Burn Out Page 20

  Amos pursed his lips; I suspected he was trying not to say something. But the desire to speak won out: “You been flying happily and beautifully. Nobody around here—male or female—makes the kind of landings and takeoffs you do.”

  I was genuinely touched, but I said lightly, “Not even Ripinsky?”

  “Not even him. And I’m not bad-mouthing your husband, because he admits you’re the better pilot.”

  Somehow I—and Canada Dry—had won grouchy Amos Hinsdale over. I’d been promoted from “lady pilot” to just plain “pilot”!

  From the FAA’s Internet site, I found the Cessna whose number Hinsdale had noted down belonged to a flight service in Fresno. I called the service, got a machine. By then it was nearly eleven. Hy hadn’t called today. No one had, except for Patrick and Ted with terse reports they’d left on the machine. Hy’s silence didn’t bother me; I could sense him urging me on.

  I flipped the TV on to the national news. The recent happenings in Mono County had become a major story. Apparently they had been for nearly two days, when the media smelled links between the murders. Come to think of it, I’d seen a CBS van in town the previous afternoon, but had been too distracted to take much notice. Tonight’s follow-up said the sheriff’s department was searching for both Bud Smith’s boat trailer and the keys to his Forester, so far with little success.

  After watching the weather report—more snow—I poured myself a glass of wine and sat down to think.

  Trevor Hanover—wherever he was—would be monitoring the news. He’d be aware of the interest the cases had generated. But would he suspect someone had also linked the events to him?

  Maybe, maybe not.

  I began to construct my view of what had happened.

  Hanover had been intimidated by his brother Bud’s threat to tell the truth about Miri’s rape to the Nevada authorities. He’d retained the attorney for Hayley and probably put the half million dollars he’d offered Bud in trust. When Hayley returned to Vernon and took out the life-insurance policy, Bud gave her her mother’s letter. After reading it, she asked Bud to set up a meeting with her father; again the threat hanging over Hanover had worked, and he’d agreed. Perhaps he’d expected some kind of trouble, since he’d flown his jet to Fresno and rented a small plane that wouldn’t be recognized as belonging to him.

  Still, I couldn’t believe even as cold and calculating a man as Hanover was reputed to be would have planned his own daughter’s murder.

  An accident, then. Hanover refusing Hayley’s demands for money and recognition as his child. Hayley taking out Boz’s .32. A struggle, and the gun going off and killing Hayley. Happens all the time when irresponsible people untrained in the use of firearms have access to them.

  Hanover left the scene, taking the gun with him. And someone saw him leaving. . . .

  Tom Mathers. T.C. had told me her husband had a woman friend in that trailer park—a woman friend who’d left to care for her supposedly ailing mother shortly after Hy and I found Tom’s body. Mathers could have heard the shot and followed Hanover. After that, he did some checking and made a phone call to the ranch, thinking he had a big deal going.

  Blackmail—the fool’s crime.

  From this point on, my thinking became more speculative.

  Bud Smith knew as soon as he heard the news of Hayley’s death that his brother had killed her, but for some reason he didn’t go to the authorities. Lack of proof? Shock? The habit of lifelong loyalty and protectiveness? The hope he could persuade Davey to turn himself in? Family ties could be that strong: I’d seen it over and over again, in my own life and those of others.

  Did Bud try to talk with his brother, but found himself unable to because Hanover had forted himself up at the ranch?

  No way to tell.

  On November second, a meeting between Hanover and Mathers at the lava fields. More demands on Hanover. His financial empire is crumbling, his wife has left him, he’s killed his daughter, and now this. He snaps, and when Mathers turns away from him, he shoots him in the back with Sheppard’s .32.

  Premeditated? Yes. Maybe he wasn’t expecting the meeting to turn out that way, but the possibility must have been in the back of his mind, or he wouldn’t have brought along the gun.

  Now he’s panicked. He’s in the lava fields with a dead man and two vehicles. He doesn’t want to leave the body there—the proximity to his ranch. He can put the body in its owner’s truck, drive it to some remote place, and dispose of it, but then how the hell does he get back?

  The answer is the same as it always has been with the former Davey Smith: he calls on his big brother Bud for help.

  Bud comes to the ranch in response to Davey’s plea, not even taking time to unhitch his boat trailer from the Forester. But when Davey tells him what he wants done, Bud flat-out refuses. Davey’s killed his own daughter as well as Tom Mathers, and Bud confronts him with the facts, threatens to call the sheriff’s department. Maybe he even goes to the phone.

  It’s the first time Bud has ever refused Davey a way out. Davey snaps again, shoots his brother in the back.

  Now he’s got two bodies on his hands. The one in the desert—which he’s zipped into a sleeping bag from the victim’s own truck—doesn’t matter, he decides, since the only other people who knew he was at his ranch are also dead. And the boat trailer provides a perfect solution for hiding his brother’s corpse: put Bud’s body into his—Hanover’s—own car, the car onto the trailer, drive the Forester up to a remote spot in Toiyabe National Forest, dispose of both. Hitch the trailer to his car—because a vehicle with a boat trailer and no boat would attract a lot more attention when found in the forest than the SUV of a hiker who apparently went astray—and return to the ranch. Then get the hell out of there.

  If that was what happened, the trailer might still be at the ranch. Maybe the keys to Bud Smith’s Forester, too. Since Hanover had driven it into the woods, he might have pocketed them.

  And the ranch house was a probable crime scene. There could be material evidence—blood, fibers, fingerprints . . .

  So?

  Check out the property from the air, make sure it was deserted. And then get onto it and into the house. Look for something that would give Lark probable cause to obtain a search warrant.

  Of course, those actions were totally illegal. Trespassing, breaking and entering. I could lose my private investigator’s license, go to jail. And I didn’t want to hinder the authorities in building a case against Hanover. While Lark was willing to bend the law when circumstances merited it, no way she’d be able to get a warrant based on information gleaned during an illegal search.

  Well, what if my plane’s engine went out, and I had to make an emergency landing on the ranch? Wasn’t able to make radio contact with anyone? Was forced to hike to the house to ask to use the phone? Found no one there, but looked through the windows and saw something suspicious? Left and reported it to Lark?

  Lark didn’t know enough about planes to realize that when you had an engine out, it didn’t suddenly start up again. She’d assume it was like a car’s flooded motor. And the roughness of the landing could explain the loss of radio contact.

  Thin, but Lark wouldn’t be inclined to ask too many questions if a multiple murderer was brought to justice as a result.

  Okay. I’d sleep on it. But first I’d run a search for the license plate number of Bud Smith’s boat trailer.

  Saturday

  NOVEMBER 17

  The morning air was crisp, the sky clear. The projected snowstorm had blown past in the night and was currently blanketing parts of Tuolomne County.

  Amos Hinsdale arrived at the UNICOM shack as I was preflighting Two-Seven-Tango. “You leaving?” he asked, genuine disappointment in his voice.

  “No, just going out to take a look around.”

  “At that ranch, you mean.”

  I hesitated. Could I trust him? Yes, I could: in Amos’ world there was a brotherhood of pilots, and last night he’d allowed me t
o join it.

  “That’s my approximate destination.”

  The lines around his eyes crinkled. “Be careful. You got plenty of fuel?”

  “Yes. I filled up at Independence yesterday.”

  “Stop in when you get back. I’ve still got a couple of Canada Drys on ice.”

  “Will do.”

  “And keep tuned to the UNICOM. If there’s any unannounced incoming traffic, I’ll contact you. Code word Reptile.”

  We smiled at our little intrigue and shook hands before I climbed into the plane.

  I turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed and then a warning light flickered. Electrical system failure. There was a backup battery, but I didn’t know how much charge was left on it; recalling the way the engine had sounded when I’d returned here after my overflight of Toiyabe, I realized I might have been flying on battery for some time. Would I have missed the warning light then and also on the flights to and from Independence? Doubtful, but lately I never knew. . . .

  Well, I couldn’t take Two-Seven-Tango up without a certified mechanic’s okay. And I was no mechanic; neither was Amos.

  I removed the key from the ignition, got out, and said to Amos, “Which of those rental planes of yours is the better?”

  It was a thirty-seven-year-old Cessna 150—the type of plane I’d trained on—with a banged-up exterior, ripped-up interior, and crazing—small fractures—on the windshield. It preflighted well, though, and started strongly. The gauges were all functioning, and no warning lights flashed. I gave Amos a thumbs-up sign and taxied toward the runway.

  A thousand acres of ranch land is a lot of territory to explore, even from the air, but I’d devised a plan. First I checked the house and outbuildings, putting the plane into slow flight, scanning for signs of habitation. None visible. Then I flew over the long airstrip—well paved and equipped with all the bells and whistles of a small municipal airport, including a large hangar. The hangar’s doors were closed; a faded orange windsock at midfield drooped limply. Easy landing day, no strong crosswinds. But I wasn’t planning on using this runway.

  I kept flying to the southeast, looking for a landing place that was far enough away from the house that I wouldn’t attract attention in case someone actually was in residence, but also within a reasonable hiking distance. A long ridge crossed the terrain, rough-surfaced and dotted with small obsidian outcroppings. On the other side of it I found a flat, open area that once must have been cattle graze. I could put down and take off easily there. It would be a fair hike to the house, but I was wearing sturdy boots and had bottled water in my backpack.

  Bottled water, binoculars, and Hy’s .45.

  I didn’t want to land just yet, though. Instead I headed back toward the airstrip and house, thinking a second slow overflight might scare up anybody who hadn’t been curious enough to come outside the first time.

  No one.

  Okay, back toward my selected landing place. I spoke into the radio’s microphone. “Tufa Tower traffic, Reptile. Anything?”

  “Negative, Reptile.”

  Midway between the ranch compound and the jagged, rocky ridge, something strange caught my eye. I glanced forward at the engine cowling. Nothing. Maybe I’d glimpsed a black bird narrowly missing the plane.

  A few seconds later I saw it again: a smoky curl drifting from the edge of the cowling. The paint there looked bubbled. Suddenly bright orange flames flickered upward.

  Engine fire!

  Fuel-fed, not oil-fed—had to be from the color of those flames.

  Panic made my limbs rigid, fused my gaze to the flames. I’d been in a serious emergency situation once before, but long ago—

  Time telescoped as fear turned to rage. My life was back on track: I’d made my decisions and was set to enjoy the future. And now maybe I was going to die because Amos Hinsdale hadn’t properly maintained his crappy airplane.

  Focus. Do what you were trained to do.

  Stubborn determination gripped me as I looked at the instrument panel. I was not going to die—not now, not like this. Emergency procedures from my old training manual flashed through my mind.

  Forced landing, engine fire: Shut off the fuel supply. Keep the ignition switch on to clear the fuel lines. Lower the nose to maintain your airspeed.

  My hands moved mechanically through the actions I’d practiced many times in simulated situations.

  Now look for a place to bring this piece of shit down.

  My altitude and airspeed were not enough to crest the ridge ahead to level ground or return to the airstrip. And that ridge was the worst possible place to try to land.

  “Okay,” I said aloud, “I don’t care about saving the plane. What I need to do is keep the cockpit—and me—intact. Screw the wings, tail section, and landing gear.”

  The terrain was treacherous, but I could use it to my advantage. Rock was an energy-absorbing medium; even the scrub pines would help stop the plane once it was down. If I landed correctly, allowing only the outer parts of the Cessna to be mangled . . .

  But what if the plane exploded on impact? I’d never see Hy again. Never see the other people I loved, never—

  Focus, dammit!

  Lower flaps. That increases mobility. Bank a little here, not too much. More right rudder. Lift the nose slightly. Now hold it level.

  I was almost to the ridge now, its black, glassy rocks seeming to jump up at me.

  Hold it level.

  Slow it down.

  Slower . . .

  There was a stand of scrub pines near the ridgetop. Perfect. The right wing would hit them, slow the plane before it hit rock.

  Brace yourself!

  Jarring impact. A shearing sound. Metal screaming. The plane slewed violently to the left.

  My seat belt tore loose and I slammed against the door, then forward onto the yoke. Pain shot through my chest, but I clung to the yoke as if it were a life preserver, my eyes squeezed shut, steeled for the whoosh of igniting fuel.

  The plane dropped downward, its landing gear crushed. Then, with a sound like a great sigh, it settled. Stones rattled, metal groaned, the windshield rained down.

  The silence that followed was almost as deafening as the crash.

  I raised my head and looked around. The right wing was gone, the plane’s nose buried into the ground, facing downhill. But the cockpit and I were intact.

  You did it, McCone. You brought it down.

  The voice in my mind sounded like Hy’s. As if he’d been there all along, urging me on.

  Exit and get clear of the aircraft promptly, in case of explosion.

  I grabbed my backpack from the passenger seat and pushed through the half-sprung door. Tumbled to the ground, pushed myself up, and took off running and skidding down the ridge.

  At its bottom I looked back at the twisted wreckage of the Cessna. The elevators on the tail section had also been sheared off, the tail itself bent. The slope above it was littered with metal. There was still no fire or explosion, but I wasn’t going to wait around for either. As I moved away, I took out my phone: no reception.

  Behind me I heard popping and crackling sounds. Then a loud bang. In a few seconds the wreckage was engulfed in flames.

  Exit and get clear of the aircraft promptly. . . .

  Yeah.

  Quickly I turned away. I’d walk to the ranch house and ask for help, playing out my cover scenario for real.

  I set out for the ranch compound. In spite of the cold, the sun beat down and soon I began to sweat inside my heavy parka. I unzipped it and went on.

  The pain in my chest was becoming more bearable, but every now and then a sudden, vicious stab would make me stop and catch my breath. I wondered if I had a cracked rib or pelvic bone.

  The hiking boots weren’t ones I frequently wore. My toes and heels began to chafe against them. I promised myself a pedicure when I got back to the city.

  As I approached the compound, my backpack tugged uncomfortably at my shoulders. I stopped, too
k it off, and removed Hy’s .45 to reduce the load. Time to have the gun at hand, anyway. I stuck it in the waistband of my jeans, had a drink of bottled water, put the pack back on, and kept going.

  When I got to a small stand of Jeffrey pines, I dropped down onto my knees and took out the binoculars. Surveyed the bleak land that stretched in front of me, the cluster of simulated adobe buildings with red tile roofs. No motion, no life.

  The sun was glaring down now. Sweat oozed along my rib cage. I shed the parka and left it on the ground. Began to creep along—alert for the presence of other slithering creatures. After all, Rattlesnake Ranch had been aptly named. This was the predators’ natural habitat.

  House, hangar, and outbuildings clearly in sight now. Drained swimming pool showing through a long, tall hedge of hardy-looking evergreens. I picked up the pace.

  Halfway there I paused to raise the binoculars. Empty landscape.

  Last hundred yards or so. Parched, but unwilling to stop for water. Hand on gun. If someone had heard the crash, he could be lying in wait.

  Emptiness.

  I reached the hedge that screened the house and pool.

  A hissing sound.

  Snake!

  I drew the .45, tensing—and then saw droplets clinging to the plants and realized the hiss came from an automatic sprinkler system.

  Come on, McCone—after what you’ve just been through, an encounter with a rattler is nothing.

  I slipped up to the hedge. The spray from the sprinklers felt cool on my face and bare arms. I moved through the prickly branches till I could see the house.

  Patio on the other side of the pool, furniture covered. French doors, with blinds closed. Other windows, also covered from within.

  No one here, but that was what I’d hoped for. I needed to get inside and call for help, so I might as well carry through with my original purpose.

  Where was the garage? Not on this side. Try the other.