fractures—complete with a traction rig, which kept the arm elevated in what
could not possibly be a comfortable position. His bruised forehead, that much of it available for inspection beneath the large bandage wrapped around his head, redefined the color purple to include a mixture of plum with orange from the mercurochrome that had been applied to the lacerations, which include the ferret bite on the end of his nose. When he talked, he lisped. His lips were swollen and five or six of his front teeth were missing. Additionally, his left leg was in a bent-knee cast from his hip to below his knee.
“Hi, Fenner,” I said. Hank stood beside me. Jennifer sat on a chair down the hall, waiting for us. I didn't want her so close to Fenner that she could hear his every curse word, but I didn't want to completely shield her from the seedier side of life, either.
“Hi youthelv, thoo bathtud.”
“I'm the one who shot you down, so you can curse the cops all you want, but it won't do you any good.”
“Thug thoo,” he said.
“Won't let him sleep because of the concussion, right?” Hank asked.
“Yeah, probably,” I replied.
“That was one mean good shot, Bill.”
“Thanks. I was aiming most carefully. He's lucky to be alive.”
“Wad thoo thoo wan'?”
“What do we want?” I translated. “We want answers. Where is Sam, or Todd, Landry? Where has Lorraine gone? What were you digging for, specifically? And why?”
“Thug thoo,” he said.
“That's the kind of attitude that makes it hard for people to go easy on you.” I picked up the chart at the end of his bed and perused it. I cast my voice in a much lower tone and said, “Hmm, I see from your chart here that you're supposed to have some Fentanyl in another thirty minutes. Wonderful stuff, Fentanyl. It takes the edge off the pain, but it doesn't put you to sleep. But maybe you should try to go a few hours or maybe even a day or so without it. Let's see. Hank, you got a pen? I think we can cross this stuff off the chart. Maybe initial it so it looks like these other initials from the doctor.”
“Got a pen right here,” he said and handed it to me.
I held the pen poised over the chart, and looked up at Fenner. His eyes were wide, and he looked from Hank to me and back again, disbelieving but not unconvinced. “Say,” I said, “I probably shouldn't cross this off, do you think, Hank?”
