by Louise Ure
“And Homeland Security and the federal aviation officials,” Dupree said. “They all know that we’re dealing with a hostage situation here.”
“They also know it’s a hijacking. And that makes it just as likely that they’ll shoot them out of the sky.”
Dupree knew that was true. In this post-9/11 world, the plane didn’t have to cross international borders before it became a threat. Now Homeland Security was authorized to take the plane out before it crash-landed in a more urban environment or threatened a military facility.
“They could have gone seventy-five miles in any direction by now,” Dupree said. “We’ve got patrol units spread out in case they’ve crash-landed.” Two units had gone west on I-8 toward Yuma and California, and two others were streaking east on Highway 287. Traffic through Phoenix had hampered search efforts there, but the local television traffic copters had been enlisted to check the skies and less urban acreage to the north.
Military aircraft, on the lookout for the hijacked plane, covered the southern route. He knew they wouldn’t last long if that was the direction they had gone.
Chapter 96
The heat in the cockpit increased, and sweat coursed down my face and neck. Fuck it. Our chances of getting out of this were slim, anyway. I apologized silently to Kevin and Emily. At least Teresa wouldn’t die with us in the plane, but now there was no chance of finding her. I would be responsible for taking the life of yet another of their children. I was only glad that this time I would lose my life as well. I wouldn’t have to witness the pain and sorrow I’d caused.
I wasn’t going to take us any farther from the police than we had already gone. This little pocket of air—this hot, dry desert breath that tossed the plane like a toy, and the patch of ground underneath it—is where I would end it all.
I took a deep breath, settled into that karmic middle zone that Kevin called my autopilot, and began the slowest, most perfect two-minute turn of my life. Pickett’s breath became shallow and irregular. He may have been losing consciousness again, but for whatever reason, he didn’t detect my circling maneuver.
“Beatrice, are you okay back there?” I asked. The girl shifted into a new position but didn’t reply.
I reached past Pickett and groped my way down the pilot’s arm. No pulse. My stomach turned in horror. There was no way we were going to live through this.
I tried Pickett again. No response. With feather-light fingers, I waltzed across his thigh and down his forearm until I reached the gun that lay just inches below his unmoving fingers. I eased the gun toward me and shoved it under my right leg. I exhaled. At least we wouldn’t die that way.
I nudged him again. This time harder. Nothing. I couldn’t hear any breathing from him either, but the sound of the engine and the wind whipping past the plastic side windows may have muffled that. Unconscious or dead? I didn’t care either way.
But I didn’t know what his death would do to Beatrice. Catatonia or chaos? A lamentation of swans.
“Beatrice, cover your face with your arms, okay?”
I braced the steering yoke with my thigh, gripped the barrel of the gun in both hands, and smashed the Plexiglas that overlaid the instrument panel. The first assault left a star pattern of cracks. I smashed again and again, grunting with every swing. Finally a sharp triangle of plastic fell away from the bottom center of the sheet. With slippery hands, I tore away the other pieces around it, sobbing with urgency, until I could locate the dials I wanted.
Great, I could reach the dials now but still not read them. I gripped the bezel around one dial with sweaty hands, but it wouldn’t budge. Should I smash this second layer of glass to get to the instruments? I hefted the gun again. I wasn’t sure if breaking the seal would affect the instruments that relied on static pressure.
Fuck it. Static pressure should be the last thing I was worried about. The accordion effect of plowing nose-first into hardened caliche at two hundred miles an hour was more likely. I tightened my grip on the gun and smashed the glass over every gauge and dial I could reach.
“Beatrice? I need your help up here.” It was all I could do to keep my voice calm. Beatrice was my last resort. After an agonizing thirty seconds, she leaned over my right shoulder.
“You see this dial here?” I pointed at the altimeter. I located the raised edges of the bezel and cleaned away the remaining shards of glass. I needed a way to read the hash marks Kevin had described to me.
I leaned to the left, eased the bottle of Elmer’s glue from my pocket, and handed it to her. “Try to line up right behind me, just like you were my eyes, and put a dot of glue right where the number one is. Then another dot for the number two. Go all the way around the dial.” Her cheek, soft and warm, brushed mine as she reached past me. I focused on my perfect two-minute turn. I had to give the glue time to dry.
Bea finished her task with a sighed “There,” and leaned back.
Blood had caked on my nose and lips from the damage done at Marty’s house. It hurt too much to touch my nose; I knew it was broken. I settled for breathing through my mouth.
“Good job. But you’ve got more to do.” I felt around to the next dial. “Do you see this one? Does it look like a speedometer? And it’s got three colors on it? I’m not sure, maybe a green part and a white one—”
“And a yellow one,” Bea filled in like a game show contestant battling for an unwanted prize.
Good. The airspeed indicator. “Put a dot of glue right next to the number sixty, and the number eighty, and the number one hundred.” If I kept the airspeed between those numbers I’d be able to keep the plane from stalling, I could use the flaps, and I might be somewhere near the proper landing approach speed.
We did the same for the vertical speed indicator, although I didn’t know if I could monitor that one plus the altimeter at the same time.
Now for the directional heading. This one wouldn’t matter as much if I didn’t know where I was trying to land, but it would help keep me out of Mexican airspace. “Do you see a dial that has the shape of an airplane in the middle of it, and it’s got the letters N, S, E, and W on it, like a compass?”
Beatrice took my hand and guided it to the right dial. The glass covering the dial was still intact and I smashed it with the lightest touch I could manage with the butt of the gun. “Okay, one drop of glue next to the N and two drops of glue next to the S.” She did as she was told, and I felt the little airplane shape in the center of the dial shift direction to the west as I turned.
“One more thing. I want you to look out both windows as we’re turning and tell me what you see. Are there any roads? Any hills? Do you see telephone poles or fences?”
She was quiet for a long time. When my fingers traced the same heading for a second time, I asked what she’d seen.
“There’s a road down there. Kind of skinny and no cars on it.”
“Does it look like a paved road?”
“Yes.”
Okay, a paved road would be good. But aiming at something that small would be impossible for me to get right. I’d have to set it down on the desert floor and hope no saguaros or arroyos flipped the plane over as we landed.
“No fences? No telephone poles?”
“There are telephone poles along the road, but nowhere else.” Okay, I’d have to avoid the road at all costs, then.
“Do you see any streams or little washes?”
“I don’t see anything blue like water anywhere.”
I had to smile. Kevin had told me about his first solo flying experience, when he got lost over a stretch of desert because he kept looking for “blue water” like the rivers shown on a map. In Arizona, most of the riverbeds are dry year-round, except during the monsoon floods of August when the arroyos are full of roiling brown water for at least a few hours.
“Okay, one more thing. Do you see any big saguaro cactus down there?”
“Lady?”
“Hmmm?”
“I’m sorry I smashed your hands. And, um
mm, I’m sorry I told him to kill you.”
I couldn’t afford the luxury of reflection right now, either to damn her or offer penance. “What about the cactus?”
“It’s mostly just little bushes. But I see some saguaros too.”
I nodded. We’d just have to take our chances. If my sense of direction and Beatrice’s description of the mountains were right, we were probably someplace east of Casa Grande. The Tortilla Mountains would be ahead of us and Picacho Peak to the south. I dropped to one thousand feet—much too low for the surrounding peaks of the Tortillas, but I thought they were far enough away.
“Beatrice? I’m going to keep turning the plane around real slow. When we get lined up with the road, you tap me on the shoulder, okay?” There was a hesitant tap when the directional indicator showed us going due south. I turned the plane sharply to the east to get out of the way of those telephone poles and began our descent.
Two minutes later, I put the flaps halfway down and decreased speed. The air in the cockpit was as hot and stale as an old devil’s breath. The altimeter said seven hundred feet. I swiped at the sweat dripping into my eyes.
“Beatrice, can you get Pickett—Gerald—into the rear seat with you?” I put my palm on his forehead and pushed him back.
“You’ll have to fasten his seat belt for him.” I waited until I heard the belt buckle snick shut. She’d started crying again.
In my eyes, Beatrice was as guilty as Pickett. Egging him on to kill me, restraining Teresa for the motorcycle man. But the murders and chases had taken a toll on her. She was retreating to a childlike world of safety and security to avoid the pain. She’d become another child I was responsible for.
“Get your own seat belt on…curl up and cover your head with your arms.”
Two hundred feet.
I hadn’t heard her seat belt close, but couldn’t wait any longer. I pushed the flaps all the way down, increased backpressure on the yoke to reduce speed, and settled in for what I hoped would be a landing and not a crash. Thank God this plane didn’t have retractable wheels. I’d never learned that with Kevin.
One hundred feet.
“Head down! Put your arms over your head!” There wasn’t time for more. The stall-warning siren shrieked as the reduced speed and angle of the plane weren’t enough to keep the air flowing under the wings. We dropped like a boulder.
Chapter 97
Where the hell had they gone? Dupree gnawed on the cuticle around his thumb, willing the radio to spark to life with the answer. “Check in for me?” Dupree asked the senior Highway Patrol officer at the scene. They’d coordinated the search through the Highway Patrol dispatcher. The officer nodded and picked up his mike.
“Four-seven, Casa Grande. Any sign of our plane?”
“Copy, four-seven. I’ll check,” the dispatcher answered.
Big rigs hummed down the highway in the distance, and a car-size tumbleweed rolled lazily against the barbed-wire fence the Mercedes had carried across the desert then discarded at the last moment.
“Negative, four-seven,” came the reply at last. “But we have two citizen calls into 911 from the Eloy area, about a plane flying erratically. No confirmation that it’s the plane you’re looking for.”
“Thanks, Casa Grande. Four-seven out.”
“Let’s go,” he said, but Dupree was already strapping himself into the seat.
Chapter 98
The altimeter read fifty feet and the stall warning continued to scream. With palsied fingers, I checked it again. If I was off by even one hash mark on the dial, we’d plunge into the desert sand like a cannonball.
I held my breath.
Then, five seconds before I expected it, the wheels bounced heavily in contact with the ground, and something smashed into the passenger window behind me. I cut off the gas, slammed on the brakes, and held the yoke as steady as I could. We raced forward over uneven ground, dipping and slashing at the vegetation around us. Then a sudden impact on the right wing, probably a saguaro, grabbed the plane and spun us around like a square dancer. We came to rest with one wing on the ground and one big grin inside.
A gust of wind caught the edge of the door. It beat a staccato metal-on-metal tattoo against the fuselage, in cadence with my racing heart.
It sounded like applause.
Chapter 99
The radio crackled to life. “We’ve got them in sight! East of I-10 near the Picacho Reservoir!”
Dupree and Nellis had been southbound in the Highway Patrol vehicle but turned at the Eloy exit and headed back north, spotting the plane shimmering like a mirage in the desert off to his right.
They skidded to a stop two hundred yards away, and Dupree motioned the other cars to go no closer. The plane was canted at a forty-five-degree angle, its right wing sheared off midspan by what used to be a thirty-foot saguaro.
He keyed the amplifier in the car. “You in the plane. Come out with your hands up!”
The passenger door was open and rattled against the cabin of the plane. Dupree drew his gun in preparation for the arrest. He’d seen Pickett and Beatrice McDougall racing from the Casa Grande house to the Mercedes, using Cadence as a human shield. Those three, plus the hijacked pilot, would be on board. Did he have another hostage standoff here? And where was the little girl?
When he reached the plane, he saw Cadence Moran in the copilot’s seat and grinned. She waved distractedly, as though she’d seen his smile, then reached behind herself to a slouched figure in the rear compartment.
The other officers approached at a run, guns drawn. He flattened himself against the side of the plane and called in, “Ms. Moran? Are you all right?”
“Detective Dupree? Is that you?” Her voice was shaky.
He holstered his gun and moved to the open door. “It’s me.”
Signaling Nellis around to the other side, Dupree leaned into the cockpit. “Is he still alive?” he asked when Nellis placed two fingers against Pickett’s neck. The response was a shake of the head.
“That’s the pilot, John Anderson, beside me. Is he okay?” Cadence asked.
“No, he didn’t make it, either.” Dupree didn’t know if the gun had been the pilot’s or Pickett’s, but Anderson’s chest was bright with blood and it looked like he’d lost two fingers to the blast as he fought for control of the weapon.
Dupree held Cadence Moran under the arms and lifted her down from the plane. Her fingers were bleeding where the nails had torn off, her wrists were covered with bruises, and her nose was bloody and broken. “Where’s Teresa?”
“They’ve still got her. Pickett left her with a man named Marty. He could be his brother or uncle or something.” Dupree had already reviewed Marty Pickett’s rap sheet and knew that he wasn’t living at the last address he’d listed with the parole office.
“We’ve got to go get her! Ask Beatrice. She can take us there.”
Dupree handed Moran off to an officer on his left and climbed into the cockpit to check on Beatrice McDougall in the backseat. She still had a pulse, but she’d been tossed by the landing and must have cracked her head against the side window. A bloody smear coursed down the Plexiglas, and the right side of her head was creased with a four-inch red gash. Beatrice McDougall wasn’t going to be of any immediate help in finding the little girl.
Dupree and Nellis escorted Moran away from the plane and settled her into the back of the unmarked car. Dupree pulled two bottles of water from the trunk.
“Are you really okay?”, he asked, handing her a bottle.
“Sort of. How did you find us?”
“Somebody radioed in that a small plane was flying erratically and losing altitude.” He smiled when he said it.
“Erratically, my ass. I was just waggling my wings to get your attention.”
“What can you tell us about Marty Pickett’s house?” Nellis asked from behind Dupree. It was the first time he’d sounded like her help would be welcome.
She rolled up her left sleeve and traced the raise
d white bumps that lined the inside of her arm like the beaded skin of a Gila Monster.
“We have a map.”
Chapter 100
Cadence explained the system. The dots of glue started at her wrist and ended halfway across her biceps. “One dot for every thirty breaths, and I’d guess one breath every five seconds. So that means each dot is about two and a half minutes.”
They drove back to the Casa Grande house where they’d started the chase. From there, Cadence’s directions to turn left and right led them to a freeway exit ramp.
“This exit would have been for southbound traffic,” Nellis said. “We’ll cross back over for the entrance ramp we need to head north toward Phoenix.”
“We were at freeway speeds for a long time up to here,” Cadence said. She counted the raised glue on her arm. “Eighteen dots—about forty-five minutes. No stopping during that time, like for lights, and no sharp corners like intersections.”
“Assuming that Pickett didn’t want to attract any attention, he’d probably go the speed limit, so that’s seventy-five miles an hour,” Dupree said.
“Yeah, but within forty-five minutes you’re going to hit Phoenix traffic, and there are sections through the city with lower speed limits. That’ll screw up the calculations.”
“Let’s try it at the posted speed limit for the time Cadence says.” They drove in silence, Cadence counting to herself as they ticked off the miles.
Nellis pulled off to the shoulder once the freeway had cut through the main congestion of the city of Phoenix. “We’ve got three different freeways you could have taken here and still not felt a major change of direction or speed.”
“Can you remember anything else about this section of the trip?” Dupree asked.
Cadence closed her eyes as if it could increase her concentration. “We paralleled some train tracks for quite a while here. I heard the train whistle, and it kept pace with us.”
