he’s got to have a double-prop, maybe a jet, and I don’t see any around here. Head for—whoa! There! Pull over, pull over.”
She was scrambling out of her door before he turned the engine off. In front of the next hangar, past the tie- down area and ready to roll onto runway 1, was a Piper Cheyenne II, twin turboprop, six seats—the biggest plane she had seen so far. A skinny young man in greasy overalls was rolling back a fuel hose. Whoever was in the plane was in a big hurry—finishing the refueling only minutes before getting the go-ahead. She could hear Russ behind her, yelling, “Millers Kill PD. Stop that plane!”
Clare skidded to a halt in front of the fuel attendant’s tubing spool. “Who owns this?” she said. He gawped at them. “Who owns this turboprop?” she demanded.
“Uh…uh…”
She snatched an order pad from the front pocket of his overalls.
“Hey!”
“Is this the order?” she asked, pointing to the top sheet.
“Yeah, but—”
She had already read the owner’s name beneath the grimy fingerprints. She waved the pad at Russ. “It says BWI!”
She heard the engine turn over, the plane purr to life. Russ flashed his badge at the fuel attendant. “Police! There’s a murder suspect on board that plane! Go tell whoever’s in charge to shut it down!”
The kid’s eyes bulged out of his bony face. He turned and fled toward the tower.
Russ sprinted the rest of the way to the plane and banged on the tail. “Stop! Stop!”
She caught at Russ’s arm and dragged him away. “You idiot! If that plane turns, those props will slice you into julienned fries! Don’t ever, ever get next to a plane with its props running!”
“There’s no way the tower can stop him if he wants to take off, can it?”
She shook her head.
“Then I have to do it.” He ran wide around the Cheyenne’s wing, drawing his gun. The plane slowly pivoted toward the runway. She saw the flaps moving as the pilot adjusted them before running up his engines.
Russ skidded to a halt a dozen feet from the Cheyenne’s nose. He leveled his gun toward the cockpit. The self- sacrificing stupidity of it took her breath away. She didn’t think one bullet, or even a full clip, would ground that plane, unless he could hit the pilot. And she knew he would never shoot Opperman just to stop Peggy Landry from escaping.
The plane’s twin engines whined and it began to roll forward. Evidently, whoever was inside had realized the same thing Clare had. The plane changed its angle slightly, so that instead of the nose facing Russ, it was the right wing prop. Russ jogged sideways until he was dead-on the nose again, but this was a duel he couldn’t win.
Stop the plane, stop the plane—Possibilities flipped through her mind as the Cheyenne rolled forward and Russ backed away ahead of it. He was shouting something about being under arrest, but she couldn’t pay attention to his words as she cast about for something, anything to—Then she spotted the wheel chocks. Long wooden and rubber triangles, each hanging from a length of rope, flight equipment unchanged since Orville and Wilbur Wright flew at Kitty Hawk. There were two pairs resting next to an empty tie-down cleat on the tarmac.
She grabbed three by their rope handles and sprinted toward the back of the plane. She ducked low and scurried under the right wing. The plane was moving at a brisk pace now, and the trick was going to be to get the chock in front of the wheel without walking straight into the propeller, which was whirring five feet in front of her. She twirled the handle and tossed one, wishing fervently that she had spent more time playing horseshoes with her brothers. The chock hit the tarmac, bounced, and came to rest at a slant.
The right wheel hit it. The whole plane trembled. There was a pause; then the engines revved louder. The pilot was going to push it. And with only one wheel blocked, and that at an angle, he would be able to roll over the chock within a minute.
“What the hell are you doing?” Russ yelled.
The Cheyenne was pivoting again, this time against the obstruction. She had maybe ten seconds left before it was free—nine—she threw herself on the tarmac and rolled under the tail—eight—staggered to her feet and ducked under the left wing—seven—took the second wheel chock and jammed it under the left wheel.
The plane seemed to hiccup. Its engines screamed in complaint as the pilot revved them higher. She could see the chock in front of the right wheel skid as the plane’s tire ground it out of the way. Her eyes went to the nose wheel—small, unpowered, there to hold up the plane on an even triangle of support. She stooped under the belly and ran, crouching so low, her knees were hitting her nose. The props roared, each less than two feet from her head. If the wheel got over the chock, the plane would turn and Russ would have to ship her home to her parents in Baggies. She flung herself on her belly and thrust the last chock beneath the nose wheel. Then she scrambled to her hands and knees, crawled forward a couple of yards, and lurched to her feet, well away from the spinning propellers.
For a moment, she could hear the voice of her survival school instructor.
Russ grabbed her arm and hauled her behind him. “Now, who’s the idiot?” he hissed.
“It worked,” she said. She stepped away from him so she could see the cockpit windows. The height and tilt of them made it impossible to make out any details about who was sitting there, but she knew he—or they—could see her. She gestured, using the universal language of flight crews: Three. Wheels. Stop.
Nothing. She and Russ stood there in front of the immobilized plane while the engines roared fruitlessly on. She had just enough time to wonder if the cockpit’s side windows were sealed, or if they could open, and if so, whether someone would stick a gun out and start firing at them.
“Maybe we should—”
