Night Flight

by Donna Ball

  Her breathing gradually slowed to an almost normal rhythm, but her lungs felt stripped and raw and her leg muscles were like jelly. Her leg hurt abominably. The sweet, fruity quality of the air was cloying, almost nauseating. She had to find a way out of here. Vineyards didn't just tend themselves. Someone owned this one, worked it every day, which meant there was a house some

  where. . . . But Cathy knew that given the size of the standard California vineyard, that house could be ten or twenty miles away in any direction, or there might not be a house at all, because sometimes land was leased, particularly along highways.

  Highways. She knew then what that sound was, smooth and comforting in the background. The sound of freeway traffic was as sweet as the murmur of the ocean to her. The interstate. And it wasn't too far away. If she could just find a break in the vines, and follow the sound. . . . The freeway meant civilization. Help. Safety.

  She pushed away from the support post, turning toward the sound.

  Something grabbed her hair and jerked her sharply backward. Cathy cried out in pain and fear and stumbled for balance. She felt the cold pressure of a steel tube against her temple. Scott Kreiger said softly, "Now we talk."

  ************

  Alice had once told Dave that the trouble with the world was that the people who ran it had never known desperation. The subject had come up in the midst of an argument about a maid who had stolen a camera—a brand new Nikon with a digital zoom that his mother had sent him for his birthday. Alice was a social worker, and when she was working full time Dave had insisted she hire someone to come in twice a week to take care of the house; they couldn't really afford it, but tightening up the budget had been easier on Dave than watching Alice work two jobs. She had hired a nice, middle-aged woman, and within a month the camera was gone and so was the woman. Dave was furious, and that was when Alice said she wasn't surprised: she had seen in the woman's eyes that she was familiar with desperation.

  Desperation, hell, Dave had shouted, pacing up and down, it wasn't a goddamn loaf of bread, it was a camera, and it wasn't even as though she needed the money. And that was when Alice explained to him that desperation was a relative thing and that, having been touched by it, a person was never the same. Desperation showed you your limits, made you face up to what you were inside and what you were capable of, and for most people that was not a pretty sight. Desperation blurred the lines between right and wrong, desperation made morality a subjective thing, desperation stripped away the trappings of civilization, however briefly, and returned the human animal to the jungle. Some people, no matter how well they might pretend otherwise, never quite escaped the shadow of that jungle. Some people found the truth about what they were capable of far too easy to live with, and that was basically the only difference between a cop and a woman who stole a camera she didn't need.

  She refused to let him press charges, and that infuriated Dave further; they argued about that longer and harder than they had ever argued about anything before, mostly because Dave knew

  she was right. And he had thought about desperation, and the things it did to you—sometimes subtle, sometimes immutable—a great deal since then.

  He thought about desperation now. And he thought about Cathy Hamilton, who, he knew with an almost clairvoyant certainty, had never been touched by the cold breath of terror before in her life. Cathy Hamilton, small-town school teacher, threatened with the loss of someone she loved, suddenly confronted with violence and death, betrayed by the very system she, as a product of middle America, had been taught to trust. What was she capable of? Did she know her limits yet?

  She hadn't believed him about Kreiger. She had barely even listened to him. She hadn't cared about Kreiger, and Dave couldn't blame her. Her world had been brutally invaded and turned upside down, and she couldn't be expected to trust the voice of a stranger over the telephone.

  If Kreiger had her, she was beyond help. But if anything he had said had gotten through to her, if some twist of fate had allowed her to elude Kreiger . . . Cathy Hamilton, he thought, his fingers gripping the wheel in tightening frustration, tell me who you are, how you think. I need to know. Where will you go, what will you do, who are you going to turn to when you're in trouble?

  He took out his cell and, briefly consulting the scrap of paper in his pocket, punched out a series of numbers. The line on the other end barely rang twice. Then a woman's voice, sharp with strain, answered.

  "Miss Brian? This is Detective Jenks again."

  "Oh, God. Cathy--where is she? Is she okay?"

  I hate this, Dave thought. "I was hoping you'd heard from her."

  "I —I did, but just for a minute and she sounded terrible. She said she was in trouble, that she didn't know where she was and she was scared—then she hung up before I could ask her. . ."

  His only hope faded. If Cathy had remained in custody, she would have called her friend for help. Kreiger had gotten to her.

  "What time was that?"

  "About three, a little after."

  About the same time, Dave reflected, that the anonymous call about Frazier had come in. It had been Cathy making that report, Dave was sure of it. Frazier had frightened her, she'd run from him, then she'd stopped—as terrified as she must have been, she'd stopped at the nearest phone booth and reported a man injured, because that's what good citizens did. Dave tried to imagine the kind of courage it must have taken for her to do that. After being caught in the middle of a gun battle and sprayed with blood, after being chased and trapped and threatened with a gun and being forced to hit a man with her car in order to escape ... to stop and make a phone call to report the injury, to expose herself again to the terrors that awaited her in the dark, was an act of bravery that Dave, who had seen his share of valor under fire, had to admire.

  "Detective? Detective, please, won't you tell me what's going on?"

  He focused his attention with an effort. "Miss Brian—you're Cathy's roommate, right?"

  "No, just her friend. We both teach at the same school. This is her brother's house. She—he's divorced, his wife just walked out on him and the kids a few years back, nobody even knows where she is now, not even her own mother, and Cathy— well, Cathy just kind of stepped in to help out."

  Dave had looked up Lynn Haven on the computer back at the station. Population three thousand, not counting the college students. Thirty miles from the coast, far enough from the ocean to avoid the tourists but close enough to smell the sea on rainy days. Apartments would be scarce, and geared toward the college population. He pictured Cathy's house—her brother's house—in a quiet, older neighborhood, shaded by trees and planted with flower beds.

  He said, "No, I can't tell you what's going on. Only that I'm trying to help your friend, and anything you can do to help me will be appreciated."

  There was a hesitation, filled with uncertainty. "I —I don't know what I can do."

  "The hospital. Have you heard anything about her brother? I'm on my way to her now and I'd like to bring her some good news."

  "There isn't any, I'm afraid. He's in intensive care and hasn't regained consciousness."

  "Children?"

  "They weren't hurt. How did you know about the children?"

  "I talked to Cathy, for just a minute. She said she was their only relative."

  "They have a grandmother. She's flying out but it'll be sometime tomorrow before she gets here. Oh, God, it should only be a five hour drive from here."

  He heard the woman's voice start to break, and he overrode her firmly, "Is there anyone else Cathy might call, besides you, for help?"

  The muffled sound on the other end of the phone might have been a sniffle or a sob. It was a moment before she replied, in a slightly calmer tone, "She has friends, of course, but she'd call me first. I mean under ordinary circumstances she'd call Jack. They're twins, did you know that? Very close. He's a teacher, too—a professor, actually, at the college. Literature. Cathy teaches music, she's really incredibly talented. Eve
ryone says she should be with a big orchestra somewhere, and I guess the only reason she ended up in a place like this was because of Jack. Words and music, that's what she told me Jack used to say. That's how close they are, like words and music. I'm babbling. You don't want—"

  "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that's exactly what I want. Anything you can tell me about her, everything you can think of. I've got to try to find her and time is running out. The only clues I have are the ones you can give me. So talk to me, Miss Brian. Please."

  Hesitantly, stumbling at first and then with more confidence, Ellen began. "I—the orchestra. She helped start a community orchestra, and tonight was the debut. It was quite a success. It was her birthday, too, hers and Jack's, and we had a little party. Jack never would have missed it if. . ."

  *****************

  Kreiger said, "You were right. I am going to have to kill you. I probably wouldn't have, before, but now that you and Detective Jenks are such good friends—"

  Cathy gasped, "I don't know who you're talking about! I never—never even met the man!" The barrel of the gun pressed so hard into her temple that she could imagine it boring a perfect hole through the fragile barrier of skin and cartilage, stabbing into her brain. She concentrated all her energy on trying to inch her temple away from the pressure of that steel tube, but he wound his hand tighter in her hair, bringing stinging tears into her eyes.

  "You see," Kreiger went on calmly, "only one person is allowed to know what you're about to tell me. And you are going to tell me, aren't you?"

  Cathy whispered, "Yes." It seemed to her that the pressure of the gun on her temple eased a bit then, and she repeated gratefully, "Yes!"

  He relaxed his grip on her hair slightly and she gasped out loud with the sudden lessening of pain. "That's good. Maybe I won't have to kill you, after all. That is if you tell me the truth this time. I don't have time to waste on you, lady, and if you start jerking me around ..."

  "I won't. Don't hurt me, please. I'll tell you. I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

  He released her hair, but not the pressure of the gun against her temple. It was instinct, combined with the throbbing pain in her leg and the very real weakness of her muscles, that caused Cathy to sink to the ground. Her collapse seemed to startle him, and it gave Cathy the precious few moments she needed. He bent down angrily to jerk her back to her feet and Cathy swung around, wielding the hoe handle with both hands.

  If she had swung a half-second earlier or a half- second later the handle would have struck his hard-muscled shoulder, hurting him and perhaps casting him momentarily off balance, but doing no measurable damage. But the luck of the blind and the innocent was on her side, and she swung her weapon just as he bent into its path. The solid oak handle connected with the side of his neck with a force that knocked him to his knees, and sent a shock wave of pain up Cathy's arm that almost caused her to lose her grip on the weapon.

  He grabbed at his neck, his face contorted with pain, yet still turned toward her. Sobbing for breath, Cathy stumbled to her feet and felt him grab her ankle. Sheer terror sent a new surge of strength through her and it was again with instinct more than forethought that she swung again, like she would swing at a rabid animal that was charging her—hard, with the power born of the desperate instinct for self-defense. She screamed at the sound the handle made when it struck the side of his head and at the sight of blood bursting on his face. He fell forward into the dirt.

  Gasping, shaking with exertion and horror and disbelief, Cathy took a staggering step backward. She looked at the hoe handle in her hand and saw something dark and wet shine dully on its end. She dropped it as though it were alive. Nausea swam and she brought the back of her hand to her mouth, certain for a moment that she was going to be sick. She took another uncertain step backward.

  And then the dull glint of something metal caught her eye. Lying half-hidden in the shadow of vines, perhaps a foot from Kreiger's outstretched fingers, was his gun.

  Cathy wanted to run. She wanted to turn her back on the inert, bleeding form of the man who had as much as promised to kill her, she wanted to forget she had ever seen that weapon, she wanted to just turn and run as far as she could and as fast as she could, to get away from here before he regained consciousness. Before he saw the gun . . .

  Pressing her fingertips hard against her lips as though to physically hold back the sobs that wanted to break through, Cathy edged around Kreiger's crumpled body, staying as far as possible away from feet that could suddenly kick out, hands that could grab with snake-like swiftness. She glanced at the gun. She glanced at Kreiger. There was no way she could reach it without leaning over him. She knelt down, holding her breath, stretching out her arm.

  He moaned.

  Cathy snatched up the gun and backed away, dragging in breaths that sounded like sobs, holding the weapon in both hands, pointed at him. She even put her finger on the trigger. He made another sound and stirred, and Cathy tripped over an uneven hillock, almost falling. Then she turned, and ran.

  ***************

  Chapter Nine

  Cathy felt neither joy nor relief when the freeway came into sight. She wasn't sure how she had reached it or how long it had taken her, nor did she care. She couldn't remember why it had ever been important to reach the freeway in the first place.

  Dazed and numbed, bleeding from a dozen small cuts and favoring her injured right leg, Cathy started down the embankment that sloped toward the underpass. The grass was wet with dew and she slipped, half-sliding, half-stumbling down the hill toward the blacktop. She landed in a gully beside the emergency lane. When she stood up the backdraft from a tractor-trailer roared in her ears and almost knocked her off balance.

  She started toward the asphalt, but then stopped. Anyone could see her there. A lone woman on the side of the freeway in the middle of the night would be perfect prey. Kreiger's pistol was tucked into the waistband of her jeans, where it was more of a discomfort than a reassurance—all it meant was that if someone tried to attack her he would have easy access to a weapon to do the job right. She thought dully, It doesn't matter. I don't care. And she didn't. But she stayed to the shadows of the gully as she continued her trudge north, paralleling the flow of traffic.

  All her life she had depended on Jack, and she had done so without question or hesitation, as naturally as breathing. He had always been there, again without question or hesitation, to provide whatever it was she needed. Never had he asked anything of her. Never had he needed her . . . until now. And she had failed him.

  Her brother was dead, and she was empty inside.

  For all of her life there had been two parts of her: the part that was Cathy, and the part that was Jack, separate but the same. No one who wasn't a twin would understand. No matter where she was or what she was doing, a small part of him was always with her. She was never alone. But now, when she reached inside herself for that reassuring presence, she felt . . . nothing. Jack was gone.

  Up ahead was an exit sign, and she struggled toward it. Her feet were soaked with dew and tingling with fatigue, her leg muscles ached all the way into her hips. Her clothes were damp with perspiration and she was chilled to the bone, and she wondered, briefly and without much energy, why she even bothered to keep walking, why she didn't just let her legs collapse and sit down on the side of the road and wait until someone found her. But the children—she had to get to the children, Jack would want her to take care of the children.

  And besides, she had been moving so long she wasn't sure she knew how to stop.

  At first she thought it was a mirage. The lights were too bright, the colors too intense to be real, and as she stared at it the building, with its red tile roof and bright windows, actually seemed to shimmer and fade. But Cathy blinked, and it was real. A truck stop, not very big and not very busy, but real, a bright oasis against the endless night. She started toward it.

  She felt as though she were swimming under water, pushing up toward the surface. W
ith every step she shed another layer of the numbing shock that had enfolded her, and reality became a little clearer. At first she was not sure why it was so important to reach the building, but by the time she passed out of the shadows of the big rig that was parked in front, she knew. Civilization. Sanity. Refuge. They all waited for her inside the restaurant.

  She pushed open the door, and her courage, her resolve, the strength that had carried her this

  far, all deserted her. She just stood there, dazzled by the brightness, the warmth, the normalcy of it all.

  It smelled like bacon and home fries and maple syrup. Willie Nelson was on the juke box. There was a curly-haired waitress in a pink uniform with a stain on the pocket, and a man at the grill wearing a white paper hat. A big, beefy man in a red tee shirt sat at the counter, a man and a woman shared a booth. They all turned to look at Cathy when she came in.

  Cathy wanted to burst into tears of exhaustion and relief. No one here had ever chased anyone else with a gun. No one here knew about death in the night and cryptic phone messages and policemen who turned their weapons on bystanders. Here were nothing but ordinary people living ordinary lives. Here she was safe.

  It took her a long time to realize they were staring at her. She did not need the glimpse she caught of her reflection in the window to tell her why. Her nightshirt was torn, her jeans muddy and studded with small thorns and burrs. Her hair was tangled and dusted with leaves, and there were scratches on her face and arms. She parted her lips to say something—and suddenly realized she didn't know what to say. Could she plead for help, tell them someone was trying to kill her? Even if they believed her they would only call the police, and that was the last thing she wanted. What she wanted was to leave this place, to put it all far, far behind her, but she didn't have a car. She didn't even have her purse. Money, identification, keys, all of it was back in a car at the end of a dirt road in the middle of a vineyard somewhere.