Davidian Report (2 page)

“I am. I was,” he amended ruefully. “How long the guy’ll wait, I don’t know.” Albion would wait until hell froze over. But it sounded more human this way.

She murmured vaguely, “We’ll be so late … an imposition …” She ended the conversation there, snipping off her light beam, settling herself for sleep.

He didn’t push it further. He too settled himself, although he had no intention of dulling his wits with sleep, or any particular need of it. He was a night man.

It wasn’t too long before the hostess went forward. Now they’d have it. She returned almost at once, put on the top lights, and took her stand for a speech. As charming as if she were bringing good news. Not the information that they were landing at some Godforsaken hole where buses would be sent to carry the passengers to the International Airport. Everyone came awake and full of questions. Yes, their luggage would go along with them. Yes, there was a telephone in Palmdale and there’d be time to put in a call. It was the tweed girl who asked that one; someone was expecting her if not meeting her. The hostess parried, she was gentle and bright, and she got away as soon as possible, leaving the passengers friends in misfortune, not seatmates by accident.

The girl said, “She said telephone, singular.” Her narrow shoulders gestured: And all of these people!

“I noticed she said there’d be time. How much time?”

The man behind them leaned over Steve’s chair. He was all right, his wife was with him, they were returning from a district Kiwanis convention “Don’t worry about time. It takes hours to dig up those old crates they send out to Palmdale. Stuffing out of the seats, broken springs, no heat—I said the last time I’d stick to the Chief.”

The ones who hadn’t been through it before were more resigned. The three young teachers of Phoenix were rather titillated over the unusual. The big man across the aisle actually appeared pleased over the development.

The pilot put the ship down in Palmdale only a little later than it should have landed in LA. There was no scarf of jewels to guide him, only endless open space, forlorn pylons, and a barracks-like shack. The stars were as bright as in Arizona but the air was chill, sending everyone hurrying to the shack.

It shouldn’t have surprised Steve to walk into hustle-bustle. Theirs wasn’t the only ship set down at this isolated way station; all other lines had been closed out by fog as well. But somehow you didn’t expect a desert barracks to be milling with people in the late night. Balancing the confusion was the apathy of those who had been waiting far too long. They huddled beneath their coats on the rickety wicker couches and scuffed chairs. A handful of luckier ones encircled a big iron stove borrowed from an old-fashioned steel engraving.

Most of Steve’s plane headed for the wooden counter where two farm women were selling coffee and cold, thick sandwiches. A sparser line formed outside the telephone booth. His girl hadn’t been first, someone was already in the booth. She was next, the big man behind her. They were talking in desultory fashion, in the way a man wouldn’t miss a chance to talk to an attractive young girl. Not that she was particularly pretty, certainly not now, her face pale and troubled, but compared to the other females in the shack, she was a
Vogue
model. Steve’s gabardine when new hadn’t resembled the one draped across the shoulders of the big man.

Steve edged to the outskirts of the food counter. He wasn’t hungry; however, the stimulus of coffee would help pass the time. And from this vantage point, he could spot who had cared enough to be first in the phone booth. He was vaguely surprised when the crumpled soldier emerged. Although it was logical; the boy had been in a position to be first off the plane. If he had taken advantage of the last minute of leave, as kids would, he’d need to put in a call quick. The soldier shoved his cap over his other ear and dug his hands into his pockets as he neared the counter. It gave him a more shabby look: The hands-in-pockets gesture evidently wasn’t an idle one. He was veering away when Steve got his eye.

“Buy you a coffee, kid.” He knew how to say it with just the right rough edge to take off any smarm of charity. He’d worn a uniform himself not enough years ago. “If we can get near enough to buy one.”

The kid said, “I’ll help push.” His sudden grin was more young than his face. The smile went into his eyes and they too were young. It might have been that all he had needed was the transcontinental sleep.

There was an entering wedge behind the sandy man. As Steve moved, he jogged the briefcase under the man’s arm, but it was the sandy man who apologized, “Sorry.” He balanced two cups of coffee, one for the boss, out of the way. The soldier nailed the spot.

The farm woman’s voice was harsh. “Coffee? Beef or ham?”

Steve said, “Two coffees. Beef or ham, soldier?”

“Beef, I guess.”

The boy was thin and kids were always hungry. “One of each,” Steve said. While they waited he heard the girl’s voice.

“Could you get me a cup of coffee?” She was holding a quarter over his shoulder.

He didn’t take the coin. “Sure,” he said, and “Make it three,” to the gaunt woman. He swiveled his head. “Did you get your call through?”

The girl said, “Yes.” No more.

The soldier picked up the paper plate of sandwiches and one of the coffees. Steve paid and took up the other cups. “Now if we can find a place to park ourselves.”

They were lucky on it. The buses for an earlier plane were coming in, hostesses were passing the word to their charges. The soldier was quick at snagging the couch with the broken springs. It wasn’t comfortable but there was room for three. They put the girl between them and passed the sandwiches.

She said, “I’m not hungry.”

“Eat it. Good for you.” The boy was taking a big hunk in his mouth but he managed the young grin. Surprisingly she reacted, half-smiling back at him. It made her look human, not like a pale green schoolgirl in tweeds.

Steve handed his sandwich back to the soldier. The kid was near ready for another. From under his eyes, Steve was watching the big man, over there by the stove. The man was watching the three of them or one of the three. It wasn’t possible to know which way it was. When he started suddenly in their direction, Steve returned his attention to his own group. “At this time of night I stick to coffee.”

There was time for no more before they were towered over. The big fellow said, “I got through, Miss Talle. The car’s on its way. May I offer you a lift to town?”

Steve was faintly surprised that the man knew her name, they hadn’t appeared to know each other on the plane. And she was evidently chary of giving it, there’d been no introductions between the three of them collaborating on this sprung couch over their late supper.

The man explained to Steve and the soldier, “When I heard in Phoenix about weather conditions, I wired ahead to have a car sent out.” He laughed, “I’ve ridden the bus from Palmdale before.” The invitation was proffered easily, no pressure, “If you men would like to ride along—”

The soldier accepted without hesitation. “Sure. Thanks.”

Steve wasn’t so sure. He’d like to know how this guy could find out where they’d be landing before the hostess knew. Possibly Mr. Big had ordered a car to proceed to all possible points. Even while he hesitated, Steve was telling himself it couldn’t be a trap. The man and the girl and the soldier couldn’t all be together on this, to prevent Steve Wintress from reaching Davidian. To excuse his hesitation, he said, “I’d have to go to the airport anyway.”

The man stepped on his words. “Any place you like.” His smile was almost as professional as that of the air-line hostess. “I’m Haig Armour.” He tossed it out as if he expected them to know the name.

Steve’s eyes didn’t waver. Haig Armour, attorney with the Justice Department. Haig Armour, former big noise of the F.B.I. Steve had heard enough about Haig Armour, but he’d never run into the man before. He didn’t know if tonight was an open move or accidental. Mildly he returned, “My name is Wintress. Steve Wintress.”

If Armour recognized the name, he didn’t admit it.

The soldier said, “Private first class Reuben St. Clair. Call me Rube.” His smile was comic relief.

Armour set down his briefcase and reached into the pocket of his handsome weatherproof. “How about a little heat for that coffee?” He pulled out a leather-encased flask. “Brandy.” It was out of character that he didn’t give the Napoleonic date.

The girl said, “No thanks,” and the private refused, “Afraid it might put me to sleep.”

It could have been drugged and the three working together. But it didn’t smell like anything but the best brandy. It was what Steve needed. He said, “Thanks. I was just wishing I had a drink.”

Armour’s assistant was coming across from the doorway with quick little steps. Steve began to drink his coffee. The sandy man had a sandy voice. “The car is here, Haig.”

“Fine.” Armour shared his smile with the three. “You ready?”

“You bet.” Pfc. St. Clair pushed up on his long legs. He carried his sandwich with him.

Steve went on drinking the coffee. They wouldn’t leave without him.

Armour took the Talle girl’s cup and helped her to her feet. “You tell the hostess we’re off, Tim. We’ll want our bags.” He remembered. “Timothy Leonard, Miss Talle, Steve Wintress, Reuben St. Clair.” The name Leonard wasn’t familiar to Steve. “These kids are going to ride in with us.”

Steve didn’t qualify as a kid but maybe he looked it to Armour. Or maybe Armour was considering Steve’s stature, not the lines in his face. He drained his cup before joining the parade led by Haig to the door. He’d taken it too fast, he felt a little giddy. And again he wondered if the lacing could have been tainted, if the oddly matched trio actually were linked. The first blast of night air helped him to clarity. And standing around in the cold while the reluctant attendant unearthed their bags from the jumble helped more. There was nothing out of character in the luggage; the girl had expensive matched stuff, excess weight; Armour’s was as expensive and as heavy. Rube carried only a small khaki bag as shabby as his uniform; Timothy Leonard’s suitcase was unobtrusive. Steve retrieved his worn valise.

It was Timothy who directed them to an oversized black limousine, bigger than a hearse. But it was Haig who arranged the seating, stowing the soldier up front by the shadowy driver, relegating Timothy to an anachronistic jump seat, and deftly spotting Steve in the rear between himself and the girl. It might be accidental, but Armour knew how to fence in a man.

Steve fought sleep. It twas essential he reach the airport and not some destination Haig Armour might prefer. But the brandy had been heavy and taken too fast. He knew he’d slept when the boom of Armour’s voice shook him into consciousness.

The big man was leaning towards the driver’s shoulder. He’d pushed aside the glass panel separating the tonneau from the cab. “My God, Wilton, how can you see anything?”

The machine was creeping through gray fur. They were on some planet where there was no light, no shadow, no presence, nothing but the shell in which they were encased, and the amber beams of their fog lights bending into the engulfing fog. The driver undertoned something without taking his eyes from the windshield.

Reuben commented cheerfully over his shoulder, “You can’t see nothing. Nothing at all.”

After a moment Haig decided to leave it up to the driver. He shoved the dividing partition tight and settled back again into the upholstery. “He said we’re at Sherman Oaks. How can he tell!” He passed his cigarette case. Steve alone accepted; the girl might have been asleep.

“I’ve got to go to the airport,” Steve reminded him. He had no idea of its direction. He took a light. “But you can let me off at any taxi stand.”

“Nonsense,” Haig refused heartily. “On a night like this? Private St. Clair wants to go to the airport too.” He leaned across Steve, raised his voice. “What’s your destination, Miss Talle?”

She turned her head slowly. Her eyes were blurred with sleep. “Benedict Canyon. In Beverly Hills.” The yellow-gloved hands pressed together.

Timothy Leonard said, “Haig and I are stopping at the Beverly Hills Hotel. The same neighborhood.”

“You don’t mind riding first to the airport?” Haig said. It wasn’t a question; it was the way it was going to be.

Steve protested uselessly, “Rube and I could hop a cab along the way. It would save you the trip.” He knew before he spoke that Haig Armour had made up his mind on this before they left Palmdale. It was almost as if he knew that Albion was waiting for Steve Wintress and that it was a meeting he intended to witness. Let him: He’d see two old friends say hello, no more than that. Steve gave up. Actually at two in the morning in this pea-souper, a cab might be hard to materialize.

As they crept through Sepulveda Canyon, without reason the fog thinned out into tattered veils. They could see the dark walls of the pass, the white guardrails, even glimpse white stars in the overhead sky. And with no more reason, as they emerged into Westwood at the opposite end of the canyon, the night reverted to another furry density. Again they crawled tortuously along the highway. But there was some evidence of life here, a neon-decorated, all-night garage, the occasional glisten of pale headlight. It was long to the airport; Haig Armour hadn’t realized how far out of the way it was. He was silently restive, his face against his window. The Talle girl seemed to be sleeping again. Timothy slept. Up front Rube St. Clair was gabbing with the driver, but the glass partition withheld their words.

They reached the airport at last, turning off in pale fog by the large blinking green arrow, following the road to the in-turn, past the empty acres reserved for parking, up to the curb in front of their terminal. Armour swung out of the car first. It was courteous, and the man’s long legs must need a stretch after this run. But Steve wasn’t happy about it; he wasn’t taking any nursemaid into the terminal with him. He didn’t want more trouble. This had been as ill-met a night as he’d had in years, he couldn’t take any more.

Reuben was on the walk; he began to make his manners while the driver was bringing Steve’s valise and the soldier’s khaki bag from the trunk.