Squall

by Sean Costello

  The guy, Tom Stokes, said, “Listen, man, can you give me a hand up here? I’m stuck.”

  Dale said, “You’re stuck. Take a gander at me.”

  “Angle’s bad, can’t see...”

  “Then let me paint you a picture. I’m sitting in the bathtub down here, and you’re fucking airplane is parked right in my lap.”

  Dale heard the guy giggle, then heard him say,” We’re in the bathtub together?” and Dale said, “You think it’s funny?” Tom Stokes said, “I don’t even know your name,” and his giggle escalated into deranged laughter.

  Dale said, “Asshole.”

  Then both men were laughing like lunatics, both of them caught in this giddy expression of relief, of death narrowly avoided.

  When it settled enough that he could speak, Dale said, “The name’s Dale, and when I said you were in the tub with me I wasn’t kidding. I was taking a bath when you came through the wall. I’m butt naked down here, frozen cock stiff, I nearly drowned and I’m completely trapped by all this horseshit. Jesus Christ it’s cold.”

  Tom said, “Where are you exactly?”

  Dale said, “Right below you,” and banged his fist against the foot of the Cessna’s door.

  “Okay, hold on.”

  Dale could hear the guy rummaging around up there now, looking for something. Then Tom said, “Cover your eyes. I’m gonna bust out the rest of this window and hand something to you.”

  Dale said, “Gimme a sec,” and slipped down into the tub, his arm really starting to throb now. He looked at it in the poor light, the stake itself about as thick as his thumb, tapering to a point that was tenting the skin on the opposite side of his arm.

  Fighting the urge to puke, Dale said, “Okay,” and closed his eyes, less to protect them from flying glass than to stop himself from looking at his arm. He heard the glass break out there, a few shards of it raining down into his wet hair, then wiggled his good arm and head back up through the hole, thinking he was going to have to do something about that wooden spike. He glanced at the hit waiting for him on the dinner tray and knew what he would do.

  Then Tom said, “Here you go,” and a lime green, capsule-shaped bag came through the window. It took Dale a moment to realize it was a sleeping bag in its storage sack and he reached for it with trembling fingers, snagging one of the dangling tie strings at the limit of his reach. “It’s an arctic bag,” Tom said. “Slip into that puppy you’ll be warm as toast in a jiffy.”

  Dale thought, Fucking guy’s way too cheerful. But he eeled down into the tub again and, using his teeth as a second hand, got the sleeping bag out and wrangled his way into it, the dry fabric sticking to his wet skin. He was still freezing, but it was better.

  His arm wasn’t just throbbing now, it was killing him. He reached through the hole, snagged the insulin syringe off the tray and brought it down into the tub with him. The dose he’d prepared, he realized now, was a lethal one, and maybe he would’ve done it and maybe he wouldn’t; it didn’t really matter anymore. The only thing that did matter was the howling pain in his arm.

  He uncapped the syringe with his teeth and injected a safe amount into a vein on the back of his hand. The rush was instantaneous, dissolving the pain like sugar in water.

  Dale grinned.

  Then he braced his arm against his knees, gripped the fat end of the splinter between his teeth and pulled the fucking thing out, barely feeling it but groaning at the sheer nastiness of it.

  Tom said, “Are you okay?” and Dale told him about the splinter. Tom said to hang on, he had a First Aid kit, and Dale heard him rooting around in the cockpit again. Tom said he was taking a few things out for himself, then held it out the window for Dale to catch. Dale popped out of his hole and snatched the white tin kit out of thin air, pleased with himself for the artful catch. He examined the big splinter briefly then dropped it into the tub and opened the First Aid kit on the tray. The hole in his arm was oozing blood and Dale gazed at it for a long moment, the wound reminding him of a bloody mouth. Then he got a roll of gauze out of the kit and wrapped his injured arm with it.

  Above him Tom said, “There’s a bottle of Advil in there too, if you need something for the pain.”

  Stoned, Dale grinned and said, “Thanks, man, I got it covered.”

  * * *

  While Dale dressed his wound, Tom took a fresh look at his situation. An eight-foot two-by-four had pierced the side-wall of the cockpit and come to rest diagonally across his thighs, the jagged end of it rammed into the seat-back next to him, effectively wedging him in place. His seat was adjustable, like a car seat, but because his legs were so long it was already as far back as it would go. He tried to lift the board up and shimmy free that way, but the thing was in there so tight he couldn’t even wiggle it. He struggled against it for a few seconds then gave up, panic trying to claim him again.

  The worst is over, he told himself. Just stay calm.

  He took a breath and continued his survey. The radio was toast, wires and circuit boards bristling out of it, but the onboard emergency locator transmitter should still be working. It would be just a matter of time before a rescue was initiated, if it hadn’t been already. Mandy would be on top of it by now, too, the poor thing probably worried sick.

  He remembered his cell phone and dug it out of his coat pocket; but, as expected, there was no signal and the battery was almost dead. He could never remember to plug the damned thing in.

  He hoped Mandy could hold off going into labor until this was over.

  He thought of his son, how frightened the little guy must be, his birthday almost certainly ruined. More than anything in this instant Tom wanted to hold his son, smell his sweet smell, feel his tender warmth. Thinking of it made his eyes burn with tears. The wanting was an ache inside him.

  Turning his mind to more immediate concerns, he said, “Dale, you warming up down there?”

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “You alone up here?”

  “Till you showed up. My ex was here before that. Bitch went out louder than you came in.”

  “Are you expecting anyone else?”

  Dale said, “I hope not.”

  “What?”

  “No, not expecting anyone.”

  “You don’t happen to have a phone...”

  “No phone.”

  “That’s okay. We’re still in good shape. Trenton Search and Rescue should’ve picked up my ELT by now.”

  “Say what?”

  “Emergency Locater Transmitter. Sends out a distress signal on a dedicated frequency monitored by satellite and commercial aircraft. There’s a search and rescue unit in Trenton out of the Forces Base down there. They’ll be on it in a matter of hours. Probably dispatch a helicopter. We’re as good as out of here.”

  Dale said, “Peachy,” sounding foggy to Tom. Sounding stoned.

  Tom said, “You okay, buddy?”

  “I’m good, thanks for asking. And if it’s all the same to you, I’m gonna cop a little quiet time down here.”

  A few seconds later Tom could hear the man snoring. He called out to him a couple of times, afraid the guy might be going into shock, but got no response. Knowing there was little he could do about it anyway, he retrieved the supplies he’d removed from his First Aid kit and set about cleaning and dressing the gash at his hairline.

  17

  Within an hour of the crash of Tom Stokes’ Cessna 180, the signal from the ELT beacon in the tail of the aircraft was picked up by a passing satellite and transmitted to the Sat Center in Toronto. The specifics of approximate location and type of aircraft were then passed on to Captain Dan Tremblay of the Air and Marine Search and Rescue Unit at CFB Trenton. It was Tremblay’s job to dispatch the appropriate S&R aircraft, in this case a CC-130 Hercules, a four-engine fixed-wing turboprop that would head the search aspect of the mission, and a Bell 412 Griffon helicopter to execute the rescue.

  From what Tremblay had so far been able to ascertain, the Cessna had gone down i
n a snow squall somewhere deep in the Kukagami region, a rugged, sprawling tourist area about 500 kilometers north of Trenton. Wild country up there, Tremblay knew, lots of lakes, rocky hills and dense forest. Summer dwellings for the most part, sparsely populated at this time of year, which meant little to no road access, especially in the more remote reaches of the region, where the Cessna was believed to have gone down. Survival in a small plane crash in terrain like that, even in good weather, was unlikely at best; but it wasn’t Tremblay’s job to gauge the odds, it was to act on what he knew. And, based on the data he’d been able to procure from the Cessna’s unique beacon signal, what he did know was that the plane was a commercial one, registered to an experienced operator who ran a small hunt-and-fish camp business in partnership with his wife, also an experienced pilot. The first thing he’d have to do was contact their business and see if anyone there could help narrow down the exact location of the aircraft.

  The phone rang as he reached for it. He answered and the switchboard operator told him she had a Mrs. Mandy Stokes holding for him on line three. He punched the extension and said, “Mrs. Stokes, my name is Captain Tremblay. I was just about to call you.”

  18

  Sumit drove the big Mercedes GL with infinite care, the highway greasy from a fresh dusting of snow. Sanj sat next to him in the passenger seat, the map Ed had drawn for them open across his knees.

  Five hours into their journey now and they were headed east on Highway 17 in full darkness, Indian music coming from the vehicle’s state-of-the-art sound system. Sumit hummed along tunelessly, irritating the shit out of his brother.

  Sanj ejected the CD and pointed through the windscreen at a blush of artificial light beyond the crest of a long hill. “That should be the gas station up there,” he said. “Just past it is where we turn.”

  Sumit said, “Good. My heated arse is killing me.”

  The GL crested the hill and the brothers saw the gas station fifty meters ahead on the left. There was a convenience store annexed to the station and, tucked further back off the highway, a neon-lit bar. The parking area fronting the bar was packed with pickup trucks, SUVs and a dozen or so long-haul rigs idling in a tidy row. A few patrons stood smoking by the entrance. There were a couple of cars angle-parked in front of the convenience store and a black Dodge Ram sitting at the pump island closest to the highway.

  Sumit said, “Is that Ed’s truck?” and Sanj said, “Pull in.”

  Signaling as he slowed, Sumit turned into the farthest entryway, the GL gliding past the rear end of the Ram now, thirty feet away on their left. Through tinted glass the men saw Ronnie in profile over there, shoving the gas nozzle back into its cradle.

  Sanj said, “Park around the side. If baby brother’s with her, it could get messy.”

  As Sumit rolled to a stop in the shadow of the building’s flank, Sanj turned in his seat to watch Ronnie lock the Ram with the remote, then march toward the convenience store with her bag slung over her shoulder, unzipping her jacket as she went.

  Sumit killed the engine and pocketed the keys. “Think she made us?”

  Sanj shook his head. “Didn’t bat an eye.” He gave Sumit the spare key to the Ram. “See where I’m going with this?”

  Sumit smiled and got out of the Mercedes, striding across the lot now, turning up the collar of his dark Armani overcoat to hide his face.

  Sanj got out to watch him go, keeping the GL between himself and the glass-walled convenience store. He watched his brother walk around the back of the Ram, the vehicle concealing him from view for a moment, then saw him climb into the back seat and hunker down out of sight.

  All they had to do now was wait.

  19

  While the kid at the counter stared at her tits, Ronnie slipped a container of breath mints into her bag, then a Kit Kat bar. It still irked her that Dale had pussied out on her, but on the bright side she was half a fucking millionaire now, and mutts like Dale were a dime a dozen. It occurred to her again that if she took the time to cut and sell the shit herself she’d be a millionaire, but the truth was she didn’t have the skills or the connections to get it done without risking another prison stint; she’d already done a stretch in Kingston for solicitation and had vowed never to wind up on the inside again. Better to move the product in quantity and be done with it. Ziggy could make it happen in a heartbeat; all she had to do was get to him. Crossing the border in Ed’s Ram could be tricky—given Ed’s past, chances were good the Feds had a line on the vehicle—but she could trade out the Ram for something else before crossing. She’d have to dress herself down a little, but if she drew the right asshole at the border, she’d be on her way to sunny Palm Beach and Ziggy’s loving arms.

  The kid fetched her a deck of smokes and Ronnie settled her bill in cash. She tipped the kid a wink on her way out and watched the little hard-on turn beet red. She tucked the smokes into her bag, fished out the keys and unlocked the Ram with the remote on her way across the lot, holding her coat shut against the wind.

  Back in the Ram, she got a smoke out of the new deck and lit it with her Bic, almost dropping it when a familiar voice said, “Smoking in Ed’s truck, I should tell him.” She wheeled around to see Sumit pop up in the back seat like a slick brown jack-in-the-box, a stupid-ass grin on his face.

  “Jesus Christ, Sumit,” she said, “you scared the shit out me.” She crushed her cigarette in the ashtray and slid her hand back into her bag, finding the pearl grip of her Colt .380...but before she could draw it Sanj appeared at her side window, tapping on the glass with the muzzle of a silenced semi-auto.

  Ronnie powered open the window. These two fuckers showing up here could only mean one thing: Ed was going to do his own brother. That or wind up on Copeland’s chopping block himself. She had little doubt that Ed had figured out who was behind the take-down with the Asians; but he’d given the responsibility to Dale, and she’d spent enough time around men like these to know about that whole bullshit code they pretended to live by. Honor among thieves. The punishment had to fall to Dale. Still, there was no way Ed was going to let her walk, and she knew that if she was going to survive this night she’d have to come up with something clever—and fast.

  She considered pulling the .380 anyway, do Sanj first, shoot him in the face, then double-tap Sumit through the back of her seat; but Sanj had his piece aimed at her throat now, the gun resting casually on the window sill, Sanj smiling at her like they were just hanging out. She’d let Sumit fuck her a few times back in her club days, before she hooked up with Dale, but she’d never been with Sanj.

  Seeing her angle now, Ronnie returned Sanj’s smile, using her left hand to tug her tank top down to show some more cleavage, keeping her right hand, still in her bag, firmly on the Colt. She said, “I’m glad I ran into you boys. I was just bringing Ed his shit back.” Turning now to look at Sumit in the back seat. “It’s behind the seat back there, honey. The cash, too.” She watched him turn his back on her to retrieve the stuff, saying, “Fucking Dale went psycho on those Asians. Who knew he had it in him, right? Either way, I’m done with the creep. Threw his cheesy little diamond in his face.” Looking at Sanj again, showing him the ring finger of her left hand. “See?” Saying to Sanj as she pulled the .380, “Man like you’s more my speed. All that brown sugar—”

  Then Sanj had her by the wrist, twisting hard as he pulled her hand up with the .380 in it, taking it from her as Ronnie said, “Easy, big fella, I was just going to hand it to you. As an act of good faith.”

  Grinning at Sumit, Sanj said, “Good faith,” and pocketed the Colt. He traced the silencer over the swells of Ronnie’s breasts, the frosty steel making her shiver, saying, “You know what, though, bro? I like her. Tits and balls.”

  Then Ronnie saw Sanj signal Sumit with his eyes, twitching his gaze toward the convenience store, and Sumit got out of the vehicle. Ronnie turned her head to watch him jog to the Mercedes and stick the dope and the cash in the back seat, wondering how she’d missed it, a fucki
ng Mercedes crossover out here in Hicksville, then felt Sanj’s cold fingers on her chin, turning her to face him.

  She said, “I was gonna give Ed his stuff back, Sanj. Honest. See if he could maybe put me back to work in one of the clubs—”

  Sanj put a finger to her lips then flared his coat open to holster his gun. “I said I liked you, Ronnie, and I meant it. Unfortunately, our boss is not of a like mind.” He said, “Some friendly advice? Move. Preferably to another continent.”

  Wary, Ronnie said, “I can go?”

  “Correctly answer this skill testing question, and yes, you can go. Where’s the fuckhead?”

  Ronnie said, “I left him at the cottage,” and glanced at the convenience store, Sumit shifting from aisle to aisle in there now, looking for Dale.

  “Lover’s spat?”

  Looking at Sanj again, Ronnie said, “He’s a dipshit.”

  “Is the dipshit armed?”

  “That’s two skill testing questions.”

  “Don’t push it, sweetheart.”

  And there it was, welling up in her now, that annoying weakness for sad little boys like Dale. She lied, saying, “No, he’s not armed,” and was afraid Sanj had seen it.

  But he said,” All right,” and opened her door. “Now give me the keys and get the fuck out of the vehicle.”

  “Shit, Sanj, are you kidding me? How am I supposed to get home? It’s the middle of winter in the middle of no place.”

  Sanj stuck his hand out for the keys. “Not my problem. Now hand ’em over and move your ass before I change my mind.”

  Ronnie could see what was coming now, knew that Sanj was playing her and as soon as she set foot on the ground he’d put a bullet in her head and roll her body into the ditch or maybe dump her into the back seat and get rid of her later.

  If she could just get to the guns she’d stashed under the passenger seat...

  She let her bag slide off her knees into the opposite footwell, knowing how risky it was but seeing no other option—then a big Chevy pickup rolled up to the pump island next to the Ram and Ronnie grabbed her bag by the strap and slid out the door to stand on the running board in front of Sanj, leaning over the roof to say to the redneck getting out of the pickup, “Hey, cowboy, wanna buy a lady a drink?” and saw a second redneck getting out on the passenger side, coming around the hood now to get a closer look at her.