A Wild and Lonely Place Read online

  “I don’t like that; it’s exactly what Maynard would expect us to do.”

  “Well, we could try Houston or even Dallas-Fort Worth, but it’ll slow us down.”

  I considered. By now Dawud Hamid was in San Francisco. His arrival there could set in motion events that would further endanger the Azadis—to say nothing of Joslyn. I needed to get to the Bay Area quickly, but I also needed to insure Habiba’s safety. The little girl had to be my first priority.

  “Let’s go to Dallas,” I said.

  Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport, 2:21 P.M.

  Hy went to the phone to inquire about flights to San Francisco, and I settled Habiba’s sleeping form on the backseat of the Beechcraft before taking the shopping bag full of more practical clothing to the restroom in the general aviation terminal. The little girl stirred and threw out her arm; her fist was clenched tight. I held it for a moment, uncurling her fingers, then gently laid it on her chest.

  It was hot here in Texas, but without the oppressive tropical humidity I’d endured the past five days. For a moment I stood on the tarmac, looking across the flat landscape at the distant towers of the metropolis. Then I asked the lineman to keep an eye out and not let anyone near the plane, and walked toward the terminal.

  Hy leaned on a counter, receiver to his ear, his back toward me. At a machine I bought a cup of what I call cardboard coffee and carried it to the restroom. The jeans and purple Tee that Edie had provided me fit on the loose side; the long gaudy skirt and flimsy blouse went in the trash can. I washed my face, then went looking for Hy.

  He stood next to the Beechcraft, chatting with the lineman while he refueled it. His color was still too high, but he looked better than he had that morning. When I came up, he shook his head to my offer of a sip of coffee, said “Thanks, buddy,” to the lineman, and steered me toward the plane.

  I said, “No flights, huh?”

  “Oh sure, plenty of flights. No seats, though. We forgot one detail—it’s Memorial Day weekend.”

  “Damn!” I’d totally lost track of the date—the day, even. “You also tried flights to Oakland and San Jose?”

  “And L.A., San Diego, and Sacramento, as well as anything departing for Houston, San Antone, Austin, Wichita Falls, and Amarilio. Nada. You could go standby, but that’s not a good idea, in case Maynard’s got associates looking for you along the obvious routes.”

  I slumped against the plane, tired and discouraged. “So what now?”

  “We push on to Phoenix. Maybe we’ll get lucky there.”

  Sky Harbor Airport, Phoenix, Arizona, 7:48 P.M.

  Habiba was awake but still silent when we arrived in Phoenix. I took her to the bathroom while Hy went to ask about commercial flights. My attempt to wash some of the accumulated grime from her face left her muddy-complected and passively miserable, so I gave up on it and bought her a Coke and some Doritos for consolation. She consumed them hungrily, but without pleasure.

  Hy came over to where we sat and shook his head.

  “Terrific,” I muttered.

  Habiba looked up anxiously, trying to read our expressions.

  “Look, Ripinsky, why don’t you take Habiba outside and show her the planes in the tie-downs? I think I saw a Citabria there. In the meantime, I’m going to make a phone call.”

  He held out his hand. “Come on, copilot.”

  Surprisingly, she responded, “You called me sailor before.”

  “That was in Florida. When there, we sail; when in Arizona, we fly.”

  She took his hand and they left the terminal.

  I went to a pay phone and placed a call to Mick’s cellular unit. When he’d bought it I’d thought it a waste of money; now it was a lifeline. He answered on the first ring. Simultaneously we asked, “Where are you?”

  “Phoenix,” I told him.

  “Russian Hill,” he said. “Hamid’s holed up in a building on Francisco near Leaven worth. Condo belongs to—”

  “Alejandro Ronquillo. Hamid went straight there from the airport?”

  “After a couple of phone calls, yeah. Came out once, bought a bottle at a corner store, and hasn’t shown since.”

  I considered, then thought of Ronquillo’s housekeeper and dug in the hideous shell-encrusted bag for my notebook. “Take this down, please: Blanca Diaz. She works for Ronquillo. Here’s the number there.” I read it off to him. “Call her and tell her you’re my assistant and Ricky Savage’s son—”

  “What’s Dad got to do with this?”

  “She’s a fan, the one you asked him to send the autograph and tape to, remember? Ask her what’s happening with Hamid; I’m sure she’ll be willing to tell you whatever she knows.”

  “Will do. Anything else?”

  “Not now. I’ll be in touch.” Hy was approaching, minus Habiba. I hung up and went to meet him. “Where is she?”

  “In the plane. She closed up on me again, said she was tired.”

  “Poor kid. She’s really been put through it these last few days. Ripinsky, what should we do?”

  “Take the Beechcraft all the way to the Bay Area.”

  “Flying time?”

  “Probably four hours or more.”

  “That seems long.”

  He hesitated, his expression guarded. “I didn’t want to mention it before, but the starboard engine’s been acting up. Nothing we can’t live with, but we’ll want to baby it some. And I’m feverish again; I need you to pilot. Feel up to it?”

  I glanced out the window at the gathering desert shadows, then shrugged. “I feel up to anything that’ll get us home soon.”

  6,500 feet above the Mojave Desert, 11:48 P.M.

  “Ripinsky?”

  No response. He slouched in the seat beside me, eyes closed.

  “Ripinsky!” I put my hand on his knee and shook it.

  “Unh?” He jerked his head up, blinking.

  “I’m losing power in the starboard engine. And listen to that.”

  He cocked his head to the side.

  “You hear it?” I asked. “It sounds like a car that’s leaking exhaust.”

  “Yeah, I hear it.” He leaned over, checked the fuel-pressure gauge. “Well, there’s no blockage or pump failure.”

  “I know. What is it, then?”

  “Maybe a leaking cylinder head gasket. Where’re we?”

  “About fifty miles southeast of Barstow.”

  “Shit. Let me take over, study on this.”

  I relinquished the controls gladly. When I glanced into the backseat I saw Habiba curled into a little ball under a blanket. Her face was covered and she lay very still; I couldn’t tell if she was asleep or awake and listening.

  Hy said, “Yeah, got to be a leaking gasket, or maybe just a stuck valve.”

  “Can we make Barstow?”

  “I don’t want to chance it. I know a little airstrip not far from here. Not much of one, but the guy who runs it is a mechanic, lives at the field, and stocks parts. We’ll put down there.”

  I looked out at the black and seemingly limitless expanse of the Mojave. How the hell was he going to find the airstrip in that untamed land?

  “Relax, McCone,” he said. “I’ve found smaller strips in far worse places.”

  How had he known what I was thinking? How did he always know?

  Mirage Wells Airport, 12:10 A.M.

  The tiny airstrip was eerily deserted, a hot gritty wind blowing from the Granite Mountains to the north. As Hy ran toward the Quonset hut by the side of the field, I stood next to the Beechcraft, breathing air that had a faint chemical tang and trying to locate the source of a ghostly whine and clacking that came from beyond the glowing landing lights.

  Large shapes hulked over there. I moved toward them, saw tidy rows of jetliners, some two dozen, with heavy protective material secured with tape over their windows and engine housings. As I went closer I made out faded insignia on their tail sections: Pan Am, Midway, Eastern.

  Ghost planes of dead airlines?


  The clacking was louder now. I slipped under the belly of a 747 and looked up at its wings. The protective material had blown off its engines and their turbine blades rotated in the wind; its once-sleek body was sand-scoured and pitted. How long had it sat grounded here in this strange imitation of flight?

  Soft footsteps behind me. Hy.

  “Why’re these here?” I asked, surprised to hear a faint tremor in my voice.

  “Storage. The Mojave’s an airplane graveyard. Climate prevents corrosion, and space at little airports is cheap.”

  “What’ll happen to them?”

  He shrugged. “They might be returned to service if the airline industry ever picks up. More likely they’ll be sold for scrap.”

  I looked at the derelict craft; scrap was all they were good for now. The wind from the barren Granites shifted and set the turbines to spinning faster. In spite of its heat I felt chilled.

  “You talk to the mechanic?” I asked Hy.

  “Place is locked up tight. He’s probably gone off for the Memorial Day weekend.”

  My spirits dipped further. How much more of this grinding disappointment could we take before we wore down? “Can you call somebody else?”

  “I wouldn’t know who, and besides, the receiver’s been ripped off the pay phone. If I had the right tools and parts I could fix the engine myself, but as it is…”

  “You know,” I said, “maybe it’s time to call on RKI. Get on the radio to Barstow, ask them to phone Renshaw and have him send the company jet.”

  He considered, then shook his head. “Bad idea.”

  “Why?”

  “I know Gage. He may operate on the edge of the law, but one thing he’s not going to leave himself open to is a charge of accessory to kidnaping. He’d insist on turning Habiba over to her grandmother as soon as we got to the Bay Area.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with that?”

  “Think, McCone. The Azadis are still a target. Dawud’s in San Francisco. For all you know, he’s contacted his mother and convinced her Habiba should go back to Jumbie Cay with him. We hand the kid over, we just might be at square one again. It’s your case, your call, but—”

  “No, you’re right.” I looked speculatively at the Quonset hut.

  Hy’s eyes followed my line of sight. We began walking toward it.

  “These huts,” I said, jiggling the door latch, “are not put together too sturdily. You suppose he’s got an alarm system on it?”

  “Out here?” Hy laughed.

  “I wish I had my lock picks.”

  “You want one of my credit cards?”

  “The Visa method of entry isn’t as easy as they make it look on TV.” I gave up on the door, walked along the length of the building to its rear, where there was a small window. When I tested it, it slid up without protest.

  I looked over my shoulder and grinned. “The forgetfulness of the human animal is a wondrous thing. You want to climb in, or shall I?”

  “I don’t think I’m up to it. You go, and let me in at the front.”

  “Feeling bad again?”

  “Like shit.”

  “Are you going to be able to work on the engine?”

  He shook his head. “I’m gonna supervise. You, McCone, are about to get your first course in aircraft mechanics.”

  3:48 A.M.

  I closed the access panel to the engine and wiped my oily hands on a rag. Hy made a circle with his thumb and forefinger and grinned weakly at me, his face drawn and flushed in the light from the heavy-duty torch he held.

  He said, “Bet you didn’t think you’d replace a cylinder head gasket before this trip was over.”

  “I guess it shows you can do anything, if you have to.” I started gathering up the tools. “I’ll put these back and leave some money on the desk in there. Then we can get going.”

  “Uh-uh. My fever’s raging; I can’t pilot her. And you don’t want to be mountain flying in the dark; you haven’t logged enough hours for that. It’ll be getting light by five, five-thirty, time enough to start out.”

  “Why don’t you try to get some rest, then? Take the couch in the Quonset.”

  “I think I will, if I can totter in there.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “That bad.”

  “Lean on me.” I walked with him to the hut, got him settled on the couch, and went back for the tools, torchlight, and extension cord. By the time I replaced them, he was out.

  I went over to the old wooden desk that nestled in the curve of the far wall and set some twenties on top of the papers and parts manuals strewn there. Then I sat down in the creaky swivel chair and reached for the phone. It was an ancient black rotary dial model, and it took a long time to get an operator on the line. When my credit-card call went through to Mick’s cellular unit, it rang and rang with no answer.

  I felt a flutter of alarm, but the lack of an answer didn’t have to mean anything. Mick probably fell asleep on stakeout.

  So why didn’t the phone wake him?

  Maybe he was away from the unit.

  No, he’d have taken it with him.

  Well, I couldn’t do a damn thing about the situation now, and worrying wasn’t going to help matters. I pushed away from the desk and went over to Hy, felt his forehead. It was excessively warm and he didn’t stir when I touched him. More unconscious than asleep—and that was something else to fret about.

  Finally I left the Quonset and checked on Habiba. She was sleeping deeply on the backseat of the Beechcraft, once again curled into a fetal position. For a while I sat up front listening to her soft breathing. Then I climbed down to the tarmac and sat there.

  The wind from the Granites was still strong but cooler now; the sky had begun to lighten toward the east. I’d wait an hour, then call Flight Service’s 800 number for a weather briefing. Half an hour later I’d awaken Hy and we’d be on our way.

  For now, though, I was content to sit here and listen to the plaint of the ghost planes.

  6,500 Feet Above The Tehachapi Mountains

  May 28, 6:27 A.M.

  The vast arid waste of the Mojave was behind us now, but the deathlike loneliness of the tiny airfield and the shroud of white smog drifting from the chemical plants at Trona had left nightmare traces in my mind. Below sprawled the Tehachapis, their wrinkled, jagged peaks thrusting aggressively. They seemed to telegraph a warning: we can claim you.

  I pulled my gaze from them before my imagination could cloud my judgment, looked instead at the last ridgeline separating us from the Central Valley and an easy flight home. Piece of cake, as Hy would say. Only Hy wasn’t saying anything just now—hadn’t for some time.

  Anxiously I glanced into the Beechcraft’s rear seat, where he’d crawled after I’d awakened him with difficulty at Mirage Wells. He was slumped against the side—unconscious again, and maybe better off, since the chills had passed and the fever raged again. The little girl sat rigid beside him, silent as she’d been the whole grueling journey. Her dark hair was matted, her face begrimed; her eyes had a bottomless quality that said she’d seen too much in too few years. I wished Hy were able to hug and reassure her, but for the moment my smile and the words “Not long now” would have to do.

  She didn’t respond.

  Well, who could blame her? After we were on the ground, I’d hug and reassure her. And get badly needed medical help for Hy.

  I checked the instruments, looked back at the ridgeline. The morning sun was turning its striated brown rock to gold. Some of my tension was draining away, but the grit of the desert was still on my skin, overlaying the clamminess of the tropics. I made myself feel it so I wouldn’t become careless.

  So much could go wrong yet. Could go wrong at any moment, as events of the past days had proved—

  The impact felt like slamming into a concrete wall.

  My stomach lurched and I felt a surge of panic. I scanned the instruments as the plane shuddered. The VSI showed we were descending fast: fifteen hundred feet per m
inute, sixteen hundred…When I looked up the ridgeline tilted crazily, then leaped to the top of the windscreen. All I could see was a fractured stone cliff face.

  Downdraft—bad one.

  Extreme clear air turbulence here, and why the hell hadn’t Flight Service warned me? Not that I’d’ve had any choice but to brave it.…

  I glanced into the rear seat again. Hy was still unconscious; no help from that quarter. The child’s eyes were wide, her face drained of color. Afraid I’d betray my panic if I spoke, I tried instead for a reassuring smile, but it didn’t come off.

  Okay, I thought, you know what to do. You’ve watched Hy deal with downdrafts a hundred times or more. Stay calm and change course. Get away from that ridge, turn toward lower ground.

  I turned. Another draft slammed us. For a minute the Beechcraft shuddered so violently that I imagined its wings being torn off.

  Two thousand feet per minute now and still falling!

  Sweat coated my forehead and palms. I gripped the controls, struggling for focus.

  “Mountain flying course,” I said. “Mountain flying— what did they teach me?”

  My mind refused to function.

  Oh God, not this! We’ve come too far, through too much.

  Twenty-three hundred.

  This can’t be happening! I can’t die this way.

  Twenty-five hundred.

  Jagged brown peaks below. Sunny gold cliff ahead. The last things I’ll ever see.

  Sunlight, you idiot! Mountains facing into the sun create updrafts. Get closer to them, not farther away.

  Find an updraft, and you can use this machine as a glider. Find one, and you’ll clear that ridge.

  I began to test the controls, banking toward the cliff.

  For God’s sake, McCone, find an updraft!

  Twenty-four

  6:29 A.M.

  As the starboard wing dipped lower and the fractured stone cliff loomed closer, I shut down the part of me that felt until all that remained was a cold focus. I was in command once more, hands gentle and precise on the controls.