Hopscotch

by Brian Garfield

  “Ten seconds,” Greiff roared.

  Simultaneously there was a whump close in Ross’s ear. It took him a moment to realize what it was: Kendig had fired the flare pistol, using Grieff’s racket on the bullhorn to mask the sound of the discharge.

  Then the flare ignited. High in the air above the woods across the yard—probably not far from where Cutter was posted. It bathed the trees in harsh brilliant white light and suddenly men were crashing through the forest and Ross heard voices calling across the night in harsh tones.… Then Kendig was spinning him with a hard grip on his arm: “Come on—move.” And Ross was being propelled through the saplings, stumbling, yanked upright and pushed on by Kendig’s powerful grip.

  He skittered through the trees and suddenly they were out in the open swath he’d discovered before and Kendig was shoving him down the steep pathway; he slid and stumbled his way, eyes on the ground, avoiding stumps, trying to keep his balance with his wrists wired behind him. It was getting hard to breathe through his nose but Kendig kept shoving and yanking. He caromed down into the heavier forest and then Kendig slowed them down and they were walking, following a broad path among the trees, still hearing the hunters baying up at the far side of the yard; he heard Cutter’s distinct voice, louder than the others, calling for order and after that the racket diminished.

  Abruptly there was a heavier mass in front of him in the deep forest shadows. He didn’t realize what it was until Kendig pulled the door open and shoved him into the passenger seat of the car. The door slammed against his right elbow and before he had time to react to it Kendig was behind the wheel flicking a switch and pushing a button. The engine roared and immediately they went bucketing forward, crashing through loose brush which he now saw had been piled there on purpose. It was a thin tangle of deadwood and it gave way easily before the thrust of the powerful car; Kendig spun the car onto the blacktop and the rear wheels bounced from side to side before they dug in and propelled the car forward, pinning Ross back painfully against his trapped forearms.

  When he twisted around to look back he saw a car pulling out, coming after them—the one Cutter had left at the foot of the driveway.

  Then he looked at Kendig. It was the first real look he’d had at his captor.

  Kendig was smiling—gently and happily.

  The FBI car wasn’t gaining but it was keeping up, maybe two-tenths of a mile behind them; he kept looking back for it and saw it intermittently on the straightaways. This was an old car but it must have had a souped-up mill and heavy-duty suspension for the bends; Kendig was treating it like a sports car and it was holding the road like one. It was all pretty damned neat, Ross conceded.

  Kendig curled the car onto a straightaway and then his right hand came across the back of the seat and Ross ducked away but Kendig was only untying the gag and when he realized that he stopped flinching. He spat the gag out and Kendig said, “What are you, FBI or Agency?”

  Ross didn’t say anything and Kendig nodded. “Then you’re Agency. A Bureau man would be proclaiming it to the sky, full of indignation. You’re working with Cutter on this?” Kendig spared him a quick glance. “Sure. You’re Ross, aren’t you.”

  “Yeah.” His voice was hoarse from the gag and he cleared his throat several times.

  “You’ve come up in the world from the third floor.”

  “What are you trying to prove, Kendig?”

  But Kendig didn’t take the time to answer that. He had his eyes on the mirror and Ross twisted his head to look. The FBI car was still there, maybe a little closer. It was a long straightaway and farther back he could see the glow of headlights above a skyline.

  Kendig said, “They’ve got three cars, haven’t they. We’ll have to lose those.”

  “You’re bottled up on every road in this county, Kendig.”

  “You haven’t got that kind of manpower. Don’t try to bluff me, Ross, you haven’t had enough practice.”

  They soared over a hilltop and then the road plunged into a series of tight bends on the down-slope; they had to slow to twenty and even then the tires squealed and whimpered.

  At the bottom there was a drain-off ditch beyond the outside of the curve, no guardrail. They went into the bend at about twenty-five and Ross saw Kendig yank something with his left hand, down beside the seat. Then Kendig gunned the engine and they gathered speed down the flats.

  Kendig wasn’t using a map but he knew what he was doing; either he’d explored the roads or memorized a map. He took a left turn at an intersection and they bumped along a dirt road that looked to Ross as if it ought to be a dead end but it let them onto another paved byway and Kendig only followed that a mile and a half before he cut to the left again into the pines and went up a narrow chuckholed track past a cluster of farms. Chickens cackled in the night from the disturbance. They came into yet another blacktop road, made a gravel detour and emerged onto a wider concrete highway. Kendig had fled southeast from his farm but now if Ross’s sense of direction hadn’t packed up they were rolling almost due west.

  Then Kendig pulled over onto the verge. He stopped the car and patted Ross’s jacket and lifted his wallet and ID folder.

  “Now you add that to your sins,” Ross said.

  Kendig ignored it and pocketed Ross’s wallets. “I want you to give Joe Cutter a message. Tell him I’ve finished writing the book. I’ll be carrying it with me. Every now and then I’ll stop somewhere and mail off another chapter. I’ll keep a crucial page here and there, just as I did with the first ones. I’m playing fair—I haven’t hidden the manuscript with a lawyer to be opened in the event I don’t check in or anything like that. If you and Joe can catch me you’ll catch the manuscript with me. But the longer you take, the more pages they’ll be receiving at the publishers. And I’m likely to start mailing out those evidential pages any time. Tell him that for me—he ought to enjoy the news.”

  “You’re a madman, you know that?”

  “I’m having fun and so are you.”

  Ross couldn’t help it: he said acidly, “You have any suggestions where we might start looking for you next time?”

  “I wouldn’t want to spoil your fun.” Kendig reached across Ross’s lap and pushed the door open. “Go on.”

  “What about my hands?”

  “Use your ingenuity.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Somebody will pick you up sooner or later. Go on, Ross.”

  He clambered from the car, obscurely torn by anger and gratitude. The car bolted away, its momentum slamming the door he’d left open. His own revolver bounced on the shoulder and dropped to rest. Ross tried to read the plate but its light had been extinguished. It probably didn’t matter—Kendig would have to ditch that car soon.

  He retrieved his revolver awkwardly and stood along the roadside quite a while, waiting. It amazed him how gently Kendig had treated him. But then nothing made much sense on this assignment. All of them seemed to be reveling in an exercise in nostalgia. Even Cutter in his cool way seemed to be facing the job as if Kendig were a rival white-scarfed aviator in an open biplane—the sort of man you saluted after you’d shot him down. The anachronism made it hard to come to terms with the assignment: Ross saw what kind of game he was supposed to be playing but he’d never played it before and wasn’t sure he had the capacities for it. Yet comprehension tantalized him; he almost had it—in spite of the absurd embarrassment of his position he felt something that wasn’t exactly admiration or respect for Kendig; it was more like pride.

  It was a long time before he realized the FBI cars weren’t coming. He had a feeling that was oil Kendig had dumped back on the bend. They’d have been traveling very slowly there, not fast enough to do the passengers much damage but the cars must have tangled up in that drain-off ditch and it would be a foul-mouthed crowd there.

  He began to work out ways to get the wire off his wrists.

  – 16 –

  AT ONE TIME the Cubans had used the field for training; now it was wild with we
eds. The ocean threw a redolent breeze across the flats, roughing up the trees. The shadows seemed to be inhabited by the ghosts of short brown guerrillas with obsolete weapons and quixotic ambitions.

  Kendig had paid one hundred dollars cash for the gas-burning 1955 Buick; he left it parked on its bald tires in the trees with the key in the ignition—somebody would boost it within a week and joyride it until it died or ran out of gas and that would destroy the evidence for him. He carried his big suitcase to the verge of the overgrown strip and sat down with his back against the bole of a palm. The sun was two hours up, very bright in a pale ocean sky. He listened to the cry of the gulls.

  The plane approached on the wind, preceded by its sound; he watched it descend, wingtips teetering in the uncertain air currents above the mild surf. It made a half-circle inland and made its final approach into the wind, nosing down over the trees and settling gingerly on its tricycle gear at a very low stalling speed—evidently out of respect for the tangled weeds on the surface. She kept the tail down after touchdown and rolled forward on two wheels, nose in the air; twice the tailskid bounced. She used up a good deal of runway before the speed was down sufficiently to make the U-turn and taxi back toward him. Kendig picked up his suitcase.

  She cut the port engine and opened the door. He climbed onto the step and passed the suitcase inside, stepped onto the root of the wing and ducked to enter the cabin.

  The sun was behind him; he saw her Modigliani face twinned in the mirror of the opposite window. She wore Levi’s and a denim jacket over a blouse that looked like yellow satin. He pushed the suitcase across one of the rear seats and moved forward to settle into the right-hand seat beside her—the copilot’s position.

  “Where’s my other passenger?”

  “Been a change in plan. I’m flying out alone.”

  “The price is the same.”

  “Naturally.”

  She said, “You picked a hell of a field. I hope we don’t snag something.”

  He only smiled and she fixed the door shut behind her; then she pushed the starter switch to mesh the port engine. The props ran up and there was too much noise for talk; she pointed toward his lap and he fastened the safety belt.

  It was a bumpy ride but nothing grabbed the wheels; she had them airborne a quarter mile short of the beach. The sun hit them square in the eyes. Kendig said, “Turn around now. Make your course two-sixty-five magnetic.”

  “What?”

  “We’re going to Mexico.”

  “I think you’re a little crazy, you know?” The plane came out of its bank; the sun was behind them now. They were still in a steady climb but they had airspeed now and the wind took the engine noise with it; she could talk without shouting. “I filed for Saint Thomas. If I don’t show up they’ll organize a search.”

  “Call Miami control. Tell them your charter passenger changed his mind. Request clearance for Corpus Christi. And remember you’re still on the flight plan to Saint Thomas right now—give them a position report a couple of hours east of here. That’ll add a couple of hours to your ETA. You’ll have time to drop me in Mexico and get into Corpus Christi on schedule.”

  She gave him a sudden smile. “Hey that’s pretty good.”

  Then he opened his pocketknife.

  Her face whitened.

  “It gets you off the hook,” he said. “The man held a knife on you.”

  “That’s hijacking.”

  “No,” he said. “It’s my charter. A man can’t hijack his own plane. But you’ll be making an illegal entry into Mexico and this covers you for that.” He folded the knife and put it back in his pocket.

  He took the oval compact from the same pocket. “You left this in my car.”

  “I know.”

  He remembered the cats, the O’Keeffe painting, the bed. But there was reserve between them now, they were talking like strangers—as if they ought to be calling each other Mr. Murdison and Mrs. Fleming.

  “What happened to your lady friend?”

  “There never was one.”

  “Then Mexico was the destination all the time?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What did you do? Hold up a bank? What’s in that suitcase?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I’ve never driven a getaway car before,” she said. “It’s sort of fun.”

  She was good. They were just north of the Tropic of Cancer and they crossed a patch of turbulent air; she didn’t buck it, she rode with it. Her fingers never whitened on the half-wheel. She made the corrections without hurry or tension; when they were through it they were cruising at nine thousand feet with a patchwork of fluffy clouds beneath them, sectors of choppy sea visible through the holes. She had the twin engines nicely in synch and there wasn’t much vibration; it was a well-cared-for plane. Kendig said, “Mind if I steer for a while?”

  “Help self.” Then after a while she said, “You’re not bad. You don’t clench up when she pockets.”

  “I took flying lessons for a while. Though I wanted to do air races.”

  “What happened?”

  “I found out my talents were pretty rudimentary. I didn’t stick it out—didn’t take the license.” He locked the autopilot in. “How’d you get the money to buy it?”

  “My ex settled a lump sum on me in lieu of alimony. That was the down payment. People like you are buying the rest of it for me.”

  “It does something for you, being up here. Doesn’t it.”

  “That’s why I’m up here.” She looked at peace, “Van wasn’t a bad guy. But we got into a triangle—Van, me and the hausfrau he wanted me to be. I’m not a fanatic libber, you know. But I’m nobody’s ornament. I like to fly. I mean I really like it. It’s my life.”

  “You’re not a Southerner. Why do you live in Alabama?”

  “Flying weather. I don’t like winter. I worked charters around the islands for a year but it was too chancy—I’ve got to keep up the payments on the albatross here. It had to be an industrial city, that’s where the business charters are. I don’t like Houston at all. Atlanta’s too self-conscious and I just can’t stand California plastic. They’re hypocrites and bastards in Birmingham but I’m sort of tuned into them—they don’t disappoint me. What about you? You don’t really live in Topeka.”

  “No.”

  “You don’t volunteer much about yourself.”

  “People may ask you questions about me.”

  “So the less I know the better off you are, is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  She said, “I don’t believe that’s all there is to it, Jim. Is that your name? Jim?”

  “It’ll do.”

  “You really don’t want anybody digging into you, do you. Not even yourself.” She had a blinding smile when she chose to use it. “You’re a lovely man, you know that? The night I took you home—I don’t do that with just anybody. You’ve got something rare. I don’t know exactly what it is—you seem to be alive, that’s what it amounts to.”

  She couldn’t know how much it pleased him to hear that.

  The descent began to clog his ears. The sun was in their faces again: it had moved across the sky faster than they had. Carla Fleming said, “I’m a little scared. It’s the first time I’ve ever done anything like this.”

  “You’d be just as scared the second time, and the third.”

  “Good.” That smile again. “I like it a little.”

  They mushed down through heavy cloud. Underneath there was a faint drizzle of rain and the afternoon light was poor but her navigation had been right on the button and the dusty reddish strip was right there ahead, ringed with scrub brush and rock-craggy mountains sprouting tufts of cactus and weeds. “How did you find out about this place?”

  “It used to be a training area for exiled Haitian guerrillas. I expect it’s used for narcotics flights.”

  “What did you have to do with the Haitians?”

  “No comment.”

  “Off limits. O
kay. You don’t mind my asking, though?”

  “No.”

  Then she had her attention on procedures. She was judging the wind, adjusting for the barometric pressure, making her preparations. She made one low pass over the runway before she made a 360-degree turn and came in low on final and when she touched down it was feather light. They threw up a great deal of dust but the surface was quite smooth and the Bonanza came to rest with plenty of runway left over.

  She cut both engines and the propellers hiccuped a little before they stopped. The silence was a sudden tangible absence.

  “What do you do from here? Walk?”

  “It’s not far to where I’m going.”

  He crawled back between the empty seats, gathered his suitcase and climbed out the door. She was already outside, standing by the wing in the drizzle, not minding the wet. He jumped down and dropped the suitcase and got the envelope out of his pocket. She opened it without bashful pretense and counted it.

  “It’s too much,” she said. “I’m not picking you up after two weeks, am I.”

  “No.”

  “Then you’ve paid twice the rate.”

  “Three thousand. It’s what we agreed on.”

  “That was for two trips.”

  “Call it hazardous duty pay,” he said. “Thanks for the ride. You’d better be going.”

  She put the envelope in the pocket of her jacket. She had a little trouble fitting it in; her hand came out holding the compact. She looked at it as if it were a completely unfamiliar object, turning it over in her hands, opening it, snapping it shut. “I guess I won’t see you again.”

  “Who knows.”

  “Well that’s all right. I’ve got a cauliflower heart.” But her hand tightened into a quivering little fist around the compact. Her face, suddenly, was flaming. “I’m not going to get on the radio and start screaming the minute I take off. I’m not going to tell them anything in Corpus Christi—just that I dropped off a passenger from Miami there, name of Jim Murdison from Topeka Kansas.”