Heat (22 page)

O
n Sunday afternoon after lunch, Jenny was helping Carey with some homework. “I think I'll take a drive,” Jesse said to her. “Will you join me?”

“We've got work to do here,” Jenny said. “You go ahead.”

Jesse got into the truck, drove to the center of town and set the odometer of his truck at zero. He drove east, past Wood Products for another mile, and turned right at the sign for St. Clair County Airport. He noted that the road was paved and broad, and after a couple of minutes he came to the airfield. An asphalt strip stretched out in both directions; there were some small T-hangars and one large hangar with an office shed attached and a fuel truck parked alongside. The doors to the large hangar were open, and Jesse saw someone working under the cowling of a Cessna single-engine airplane. He drove toward the hangar, and, as he approached, he saw that the man was Pat Casey.

Jesse got out of the truck. “Hey, Pat.”

“Hey there, Jesse, what brings you out this way?”

“Just went for a Sunday drive, and I saw the sign. First time I've been out here.”

“I'm out here every chance I get,” Casey said. “Nothing I love better than flying.”

“Pretty nice setup,” Jesse said, pointing toward the runway. “What is it, about thirty-five hundred feet?”

“Forty-five hundred. You can get a corporate jet in here, no problem. You ever done any flying?”

“Yeah, I had about thirty hours in a Cessna 172 back in my hometown. That was seven, eight years ago. I soloed and did the required cross-country stuff, but never got my license.” This was true, but it had been in Miami.

“I'm just finishing up on a little light maintenance here, cleaning the plugs. Want to do a little aerial sightseeing?”

“Sure, love to.”

“Give me five minutes.”

Jesse moved his truck so that Casey could get his airplane out of the hangar, and, when the police chief had finished his work, helped him roll the Cessna out onto the apron.

“Want to fly left seat?” Casey asked.

Jesse grinned. “That depends on if you can land it from the right seat, should you have to.”

“I can. Hop in the left side, there.”

Jesse got in, adjusted his seat and fastened his seatbelt; Casey climbed in beside him, cleared a double handful of charts and books off the copilot's seat, dumped them on the backseat and handed Jesse a headset. “Nice panel,” Jesse said. “A lot better than the old 172 I learned in.”

“Yeah, I got rid of the original avionics and put in a whole new panel last year. All King stuff, except for the GPS—that's from Trimble.”

“That's Global Positioning System?” Jesse knew more about it than he let on.

“Right. It's satellite based and accurate to within about a hundred feet, I think. Wonderful navaid. All you have to do is enter the three-letter identifier of any airport, press this button twice, then set the course into the course deviation indicator right in front of you. Switch on the autopilot, and it'll fly you straight there.” Casey produced a laminated sheet of paper. “I've already done a preflight inspection, so I'll read you the cockpit checklist; it'll all come back to you.”

Jesse was surprised that it did come back. Soon they were taxiing to the end of the runway.

“This is a 182, which is larger and heavier on the controls than your 172 trainer, but not all that different. I'll work the radios for you.” Casey announced their intention to take off on the local frequency. “Okay, let's go; set the trim in the green and put in fifteen degrees of flaps, that's the first notch; throttle all the way in.”

Jesse slowly shoved in the throttle, and the airplane began to move down the runway. There was no wind, and the takeoff was uneventful. Jesse got the flaps up.

“Climb to four thousand feet,” Casey said. “The airport elevation is three thousand, so that'll put us a thousand feet above ground level.”

Jesse did as he was told, then leveled off at four thousand feet.

“Okay, reduce power to, let's see, about twenty-three inches of manifold pressure and twenty-three hundred rpm. Good, now I'll lean the engine, and we're in business. Turn left to two-seven-zero, and hold your altitude.”

Jesse made the turn without losing any altitude.

“Want to see St. Clair from above?”

“Sure.”

“See the church steeple there? Head for that.”

Jesse picked out the steeple rising above the trees, then saw the mountaintop just behind it. He headed for the church, then continued straight on toward the mountain.

“Look, there's Jack Gene's place,” Casey said. “Head over there.”

Jesse turned the airplane slightly, and soon the snowy swath of Coldwater's garden hove into view.

“There's Jack Gene in the garden,” Casey said, smiling. “Let's do a low pass over his house. Drop down a couple hundred feet, and when you get over the house, make a thirty-degree turn to three-six-zero.”

Jesse pushed forward slightly on the yoke and the airplane began a descent and picked up airspeed. He could see the figure in the garden now; he was sitting on a bench and seemed to be holding a book.

“Here we go, start your turn,” Casey said.

Jesse looked at the attitude indicator and picked out the thirty-degree mark, then rolled the airplane to the right.

“You're losing altitude,” Casey warned.

Jesse hauled back on the yoke and the airplane began to climb again.

“Now roll out level for a minute and then turn left to two-seven-zero.”

Jesse leveled the wings momentarily, then turned left. As he rolled out again on the westerly heading, he looked to his left and saw that he was level with the mountaintop and only about three hundred yards away from it. Then he saw something else: around fifty feet down from the mountaintop there was an opening in the brush, and, set into the mountainside, a large round opening with a grate over it.

“Let's circumnavigate the mountain, now,” Casey said. “Just fly right around it, and we'll head back to the airport.”

Jesse continued around the mountain, and he saw two more of the grates. Somebody came running out of one of the small buildings on top and trained binoculars on the airplane.

Casey took the copilot's yoke and wagged the
wings. “They know my airplane,” he said. “Anybody else would get a stinger up his ass, flying this close to the mountain.”

Jesse continued around the mountain and, on the town side, which was sheer cliffs, he saw two more grates.

“Now fly a heading of zero-niner-zero until you see the field, That'll put you on a downwind for runway two-seven.”

The field appeared after a couple of minutes, and Jesse, following Casey's instructions, entered a right downwind for the runway, descending slowly, while Casey announced their intentions over the radio. Jesse turned base, then turned onto the final approach.

“You're a little high,” Casey said. “Reduce power a good bit. That's right, now she'll fly you right down to the threshold.”

Jesse pulled back on the throttle, and the airplane settled toward the end of the runway.

“Start your flare, now, and reduce power even more. You want an airspeed of seventy knots over the numbers. Here we go, flare some more, now.”

Jesse hauled back on the yoke, the stall horn went off, and the airplane struck the runway solidly. “Sorry about that, Pat.”

“That was just a nice firm landing,” Casey said, laughing. “You just fell about the last five feet.”

Jesse taxied back to the hangar, and Casey showed him the shutdown procedure.

“Pat, that was a real treat; thank you.”

“You did real good, Jesse; you must have had a pretty good instructor.”

“Fellow by the name of Floyd; a real old-timer with about ten thousand hours.”

“Those guys are the best. I've got my instructor's ticket; you want to start working on your license again? Cost you eighty bucks an hour for the aircraft and fuel; I'm free.”

“That's a terrific offer, Pat; I'd really like that.”

“Next Sunday, same time?”

“You bet.”

“I'll get you the instruction book and a new logbook.”

“Can I borrow your pilot's operating handbook until next week? I'd like to read up on the operating speeds and all that.”

“Good idea.” Casey reached into the cockpit and handed him a thick notebook.

“Thanks, see you next Sunday,” Jesse said.

“Hey, Jimmy!” Casey called to a man near the fuel truck. “Top her off, will you? Just the right tank.”

Jesse got back into his truck and drove off. He checked the speedometer for distance, then drove home. He'd learned a lot more than he'd expected to on a Sunday afternoon.

 

That night, Jesse had the dream again. He was walking down Fifth Avenue in New York, and he saw the little girl he had taken for his own Carrie. He had decided it wasn't Carrie, and this was where the dream had stopped. Only this time it continued. It was if they were all in slow motion. The woman bent over and pointed to something in the shop, as Jesse watched through the window, and she seemed terribly familiar. Then she straightened up, and Jesse could see for the first time that, even under the overcoat, the woman was pregnant. He jerked awake, this time with the scene fixed in his mind. Then he remembered something Kip had said, about how he would take care of his family if he lost his job.

Jesse sat very still, hardly daring to breathe, lest the dream should leave him. Machinery in his mind turned, like the tumblers in a safe, and the combination clicked.

Doors swung open. He fell back on the pillow, exhausted from his insight.

T
he fax arrived on Tuesday morning. Jesse saw it spat from the machine, and he resisted walking over there. The secretary took the document from the machine, glanced at it and took it into Herman Muller's office.

Muller read the letter, then read it again, then picked up the phone and dialed a number. He spoke for some minutes, nodding a lot, then hung up and walked into Jesse's office.

“Jesse, I've had a fax from a company in Maryland that's looking for a new supplier. I called the fellow—Withers, his name is—and it looks like he's hot to trot. You think you could fly east the next day or two and make the same presentation to him you made to the folks in New York?”

“I'd be glad to, Herman.”

Muller handed him the fax. “Here's the letter; you work it out with Withers about when you'll meet.” He went back to his office.

Jesse went out to the receptionist. “Agnes, could you check on a flight schedule for me tomorrow from Spokane to Washington D.C. National Airport?”

“Sure, Jesse. You're becoming the real jet-setter, aren't you?”

“That's right; I'm meeting Elizabeth Taylor there.”

When Jesse had the schedule on his desk he picked up the phone, called Nashua Building Supply and asked for John Withers.

“Mr. Withers, this is Jesse Barron at St. Clair Wood Products. My boss, Herman Muller, said you'd like to get together and talk about plywood and chipboard.”

“That's right, Mr. Barron,” Withers said, “and we're kind of in a hurry. When do you think you could get to College Park?”

“You're right near Washington, aren't you?”

“Yep. Just north of there. I could meet you at National Airport.”

“Tell you what; I'm looking at a schedule that would get me into Washington early tomorrow evening. How about we meet at your office the following morning.”

“Ten o'clock sharp?”

“That's fine with me. Your address is on your letterhead.”

“Right, any map of the area will show you where we are. We're not far from the University of Maryland.”

“If I get lost I'll call you.”

“See you Thursday morning,” Withers said.

 

Jesse stayed late at the office, working at the computer. He wrote a document of some twenty pages, then printed out half a dozen copies. He put each copy into a Federal Express envelope, made some phone calls to information in New York, Washington, Los Angeles, Atlanta, Miami and Seattle, then filled out the FedEx forms and inserted one into the plastic holder of each envelope. He put them into his briefcase, locked up the office and went home.

 

At dawn the next morning they were driving toward Spokane.

“We can talk,” Jesse said. “I've been over this truck with a fine-toothed comb and it's not bugged.”

“Why am I driving you to the airport?” Jenny asked.

“If anybody asks, your car doesn't have four-wheel drive, and you wanted the pickup to use if it snows. It's supposed to snow.”

“Okay, I understand. What are all these envelopes on the front seat between us?”

“They're Federal Express packages. I'm going to call you when I get to my hotel, and again before I leave the hotel the next morning. I'll just ask how you're doing and if you and Carey are okay; innocuous stuff like that. Don't talk about anything important. After that, if I fail to call you every twelve hours, or if I say the words, ‘I love you very dearly,' on the phone, I want you to go straight to the Federal Express substation in town and hand them these packages. They're already addressed and the cost will be billed to Wood Products' account.”

“Why do you want me to do this?”

Jesse told her, at length, what he was planning.

She didn't say anything for a long time, then she sighed. “Are you sure there's no other way to do it?”

“I can't think of another one.”

“All right, that's good enough for me. I'll get Carey ready. This is what I'll tell her.” She spelled out a story.

“I like that; it should do the job.”

“When will we leave St. Clair?”

“As soon as I possibly can after I get back. A lot depends on what happens while I'm gone.”

“What if this doesn't work? What if it all goes wrong and you can't come back?”

“If that happens, if you don't hear from me during any twelve-hour period, I want you to drive the truck into your garage, and crawl underneath it. There's a safe welded to the chassis; it'll be covered with mud and ice, so you'll have to clean it off before you can open it.” He told her the combination and asked her to repeat it to him. “Good, now don't forget it; repeat it to yourself a lot.

“Inside the safe are several things: there are passports for you and Carey; there is a little over fifty thousand dollars in cash; and there is a pistol. I want you to take Carey, and, in the dead of night, take some clothes, get into the truck and drive to Seattle. Find a downtown parking garage and leave the truck there, then find a travel agent. There are nonstop flights from Seattle to Tokyo; make two reservations and pay for them in cash. Then go to a bank; buy ten thousand dollars in traveler's checks, keep a couple of thousand in cash, then buy a cashier's check with the remainder of the money. Go to the airport, get on the plane and fly to Tokyo. When you arrive there, don't leave the airport; buy two tickets on the next flight to Hong Kong, then make room reservations at the Peninsular Hotel for seven nights. When you get to Hong Kong, check in, get some sleep and do some sightseeing. If I am still free, I'll meet you in Hong Kong within the week or I'll call you with other instructions. If you haven't heard from me in a week, fly to Sydney, Australia, and check into the Harbour Hotel.

“An old friend of mine tends bar in the hotel; his name is Arthur Simpson, but everybody calls him Bluey. Call or see him once a week; I'll be in touch with him. If he tells you I'm in prison, then it's time to forget about me, because I'll be there a long time. Bluey will help you get work papers and find a job and a place to live. Start a new life.”

“Without you?”

“If I'm free, I'll be with you eventually; if I'm not, I won't be, and either way, Bluey will hear about it. Your passports are real, so you don't have to worry about that; you can renew them at the embassy when they expire. After a year or two, it should be safe to come back to this country, if that's what you want. I'd feel better if you stayed in Australia.”

“What's the gun in the safe for?”

“That's to use on anybody who tries to keep you from leaving St. Clair. If Pat Casey or any of his people follows you and tries to take you back, shoot him where he stands. I take it you know how to fire a pistol?”

“Everybody in St. Clair knows how; we learned as children.”

“If you can get out of town, even if you have to kill somebody doing it, I don't think they'll send out a police alert for you; you have too much of a story to tell, and if you are arrested, don't hesitate to tell it. The money will buy you a lawyer, and you won't be convicted for shooting somebody who tried to make a prisoner of you. And remember, throw the gun into the nearest trash can before you go into the airport.”

Jesse pulled up at the airport curbside check-in. He switched off the engine and turned to her. “Jenny, you're a strong person; I know you can do this, all of it.”

“I can if you want me to,” she said.

“It's the best I can do for you.” He took her in his arms and held her for a moment, telling her that he loved her, then he got out of the truck. “I hope I'll be back,” he said, then he turned and walked into the terminal.