“Mick and I are ready to leave for Touchstone.”
“Keys're in my bag on the coatrack—the ring with the seagull medallion.”
“Appropriate, for your beach cottage.”
“Maybe, but you know what? I hate seagulls. They're nasty, voracious birds; I once saw one eat a dollar left as a tip in an outdoor restaurant.”
“So why d'you have the ring?”
“Same reason Hy has a gull painted on his plane—it's the emblem of the Friends of Tufa Lake, his environmental foundation.”
D’Silva had sat through the conversation looking out the window at the bay, politely pretending a lack of interest. But in reality she'd been making mental notes of our every word. And from there it was a short step to the public records that gave her the address of the property.
I adjusted my course a few degrees to the north of the ranch on the coastline. Pulled back some more on power and began looking for the security lights that marked the perimeter of our property. They were operational; D’Silva hadn't disabled them, and I knew why: she wanted me to arrive here.
Our runway lighting was a simple and relatively inexpensive one; I activated it by keying the radio's mike, and the strip's outline appeared in white. I turned downwind, noting the strong crosswind, pulled on the carburetor heat, slowed the plane some more.
She's heard the engine by now. She's waiting for me.
As I turned base, I slipped the plane with aileron and opposite rudder to lose altitude.
Somewhere down there she's watching.
On final now, the crosswind from the west very strong. The Citabria drifted slightly off its flight path, but I slipped into the wind and corrected it.
She's—
You can't think about her now. Concentrate on making the strip.
Airspeed good. Altitude good. At around 300 feet I switched off the landing lights so they wouldn't make the ground seem to rush up at me.
Ten feet, level off. Feel the sink as the plane starts to settle. Use your feet, keep it centered. Feel where the wheels are, only inches off the ground. Hold it off now …
Well, what do you know! A perfect three-point. Good omen.
I taxied along, braked, turned off toward the tie-down chains that were embedded in the concrete pad to the side of the strip. Shut the plane down and, before I got out, took the .357 from my bag and turned my cell phone back on. It had pained me to have to leave it off during flight, in case the promised call came from either Hy or Renshaw, but cellular phones can't be used in planes because they interfere with the radios.
For a moment I sat in the cockpit, staring into the darkness and seeing nothing. Then, before the runway lights could automatically shut off, I got out and chained the Citabria tightly. The wind was blowing more strongly than the 15 or 16 knots Sonny West had estimated. The fogbank held stationary, but stray wisps drifted high against the sky. Down below, the sea crashed on the rocks.
The runway lights switched off, leaving me in total darkness.
So where is she?
The phone buzzed.
I snatched it from my bag, flipped it open. Before I could speak, a familiar voice said, “Guess where I'm calling from.”
I stared at the dark stone cottage.
“Anytime, McCone. Any old time.”
Even though I'd known where she was, I began shaking with near uncontrollable rage. She'd violated Hy's and my sanctuary, the place we shared with no one but those for whom we cared the most. She'd walked through our rooms, examined every object. She'd sat by our windows, looking out at our sea view. She'd used our phone. She'd slept in our bed.
The enormity of what she'd done fueled my resolve. This was the absolute last incursion she would make into my life.
Okay, McCone, think. Get inside her head. What does she expect you to do?
Call the law? Certainly not. She knows this is just between us.
Lead her away from there, thinking to confuse her in the dark on unfamiliar terrain? Possibly, so she's studied the lay of the land.
Create a diversion and then take her while she's distracted? Also possible, so she'll be on her guard.
Charge into the cottage, gun drawn? That's probably what she's angling for—a duel to the finish, for God's sake. Which means she's well armed.
This isn't leading anyplace. Go about it another way: what does she not expect you to do?
She doesn't expect me to do nothing.
If you were in her place, and she did nothing, what would your response be?
Right: I'd try to force her to take action.
I turned my back on the cottage and got into the Citabria. Closed the door and reached for the night-vision goggles that I'd rented from the equipment firm in the city. Developed by the military for pilots on night flight, they transform total darkness into clear daylight while leaving the wearer's hands free for the controls—or for combat. All of that, plus a nifty price tag of $8,000.
After slipping the cumbersome scope over my head, adjusting the strap, and settling it none too comfortably on my nose, I looked around. The cottage and details of the surrounding terrain appeared as they did on a cloudy day. I adjusted the focus and sat back to wait D’Silva out.
The night was growing colder, but my body heat soon warmed the small cockpit. I glanced at the sky, saw high-flying shreds of fog backlit by a near-full moon. The strong wind buffeted the plane, moved its ailerons and elevator; the tie-down chains groaned as it strained against them.
For half an hour nothing happened. Then my phone buzzed. I hesitated before flipping it open; if it was D’Silva, I'd prefer to up the tension by ignoring her. But if it was Hy …
“What's the matter, McCone? You afraid of me?”
I broke the connection.
Another half hour. And another call: “If you've set the county sheriff's department after me, they must be having trouble finding the place.”
I broke the connection, smiling. There'd been an edge of anxiety in D’Silva's voice this time. Things were not going according to her plan. Sooner or later she wouldn't be able to resist my unspoken challenge.
I placed the phone on the dashboard, wishing it would ring with the call I really wanted. When he phoned at one-thirty, Renshaw had said I'd hear within six hours; the promised call was now more than an hour and a half overdue. True, he or Hy could have tried to reach me while I was in flight, but wouldn't either have tried again by now? The silence worried me; Gage seldom underestimated a situation or time frame.
It was forty minutes before the phone rang again. I waited till the third ring to answer.
“McCone, I know what you want. You want me to show myself. That's it, isn't it?”
I hung up.
Edginess had been plain in her voice. I was getting to her, all right. I watched the cottage carefully, allowed myself to feel her tension. She'd been pacing the two rooms, stopping frequently to look out at the Citabria. Her eyes would search the grounds to see if I'd somehow slipped out of the plane and was creeping up on the cottage. She'd wonder what to do if I'd made no move by morning.
I loved having the tables turned. I'd put her through the same kind of agony she'd caused me.
Another hour. No more calls. No sign of movement in or near the cottage. The wind blew steadily; the fogbank crept closer. The cockpit grew overly warm, so I opened the window and sea air rushed in at me. The surf smashed violently against the cliffs, and beyond the cottage spray was thrown high.
Twenty minutes more, and a figure in jeans and a down jacket ran from behind the cottage and into the cypress trees surrounding it. For a moment I lost her, but then she sprinted across bare ground to the platform above the staircase that scaled the cliff face to Bootleggers Cove. Her light hair blew wildly as she started down the stairs and disappeared.
Where the hell did she think she was going? It was high tide; she had to be able to see that. At best she'd get halfway down before she'd have to turn back—or be swept out to sea.
Two poss
ible scenarios here: She planned to stay on the stairway till I gave up my vigil and came after her, then take me by surprise. After all, she had no way of knowing I could observe her every move through the night-vision goggles. Or she hoped I'd seen her climb down the stairs and would begin to fear for her, then rush to her rescue. The latter seemed more in tune with what I now understood about her; she'd bonded with me in a strange way, and if I tried to help her, it would prove I'd bonded too.
But I hadn't.
Twenty minutes now. Twenty-five.
And then she reappeared, ran hunched over toward the cottage. She was heading back to get warm, regroup, make a new plan. To try to figure out what I would do next.
What am I going to do?
Nothing. Let her pace, speculate wildly, hone her tension. I'd drive her as crazy as she'd driven me.
Midnight. One o'clock. Two.
No further calls from D’Silva. No call from Renshaw or Hy. The expected front hadn't blown in and the fog was dissipating, although the wind was still very strong. Not surprising—the weather was nearly impossible to predict on this wild north coast. You could be experiencing a beautiful blue-sky day one moment and be mired in gray the next, or just the opposite.
Two-thirty. Three. Three-thirty.
Possibly she'd gone to sleep. Stress wearied most people to the point of total exhaustion, although I wouldn't have expected it to affect D’Silva that way. It certainly didn't exhaust me; if anything, it made me more alert, heightened my sense of being alive. And this kind of stress—being on the raw edge of danger—made me higher than I'd ever flown. When Hy first saw me in the grips of it, he'd accused me of having a death wish; now he knew it was an addiction. One he shared.
Four o'clock. God, I was starving!
I rooted around in my purse, found one of those health bars they're always passing out in the supermarkets in hope of luring new customers. When I bit into it, I decided that this particular company was not one to buy stock in. I ate the bar anyway, lusting after a bacon cheeseburger.
At five o'clock, on the off chance that Gage Renshaw had forgotten I'd said to call me at the cellphone number, I dialed my house and accessed my messages. One from Mick, asking if I'd be needing his services this weekend, and a hang-up. It didn't surprise me; if anything important had come in, D’Silva had probably accessed and erased it. I stuffed the phone into my bag, convinced it would never ring again.
The night-vision goggles weighed heavily on the bridge of my nose, so I took them off and massaged it. Darkness still lay upon the land and sea; this time of year the sun didn't rise here till around seven. After a moment I put the goggles back on and peered at the cottage. She must be awake, because she'd lighted a fire, and smoke came from—
The roof, not the chimney! A thick, oily stream that quickly expanded into billows.
“Oh, no, not fire!”
But it was. She'd done the one thing that would make me come to her.
I tore off the cumbersome goggles and dumped them on the rear seat, tossed my purse after them, and grabbed my gun from the dash. Then I was out of the plane and running in a crouch toward the shelter of the cypress grove. I dodged and weaved through the trees toward the ocean side of the cottage. The smoke was thick there, tainted with oil, and when I reached the grove's edge I saw the leap of orange flames.
I stopped, coughing from the noxious fumes, gun extended in both hands. The flames shot higher—but not from the cottage.
Where?
A 50-gallon oil drum, over there by one of the sheds. Hy had brought it here for disposal of waste when he changed the oil on the plane and the pickup. Directly behind it was—
“Oh, Christ! The propane tank!”
The main house that once stood on this property had been destroyed by explosion and fire. I couldn't let that happen to our cottage.
I started to rush toward the drum, then realized that was exactly what D’Silva wanted me to do. She was out there, armed and waiting.
Or was she? Would she really stay close by, risk dying in an explosion? No. Her recent behavior had been self-destructive, but deep down she was as much of a survivor as I. She'd lured me from the plane, and now she would bide her time, keep her distance from the fire. Then—
No time to think about that now.
I edged out of the grove, gun extended, and swept the surrounding terrain with it as I ran toward the fire. The drum sat dangerously close to the propane tank, and the heat of the fire had already charred what vegetation clung to the sandy ground nearby. I could feel it on my face and hands.
I looked around, spotted a length of two-by-four leaning against the far side of the shed. Ran over, stuffing the .357 into my waistband, and grabbed it. Dragged it back to the propane tank and shoved its end into the sand under the drum. Worked the piece of wood deeper, deeper, then laid my whole weight on it and pushed down.
The drum tipped slightly, only to settle back and force the two-by-four up so it smacked my midsection. I grunted in pain, pushed it back down. Straddled it like a seesaw and tipped the drum over.
The two-by-four came loose; I fell to the ground on top of it. When I started up, I saw the drum spurting flame and rolling toward the cottage.
I caught the two-by-four, scrambled around, and jammed it into the drum's side. Its momentum made me stagger, but I got it stopped in time. I leaned hard into the two-by-four and started rolling the drum up the slight incline toward the cliff's edge. My eyes and lungs burned from the toxic smoke, my face felt seared by the heat; sweat and tears combined to blur my vision. Flames still spurted from the drum, smoldered when they touched the sand.
Another yard and I'd have the cliff made—but then I stepped on a patch of slippery, fat-leaved ice plant, and my feet went out from under me. As the drum started to roll back, I got to my knees, straining against the two-by-four; the drum stayed where it was. I eased into a crouch, the two-by-four anchored against my shoulder, and gave it a final shove.
For a moment it teetered on the cliff's edge, flames flaring in the offshore wind. Then it pitched forward, the two-by-four flying from my grasp and pitching me forward too. I half crawled the remaining distance and watched as the drum banged off a high ledge and plummeted like a dying Roman candle to the waves below. There was a huge splash, a hiss, and then no sound but the crash of the surf.
I sank into the cool ice plant, panting and wiping my hot face against it.
And behind me I heard an engine start up.
The Citabria!
I pushed to my feet, reaching into my jacket pocket for the plane's key; it was there. Over on the tie-down pad, the Citabria's beacon and position lights flashed on.
I began running.
How did she start it? Oh, right—extra keys on the hook in the cottage's closet.
The plane began to taxi, turned nose into the wind. I kept running, yelling for her to stop, even though I knew she couldn't hear me.
She didn't do a run-up! She's never flown a tail-dragger!
D’Silva put in full throttle. The plane gained momentum. Veered briefly, as if she was in danger of losing directional control in the strong crosswind. Recovered and continued straight.
Maybe she does have a death wish. Or maybe she's just stupid and arrogant.
The Citabria was near takeoff speed. It began to bounce—it wanted to fly. I stopped halfway to the strip and watched, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.
The plane lifted off, tipping and teetering in the crosswind. I held my breath, unsure whether to expect a stall or a spin—both fatal at such low altitude. But she got it under control, dipping the left wing into the wind and using right rudder. It climbed out and disappeared into the darkness.
Shaking with a combination of rage and delayed terror, I changed direction and ran to the cottage to use the phone.
Sunday
Sonny West looked pasty-faced and unkempt when I pulled up to the small beige terminal building at Little River. As I stepped down from the truck and hur
ried toward him, he yawned widely. “McCone, why'd you have to call up and get me over here at the ass end of a night when me and my buddies closed the Buckhorn?”
“It's an emergency. I need to use the unicom. Somebody's hijacked Two-eight-niner.”
He paused, keys to the terminal in hand. “The hell you say! Who?”
“No time to go into it now.” I waited impatiently while he discovered he was using the wrong key and fished through the others for the right one.
“You call the sheriff's department?” Sonny asked.
“Deputies are meeting me here.”
“What about the FAA?”
“Not yet. Maybe you can handle that?”
He got the door open and flicked on the fluorescents; I pushed past him into the cluttered waiting room and headed toward the high counter where the unicom sat on a shelf. Although the airport wasn't attended at this hour, the unit was always on so air traffic in the vicinity could communicate with one another. I turned the volume up.
Sonny asked, “What're you gonna try to do—raise the hijacker?”
“Yeah. She's still within range. New pilot who's never flown a tail-dragger before. I'm going to try to talk her down here before she wrecks the plane or injures or kills innocent people.” I'd had the radio set to Little River's frequency when I landed. If D’Silva turned it on—and I had no reason to doubt she would—I'd be able to get through to her.
“Christ,” Sonny muttered, “we'd better have a fire truck and ambulance standing by.” He headed for the phone on the other side of the waiting room.
I keyed the unicom's mike. “Citabria seven-seven-two-eight-niner, McCone at Little River. Request your position.”
Nothing.
“Two-eight-niner, acknowledge.”
While Other People Sleep Page 23
