The Underground Lady (29 page)

"I had a talk with Rose about you. She said you like "younger" women, and have a thing against marriage."

Rose.

"I have learned from my friends that marriage turns lovers into relatives."

"And young women?"

"Not so much the teenage type, but those with less baggage, uncomplicated."

"Virginal?"

"Well…"

"While you whore around without conscious scruples, you still demand ideal and angelic purity in the women you marry. You want to regard them with tender adoration as something untouched by other's hands."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You look for what in a man?"

"None of your business."

"Young, intelligent, buffed out. Spends a lot of time in the gym?"

Her eyes glistened in the dim light, and they told me she wanted to argue the point, which she was sure she could win, but now was not the time.

"So, the fact is that the bullet in my mother's head came from VonHorner's gun?"

"We have to wait for the DNA to be sure it's your mother, but yes, that is a fact, and facts are stubborn things."

"Facts change, though. They can't do otherwise. If nothing else, they are altered by the sheer fact of their not changing."

"Of course, and the laws of nature are mathematical, and we proceed through life on the assumption that there is a coherent scheme to the universe yet to be uncovered."

Sunny Pfeiffer looked strangely at me, but said nothing. I thought, "Please, God, do not let Hebrone's airplane be late."

We parked in the short-term lot, made our way to the main terminal and checked the monitors that showed arrivals and departures. Southwest Airlines' flight from Dallas was on time.

We watched the orange and black painted Boeing 737 taxi to the gate. People started spilling out. The forty-nine dollar special one way non-stop flight was packed like a can of sardines. It was only an hour flight, though, and if you were lucky your seatmate was not a four hundred-pound slob or someone who had an aversion to bathing. For some reason, I suddenly thought about people being late. I've never experienced a person being late who didn't have a reason. But there is only one reason they are late. Because their word is no good.

Hebrone finally emerged from the walkway, accompanied by a young, haggard-looking flight attendant. She was obviously flirting with him. Looking at the man, one would never guess he'd personally killed over one hundred and fifty people. About six feet in height, he had a face that some women, and some men as well, had called handsome. His cheekbones were high like an Indian's and his eyebrows and hair were gray. It was rumored there was Indian blood in his family, but his skin was white and his eyes were pale blue, the color of shallow sea water over white sand, yet lacking sea water's clarity and softness. Spotting us, he waved, said something to the flight attendant, and came to meet us.

"Good news, I'll tell you in the car."

After paying a twenty-dollar parking fee for a half-hour of time, we drove onto the interstate and headed toward Union.

"You smell good," Hebrone said to Sunny.

"You don't," she replied.

"Yes, we were packed in pretty tight, and it's been a long day."

"Gerald VonHorner?" I asked.

"We got lucky. Usually they destroy those records after ten years, but for some reason they hadn't gotten around to these. He was scheduled for the Denver-Seattle run that week, but he swapped off with another Captain who wanted the next week off. I also found out his then "girlfriend," Kien Phuong, quit her job as a flight attendant that week."

"We got a match on the bullet found in the skull. VonHorner's .38." I saw Sunny suddenly move in the seat beside me. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I'll get used to it."

"Then we've got him. What's our next move?"

"We need to wait on a positive ID on the remains, and then I want to run the newspaper article, see what he does."

"Why?"

"I want the S.O.B. to sweat."

"Yeah," Hebrone said, leaning back in his seat. "Let's make him sweat."

Chapter Twenty-three

Waking early, I lay in bed and watched the shadow of a bare limb climb a far wall of my bedroom as the sun rose in the sky. Soon the nights would shorten and the days grow longer. In less than a month the leaves would begin to sprout and turn green. It was a pleasant season, for it promised everything. Life was going on, but I couldn't be sure exactly why.

After taking a shower, I made coffee, donned a coat, and went out on the porch. It was quiet and peaceful, and I could see my breath. Three hundred yards to the south, not far from the old grass runway where Hadley Welch was killed by a bullet to her brain, four grown coyotes made their way along a tree line. They were barking like dogs, not the usual yelping and howling when on a hunt. Today they seemed to be playing, enjoying the warmer weather, and being coyotes, wild and free. I thought of retrieving my "critter" rifle and shooting them, but I'd had enough of killing.

Hebrone said I'd not experienced the atrocities men can perpetrate. Compared to him, maybe I hadn't, but I've known some truly evil people. People who, if you wronged them, would kill your children first. Then, when your anguish waned, would kill your wife. Finally when they figured you'd suffered enough, would kill you. I'd call that an atrocity.

Sipping on the warm coffee, I watched the sun burn off the ground fog, and thought of Gerald VonHorner's motive for murdering Hadley Welch. Killing for money always struck me as a poor reason for murder. But it most always was the motive. It's a better reason than killing for the fun of it. VonHorner's motive was, at least on the surface, a little more complicated than money. True, if exposed, he would have lost substantial amounts of tax-free cash, but more succinctly, the two most important things to him would be taken away – his pilot's license and his mechanic's license. These were his "raison d'etre."

My phone rang. I got up and went inside to answer it.

"The DNA is a match. My daughter said to a certainty of one in two hundred and fifty million."

"Close enough for government work. Thanks, John."

"We've got motive, opportunity, and ballistics from his gun. I'm ready to move. The District Attorney agrees, though he's worried about the chain of custody on the S & W. He wants to talk to you about how you came into possession of it."

"Something bothers me about this, John. Give me the forty-eight hours you promised. You can put a tail on the man, if you wish. I want to see what happens when he realizes that we've discovered the airplane and body. It's been twenty-five years, a couple of more days won't matter."

"Okay, but I can't hold off any more than that."

"Thanks, John. I'll see that VonHorner gets the first copy of the
Union Appeal
, hot off the press. Tell the DA that we'll testify to whatever he needs on the .38."

Dialing Rose's number, Hebrone answered.

"We've got a DNA match for Hadley Welch. I'll let the
Union Appeal
know, now. Tell Sunny, but go easy."

"What's Adams going to do?"

"He's allowing us the forty-eight hours. We need to hand deliver a copy of the paper to VonHorner."

"We gonna punish the man?"

"You bet."

***

"Bill Graham, Jay Leicester. We got a positive DNA match. When can you run the article?"

"Paper comes out tomorrow. I'll see that it gets front page. You want to see a proof?"

"No, I'll trust you, but we need copies immediately. How do I get them?"

"I'll call you as soon as they arrive at our office. You can come by and pick them up or I'll bring them to you."

"Call me, we'll pick them up and hand deliver a copy to Gerald VonHorner."

"I want to be there to photograph the arrest. Can you arrange it?"

"If there is one, yes."

"You don't plan on – never mind, I don't want to know."

"Thanks, Bill. I'll await your call."

Plan on what, I thought? Kill the man ourselves? No, we wouldn't do that, unless it became necessary for self-defense. Punish the man? Iffy, in that the Sheriff and DA and the FAA are aware of the circumstances. Probably be better to let John Quincy Adams handle it.

Propping my feet up on a cedar post on the porch, I sipped fresh coffee, watching the sun clear the treetops. It was going to be a fine day.

***

"They are here," Bill Graham said. It was eight a.m., Wednesday.

"We'll see you in twenty minutes."

At Rose's house, Sunny insisted she ride along with Hebrone and me to deliver the newspaper to Gerald VonHorner. It was useless to argue, and I could see no reason she should not come with us.

Bill Graham handed me a dozen copies of the
Union Appeal
.

"I hope it's what you wanted. The Associated Press has picked up the article. It'll go national tomorrow."

"Outstanding. Good job, Bill. We'll read it on the way. I owe you one."

Hebrone and Sunny read the article while I drove.

From the backseat, Sunny said, “This is good. That young man is a born journalist. Wonder if he'd consider moving to St. Louis and working as a publicist for Upton Pharmaceuticals?"

"Leave the man alone, Sunny. We need him, here, to run the newspaper."

She laughed. "We'll see."

Parking in front of VonHorner's house, I looked at my watch. It was nine-thirty a.m. Taking a copy of the
Union Appeal
, I went alone to the front door and rang the bell.

VonHorner himself opened the door. "What do you want?"

"Thought you might want to see the headlines in the paper." I slapped him in the chest with the newspaper. "Kiss it goodbye, VonHorner." I turned and walked away.

"Get off my property, and don't come back. I'll have you arrested." He slammed the door.

I smiled. This was fun.

"What do we do now?" Sunny asked, when I got back to the truck.

"We wait."

"You mean we sit here until he does something?"

"No, we go back home. Those two Sheriff's Detectives parked up the block will keep an eye on him."

Sunny turned and looked at the unmarked car with the two men. "I never noticed them."

Hebrone smiled. "That's what they are striving for."

***

Back at the cottage, I called the sheriff and told him the newspaper was delivered. He said his men had informed him and nothing had moved at the house since we left.

During lunch at Rose's, my cell phone rang. It was John Quincy Adams.

"My men say the wife left a few minutes ago, but VonHorner is still at the house."

"Thanks, John."

"Listen, Jay, the DA is bugging me again about that gun. He can see no way it would ever be admitted as evidence. Without it, he's got no case."

"John, Kien VonHorner waved that pistol in my face, Hebrone took it away from her before she killed somebody and kept it in his possession. Tell the DA that this is his problem. Work it out."

"I'll pass that along. It depends on the Judge, and how he rules. It'll be your word against theirs. Oh well, I'll let you know if VonHorner does anything."

Hanging up, I looked at Hebrone. "I hate lawyers."

"The S & W?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe we can arrange it so that we don't need any testimony."

"We can't stoop to their level. That would make us like them."

"I don't care."

Looking hard at Hebrone Opshinsky, I knew that he spoke the truth. He did not truly care. Justice is justice.

At one p.m. my phone rang again.

"He's on the move, headed north."

"Thanks. Maybe he's coming to see us?"

"Be careful. My men will be following, but they will be laying back."

"Don't worry, John, we can handle things here."

"I would worry if Opshinsky wasn't with you."

"Well, he's here. Goodbye, John."

Shack answered his phone on the first ring.

"We think VonHorner's on the way here, would you come to Rose's house and stay with her and Sunny? Hebrone and I will be at the cottage."

"I'm on the way."

Hebrone and I sat on the porch. It was a beautiful day. The sky was crystal clear, still clean from the fast moving cold front that passed through two days ago. The smell of the cool country air was one of promise. The wind was still, not a breath, unusual for the hill where the cottage sat.

A Russian assault rifle leaned against a cedar post next to Hebrone's feet, which were propped up on the post. I fingered the magnum in my jacket pocket. We waited. A cow lowed far away, a dog barked. Tension surrounded the porch like syrup. High overhead, vultures soared effortlessly on unseen thermals.