It was starting to get dark by the time we approached the house. We had half a mile to go when a furious barking, and then a howl like an air raid siren startled us. I slammed on the brakes, and Turk bounded across the ditch, pawing at the car. Angie reached over the seat to open the back door and he jumped in.
“What the devil are you doing here, big boy? I told you to stay.” I dropped the car into gear and started to roll. Turk whined like his heart was breaking. I stopped.
“Darn, I wish you could talk, fella.”
“He’s certainly trying, isn’t he?” Angie asked.
“Big time, and I think I’m getting the message. Has he ever met you on the road before?”
“Never.”
I popped the trunk and jumped out. The shotgun was wrapped in towels. I shook it free of its travel wrapping and handed it to Angie. “You’re driving. If anyone tries to stop you, blow them away.” I dug Lieutenant Stella’s card out of my wallet and handed it to her. Angie scooted over under the wheel and took the card.
“Go back to the nearest phone, probably the Rendezvous is open, and call Stella. Don’t come back without the troopers.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Don’t worry, nothing stupid or macho. I’ll just skulk around and try to decipher what Turk is telling us.”
Angie backed around in a half circle and spurted gravel. I got my pistol in my hand and stepped off the road into the trees.
I paralleled the road. If any cars came from Angie’s driveway, I wanted to get a look at them. Leaves had fallen but they were damp rather than crisp so I could walk without crackling, and sight distance was much more than it had been during my last foray. That was a two-edged sword. I felt naked between trees. Bushes that had made a blind a week ago were bare sticks, and I could see, and be seen, right through the low tree branches. I used the squirrels’ technique, moving fast between shelters then freezing and scanning from each new perspective.
That works for squirrels. You see a blur of movement but they’re invisible when they freeze and you begin to doubt what you saw before they move again. Mostly I was counting on whoever was there to be expecting a car and concentrating on the drive rather than the woods. Problem was that they would be set, not moving. I got close enough to see there were no cars in the drive, but that only meant they had been dropped off. I started seeing shapes that could be men with rifles crouched under bushes, but each time I studied one it turned into a log or a branch that still wore leaves, and definitely, nothing moved. The woods were totally, eerily silent except for my breathing.
I dropped down and crawled for the last fifty yards until I came to a big cottonwood that looked bulletproof. I had a clear view of the edges of the drive, and could see a man lying beside the track with a rifle sticking up. He would have been an easy shot, but I couldn’t spot his accomplices. Once I shot, I’d be the center of attention and I didn’t see a suitable bunker close by. The cottonwood was good, but not that good. I did a slow scan, both sides of the drive, then the trees, and I couldn’t spot them. There had to be at least two men, maybe three. Why not ten or twenty? I came back to my original target and he had turned into a log with a branch sticking up.
I decided they must be inside and crawled toward the house. It was too dark to see into the house, but nothing showed in the picture window. I lay flat behind a mound of leaves and just watched over the gun sight.
Ten minutes crept by in slow motion. It seemed like forever since Angie had left, so surely the troopers were on the way. The house looked peaceful and inviting, but those solid walls also looked impenetrable. Anyone inside would be warm and comfortable, could spend the night if necessary. When I stopped moving I noticed it was cold, and I wasn’t dressed for it.
More time crept by. My feet were checking out. I took the pistol in my left hand and warmed the right one in my pocket, then switched and rubbed my undamaged ear but was worried about staying invisible. When squirrels freeze, it usually isn’t literally. I was wondering about backing off and waiting for the troopers on the road when something moved at the end of the house.
It was a strange rocking motion, a gray blur the size of a washtub. It passed the house and turned to cross the drive, then another appeared behind it. A pair of porcupines waddled past the house and disappeared into the woods. I got up and stamped my feet, then stumped around back and fired up the generator. The hot exhaust from the muffler felt good so I basked in that for a few minutes before I went inside and started the furnace.
Turk’s food dish and water pan were empty and there were porcupine quills in both of them. I was sitting on the front steps with a cup of coffee when the school bell in the spare bedroom announced time for classes. A minute later two state troopers came slinking down the edges of the lane with rifles at the ready.
“Hey, Jim. Nice night for a drive. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”
***
The troopers were nice about it. They declined coffee but Jim seemed relieved that I hadn’t shot anything, not even porcupines. They shouldered rifles and walked back up the lane. The school bell rang to announce their departure, then rang again and Angie drove in with Turk still in back. She carried the groceries inside. I opened the car door for Turk, but he refused to get out. We had a tug of war, me pulling on his collar, him trying to dig his nails into the seat. Eventually I won, kept a grip on his collar and dragged him around back. He whined and bolted into his doghouse.
I took the pans inside, washed and refilled them, then set them just outside his house. He crouched and sniffed, walked all the way around the pans, but finally took a few slurps of the water. I went inside where the kitchen already smelled like a French restaurant.
Angie’s beef stroganoff was superb, lots of sour cream, and it complemented the generous dollop of bleu cheese on the salads. So did the pinot noir. The dining table was against the rear wall, the windows overlooking the backyard and what would have been a view of the river, if it hadn’t been too dark. Turk was once again master of his domain, settled down in his house, but chin resting on his paws outside. Across the room toward the front, the drive was just discernable. I did trust Turk to raise an alarm if anyone came within half a mile of us, but the silence of the bell was reassuring.
“Angie, this is wonderful. I’m so sorry we wasted all those meals in restaurants.”
“Not bad for a silver-tongued, lying Irishman. Want to rhapsodize about my eyes sparkling in the flattering glow of the overhead lights?”
“Yeah, that was the next subject.”
“Can it. You can help wash the dishes if you promise not to break anything.”
“Yeah, I’ve always heard about diners who couldn’t pay their bills and had to wash dishes. Mere money couldn’t begin to cover this experience. Can I set a drink on the drainboard, just to look at it and salivate while I perform this menial task?”
“Watch your mouth, buster, there is nothing menial about maintaining home and hearth.” Angie went to the refrigerator for ice and mixed two frosty rum and Cokes, but she set them on the drainboard while she washed and I dried. We carried our drinks into the living room. The wood Stan had laid in the fireplace was still waiting for a light. I looked the question, Angie nodded, and I touched my lighter to the paper under the kindling.
It was a companionable time; the fire was a perfect focus for our thoughts. Angie mixed more drinks, but we didn’t have a lot to talk about, and I kept getting distracted by the aggravating need to think and my total lack of fresh ideas.
“Alex, I’m beat. Long day in the halls of commerce, and the excruciating exertion of preparing gourmet meals has done me in. Can you find the guest room?”
“I think I’ll spend the night on the couch. I blew the day watching cars in the parking lot, so may as well spend the night watching the Buick in the driveway.” Angie parked her empty glass by the sink and disappeared into her bedroom. I mixed one more drink and settled down on the couch to waste the night.
***
When we pulled onto Second Avenue at five minutes after eight, Reginald’s Mercedes was parked in front of Monte’s Department Store. I drove on by and found a vacant meter six spaces ahead of him.
Angie gave me her perplexed nose wrinkle. “What’s the matter? Lost in this bewildering metropolis?”
“Not yet. Angie, that’s Reginald’s car in front of the store, and we need to know why.”
“You think it’s suspicious that a car is parked on Second Avenue?”
“Sweetheart, I’ve spent the last two days watching that car sit in the parking lot at the airport. Compared to that, this is earthshaking. Maybe he’s having breakfast at the Coffee Cup….” That got a vigorous headshake from Angie. “Maybe he went up to the station, but that’s Dave’s provenance. The movie doesn’t start for eleven hours, so he probably isn’t waiting in line. Besides, he should be at the airport in a few minutes, so something different is happening. If he needed a new handkerchief or a pair of socks, he should have bought those last night. Be a good girl, nip into the store, and just check on what he’s doing in there.”
“Gee, I don’t know. I don’t have your training and expertise as a gumshoe.”
“No problem. Turn your collar up, and there’s a false beard and mustache in the glove compartment. Slip those on so no one will notice you, and pretend to be shopping. You have a master’s degree in that.”
She slanted a skeptical glance from the corner of her eye, but climbed out and marched bravely into the store. Ten minutes dragged by, Reginald came out stuffing a paper sack into his overcoat pocket, climbed into his car and drove away. I impersonated an empty car and seemed to get away with it. Two minutes later, Angie was back.
“Was he buying machine guns?”
“Nope, he was at the jewelry counter looking at gold chains.”
“Aha! A present for his wife, so he has a guilty conscience.”
“Alex, don’t you ever watch the political ads? His wife died of cancer ten years ago. He’s running as an eligible bachelor, so he must have a girlfriend.”
“Is she in the ads?”
“No, why should she be?”
“Angie, one of the best things about Governor Bill is that Bridey has been buying his neckties for almost forty years. Every morning she sends him out to run the state with a peck on the cheek, so he’s always in the right mood. Also, we know that if he ever does anything dumb, Bridey will give him hell. He comes with a built-in system of checks and balances, and voters can relate to that.”
“Would having a girlfriend be a bad thing for the election?”
“No, a little romance might be a good thing, but it depends on the girl. If he were going to present us with a Jackie Onassis or a Princess Diana, she should be in every commercial, so why isn’t she?”
“So, maybe she isn’t Miss America. Alex, what does that have to do with people trying to kill us?”
“Depends on whose wife she is. Might be enough to get us killed and him, too. You go to work, I’ll take over the assignment from here.”
Angie treated me to a scowl and I peeled out. I’d seen Reginald turn left at Cushman Street, and that was toward the airport, but I didn’t want to lose him if he had another destination in mind. I made the stoplight, and spotted the Mercedes waiting for a light three blocks ahead. We convoyed sedately to the airport and Reginald parked in his usual spot. It was looking like a replay of yesterday until the F-27 finished unloading and Reginald came out of the office and climbed up the steps into the airplane.
I left the Buick and sprinted for the 310. By the time the F-27 trundled down the taxiway, I had the engine covers off, engines running and was pulling out to follow him. The pilot was on the radio copying his instrument clearance to Anchorage via Blue 27. I was right behind him filing a VFR flight plan for Nenana. He was cleared to go, I was cleared onto the runway and hold. The moment he broke ground it was my turn, and I jammed the throttles to the firewall.
He climbed up to his assigned seventeen thousand feet. I leveled off at ten thousand and set a high-end cruise. He had wanted the higher altitude for speed and engine efficiency, but all airspace above twelve thousand feet is controlled, so he had to follow Blue 27 and that took him on a dogleg directly over Summit Lake, where he had to report his arrival. I set a ruler line for Anchorage and rocked in my seat, trying to go faster.
I was actually ahead of him before he reached altitude, but then he inched away and angled off to the left to follow his clearance. When I passed Nenana, I called Nenana Radio and cancelled my flight plan. Reginald just might be in the cockpit of the F-27 and if he was, he’d hear me on the radio. He probably wouldn’t recognize my tail number, but why take chances?
“Eight Four Zulu, are you on the ground?”
“Yeah, are you asleep? I’m just parking on the village end.”
“Roger, Eight Four Zulu, flight plan closed.”
When I passed Mt. Denali Lodge, the F was a speck on my left, going over Windy Pass. I bored straight through Mt. Denali. That’s not as unlikely as it sounds. The picturesque profile we view from a distance, the one Sydney Lawrence painted, is actually a whole group of mountains ranging from fourteen thousand to seventeen thousand feet. Denali itself is a misshapen spire like the Matterhorn with glaciers winding between mountains like snakes.
I took snow off Mt. Silverthrone with my left wing, off Browne Tower with my right, and ignored the up and down drafts that tried to rip off the wings. I was over Willow when I saw the F-27 coming up on me from behind. I dropped the nose to lose two hundred feet a minute and kept the power on. That almost held our positions.
I reported Cape Mackenzie at four thousand feet and was cleared for a straight-in approach. Twenty seconds later, the other pilot reported the Cape at ten thousand and was vectored over Fire Island. I made a high-speed turnoff at the first intersection. A vacant transient parking spot by the tower was meant for loading. I locked up the parking brake and ran for the terminal.
Luck was in. Trish was at the Budget Rent-A-Car desk. I’d met her that spring, and I was in a hurry then, too, because the entire Russian Mafia was right behind me with Kalashnikovs. I laid such a line of blarney on her that time that she now assumes I’m the head of the CIA.
She saw me sprinting down the hall, assumed that civilization as we know it was threatened unless I got somewhere fast, and held out a car key for me. I handed her a credit card when I whipped by.
“Chevy Malibu, first stall.”
“Thanks, this afternoon.” I grabbed the key and kept right on running.