A Wild and Lonely Place (32 page)

“Why’re these here?” I asked, surprised to hear a faint tremor in my voice.

“Storage. The Mojave’s an airplane graveyard. Climate prevents corrosion, and space at little airports is cheap.”

“What’ll happen to them?”

He shrugged. “They might be returned to service if the airline industry ever picks up. More likely they’ll be sold for scrap.”

I looked at the derelict craft; scrap was all they were good for now. The wind from the barren Granites shifted and set the
turbines to spinning faster. In spite of its heat I felt chilled.

“You talk to the mechanic?” I asked Hy.

“Place is locked up tight. He’s probably gone off for the Memorial Day weekend.”

My spirits dipped further. How much more of this grinding disappointment could we take before we wore down? “Can you call
somebody else?”

“I wouldn’t know who, and besides, the receiver’s been ripped off the pay phone. If I had the right tools and parts I could
fix the engine myself, but as it is…”

“You know,” I said, “maybe it’s time to call on RKI. Get on the radio to Barstow, ask them to phone Renshaw and have him send
the company jet.”

He considered, then shook his head. “Bad idea.”

“Why?”

“I know Gage. He may operate on the edge of the law, but one thing he’s not going to leave himself open to is a charge of
accessory to kidnaping. He’d insist on turning Habiba over to her grandmother as soon as we got to the Bay Area.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that?”

“Think, McCone. The Azadis are still a target. Dawud’s in San Francisco. For all you know, he’s contacted his mother and convinced
her Habiba should go back to Jumbie Cay with him. We hand the kid over, we just might be at square one again. It’s your case,
your call, but—”

“No, you’re right.” I looked speculatively at the Quonset hut.

Hy’s eyes followed my line of sight. We began walking toward it.

“These huts,” I said, jiggling the door latch, “are not put together too sturdily. You suppose he’s got an alarm system on
it?”

“Out here?” Hy laughed.

“I wish I had my lock picks.”

“You want one of my credit cards?”

“The Visa method of entry isn’t as easy as they make it look on TV.” I gave up on the door, walked along the length of the
building to its rear, where there was a small window. When I tested it, it slid up without protest.

I looked over my shoulder and grinned. “The forgetfulness of the human animal is a wondrous thing. You want to climb in, or
shall I?”

“I don’t think I’m up to it. You go, and let me in at the front.”

“Feeling bad again?”

“Like shit.”

“Are you going to be able to work on the engine?”

He shook his head. “I’m gonna supervise. You, McCone, are about to get your first course in aircraft mechanics.”

3:48
A.M.

I closed the access panel to the engine and wiped my oily hands on a rag. Hy made a circle with his thumb and forefinger and
grinned weakly at me, his face drawn and flushed in the light from the heavy-duty torch he held.

He said, “Bet you didn’t think you’d replace a cylinder head gasket before this trip was over.”

“I guess it shows you can do anything, if you have to.” I started gathering up the tools. “I’ll put these back and leave some
money on the desk in there. Then we can get going.”

“Uh-uh. My fever’s raging; I can’t pilot her. And you don’t want to be mountain flying in the dark; you haven’t logged enough
hours for that. It’ll be getting light by five, five-thirty, time enough to start out.”

“Why don’t you try to get some rest, then? Take the couch in the Quonset.”

“I think I will, if I can totter in there.”

“It’s that bad?”

“That bad.”

“Lean on me.” I walked with him to the hut, got him settled on the couch, and went back for the tools, torchlight, and extension
cord. By the time I replaced them, he was out.

I went over to the old wooden desk that nestled in the curve of the far wall and set some twenties on top of the papers and
parts manuals strewn there. Then I sat down in the creaky swivel chair and reached for the phone. It was an ancient black
rotary dial model, and it took a long time to get an operator on the line. When my credit-card call went through to Mick’s
cellular unit, it rang and rang with no answer.

I felt a flutter of alarm, but the lack of an answer didn’t have to mean anything. Mick probably fell asleep on stakeout.

So why didn’t the phone wake him?

Maybe he was away from the unit.

No, he’d have taken it with him.

Well, I couldn’t do a damn thing about the situation now, and worrying wasn’t going to help matters. I pushed away from the
desk and went over to Hy, felt his forehead. It was excessively warm and he didn’t stir when I touched him. More unconscious
than asleep—and that was something else to fret about.

Finally I left the Quonset and checked on Habiba. She was sleeping deeply on the backseat of the Beechcraft, once again curled
into a fetal position. For a while I sat up front listening to her soft breathing. Then I climbed down to the tarmac and sat
there.

The wind from the Granites was still strong but cooler now; the sky had begun to lighten toward the east. I’d wait an hour,
then call Flight Service’s 800 number for a weather briefing. Half an hour later I’d awaken Hy and we’d be on our way.

For now, though, I was content to sit here and listen to the plaint of the ghost planes.

The vast arid waste of the Mojave was behind us now, but the deathlike loneliness of the tiny airfield and the shroud of white
smog drifting from the chemical plants at Trona had left nightmare traces in my mind. Below sprawled the Tehachapis, their
wrinkled, jagged peaks thrusting aggressively. They seemed to telegraph a warning: we can claim you.

I pulled my gaze from them before my imagination could cloud my judgment, looked instead at the last ridgeline separating
us from the Central Valley and an easy flight home. Piece of cake, as Hy would say. Only Hy wasn’t saying anything just now—hadn’t
for some time.

Anxiously I glanced into the Beechcraft’s rear seat, where he’d crawled after I’d awakened him with difficulty at Mirage Wells.
He was slumped against the side—unconscious again, and maybe better off, since the chills had passed and the fever raged again.
The little girl sat rigid beside him, silent as she’d been the whole grueling journey. Her dark hair was matted, her face
begrimed; her eyes had a bottomless quality that said she’d seen too much in too few years. I wished Hy were able to hug and
reassure her, but for the moment my smile and the words “Not long now” would have to do.

She didn’t respond.

Well, who could blame her? After we were on the ground, I’d hug and reassure her. And get badly needed medical help for Hy.

I checked the instruments, looked back at the ridgeline. The morning sun was turning its striated brown rock to gold. Some
of my tension was draining away, but the grit of the desert was still on my skin, overlaying the clamminess of the tropics.
I made myself feel it so I wouldn’t become careless.

So much could go wrong yet. Could go wrong at any moment, as events of the past days had proved—

The impact felt like slamming into a concrete wall.

My stomach lurched and I felt a surge of panic. I scanned the instruments as the plane shuddered. The VSI showed we were descending
fast: fifteen hundred feet per minute, sixteen hundred…When I looked up the ridgeline tilted crazily, then leaped to the top
of the windscreen. All I could see was a fractured stone cliff face.

Downdraft—bad one.

Extreme clear air turbulence here, and why the hell hadn’t Flight Service warned me? Not that I’d’ve had any choice but to
brave it.…

I glanced into the rear seat again. Hy was still unconscious; no help from that quarter. The child’s eyes were wide, her face
drained of color. Afraid I’d betray my panic if I spoke, I tried instead for a reassuring smile, but it didn’t come off.

Okay, I thought, you know what to do. You’ve watched Hy deal with downdrafts a hundred times or more. Stay calm and change
course. Get away from that ridge, turn toward lower ground.

I turned. Another draft slammed us. For a minute the Beechcraft shuddered so violently that I imagined its wings being torn
off.

Two thousand feet per minute now and still falling!

Sweat coated my forehead and palms. I gripped the controls, struggling for focus.

“Mountain flying course,” I said. “Mountain flying— what did they teach me?”

My mind refused to function.

Oh God, not this! We’ve come too far, through too much.

Twenty-three hundred.

This can’t be happening! I can’t die this way.

Twenty-five hundred.

Jagged brown peaks below. Sunny gold cliff ahead. The last things I’ll ever see.

Sunlight, you idiot! Mountains facing into the sun create updrafts. Get closer to them, not farther away.

Find an updraft, and you can use this machine as a glider. Find one, and you’ll clear that ridge.

I began to test the controls, banking toward the cliff.

For God’s sake, McCone, find an updraft!

6:29
A.M.

As the starboard wing dipped lower and the fractured stone cliff loomed closer, I shut down the part of me that felt until
all that remained was a cold focus. I was in command once more, hands gentle and precise on the controls.

I completed my turn, banked again. The VSI still indicated we were losing altitude. I felt a fresh flutter of panic, forced
it down and maintained my concentration.

If I was going to die, I was going to die fighting.

A slight bump. Then it felt as if the Beechcraft was sucked into an inverted whirlpool.

Updraft! Strong one.

I glanced at the VSI. Three hundred feet of indicated climb already!

A joyous bubble rose in my chest; tears stung my eyes. For an instant I gave in to emotion, gripping the controls. Then I
took a deep calming breath and held the plane in a tight, steadily climbing spiral.

One thousand foot gain now. One thousand five hundred. True altitude forty-five hundred.

I’d need at least sixty-five hundred feet to safely clear that ridgeline.

I banked away from the edges of the updraft, deep into its core.

Five thousand. Fifty-five hundred. Six thousand.

We cleared the ridge at over seven thousand feet. I maintained a steep and rapid ascent, rolled out at eighty-five hundred,
and set a northwesterly course toward Bakersfield.

Only then did I allow myself a small yelp of victory.

It was echoed through my headset. Habiba’s hand touched my shoulder. She was leaning forward, lips parted, dark eyes intense.

“We made it,” she said.

“You bet we did!” My voice shook with the tears I was holding in check, and I gripped her fingers tightly.

She added, “Hy slept through everything.”

I turned my head. He looked terrible: gray now, his eyes sunken, his mouth flaccid. Oh, Jesus…“Habiba, do you know how to
take a person’s pulse?”

“Yes.”

“Check his, please.”

While she took his limp hand and fumbled with his wrist, I scanned the terrain below. A few rounded hills, then the flat expanse
of the great Central Valley. How far to Bakersfield? By my calculations, no more than forty miles.

Habiba said, “His pulse feels awful weak, Sharon.”

“Is his forehead hot?”

“Burning up, but it’s like he’s cold, the way he’s shivering.”

The fever-chill cycles were shortening. “Listen,” I said, “we’re going to land at Bakersfield, get him to a hospital.” No
reason not to; nobody would be looking for us there. By now, I doubted anybody was looking for us at all.

She asked, “What should I do?”

“I think that blanket is under the seat. See if you can find it and wrap it around him.” It wouldn’t help against his chills,
but it would keep the little girl occupied.

We were well into the valley now, approaching the farm towns of Arvin and Weed Patch. Flat fields striped by crop rows stretched
for miles; armies of electrical towers marched from east to west, held in formation by their power lines. I reached toward
the radio to call in to Bakersfield air traffic control, but my eyes stopped at the starboard engine’s oil-pressure gauge.

The needle was dropping into the red.

* * *

For a moment I stared in disbelief. Then I laughed—a hollow, on-the-edge sound. So much for my ability as an aircraft mechanic!

Jesus Christ, what now?

I checked the engine for smoke. None visible. But then I smelled burning oil.

Okay, okay, it’s bad, I admitted. You keep running the engine, it could freeze from lack of oil. And then all sorts of disastrous
things can happen—flying pistons, smashed fire walls…

Don’t imagine. Think what to do. Remember that multi-engine course back in March.

Maintain altitude. Feather the propeller.

I feathered. The prop stopped immediately.

Good. Now, secure the power plant. Mixture to idle cutoff. Fuel selector off. Boost pump off. Ignition off. Close cowl flaps.

Nonessential electrical equipment? None on, that’s good.

Coddle the port engine; it’s all you can depend on now. Fuel mix rich, power back to the minimum to maintain airspeed.

And now what?

Notify air traffic control.

“Sharon? I can’t find the blanket.”

“That’s okay. We’ll be on the ground soon.”

“But Hy—”

“He’ll be okay without the damn blanket!”

Habiba sucked in her breath and became very still.

“I’m sorry I snapped,” I said. “Is your seat belt fastened?”

“…No.”

“Fasten it, please. We’re…”I paused, unable to think what to tell her. Oh, hell, why hand her a lie? After what she’d been
through since we swam away from Jumbie Cay, she deserved to be told the truth the same as an adult.