Custody of the State (35 page)

After the pilot had leveled off, he kept glancing off to the west. They could now see the edge of the thunderclouds building like a wall, inland, as the Stearman headed out over the waters of the Atlantic.

As they flew, Will looked back over his shoulder. Back at the disappearing Florida shoreline behind him. Where the safety of land was. And where the uncertainties and dangers of ocean weather had begun for them.

At the point when they'd completely lost sight of land and the biplane was surrounded by water, Tex motioned for Will to listen on the headset.

“Just did it again.”

“What?” Will said loudly against the droning of the engine and the rising wind.

“I said,” Tex shouted, “the engine just stalled again. I'm going to have to bring my RPMs down a bit—see if that helps.”

Minutes went by slowly, as the plane bounced as if on an invisible water slide and Tex brought the speed down.

“Not enough,” he shouted out. “I'm going to have to keep bringing the RPMs down until I don't hear the stall any more. And if that doesn't work, we may have to turn back.”

Will turned around again, but to his dismay, the wall of storm clouds seemed to be gaining on them. Perhaps it was just his perspective, he thought. In the short time they'd left the coast, how could the storm line have moved so rapidly?

After half an hour, with the plane increasing its swaying and pitching in the advance of the storm that was chasing them, Tex finally called out again.

“Okay,” he shouted, “I've got a smooth airspeed now—the engine purring—I think I've got it under control…”

“Great!” Will answered.

“One problem…”

“What?”

“I'm way under the airspeed I wanted.”

“How much under?” Will yelled.

“Too much under,” Tex shouted back.

“What happens now?” Will asked at the top of his voice.

“Looks like we're going to be riding the rodeo bull—whether we like it or not.”

Will checked his seat belt and harness. Then he checked the tether strap that secured the little refrigeration unit at his feet.

But minute after minute, the flow underneath the biplane seemed to be growing more and more turbulent.

The air around them seemed to be alive with energy—bouncing then jarring, then finally slamming the vintage Stearman up—drifting for seconds as if lacking any control—and then plummeting it downward.

That was when Will began to doubt their mission—and his decision to go forward and try to outrun the storm.

Tex seemed frozen in the front cockpit, responding to each unpredictable side slap or downdraft with unflappable poise.

How the storm front had moved in on them—like an alien army of wild air current and boiling dark clouds with only blackness within—was not apparent to Will.

But one thing he knew—it was happening. The wild mass of weather was gaining on them—and it would be enveloping them.

The Stearman was soon caught in a full-fledged fight for life. There was mounting darkness around, rain was coming from somewhere—everywhere—the fabric of the wings was shuddering in the battering and howling of the storm.

The plane dove, then tried to climb. Tex was struggling—Will could see that.

The pilot's shoulders were arched as he attempted to keep the plane on an even keel, but every maneuver was met with a wilder reaction—first a plunge downward to the point that Will thought he would certainly retch—then buffeting sideways—then all-but-uncontrolled rolling, pitching, diving.

Jagged streaks of lightning were all around them—and then cataclysmic booms with pelting, punishing rain.

Tex looked up and around in a futile attempt to find a hole in the cloud bank—some opening to get relief—to thread the needle through to somewhere.

Anywhere.

Then lightning crashed and blinded them in one unearthly explosion that seemed to have struck just above their heads.

The plane shuddered—then pitched madly about. Then downward, sideways, and then plunging straight down—like a diver doing a jackknife—the engine screaming.

Tex was yelling something wildly, but Will could not—or would not—hear.

All sense of direction was gone. The laws of physics seemed to have been ripped and shredded—and lost in the screaming wind and wall of water all around them.

They were hurtling down. And then Will knew the depth—the numbing reality of their plight. As he looked upside down, over his head, he saw it.

The metal case was dangling in the wind above him like a balloon at the end of a string.

It was at the very end of its tether line, floating in the air above, shining and silver against the black sky and flashes of lightning—as the plane dived straight down, the engine screaming, then sputtering, and screaming again.

Will yelled a prayer in a choked scream—was it a prayer? A psalm?

Quickly—quickly—remember!
he yelled to himself in the center of the dark.

Then it came.

UNDER HIS WINGS YOU MAY SEEK REFUGE

Will was shouting it out, his eyes blinded in the pelting rain and raging wind. He tried to grab the tether line connected to the case.

But up and down were indistinguishable.

He reached and missed, unable to see it.

There was no plane—no direction—only chaos and fear.

UNDER HIS WINGS YOU MAY SEEK REFUGE

Will shouted it—over and over—but then, no sound came out.

The Stearman was going down and down, twisting and turning in a corkscrew as it fell toward the sea, faster and faster.

And Will, bleary and overcome, had one last thought.

Blacking out. I'm blacking out
…

50

A
LL OF THE SQUAD CARS
were there at the rendezvous point, about ten miles down the highway from Tommy White Arrow's ranch.

There were two squads from the county sheriff's department and two state patrol cars.

Detective Otis Tracher had arrived in a sheriff's vehicle driven by the sheriff himself. He briefed the officers on the situation and stressed that the primary objective was to secure the child, Joshua—if indeed he was still with the mother.

The second objective was to apprehend the mother, Mary Sue Fellows.

It was to be done without the use of firearms, if at all possible. Tracher had been given authority to make that judgment call. Only upon his directive would sidearms be unholstered—unless, of course, any of the officers were fired upon first.

The detective had been warned by the sheriff that Tommy White Arrow, while he had no criminal record, was known to harbor strong antipolice and antigovernment sentiments.

He'd also learned that Tommy—and others on the White Arrow ranch—had access to weapons. A registration check had yielded the finding that they were properly licensed.

Tracher gave the word, and the five law-enforcement vehicles moved out. When they arrived at the entrance of the long ranch driveway, one of the State Patrol vehicles parked across it, blocking it. The other squads headed quickly down the dirt road, kicking up a cloud of dust as they approached the main ranch house, where Tommy lived.

The cars swerved tightly to a stop in front and two officers sprinted out of their vehicles to secure the rear. The rest surrounded the house, their hands on their holsters. All except detective Otis Tracher.

He walked, alone, up to the front door, no weapon drawn. In his hand were the arrest warrants for Mary Sue Fellows, the order from Judge Mason transferring custody of Joshua Fellows, and an emergency order from the local South Dakota judge permitting the apprehension of Joshua and Mary Sue, pending a hearing on a Governor's Warrant.

The detective was about to knock on the door, but to his surprise, it swung open quickly—so quickly that the officers in back of him latched their hands to their holsters.

Tommy White Arrow walked out the front door. He was smiling.

“Good day, officers,” he said. “I presume you know that this is an Indian reservation, protected under federal law. If you are here on state law business, and are coming after me, I think you may have a jurisdictional problem.”

“Mr. White Arrow, I am Detective Otis Tracher from the Juda County sheriff's department, State of Georgia. We have no quarrel with you. We are here for a male child named Joshua Fellows, and we are also looking for Mary Sue Fellows, his mother.”

“You won't find them here.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Where are they?”

“I'm not really sure where they are this minute.”

“Where is the boy—Joshua?”

“Airlifted.”

“What?”

“Airlifted to a hospital in your hometown, I believe.”

“By whose order?”

“By order of his attending pediatrician here in South Dakota.”

Detective Tracher paused for a few seconds to assimilate the information he had just received.

“But Joshua was here?”

“Yes. But his doctor here felt he needed continuity of care—back at his hometown hospital.”

“Mary Sue was here?”

“Yes. But not any more.”

“So—she fled?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. She was moving very calmly and slowly when I last saw her. Not
fleeing
at all.”

“Where was she last headed?”

“I'm not sure. She didn't tell me.”

“You have no idea where she is going?”

“Not really. She said she was still trying to figure things out.”

“Was she with anyone?”

“Yes. My sister.”

“What's her name?”

“Katherine White Arrow.”

“Mr. White Arrow—”

“Call me Tommy.”

“I am going to ask that you not leave this area for a while—until we can get this all sorted out.”

“Where am I going to go? I've got three horses to break for customers. And I have several riding lessons to give. I'll be right here.”

Tracher asked one of the officers to go inside with Tommy and get identification information on Katherine's vehicle.

The sheriff approached detective Tracher.

“Why don't I put an all-points out. We can get roadblocks and border checks at all the highways leaving the state. She can't be that far away—we'll get her.”

But Tracher just looked at the sheriff. Then he walked back to the car and got in.

The sheriff climbed into the driver's side. He looked over at the detective.

“Look, this is your show. But I think you've wasted a trip up here if we don't secure the roads along the state line right now and grab this lady.”

After thinking it over a couple minutes, Tracher explained himself.

“Sheriff, I don't want any roadblocks. Or border checks. Or roundups. No dragnet. This is it. I'm going home. I have a strong feeling I know where Mary Sue Fellows is going. And I also get the feeling I know exactly how things are going to end.”

Then he looked over at the sheriff and asked, “You ever get those kind of feelings about a case?”

“No,” the sheriff said. “I never have.”

Then he started up the engine and headed out of the White Arrow ranch.

51

F
REEPORT, THE CAPITAL CITY
of Grand Bahama Island, would see the aftermath wash up on its white shores.

Like the other towns of the Bahama Islands, its history was strewn with the flotsam and jetsam of hundreds of years of ill-fated attempts to navigate its waters.

There were pirates. And slave traders. And Confederate ships that had used the islands during the Civil War as a place from which to run the Northern blockades.

But those who lived there would always search the beaches. After naval battles. After storms. After ships sank with valuable cargo, which would float to the sandy beaches.

And sometimes there were the bodies that washed ashore, bloated and disfigured.

Then came the airplanes. But sometimes, like the ships, the aircraft would lose the battle with wind or weather. And bits of wreckage would float ashore.

Sometimes the pilots or their passengers would arrive, facedown, on the shores.

Several children were along the beach, not far from Freeport, looking for wood, cans, and other debris from the storm.

That was when they witnessed the fate of the Boeing PT-17 Stearman that was carrying Tex Rhoady and Will Chambers.

A black child wearing white swimming trunks, his torso still wet from swimming, yelled to his playmates.