much damage but the cars must have tangled up in that drain-off ditch and it would be a foul-mouthed crowd there.
He began to work out ways to get the wire off his wrists.
— 16 -
At one time the Cubans had used the field for training; now it was wild with weeds. The ocean threw a redolent breeze across the flats, roughing up the trees. The shadows seemed to be inhabited by the ghosts of short brown guerrillas with obsolete weapons and quixotic ambitions.
Kendig had paid one hundred dollars cash for the gas-burning 1955 Buick; he left it parked on its bald tires in the trees with the key in the ignition-somebody would boost it within a week and joyride it until it died or ran out of gas and that would destroy the evidence for him. He carried his big suitcase to the verge of the overgrown strip and sat down with his back against the bole of a palm. The sun was two hours up, very bright in a pale ocean sky. He listened to the cry of the gulls.
The plane approached on the wind, preceded by its sound; he watched it descend, wingtips teetering in the uncertain air currents above the mild surf. It made a half-circle inland and made its final approach into the wind, nosing down over the trees and settling gingerly on its tricycle gear at a very low stalling speed-evidently out of respect for the tangled weeds on the surface. She kept the tail down after touchdown and rolled forward on two wheels, nose in the air; twice the tailskid bounced. She used up a good deal of runway before the speed was down sufficiently to make the U-turn and taxi back toward him. Kendig picked up his suitcase.
She cut the port engine and opened the door. He climbed onto the step and passed the suitcase inside, stepped onto the root of the wing and ducked to enter the cabin.
The sun was behind him; he saw her Modigliani face twinned in the mirror of the opposite window. She wore Levi’s and a denim jacket over a blouse that looked like yellow satin. He pushed the suitcase across one of the rear seats and moved forward to settle into the right-hand seat beside her-the copilot’s position.
“Where’s my other passenger?”
“Been a change in plan. I’m flying out alone.”
“The price is the same.”
“Naturally.”
She said, “You picked a hell of a field. I hope we don’t snag something.”
He only smiled and she fixed the door shut behind her; then she pushed the starter switch to mesh the port engine. The props ran up and there was too much noise for talk; she pointed toward his lap and he fastened the safety belt.
It was a bumpy ride but nothing grabbed the wheels; she had them airborne a quarter mile short of the beach. The sun hit them square in the eyes. Kendig said, “Turn around now. Make your course two-sixty-five magnetic.”
“What?”
“We’re going to Mexico.”
“I think you’re a little crazy, you know?” The plane came out of its bank; the sun was behind them now. They were still in a steady climb but they had airspeed now and the wind took the engine noise with it; she could talk without shouting. “I filed for Saint Thomas. If I don’t show up they’ll organize a search.”
“Call Miami control. Tell them your charter passenger changed his mind. Request clearance for Corpus Christi. And remember you’re still on the flight plan to Saint Thomas right now-give them a position report a couple of hours east of here. That’ll add a couple of hours to your ETA. You’ll have time to drop me in Mexico and get into Corpus Christi on schedule.”
She gave him a sudden smile. “Hey that’s pretty good.”
Then he opened his pocketknife.
Her face whitened.
“It gets you off the hook,” he said. “The man held a knife on you.”
“That’s hijacking.”
“No,” he said. “It’s my charter. A man can’t hijack his own plane. But you’ll be making an illegal entry into Mexico and this covers you for that.” He folded the knife and put it back in his pocket.
He took the oval compact from the same pocket. “You left this in my car.”
“I know.”
He remembered the cats, the O’Keeffe painting, the bed. But there was reserve between them now, they were talking like strangers-as if they ought to be calling each other Mr. Murdison and Mrs. Fleming.
“What happened to your lady friend?”
“There never was one.”
“Then Mexico was the destination all the time?”
“That’s right.”
“What did you do? Hold up a bank? What’s in that suitcase?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I’ve never driven a getaway car before,” she said. “It’s sort of fun.”
She was good. They were just north of the Tropic of Cancer and they crossed a patch of turbulent air; she didn’t buck it, she rode with it. Her fingers never whitened on the half-wheel. She made the corrections without hurry or tension; when they were through it they were cruising at nine thousand feet with a patchwork of fluffy clouds beneath them, sectors of choppy sea visible through the holes. She had the twin engines nicely in synch and there wasn’t much vibration; it was a well-cared-for plane. Kendig said, “Mind if I steer for a while?”
“Help self.” Then after a while she said, “You’re not bad. You don’t clench up when she pockets.”
“I took flying lessons for a while. Though I wanted to do air races.”
“What happened?”
“I found out my talents were pretty rudimentary. I didn’t stick it out-didn’t take the license.” He locked the autopilot in. “How’d you get the money to buy it?”
“My ex settled a lump sum on me in lieu of alimony. That was the down payment. People like you are buying the rest of it for me.”
“It does something for you, being up here. Doesn’t it.”
“That’s why I’m up here.” She looked at peace, “Van wasn’t a bad guy. But we got into a triangle-Van, me and the hausfrau he wanted me to be. I’m not a fanatic libber, you know. But I’m nobody’s ornament. I like to fly. I mean I really like it. It’s my life.”
“You’re not a Southerner. Why do you live in Alabama?”
“Flying weather. I don’t like winter. I worked charters around the islands for a year but it was too chancy-I’ve got to keep up the payments on the albatross here. It had to be an industrial city, that’s where the business charters are. I don’t like Houston at all. Atlanta’s too self-conscious and I just can’t stand California plastic. They’re hypocrites and bastards in Birmingham but I’m sort of tuned into them-they don’t disappoint me. What about you? You don’t really live in Topeka.”
“No.”
“You don’t volunteer much about yourself.”
“People may ask you questions about me.”
“So the less I know the better off you are, is that it?”
“Yes.”
She said, “I don’t believe that’s all there is to it, Jim. Is that your name? Jim?”
“It’ll do.”
“You really don’t want anybody digging into you, do you. Not even yourself.” She had a blinding smile when she chose to use it. “You’re a lovely man, you know that? The night I took you home-I don’t do that with just anybody. You’ve got something rare. I don’t know exactly what it is-you seem to be alive, that’s what it amounts to.”
She couldn’t know how much it pleased him to hear that.
