Risky Whiskey

by Lucy Lakestone

  She had big long sliding things on her mind.

  I hugged my bag for comfort and headed out the door and into the colorful chaos of the terminal.

  29

  The hall was a mad mishmash of happy drunks. Most were ambulatory, but one or two obliterated ones were helped along by their snazzily dressed friends. Jazz swirled through the wide-open space of the two-story atrium. I could see the upper floor from where I stood, and there were no obvious doors there, only the ones on the lower level leading out to the runway.

  A bored-looking security guard loitered at the edge of the room. Big guy. Arms crossed. His beer belly looked thirsty. I approached him with my most charming smile.

  “Excuse me, sir? Can you tell me where the observation deck is?”

  He scanned me up and down. “You’re fluffy, aren’t you?”

  My smile flattened. “I don’t know what you mean.” Though my dress was pretty fluffy.

  He shrugged. “Down that hall and to the right.”

  “Thanks.” I turned away from him.

  “But you can’t get up there.” I turned back to see him smiling at me with mild malevolence. “It’s closed tonight. It’s set up for a big wedding tomorrow.”

  “Oh, darn!” I lifted my hand and snapped my fingers sarcastically, if there were such a thing. “Thanks anyway.”

  “No problem, doll.” He winked. “I’d like to fluff that,” he muttered as I walked away.

  I rolled my eyes and headed down the crowded hall anyway. There was a lot of activity at the end, in the restaurant that overlooked the runway, and I swam through a steady stream of people as I moved down the corridor, looking for a door.

  Someone bumped into me. “Did you find him?”

  I was so focused on my quest that the chirpy, drunken voice almost made me jump out of my shoes. I looked up into the face of Nicki, flanked by a couple of other bartenders from La Bonne Vie, all in their Gatsby best. Nicki’s flapper-dress fringes fluttered as she leaned toward me. “I said, did you find him?”

  I blinked. “Dash?”

  “Who? No, Rob Tinker or whatever he’s called. My asshole date you wanted to find. He’s here.”

  “The guy who packaged the boomerang?”

  “Duh. Yes. He pretended he didn’t recognize me. Had some blonde hanging on his arm. But that’s OK, isn’t it, boys?”

  “You’re a doll, Nicki. You don’t need him,” one of the guys flanking her said, kissing her on the cheek.

  “We’ll take care of you,” said the other, slightly more protectively. “Come on. I want to get to the fireworks. They’re letting people go out on the runway side.”

  “Good luck,” Nicki said to me with just a hint of sarcasm. “But I wouldn’t waste my time with him.”

  “Yeah. Thanks,” I replied absently, renewing my hunt for the door as they staggered off. My thoughts swirled like ice in a blender.

  Some blonde hanging on his arm.

  Raquel Tocks? Was she fraternizing with the staff?

  Rob Tinker or whatever he’s called.

  A fake name. I clutched my bag, which was weirdly heavy. That’s right. The books were still in there. Robin Hood, like the Reynolds boys used to read when they were kids, like I used to read.

  The Tinker.

  “Oh my God.” I stopped right there in the hallway, fumbled my bag open and pulled out the book. I flipped through until I saw the chapter about the tinker that Robin hornswoggled. Then the classic movie with Errol Flynn came back to me. In that version, Robin Hood disguised himself as a tinker to win the archery contest.

  Rob Tinker! Could it be?

  I looked up and around and spotted the dimly lit side corridor. Double doors beckoned at the end. One was subtly propped open, not so it was noticeable, unless you were looking, as I was.

  I stuffed the book back into the bag as I sprinted to the exit. I pushed the propped door open and let it close gently behind me so the tiny doorstop would keep it from closing and locking.

  A staircase loomed over me. If Dash and Travis and Raquel and the goons were up there, I needed to be careful, especially if my suspicions were true.

  I walked out to where the stairs ascended from the tarmac back toward the building and hesitated, taking in the expanse of runway in front of me. It was pretty much dark now, with the palest hint of orange at the horizon to the west. With flights halted for the fireworks display, the runway area, extending outward on a chunk of flat land that thrust into Lake Pontchartrain, was quiet. The only activity was the crowd gathering to my right, where people were spilling out of the center of the terminal building to watch the show in a roped-off area. Far to my left, a couple of shadowy figures at lakeside moved around with flashlights amid a cluster of boxy shapes on the ground. The fireworks, I assumed, ready to go.

  As I started up the stairs, I began to hear angry voices. When I turned to take the second flight of steps, I ran into Raquel Tocks, her camera still slung over her shoulder. One of the goons—not the guy who worried me—hovered behind her.

  “Oh!” I said with my usual eloquence. “I thought you were taking photos of the fireworks.”

  “I’ve given up. Brutus forgot my tripod.”

  “One of your guys picked up a tripod earlier.”

  “No, he didn’t.” She squinted at me, not looking nearly as cool as she did earlier, then looked up toward the sound of men arguing. “Besides, family quarrels bore me. You can have him.”

  “Who?”

  “Either of them,” she called over her shoulder as she went down, followed by Goon No. 2, and I went up, taking it slow until I emerged on the end of the observation deck.

  The shadowy deck, lit only by the scattered lights of the airport, had a commanding view of the nearly dark runway. Chairs were lined up with an aisle in the center, ready for a wedding. The rows of chairs faced the three men clustered by an arbor at the other end, next to the railing that encircled the space. They were so involved in their argument, they didn’t notice my arrival.

  Travis was barking in Dash’s face as Raquel’s lackey looked on. “And when were you going to cut me in, Dash? How long do I have to work for you to be a real partner in the company?”

  “This summer!” Dash looked overly warm, even in his light white jacket and matching hat. “The paperwork is almost done. You’ve proved yourself.”

  “Proved myself?” Travis laughed. “What did I have to prove? It’s been more than eight years. We’re cousins. You used to say I was the brother you never had.”

  “After we got out of school, you didn’t act like a brother. You avoided coming home and having a real job for years, and I know what you were doing. How could I trust you? How could I just cut you in when—”

  “Maybe because our fathers wanted it that way? I know what you were doing,” Travis mocked him. “Do you think I had any alternative? I didn’t have money for school or to go find myself. I didn’t have a dad to buy me a business.”

  “I—I guess I didn’t think of it that way.”

  “Of course you didn’t. You’ve always had blinders on.” Travis shook his head. “Running drugs was easy compared with working for you, especially when you won’t take my advice. You push drugs, too, you know. It just so happens that yours are legal.”

  Dash sighed in exasperation. “We sell alcohol, and maybe it’s a drug, but it’s also an art.”

  “It’s not about art. It’s about money, but you just don’t get it. Like your stupid refusal to make vodka.”

  “Why are you bringing this up now?”

  “Because it’s over.”

  “What?” Dash looked stricken. “The partnership? You’re important to the company, Travis. Don’t leave.”

  “I’m not leaving. You are.” Travis gestured to Goon No. 1, aka Brutus, who handed him the long, black bag. The tripod? “This is going to be fun,” Travis said as he unzipped the bag.

  Dash spotted me, his eyes catching mine just as Brutus grabbed ahold of his arms.

&nb
sp; Travis must have caught Dash’s glance, because he whirled to see what his cousin was looking at, tossing the empty black bag aside as he did so. Now he held a bow and a quiver full of arrows, which he slung over his shoulder.

  “Damn,” I murmured under my breath.

  “Pepper,” he said with a slithery smile, and the sound of his rough voice sent ice spiking down my spine. The charm was long gone.

  “What are you doing, Travis?” I tried to sound cool. “Going to watch the fireworks?”

  Just then, the whistle of the first mortar climbing into the sky pierced the night, and a dazzling explosion of light illuminated the runway and terminal, followed by a burst of shouts and applause below. My friends. Too far to help. And it was too loud for them to hear us yell, though Dash tried.

  Brutus clapped a hand over Dash’s mouth as the slim man struggled. The goon was huge. Dash didn’t have a chance.

  “Hold on to him,” Travis ordered Brutus.

  Then Travis advanced toward me.

  “Pepper. How fortuitous. You’ve given me an idea,” he said, that grin I’d thought so handsome flashing in what I now saw was a face hardened by anger. “I need some target practice. Got a lime you can put on your head, Pepper? Dash can watch before we convince him to take a flying leap. He’ll enjoy watching us, I think. He has a thing for you, you know, but he’s too chicken-shit to act on it.”

  Like I gave a rat’s tail at the moment. Dash struggled futilely with Brutus behind Travis, who strolled down the aisle, notching an arrow against the bowstring as I took a step back.

  “I thought eliminating you might push him over the edge, make him walk away even when nothing else did, but I just couldn’t seem to get to you. You’re a stubborn little bitch, aren’t you?” He leered at me. “Too bad I don’t have a hat you can borrow. I’m good at hitting hats. Dash told me about you two trying to track the one I picked up after the dinner. Hilarious. You two were so easy to confound.”

  “You shoot Dash, everyone will know it’s you,” I said, stepping back again, wanting to talk Travis down, somehow knowing I couldn’t. The glint in his eye hinted at a well-developed madness—as if the bow and arrows weren’t enough of a clue.

  “But I’m not going to shoot Dash. I’m going to shoot a bunch of those people down there”—Travis waved casually over the railing at the crowd whooping at the next round of fireworks—“unless he fulfills his destiny and commits a tragic suicide by jumping over the conveniently low railing. Or we throw him over after breaking his neck. It doesn’t matter, really. I just thought it would be so neat, that first he tries to kill everyone with bad whiskey, and then he takes out a few more with the bow and arrow before committing suicide. This whole week’s been building up to this. The breaking of Dash Reynolds.” Travis smirked.

  “That makes no sense,” I protested.

  “It’s perfect. Dash has proven himself quite breakable, you see. The good guy broken by failure. Mr. Straight Arrow. He always wanted to be King Richard while I was Robin Hood. Always had the fancy friends, never liked the crowd I ran with. Had a dad who gave a shit, even about me. Dash lived a sheltered life. You’d think my little cousin would be happy. But Dash is a depressive sort. There have been plenty of witnesses to that this week.”

  I swallowed, clutched my bag and backed up another step. “But you could be a partner. What do you get out of—of him—going away now?” I couldn’t bring myself to say dying.

  “Everything,” Travis said simply. “That’s how the will was written, under the trust created by my uncle. Dash’s dad. Preserving the family business meant everything to him. If my dear cousin had just walked away, the distillery would have gone to me, and I could have done with it what I liked. But I’m through waiting. Whether he leaves or dies, the distillery stays in the family. I get it all.” He laughed. “I already have all the money.”

  “But what about Raquel?”

  “What about her?”

  “Is she helping you?”

  “I hired Brutus to help me out. As for Raquel—everyone needs a backup. The distillery fails, it will make a nice condo. Hell, maybe I’ll sell it right away. Real work has always bored me.”

  “No!” Dash managed to eke out before Brutus got him in a chokehold that scared the hell out of me.

  “Everyone will know you did this,” I told Travis as I backed toward the stairs. “I’ll tell them!”

  Travis lifted the bow and took aim. “Not if I kill you first.”

  30

  The arrow twanged past my ear as I ducked and ran for the stairs, gasping for air and sanity.

  “Don’t throw him over until I give you the signal!” Travis shouted to Brutus, giving me a few precious seconds. “I want to see him die!”

  As he called out his orders, I practically flew to the bottom of the stairs and ran for the double doors that would get me back into the terminal.

  “Fuggleduck,” I muttered when I saw they were closed tight. A quick yank confirmed they were locked, and I had a split second to get out of this alcove before I was trapped with crazypants Robin Hood.

  I broke into a sprint toward the open runway as Travis hit the pavement behind me. There was no cover, but it was fairly dark—at least until each blossom of sparks and color lit up the night with heart-pounding booms. And I probably stood out like a giant marshmallow in my fluffy white dress.

  I darted toward the crowd outside the terminal steps, then realized Travis could easily take out a lot more people than me if I went that way. I swerved just as another arrow whizzed past me, then pivoted and ran the other way, toward where the fireworks were going off. There were a couple of buildings over yonder, and I dodged between a few small planes parked on the tarmac as I aimed for whatever cover I could find.

  This was a brutal game. I wasn’t much of a runner and wasn’t exactly dressed for track and field. Every time a firework dazzled the airport, I was lit up like a Japanese lantern in my dress, so I ducked to the left or right to make it harder for Travis to hit me. At least he was hindered by running, though when I glanced back, I sometimes saw him stop and aim, a terrifying sight that made me take even more evasive maneuvers.

  As I ran well beyond the cluster of small planes, my knees and feet were already screaming, and my tight bodice wasn’t much help, either. Frankly, I was gasping for oxygen like a landed trout. I risked another look back at Travis, who was closing the distance as he left the airplanes behind him. Then I glanced up toward the observation deck and froze.

  And screamed.

  Two figures struggled there in the semidarkness. In a heartstopping moment in which time seemed to grind to a halt, one figure tumbled over the edge and hurtled toward the ground.

  And didn’t move.

  Dash. Oh, Dash.

  “DAMN IT!” Travis had stopped, too, and shouted up at the deck. “I told you to wait!”

  But his disappointment did nothing to deter him from resuming his chase. If anything, it egged him on. He roared, and despite his momentary pause, I felt him getting closer as I sprang forward, running flat out. I looked over my shoulder and saw him notching another arrow as he ran. He fired as I tried to pick up speed in my clunky saddle shoes.

  “Ouch!” A sting zapped my leg like an angry hornet, prompting a stumble to my knees. I found my feet and took off again, shifting direction more often to make it harder for him. “It can’t be that bad,” I told myself, though the wound hurt like a lemon in a paper cut. “But if he got blood on this dress, I am going to be pissed.”

  Maybe my thoughts weren’t rational. But at this point, what was?

  The fireworks guys seemed oblivious to the little drama approaching them, but I was far from oblivious to their barrage. My eyes hurt with the launch of each brilliant starburst. My ears ached and my entire body trembled with the blasts as I zigged and zagged closer to their source.

  Illuminated by the explosions and light-reflecting smoke, two men in hard hats wielding flares walked around clusters of crates filled wit
h tubes, setting the rockets off.

  Another arrow bounced off the pavement next to me. Just how many freaking arrows did Travis have, anyway?

  “Hey!” I hollered to the fireworks crew, partly in warning, partly for aid. “Help!”

  One of them looked up. And then he stiffened, wavering, gasping in pain.

  I clutched my own chest in sympathy. “Oh, no.” One of Travis’s arrows had found its mark.

  The man collapsed backward onto a particularly large cluster of unfired shells. His flare flew out of his hand and clattered into the middle of the stack. I could see an arrow sticking out of the man’s shoulder—his chest? His neck? Would he live? I already blamed myself as I contemplated whether to keep running to the men or find another shelter.

  It took only a split second for my choice to be made for me.

  “Arnie!” the other man screamed, dropping his flare and grabbing his friend, pulling him off the pile of fireworks.

  But even as his pal hauled Arnie away from the mortar rack, it was too late for anyone to grab the wounded man’s flare. There was a sizzle and an initial fountain of sparks, followed by an earth-shaking, unraveling blast of light and noise and smoke. It was as if someone had declared war on Lakefront Airport. The rolling flare set off several fuses at once, and the fireworks set off one another, shattering the fireworks structure and shooting off like Mount Vesuvius on a bad day.

  I didn’t even have enough breath left to curse. Bits of flaming fireworks shot at me and around me. One burning pea-size chunk hit my glasses so hard it cracked a lens, so I thanked them for their service, tossed them over my shoulder and adopted a new course. Too bad. I really loved those rhinestones.

  I veered away from the explosions, exhausted yet fueled by fright. Mortars shot past me, exploding against the pavement, flying toward the building, the runway, the screaming, fleeing spectators. One rocket tore into a small plane, which went up in a blast of fire. Sparks and acrid smoke obscured everything, and I choked on the foul air as I tried to get oriented. Each near miss roasted me with heat; the incessant, air-shaking concussions hammered my ears. Distantly, sirens blared. I almost didn’t have a spare thought for Travis and his arrows, until another whizzed by my head.