by Graham, Jo
Again, and Jerry was facing north now, another inscription before he moved back to where he'd begun, sealing the circle he had traced around. "Before me, Raphael," Jerry said, his back almost against hers. "Behind me, Gabriel. On my right hand Michael, and on my left Uriel. About me shines the pentagram, and within me the six rayed star."
Alma opened her eyes. Though nothing had physically changed, the room seemed lighter, cooler. Jerry bent his head for a moment like a man in prayer, then turned about, closing the penknife. "I think we're ready."
"Ok," Henry said.
Wordlessly, Alma flipped open the Motorist's Atlas, turning to the road map of southern California, while Jerry unwrapped the tablet and laid it on the desk beside her. It gleamed dully in the candlelight. She took a deep breath and reached up to unfasten the chain around her neck, pulling the necklace off and laying it in front of her. She'd gotten used to wearing her wedding ring on a chain around her neck when she flew, because she hated having anything on her hands, and now it seemed like a compromise. She wore it next to her heart, not on her finger as a reproach to Lewis. Nor could she bear to leave it off entirely. There might be a time when she did. Almost surely someday there would be a time when she did, but not now.
Henry's eyebrows rose, but he said nothing.
Alma refastened the chain, resting her right elbow on the desk and looping the chain around her ring finger, raising her arm at ninety degrees to the surface, so that the wedding band hung free beneath her palm an inch or two above the atlas. It turned slightly as it swung, the script inside the band catching the light. "Ok," Alma said, looking up at Jerry.
He nodded and moved the tablet closer, until the fingers of her left hand rested lightly on the edge of it. "She's going to find the connection," Jerry said quietly to Henry. "A creature like that leaves a big footprint, and we have a material connection with the tablet."
Metal. Alma closed her eyes again, her fingertips just touching the edge of the tablet. Incised metal. Lewis had tried to see, had tried to open a window into the past using his untapped clairvoyant potential. Alma had none, but she knew how to use what she had. Metal from the breast of the earth, lead forged long ago. Metal in her other hand, the gold ring swinging in the loop of its chain, turning and catching the light of the candle flame. Red fire. Forger's fire. Tablet and ring were both born of flame, both born from the breast of the earth.
Show me, she whispered silently. Not Jerry's focused will, not the power of words, but more primal than that. Like calls to like. Flame calls to flame, metal to metal, and the tablet to the creature it bound so long.
And the last piece. Earth rendered into symbol, not in the banishing pentagrams of Jerry's ritual phrases, but in the prosaic and easily understood symbols of the road map. Here are the Sierra Nevadas, here Banning Pass. Here is the highway that runs across the desert to Las Vegas, here, just as she had seen it from the air days ago, a ribbon on the map making plain the memory in her mind, the snake of black asphalt through red land. The map was a skillful symbolic representation, everything to scale, and like the best correspondences there was nothing occult or obscure about it. Anyone could understand it. And hence it had more power, not the power of secrecy but of omnipresent belief.
Show me. She felt the pendulum begin to move, the ring swinging in wide circles. It tugged. It pulled. This way. She heard Henry stir, and perhaps he would have said something, but Jerry forestalled him.
"Give her time," Jerry said.
There was a rustle, and for a moment the pendulum hesitated. Paper moved. Jerry was turning the page in the Atlas. She must have tracked off one border or another.
Show me. Not nearly so far north as Las Vegas. The desert unspooled in her mind, rail lines running straight as a ruler across the land, like looking down from 5,000 feet, cruising along. Williams Junction. Flagstaff. Gallup.
Another stirring. She was running off the map again, Jerry turning the pages, flying east as though she were winged herself, flying into afternoon. The shape of the plane raced ahead of her on the ground, her beloved Jenny. Albuquerque was an oasis of green, round circles of irrigation bright against the desert, growing oranges and lemons in the May heat.
The tracks turned northward and now so did she, her shadow out over her right wing. Northward toward Colorado. Just south of Trinidad she saw the train, a streamlined silver streak against the earth, the Santa Fe’s Chief laboring up the grade at fifty miles an hour. The plane paced it, circling.
Somewhere far away the ring was circling too, turning in a tight knot over the page of the atlas.
"There's nothing there," Henry said. "Why the hell would Davenport go there?"
"He's on his way to Chicago," Alma said, her voice sounding thready, as though the wind had taken it from her throat. "He's on the Chief."
"The express train to Chicago," Jerry supplied. "Well, that's great."
Alma opened her eyes, letting the ring down where it stood. It lay on the paper, the circle of gold just touching Trinidad, Colorado.
"He must have left last night," Henry said.
"Early last night," Alma supplied. "The Chief leaves Los Angeles at six pm."
Jerry nodded. "Hire some thugs to kill us, hop on the Chief, have a nice dinner while the deed is done with miles between you and the ones you want out of the way."
"Can you catch him?" Henry asked.
"With an airplane?" Jerry looked over the top of his glasses.
"No, with a bicycle," Henry snapped. "Of course I mean with your Terrier."
"My Terrier," Alma said. She was owner and pilot both, while the amount Jerry didn't know about aviation would fill volumes.
"Don't you have planes, Henry?" Jerry asked mildly.
"I have lots of planes," Henry replied. "But I also have mail routes and passenger routes, and I can't cancel scheduled flights to send my pilots out chasing the Chief all the way to Chicago."
"Because that would cost a lot of money," Alma said sharply. "That's a hell of a lot of fuel, Henry."
Henry got up and went to the southward wall, lifting a rather ugly painting to reveal a wall safe beneath. Alma waited while he turned the knobs, then opened the door and drew out an envelope. He counted, frowning, and then handed the contents to her. "Think that will do it?"
Twenty-five twenty dollar bills.
"That will take us to Chicago," Alma conceded. She met his eyes firmly. "Are you chartering us to catch your man for you?"
Henry put his hands in his pants pockets, his coat bulging out over them. "Gil wouldn't have charged me for expenses."
"Gil isn't here," Alma said. "And you look like a millionaire. While I am not."
Henry sighed. "Ok. You win. Catch Davenport for me and I'll cover all your expenses."
"You'll cover our expenses whether or not we catch him," Alma said briskly. "We use the fuel either way."
"Fine." Henry offered his hand reluctantly. "You drive a hard bargain."
"You could always use your own plane," Alma said sweetly. "But I expect you'd lose a lot more than five hundred dollars plus whatever else."
"I'm not writing you a platinum ticket," Henry grumbled, but he shook her hand firmly. "I'll be behind you in a day or two on one of my planes as a passenger. I needed to get back to New York anyhow for the launch of the Independence."
"Your new zeppelin?" Jerry asked, looking up from apparent fascination with the road atlas while Alma bargained.
"Yep," Henry said with satisfaction. "Maiden flight. New York to Paris. I'm taking her up next week."
"Sounds like fun," Jerry said, pushing his glasses up his nose.
"How soon can you leave?"
Alma looked at her watch. "In the morning."
"Oh for the love of…."
"Henry, it's nearly two o'clock. By the time we got to Grand Central and got fueled it would be four. And it's a big field. We'd have to wait for a takeoff time between the scheduled traffic. If we're lucky we'd be in the air by five, and we're flying east. Un
less it's absolutely critical I'd rather not make a night leg, and it's not critical." Alma slipped the chain back around her neck, the ring disappearing down the front of her shirt. "We can get to Chicago ahead of him, especially since we know where he's going and can take a more direct route. We can fly straight from Gallup to Denver and cut hours off. And there are a couple of other short cuts further east." She looked at Jerry. "We'll leave first thing in the morning. I'll go to Grand Central now and file a flight plan. We can keep abreast of his progress as we go and we'll send you a telegram if anything changes."
"For which we'll need this," Jerry said, tapping the tablet and taking a silk handkerchief out of his pocket.
Henry shook his head. "It's a good thing I trust you people," he said.
"It certainly is," Alma said. "I'd like to see you explain this to your pilots." She got to her feet. "It's always a pleasure, Henry."
"For some value of pleasure," Henry said.
It had taken most of the afternoon and evening to get the Terrier re-rigged for the flight to Chicago, and it had only been Henry’s intervention that had gotten them the supplemental tank from Kershaw Aviation’s shop down the road. Mitch and Lewis had bolted it in place, rigged and tested and retested the fuel lines and the switch-over valve, and then they’d ditched the extra seats and strung a baggage net across the back of the passenger compartment. Not that they’d be carrying that much — they didn’t have that much, just what they’d brought to Hollywood, but Jerry flatly refused to leave his books behind. And he was probably right that they’d need them, Mitch thought. Assuming that they managed to catch up with Davenport — with the thing that was riding him, anyway, and also assuming that they could figure out what to do about it.
Mitch looked around the passenger compartment again, checking that the remaining seats were bolted down, and that the narrow cot they’d gotten from the Kershaw shop fit tightly into the chocks. The Terriers were designed to take luxury fittings, like the cot with its thin, hard mattress — daybed, the shop manager had called it, or ‘chaise’ — but he’d never installed one before. But this was going to be a long flight, sixteen hours at the absolute best, assuming they got fueled up fast each and every time, and never had to wait for a runway. And there would be hard work to do at the end of it.
Mitch flexed his fingers, working knuckles he’d bruised the day before when one of the wrenches slipped, and swung down the steps to begin his walk-around. They had to stop Davenport, or the thing that was wearing him, but he wished they had a better plan for how. The sun was only barely up, throwing long shadows across the tarmac, sending his own shadow back toward the hanger. Everything was in order, the big rotary engines gleaming with oil, the control surfaces perfect, and he looked back toward the terminal, shading his eyes. Yep, there they were, Alma in the lead, Jerry beside her, his jerky movements unmistakable as he fought to keep up, and Lewis was behind them, lugging Jerry’s bag as well as his own. Lewis was willing, Mitch allowed. He was a good pilot, and he was willing to help without being asked, and he was willing to work with Jerry’s moods, so if he was what Alma wanted, Mitch thought, more power to him. But if he screwed up, hurt her in any way — Mitch nodded once. He wouldn’t let that happen.
“With the tablet at least we can find it,” Jerry said, as they came into earshot, “but after that — banish or bind it, those are our only options, and I don’t see how to do it yet.”
Alma was looking a little frayed around the edges, Mitch thought, and Lewis was starting to look positively mulish. “Good morning,” he said, with all the good humor he could muster, and Alma gave him a grateful glance. “Did you get the legal stuff straightened out?”
“Yes,” Alma said firmly, before Jerry could expound on the topic. “We’ll have to come back for a hearing, but Henry’s lawyer got them to agree that we could carry on with normal business until then.”
“That’s a relief,” Mitch said. He grabbed Jerry’s suitcase, swung it up into the plane. It landed with a thud, and Alma shook her head.
“How are we for weight, anyway?”
“Fine,” Mitch said. “Lewis and I went over the figures three times, and we’ve got ample margin. Even with the supplemental tank full.”
Lewis tossed his own bag up the stairs, followed it more gently with Alma’s, and heaved himself aboard.
“We’re cutting it close,” Jerry said. He shook his head. “He – it – must be about twenty hours from Chicago by now.”
“We’ll make it in eighteen,” Mitch said. “Maybe less.”
Jerry looked as though he wanted to say something more, but Alma interrupted him. “We’re next after Western’s Early Bird. Better get settled.” She held out a clipboard. “We’re going a little northerly, there’s weather to the south.”
Mitch nodded, glancing down the list. Salt Lake, North Platte, Iowa City, and then Chicago: the first leg was the longest, but it should be easy flying, daylight all the way. They wouldn’t have to worry until they got to Iowa City, and then it would be even odds whether they could get in and out before full dark. Iowa City had lights, more or less, for the mail planes, but he’d been through there before. Which meant he wanted the last leg, and the first…. He’d been going to ask Lewis to take the first leg with him, but it looked like Alma could use a break. “Why don’t the two of you take it easy to Salt Lake? Jerry can keep me company up front.”
For a second, he thought Jerry was going to protest, but then he shrugged and tucked his cane under his arm to make the climb into the cabin. Alma said simply, “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” And he was, he thought, as he climbed into the cabin behind her. He was flying: it didn’t so much matter where, or with who, or into what, as long as he was in the air.
Jerry had worked himself into the copilot’s chair, wooden leg braced carefully against the edge of the rudder pedals on his side. Mitch double-checked that everything was switched to his side, the copilot’s controls completely disabled, and began running down his checklist. Outside, another set of motors sprang to life: the Early Bird, on its way north to San Francisco.
“Sorry,” Jerry said, without looking at him. “I’m — this has me worried, Mitch, that’s all.”
You and me both, Mitch thought. “We’ll figure something out,” he said, and flipped the starter switches. The big engines coughed to life, sputtered, settled to their familiar rhythm. Mitch waited, adjusting the mixture, testing flaps and rudder, while the Early Bird lined itself up into the wind and lifted neatly into the air.
“Flag,” Jerry said, lifting his voice to be heard over the noise of the motor.
That was the one thing you could trust Jerry to notice, but Mitch glanced out the side window anyway, saw the flagman waving from the end of the runway. He gave the Terrier power, let it bounce along the taxiway that ran parallel to the runway, feeling the extra weight of fuel in the tail. The flagman signaled a final time, waving him onto the runway, and he kicked the rudder gently, pointing the Terrier’s nose down the midline. He gave her more throttle, easy at first, then harder, the Terrier waddling down the runway like an elderly goose. She’d be fine once some of the fuel burned off, but it took longer than usual to get the tail up, longer still to get her off the ground. She climbed slowly, scratching for altitude, and Mitch kept the power up for longer than usual, leveling off at 6000 feet. That was going to make things interesting over the Rockies, he thought, and did a quick calculation to see how much fuel they would have burned by the time they had to claw their way over the mountains. They’d be down to close to a normal full load, by his rough reckoning: that was manageable. And Alma and Lewis were both good, they could handle it.
The sky was clear above him, vivid blue, the sun glinting off the tip of the right wing. There were a few low clouds, thin enough to see through, and Jerry had his nose pressed to the side window, looking out and down. You couldn’t blame him, Mitch thought. There was nothing like it, nothing in this world. And that was trite, but he’d never been
the one to find the definitions, the one who put things into words. That was Jerry’s job, and from the almost wistful smile, Jerry was having just as much trouble articulating it. And that was Ok. The joy was enough. It had made the War bearable, survivable: there had always been the moments, between the mud and the killing and the misery, when his wings caught the air and he soared for an instant outside himself. It was still there, as reliable as breathing, the beat of the motors and the easy ride of the Terrier. It would always be there, he told himself, and once again believed the lie.
Lewis and Alma each had a window. They'd never be able to fly otherwise, but looking out opposite windows sharing a thermos of coffee, not being in the cockpit was bearable. Alma wasn't sure whether Mitch meant for her to take the second or third legs, but it didn't matter. She and Lewis would both take the cockpit, and Jerry could sit on the chaise where he could get his leg up.
Alma craned her neck, looking ahead. Mitch was about to thread the Banning Pass, and Mount San Gorgonio raised its barren head above the tree line, more than 11,000 feet. Maybe someday it would be possible to fly over the peak – that day might not be far away – but for now they had to thread the pass just as cars and trains did.
Lewis came over to look out her window, kneeling on the floor to get a better view. It was breathtakingly beautiful, and so was the expression on his face as he looked out, rapt and delighted. Alma suppressed the urge to ruffle his carefully combed hair.
Lewis glanced at her sideways, as though he had caught her looking at him, had guessed what she was thinking. "Will you teach me?" he said.
Alma caught her breath. "I'm not sure I can," she said.
"Is it forbidden?"
"No." She shook her head. "But I can't teach you things I don't know. Your mix of talents is very different from mine. I can show you some basic things, but oracular work…. It's entirely different from anything I can do. For that matter it's different from anything Mitch and Jerry can do. We can all show you a few things, but you'd need a different master to go very far, someone whose talents are more like yours." Alma put her hand on his arm. "Lewis, the oracular talents are very complex and can be unnerving. Are you sure you want to do this?"
