by Cave, Hugh
Letting them go first, he followed far enough behind to protect them, or try to, if the brute decided to challenge their departure. It did look up, baring its fangs again and watching their every step until they reached the machine. It did slink forward to bar his way as he trailed them.
But when he stopped and spoke to it, the dog also stopped. It did not move again when he went on.
The slamming of the car door put an end to the uncertainty, and Ken let his breath out in relief. Then the feeling of urgency returned as he realized the enormity of the task he faced.
"Look." The car was already growling away from Jumel's mailbox. "I've got to follow your husband, hon, and I don't want you two with me. God knows what Margal will do if he learns I'm after him."
"Ken—must you?"
"Must I what?"
"Go after him?"
He looked up at his face in the rearview mirror. "What's the alternative? Go to the cops, looking like this?"
"But—"
"They'd laugh me out of town." With Jumel's road behind them, he stepped up the speed. "Try to see it through their eyes. A guy no one ever heard of walks into a small-town police station looking as if he hasn't shaved for a week and has just been dragged out of a river. He gives them a song and dance about a Haitian witch doctor being driven to Cape Canaveral by a son of the President's best friend, to take over the President's mind. Would you buy it?"
"I—suppose I wouldn't."
"I'm going to drop you off at a motel, hon. We passed some on U.S. One. The first decent-looking one we come to. . . You can wait there till I get back."
"But what will you do?"
"Try to overtake them. I should be able to if I don't get stopped for speeding. They won't risk driving too fast."
They were approaching U.S. 1. The child between them, no doubt exhausted by her ordeal, appeared to have fallen asleep with Sandy's arm around her. Sandy suddenly turned her head to look Ken full in the face, and he saw something that would have filled him with joy at a less critical moment. She was terrified not for herself now, not even for her daughter, but for him.
"Ken—" She sobbed the word. "What will you do if you catch up with them? You can't handle that man alone!"
"I'll think of something," he said. "Don't count me out."
Chapter Forty-five
As he pulled away from the motel after letting Sandy and her daughter out of the car, Ken glanced at a road map to refresh his memory.
Which route would Brian Dawson take to the Cape—U.S. 1 or 1-95? They were only a few miles apart, and parallel, but 95 was likely to be faster.
Just ahead now was a road that led to 95. What should he do? And—face it—what real chance did he have of catching that silver Jaguar in this rented hunk of junk he was driving?
The dogs at Jumel's house might not have done their job in the way Margal intended, but they had probably insured the bocor's safe arrival at Canaveral.
He turned left and found himself on a two-lane blacktop. Roseland Road, a sign said; speed limit 35.
Doing twenty more than that, he hit a pair of railroad tracks never designed to be crossed at such speed, and the car took off like a plane.
As he fought to regain control, a small plane did appear over the road ahead, like those he had heard at the cabin by the river. From the Sebastian airport, Jumel had said.
This was Sebastian.
The plane was descending. He watched it as the car recovered from its leap. To be descending at that low altitude, it had to be coming in for a landing. It disappeared below the tops of pine trees to his left.
The airport was that close?
Moments later a sign said it was. SEBASTIAN AIRPORT, WEST ENTRANCE, NO THRU TRAFFIC—with a dirt road running off to the left.
Instead of sensibly overrunning the road and backing up to it, he took the turn on whining tires. But once on it, he slowed and listened.
And heard the sound of a plane taxiing; the field was that close.
Knowing now what to do if the field was the kind to give him half a chance, he drove on at a crawl. The road was a nothing: only a hundred yards long through scrub oak and palmetto before it swung left at a wide iron gate.
The gate was closed. On the other side of it, the black runway of a sleepy, small-town airfield glistened in the sun. Just turning off the near end of the runway onto a taxi strip was a red-and-white Cessna 152.
This could be it, Forrest. Start praying.
Past the curve of the road, the scrub gave way on his left to a world of shadows created by slash pines. On his right were metal buildings fronting the taxi strip. He could see four small planes parked there. Others might be hidden by the buildings.
The Cessna came purring along the strip to take its place at the runway end of the row. As the pilot opened the door and dropped to the ground to head for one of the buildings, heat from the craft's engine created a phantom reverse waterfall in the air above it.
Okay, Forrest. Where to hide the car?
He had noted three or four possible openings in the slash-pine shadow world. Backing up, he chose an old pair of sandy ruts that faded away to nothing a hundred feet in. On getting there, he squeezed the car in a few extra yards, to be doubly sure it wouldn't be noticed from the road. As he flipped open the glove compartment, praying to find a piece of wire in it, the silence was cotton in his ears and he could feel his heart pounding against it like something struggling to escape.
There was no wire. But a plane like that could be hot-wired without a jumper, no? He had never actually flown a 152, but it must be similar to some he had flown. If he had to unscrew part of the instrument panel to get at the starter wires, he would find a way.
Go, Forrest! With its high wing and good visibility, this is just the plane you need. And it's already warmed up. You Won't get another chance, for God's sake. And you'll never catch them in a car.
But was it necessary to commit a crime here? At an airport like this, it should be possible to rent a plane.
Not for him. Sure, his billfold contained proof of his qualifications and had come through its river bath intact. He knew that from having opened it at the motel to give Sandy some money. But even if he knew where to inquire about renting a plane, he didn't look like a man who could be trusted with one. Changing that impression would take time. Too much time. Too much talk.
Forget it, man. Let's go. Now!
With the car keys in his pocket, he hurried back out to the road. Crossed it. Eyed a pair of NO TRESPASSING signs on blacktop driveways leading to the buildings. There were no fences to put teeth in the signs, though. No evidence of life around the buildings, either.
With his hands in his pockets, he put the road behind him and strolled on through weeds and scrub, keeping as wide a gap as he could between himself and the nearest building.
Suddenly a voice hissed in his head, "White man from Haiti, stop!"
Without realizing what he was doing, he obeyed.
"So you have escaped from the cabin." The voice was acid eating at his brain now. "But you have not escaped from me, m'sieu, and you never will! You are a fool. You should have killed Jumel so he could not warn me!"
Oh my God, Ken thought. But don't stop. Make for the plane. Think about flying! It worked before!
He stumbled on, aware that the command to halt was more than a sound in his head now. It had become a sack of cement on his shoulders, bearing him down. It was a pair of leaden chains on his ankles, causing him to drag his feet. But he kept going. He was past the buildings and staggering across the taxi strip. Anyone watching would surely think him so drunk he was likely to fall on his face.
"1 see you struggling to reach an airplane!" Suddenly the voice was thunder, adding to the agony in his head with every syllable. "But you will not reach it! Go back! Go back to your car and return to Jumel's house!"
How much do you know, Margal? Do you know Sandy and I have already been to Jumel's and taken Merry out of there? How much do you know, you son o
f Satan?
"Listen to me, m'sieu! You may not use that airplane! Touch it and you will die!"
"Screw you, Margal. Go back to hell where you belong, you creep. You can't stop me."
"You will perish, I tell you! You will die horribly! I am at the end of my patience with you! Turn back at once!"
"Make me, you lousy bastard. Make me!"
Again the agony exploded in his head, and again he stumbled. This time he would have pitched to his knees but for the plane itself. As he grabbed at the fuselage to hold himself up, the sunlight bounced off it to blind hint. The metal was almost too hot to touch.
But you got here, man. You made it! Now defy him for another minute or two and you'll be flying!
But even as he fumbled to open the door, he knew he had lost. The wide red stripe under the handle had become a river of blood flowing past his eyes, threatening to suck him in and drown him. No way could he hold back the agony long enough to hot-wire the plane and get it into the air.
End of struggle. Period.
He was able to drag the door open, though. Was able to climb into the pilot's seat. There, straining one last time to break the bocor's hold on him, he gripped the wheel with both hands and squeezed his eyes shut.
"Go to Jumel's house!" The voice in his head was a hurricane wind accompanied by claps of thunder. "I have warned you, m'sieu. Get out of that plane or you die!"
"To hell with you, Margal. To hell—"
The explosion in his head threatened to burst his skull. His eyes flew open from the shock of it, and he saw the key there in front of him, waiting to be turned.
No need to hot-wire the plane. Just fly it. Fly it!
He put out his hand. The engine came to life with a growl. He opened the throttle and, in a daze, watched the rev counter jump in the blur of the instrument panel. Then, as the plane sped along the taxi strip and made the turn onto the runway, he vaguely saw two men running from one of the buildings, waving their arms.
Sorry, guys. There was just no other way.
Seconds later he was airborne and climbing, with the voice of Margal fading to a whisper in his skull.
In another moment the whisper died too, and the pain with it.
It was true, then. Here in the sky he was out of the bocor's reach. Here in his own element, where he had always functioned best, he was free to do what he had to.
Chapter Forty-six
He searched interstate 95 first, flying so low he could have been reported had anyone been in the mood to call the authorities and knew where to call.
The sky was perfect for the task he had set for himself. With the agony gone from his head he felt ready. It was good to be back in a cockpit.
The interstate was less congested than U.S. 1. Had they taken it from Sebastian, as he suspected, they should be well north of Melbourne by now. Perhaps even north of Cocoa.
And maybe almost to their destination, he thought with a sudden stab of panic. Remember, Forrest, Brian Dawson is at the wheel of that Jag, and he isn't the type to worry about speed limits.
In the car at that moment Brian Dawson was being asked a question by Margal's woman, Clarisse.
"Tell me something if you will, m'sieu. It seems to me most unlikely that we will be allowed to get close to your President when we arrive at this Cape Canaveral. It would certainly not be possible in Haiti. How are we to accomplish this?"
Traveling U.S. 1 in fairly heavy traffic, the driver did not see fit to take his gaze off the road as he answered. "Do you know what a VIP is?"
"A very important person?"
"Right. And as one of those, I have a pass that will take us where we must go. Leave that little problem to me."
"You are sure, m'sieu?"
"My father will be with the President, in his car. That is how sure I am."
"And can we be sure of your loyalty?" she demanded.
"Clarisse, your master has promised me certain rewards in return for my loyalty. I will earn them, never fear."
She turned her head to frown at the legless man beside her. "Rewards?" she said to Margal. "What rewards, Margal? If I may ask!"
Margal shrugged. "M'sieu Dawson has come to have great respect for the powers of a bocor. So I have promised to continue his education and make him my chief assistant in the weeks to come."
And if M'sieu Dawson is foolish enough to believe that, Clarisse thought, he will believe anything.
Following 1-95—not the highway the Jaguar was on—Ken still felt reasonably safe in flying low above it. The road ran through open country and traffic was light.
At a hundred miles an hour, thinking he had spotted the car, he cut his speed and went down to seventy feet for a closer look. No. It was a sedan that shone like silver in the sun but not the one he sought. But coming up now on his right was something that told him he was running out of time.
Remembering the map he had studied, he climbed quickly for a better look.
Route 405, the divided four-lane road leading east to the main entrance of the Space Center. It had to be that. He could see it running a few miles across country before it took off over the glitter of the Indian River on a kind of dike.
If the car he sought reached the Space Center, he would have no chance. Not the flimsiest ghost of a chance, unless he opted to commit wholesale murder. He would have to give up.
There were cars on 405. Please, God, let one of them be it!
He flew low over the highway, wondering how long he would be allowed to get away with such forbidden tactics. There was sure to be air security so close to Canaveral. Probably extra special, with the President expected.
Sooner or later he was bound to be checked out by planes from, say, Patrick Air Force Base, nearby. It was inevitable. And probably sooner, not later.
But of the car he sought there was no sign. No sign at all.
Where, dear God, could it be?
His mind again shaped a picture of the map. They could have come up U.S. 1 to the Bee Line Expressway just south of here and crossed over the Indian River on that. Yes, of course! It might be an even shorter way to get there. To check it out, he need only fly south a few miles.
He tore through the shining sky at top speed and then slowed to ninety for a pass over the Bee Line. With the cars on it moving at forty-five to fifty-five, he could see them clearly as he flew low over the divided highway.
This would be a good road for what he had in mind, he thought. No wires. No trees. Just a flat strip of grass on either side between the highway and the river. To hell with worrying now about security planes. Where was the silver sedan that was carrying Margal to his appointment with destiny? If not here, it must still be on Route 1, on its way here.
He saw it. Or thought he did. A silver sedan that looked like the one he sought had just turned onto the Bee Line from Route 1 and was approaching the first of two close-together bridges there.
Dipping the Cessna's nose, Ken flew alongside the bridge for a closer look.
No question about it, the car was silver. It had a leaping Jaguar for a hood ornament. The driver was a white man alone on the front seat. Both passengers in the rear were black.
As he climbed into the sky's glare again, he remembered how Sandy and he had stared in disbelief as the same car passed them on the road near Jumel's house.
In the car, Clarisse had turned to her companion and was screaming at him in near hysteria. "Mon Dieu, Margal! What was that?" The plane, she would swear, had almost touched the machine with the tip of a wing as it roared past.
On the right side of the seat, Margal had been even closer to the plane than she. He sat rigid now, his handsome face turned to stone. "It was the American from Haiti."
"Here? After escaping from Jumel?"
"Here, obviously." For the first time since they had left the Caribbean, Clarisse detected a bitterness, an ugliness, in his voice.
Leaning toward him, she stroked his cheek. "You are still Margal, mon cher. Do something about him, no?"
&n
bsp; He was silent.
"Don't you hear me?" she persisted. "Do something about him, Margal! Cause him to make a mistake in that thing and destroy himself!"
"I—cannot," the bocor muttered.
"What?" Never before—never—had she heard him use those words. "Mother of God, what are you saying?"
"He almost accomplished this before by using his mind." With a deep sigh, the bocor shut his eyes and let his head slump. "I am a creature of the earth, woman. I must have an earth connection."
The fat woman stared at him until she began to quiver. Then she shifted her gaze to the shoulders of the man in front of her. Reaching out, she began to pound Brian Dawson with her fist.
"Can you see the plane, M'sieu Dawson? Can you? Is it coming back?"
As the car continued to speed along the highway, Dawson leaned forward to peer up through the windshield. Apparently the calmest of the three persons present—at least for the moment—he said with a shrug, "Yes, I see him. He's over the river, turning."
"Can he stop us?"
"Of course not. He would have to kill himself."
"You are sure?"
"Positive. We've nothing to fear from him at all."
Ken was indeed turning to come back. The turn completed, he peered down at his target.
It was going to be rough, doing what he had to do from here on in. The Jaguar was on the second of the two bridges. From the sky it looked like a silver cat creeping up the side of a concrete hill. It was the only eastbound car on the bridge, thank God, and traffic in the other direction was light.
But this bridge was higher than the first one. Its slopes were longer. Once the silver car began its descent, it would almost certainly pick up speed.
So, then, it would be traveling maybe sixty miles an hour when it leveled out again, and he would have only a moment or two to make his move. There where the slope of the bridge ended and the road became flat again was the one suitable stretch.
The highway there ran along a kind of dike, with the Indian River lagoon on both sides. A park-like band of grass a hundred feet or so wide lay on either side of the concrete. Then water.
