Both Ends of the Night Page 22

  I said to the man behind the counter, “We’re hoping you can help us. A friend of ours, John Seabrook, was supposed to meet us down at Minneapolis, at Flying Cloud, yesterday. He was VFR, didn’t intend to file a flight plan since we were expecting him, but never arrived. He was coming to this area”—I spotted a poster on the wall and improvised—“to tour the Hockey Hall of Fame, then planned to rent one of your planes and fly around to visit friends. He would’ve rented somewhere in the neighborhood of November fourteenth.”

  “Seabrook… yeah, I remember him.” He reached for his rental log and paged through it. “It was the fifteenth. The blue-and-red Super Cub. Six-eight-three-seven-Lima. He called about it a couple of days before. A month’s rental; we took a big cash deposit and ran his Visa card through to be on the safe side. How come you didn’t notify Search and Rescue when he didn’t show?”

  “Uh, well… you see, John’s impulsive, and he’s got… an eye for the ladies. Doesn’t he, dear?”

  Hy stared at me as if I’d lost my mind; never in our time together had I addressed him in such a manner. After a beat he said, “Yes, he does—honey.”

  I suppressed a smile. “Did our friend actually plan on keeping the plane a month?”

  “He wasn’t sure, said he’d let us know.”

  “Did you ask where he was going?”

  “Of course. International Falls, Fargo, Pierre, Sioux City, Twin Cities—quite a tour.”

  Hy said to me, “You know something? I bet he’s at Judy’s.”

  Now it was my turn to stare.

  “You know—that woman from North Dakota he met last year in Jamaica.”

  “Oh, her.”

  To the man Hy said, “I’m not worried anymore, and you shouldn’t be concerned for your Super Cub. It’ll be returned in good condition—unfortunately for you, without too much chargeable time.” He added to me, “You know, I think we should rent a car, drive up there, and interrupt his tryst, to get even with John for inconveniencing us. What d’you say?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  He thanked the man, took my hand, and led me outside without giving me time to toss my empty cup in the trash basket.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “Well, we can’t rent a plane here. I’d have to show my logbook and I.D., give him a credit card. I don’t want that guy to be able to identify me as somebody who was asking after Seabrook. We don’t know what might’ve gone down when he caught up with Duncan Stirling.”

  Or what might go down if and when we caught up with him.

  “Good thinking,” I said. “Better not to rent a car here, either. I noticed that the Hockey Hall of Fame is nearby, in someplace called Eveleth; that means motels. Why don’t we grab a cab and find a place to hole up and make some phone calls?”

  I looked up from the sectional that I’d spread on the table of our room at the Holiday Inn on the outskirts of Eveleth. “He could’ve used either the Green Bay or Twin Cities chart if he planned to fly northeast, but Twin Cities is the one that works for both directions.”

  Hy stopped prowling around inspecting the room—an old habit born of too many years of dangerous living—and joined me.

  “Here’s Chisholm-Hibbing.” I jabbed at the magenta circle with my index finger. “Forty-six nautical miles is about this much.” I measured with my thumb and middle finger, then placed them on the chart at a course of approximately 190 degrees.

  “Nothing there,” Hy said.

  “I may be a bit off.”

  “You could be off by twenty degrees either way, and there still wouldn’t be anything there.”

  “Unless he planned to make an off-field landing. I doubt he would’ve concerned himself with whether they’re legal in the particular area or not.”

  “No more than I would. But I suspect he plotted his course to some recognizable landmark, and as you can see, there’s none there. Try the other direction.”

  I measured again. “Well, would you look at that: Arrowhead Airport, up near this prohibited area.”

  Hy scanned the sectional, then flipped it over and studied the explanatory material. “Superior National Forest, and the Boundary Waters Canoe Wilderness. Flight below four thousand feet is continuously prohibited.”

  “You know anything about that area?”

  “An old environmentalist like me? Sure. The Boundary Waters is over a million acres chockfull of rivers and lakes. It sits on top of a plain of rock called the Canadian Shield, tucked up against the border. It’s been a protected wilderness since 1930.”

  “Do people live there?”

  “You mean, could Dunc Stirling live there? No. I’ve only heard of two longtime settlers, and the Forest Service had to appoint them special assistants in order for them to stay on.”

  “Then we’re looking for someplace close to but outside the wilderness area.”

  “Right.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s after noon already. I better get started on locating us a plane to rent. Two-seater?”

  “I’m thinking four.”

  “McCone, you can’t really believe we’ll be bringing Ash Walker back with us.”

  I shrugged. “You never know. And then there’s Dunc Stirling.”

  Our eyes met and held. Then we both nodded. No, Stirling would not be coming back with us.

  Quickly Hy looked down at the sectional. “Okay, the nearest airport of any size is here in Eveleth. It’s bound to have an FBO.”

  I pulled the phone book from the nightstand and paged to the heading for aircraft rentals. “Iron Range Aviation,” I told him, and read off the number.

  While he called, I opened my travel bag and pulled out a knit hat, gloves, and down jacket. Then I removed the hardcover case containing my .38, which I’d declared at the Northwest ticket counter at SFO, and sat down to load it.

  Hy spoke for a minute, scribbled on a notepad, and hung up. “They’ve got a Cessna 172, but it’s rented and not due back until well after nightfall. I don’t mind flying up to Arrowhead at night, but we’ll need daylight to find Stirling’s place.”

  “So let’s fly up and spend the night there.”

  “I doubt there’re any motels; that’s pretty wild territory. And I definitely don’t want to sleep in a chair at the FBO—not after last night.”

  “Well, does Iron Range have any other four-seaters available?”

  “Not today. The guy gave me the number of the FBO at Orr Regional, though. That’s forty-some miles north of here; we could rent a car and drive there.” He dialed, listened, and hung up. “Orr’s closed, due to frost buckling the runway.”

  “Damn!” I consulted the sectional. “How about Ely? It’s about the same distance from here.”

  He went through Information, dialed the FBO at Ely, and spoke at length. “Nothing available that you’re checked out in.”

  “You’re going to pilot, so what does it matter if—”

  “I may need you to take over. As you recall, it’s happened before.”

  But that had been because he was ill—a situation in which he normally would have grounded himself, had not lives other than our own been at stake. In this case, if he was unable to pilot, it would mean—

  “I’m not anticipating anything, McCone,” he said gently.

  “The hell you aren’t!”

  My exclamation shocked him—shocked both of us. For a moment the only sounds were our mingled breathing and the whine of a vacuum cleaner on the floor above. Then he said, “I’ll call the guy at Iron Range, tell him we’ll take the 172 tomorrow.”

  “Wait—we can drive to Ely and you can check me out in whatever they do have.”

  “No, McCone. By the time we rented a car, drove there, made arrangements for the rental, and you got familiar with the plane, it’d be getting dark. We’ve already got this room, there’s a restaurant right here in the motel, and we’re both tired. Let’s have a relaxing evening and wake up fresh for whatever we find up north.”

  He was right, of course. �
��Okay, call Iron Range back,” I said, and began to unpack a few things while he dialed.

  When he finished his conversation, he came up behind me, put his hands on my shoulders, turned me so I faced him. “All set.”

  Our gazes locked again, open and steady, and I knew the half-truths and evasions of the past two weeks were ended. Hy and I had always possessed the uncanny ability to communicate without words, and often at great distances. Now, as we faced each other in this impersonal motel room far from home, I felt the connection more strongly than ever.

  McCone, you’re still with me.

  Yes, I am.

  Whatever happens, we’ll be in it together.

  “Yes,” I said, “we will.”

  He nodded, unsurprised, and pulled me close.

  Twenty

  You mind if I turn off the cabin heat for a while?” Hy asked. “It’s making me sleepy.”

  “Go ahead, no problem.” I continued staring out the side window of the 172.

  We were flying across an icebound lake that contained dozens of small islands. Bristling with snow-dusted pines and lean, long-limbed white birches, they resembled pieces of an unfinished jigsaw puzzle cast on a glass table. The ice reflected the gray of the sky.

  We’d gotten a late start, as the previous renter had squawked a problem with the Cessna’s radio that required immediate maintenance, and already it was after noon. Hy had requested both an outlook and a standard weather briefing from the local flight service station, and no adverse conditions were reported, although a cold front was moving in from the west. Still, the day had turned gloomy, threatening an early nightfall, and cold fronts are changeable and can move fast. I turned my head and studied the horizon on Hy’s side of the plane, noting stacked-up clouds that could be thunderstorms preceding the actual front.

  I said, “I don’t like this weather.”

  “Neither do I. Take a look at that sectional, would you? How far are we from Arrowhead?”

  “… We just passed over Island Lake, and I see a chain of little lakes to my right, so I’d say about seven miles southwest.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So what’re you planning to do?”

  “Pinpoint the airport, then check the lay of the land while I get an en route briefing. Weather’s changing too fast for my liking.”

  “And then?”

  “Depends on how things look, what Flight Watch tells us. No matter what, it makes sense to land at Arrowhead, chat up the folks there.”

  “You mean because Ash Walker may have stopped there or they may know of Dunc Stirling.”

  “Right. I’ve been thinking about Stirling: he used to fly up here in that Silver Whisper, and in that type of plane you wouldn’t want to attempt an off-airport landing. I’ll bet he flew into Arrowhead.”

  “Maybe. Tricky to talk with people who might know him; if we arouse their suspicions, they’ll alert him to us.”

  “One of us’ll think of a way to finesse it. That’s the least of our problems. There’s the airport; let’s see what’s around here.”

  Twenty minutes later I’d decided we had more chance of identifying one particular pine tree among the millions we’d flown over than we did of locating Dunc Stirling’s hideaway. The territory was vast and rugged, thickly forested and frosted in white. Small icebound lakes lay scattered in among the trees like broken pieces of slate. We spotted the occasional logging road, but nothing resembling an airstrip or even a good place for an off-field landing. The en route weather briefing Hy had requested from Flight Watch wasn’t reassuring, either; the cold front was moving faster.

  “You about ready to give up and turn back for Arrowhead?” I asked him.

  “Yeah. What’s the unicom there?”

  I consulted the sectional. “One twenty-two point eight.”

  He put the Cessna into a turn, rolled out, and started back along a different course than we’d come. We were flying low, only a few hundred feet above the treetops, and I continued scanning the terrain. A logged-off area stretched ahead of us, stumps protruding through a light snow cover; the prevailing winds had blown the narrow access road free of snow. My eyes followed it to where it disappeared into the forest—

  “Ripinsky, check this out.”

  He glanced at where I was pointing. “Something blue-and-red tucked under those pines.”

  We flew over, but whatever it was remained an indistinct splash of color. Hy put the plane into a gliding turn, and we descended lower. Now I made out the distinctive shape of a wing.

  “A plane,” I said. “Stirling’s place?”

  “Not unless he’s taken up logging.” Hy brought the Cessna around for a second look. “But it’s a plane, all right.”

  “Ash Walker’s, then. The guy at Aeroventure said it was blue-and-red.”

  “He didn’t crash into those trees; it’d be tangled among them, not in underneath. Probably he made a forced or deliberate landing on the road and pushed it under to conceal it.”

  “How’s it look for us landing there?”

  “Piece of cake.”

  Low-hanging branches draped over the Super Cub; so well did they conceal it that I might not have spotted it had the branches on the windward side not been pinned behind an upraised aileron. We approached cautiously, our weapons drawn. The woods were silent except for the soughing of the wind in the pines. Hy slipped around to the opposite side of the plane, and we both peered through its windows.

  Empty, although an open duffel bag sat on the seat—the large expandable blue duffel that Matty had described to me. Hy yanked the door open and examined it.

  “He must’ve put on layers of clothing,” he said. “There’s not much in here.”

  “Do you suppose this was a planned landing?”

  “Can’t tell. This is interesting, though.” He pointed to the place where the magnetic compass normally is; it had been removed. “He took it so he wouldn’t get lost.”

  Hy withdrew from the cockpit and checked the fuel tanks. “Nearly dry. He may have put down because he exhausted his fuel supply, or else he siphoned it into something and took it with him, in case he needed to make a fire. Is he a smoker?”

  “Matty wasn’t, and I don’t recall any tobacco odor in their house.”

  Hy continued examining the plane. “Uh-huh. The battery’s missing too. It can be used to ignite fuel if you don’t carry a lighter or matches. Man’s got good cold-climate survival skills.” He came over to me and rested his hand on the strut, frowning. “Okay, he lands, hides the plane, strikes off on foot. Question is, did he die in the woods or make it to Stirling’s?”

  “No way to find out till we know where Stirling is. Let’s fly over to Arrowhead and see if we can find that out.”

  Snow had been plowed into two-foot mounds along the runway and taxiway at the small airport. Even so, when I stepped down from the Cessna, my foot slid on a patch of ice and I had to grab the strut for support. The chill wind brought tears to my eyes as I looked around.

  Not much there—just a gas pump, hangar, and a double-wide trailer with smoke drifting from its venturi chimney. A few planes were tied near the hangar, including a derelict Cherokee missing its prop. Forest ringed the field on all sides, the tops of the trees silhouetted against the gloomy sky. Even the wind sock—once orange but now bleached to a drab brown—looked cold and disspirited.

  I helped Hy secure the Cessna, and then we hurried toward the trailer. Inside, it was cozy and smoky and warm—more of a home than an airport office. A heavyset woman sat in front of the woodstove reading a paperback; she held up a finger, finished a paragraph, and shut the book. “Help you?”

  “Hope so.” I began telling my story about our irresponsible friend John who had failed to meet us at Flying Cloud, ending—with the jolt of inspiration that Hy had earlier predicted—that we’d come to Arrowhead because John had planned to visit a friend in the area. They had, I added, a tendency to get into the bottle when together, which probably was why he hadn’
t called to say he wouldn’t be making his ETA down south.

  At that point Hy threw me the same cautionary glance that I give Rae when she starts to overelaborate.

  “What’s your friend look like?” the woman asked.

  “Big and brown-haired. He was flying a blue-and-red Super Cub, six-eight-three-seven-Lima.”

  “Oh, sure. He flew in a couple of weeks ago. Topped off the tanks and asked how to get to the hermit’s place, said he’d been there before but had forgotten the landmarks.”

  “The hermit?”

  “My name for him. My husband says that one of these days I’m gonna slip and call him that to his face, and then he’ll stop fueling here.” She laughed. “No way. The guy’s too caught up in his own world to notice.”

  “What’s his real name?”

  “J.D.”

  “No last name?”

  “Uh-uh. Even the occasional supplies he has flown in here from Ely come addressed like that.”

  Hy asked, “He owns a plane?”

  “Nice little Maule.”

  “How come you’ve never looked up its registration to find out his whole name?”

  The woman frowned. “Mister, you don’t understand. People like J.D., my husband, and me—we’re here for a reason. To get away from what goes on outside, to get away from so-called humanity. We don’t ask questions, and we don’t pry. The guy who used to run this place told us all about J.D. that we need to know.”

  Quickly I said, “We’re not prying, we’re worried about our friend. When he and J.D. get to drinking, there’s no telling what might happen. Believe me, we’ve heard horror stories.”

  “Well, yeah, J.D. does have a lot of guns. And drunks’re always wandering off in the snow and freezing to death. The hermit doesn’t strike me as the type to do anything foolish, though; he’s been a woods survivalist for at least ten years now. Guy who used to run this place told us J.D. used to come up from somewhere in the South, in a private jet, no less. Spent time on the land, building the cabin and clearing trees for his dirt strip. Then he came for good. Stays out there most of the time, except for the occasional trip into Ely. Hunts, fishes, lives off the land.”