most were too busy to notice. Owen posted himself by a side door while Opari and I slipped inside. Immediately, we were disoriented. The hangar had been partitioned into three separate areas, divided by immense curtains of sailcloth, which were billowing and moving back and forth in the cavernous space. There seemed to be only three planes inside, but it was difficult to tell. We walked around the first curtain and I caught a glimpse of brilliant red just beyond the second curtain. “That’s her biplane,” I said.
We walked toward it. I could hear the big engine roaring. The other two planes were silent with no one in them or working on them. The second curtain swelled and waved from the force of the propeller’s blades. Opari and I slowly rounded the curtain and in a split second we were both reaching for our Stones. Ten feet from the red biplane, Geaxi’s pilot lay on the hangar floor facedown. He was either dead or knocked out. Beyond him, only five feet from the powerful propeller, two men had Geaxi wrapped inside a carpet, making it impossible for her to reach for her Stone or move anything but her head. They were holding her up and level, walking her toward the propeller, head first. The men wore dark suits and looked to be Maori tribesmen. They were both over six feet tall and heavily tattooed on their faces.
Geaxi either felt us or saw us the moment we saw her. She turned her head in the carpet and smiled. “Good timing, young Zezen!” she screamed.
The two men stopped and turned to look, but before either of us could use the Stone or say the words, two other men appeared from around the curtain behind us. One of the men, tall and skinny with the face of a boy, yelled out, “Look here now! What’s going on? What do you think you’re doing with that boy? Put him down or I’ll find the police!”
The two Maori glanced at each other, then without a word between them, put Geaxi down and walked away. They were not in a hurry and they were not frightened. They were professional killers and their plans had simply changed.
Opari ran to help Geaxi out of the rolled-up carpet. The two men and I followed and the shorter one climbed up the fuselage and jumped into the cockpit, shutting down the engine at once. As Geaxi got to her feet, the taller man asked, “Are you all right, kid?”
“Yes, I think so,” Geaxi said, glancing at me.
“Do you want me to get the police?”
“No, no, that is unnecessary,” Geaxi said firmly. She found her beret on the floor and quickly brushed it clean and placed it on her head.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Is Cooper alive?”
The other man checked on the pilot, who was regaining consciousness and groaning. “He’s going to have a hell of a headache for a while, but he should be fine,” the man said.
Geaxi looked up at the tall man. “I owe you one, Slim.”
“That’s all right, kid. Who were those fellows, anyway?”
“I have no clue,” Geaxi replied, then stared at Opari and me. “Perhaps my cousins know,” she said. “I will ask them.”
The tall man scratched his head and said, “Well, if you want me to get some help, I will, otherwise Bud and I will take Cooper to get some first aid.”
“Thank you again, Slim.”
“Anytime, kid. By the way, Bud and I came back here to tell you the ballet pose was something else.” He turned to me as he was leaving. “Your cousin is something else, isn’t he?”
“That’s for sure,” I said. “He is something else.”
After the two men escorted the groggy pilot away, I asked Geaxi who they were. She said the shorter man was Bud Gurney, a friend who had entered the parachute spot landing contest. The tall, skinny, boyish-looking one was his pilot. Geaxi said everyone called him “Slim,” but his real name was Charles Lindbergh.
“Are you unhurt, Geaxi?” Opari asked.
“Yes, of course,” Geaxi said and paused, looking into Opari’s eyes. “You saw the faces of the Maori?”
“Yes.”
“I know of only one tribe who tattoo their faces with such a pattern—the
Opari nodded in agreement.
“And there is only one who employs this tribe—the Fleurdu-Mal.”
“No, there is another, Geaxi, though I am now certain she believes she is the Fleur-du-Mal.”
Geaxi looked puzzled. “I do not understand. Who is trying to kill me, and why?”
I interrupted. “The same one who murdered Unai and Usoa. It was not the Fleur-du-Mal. It was Ray Ytuarte’s sister, Zuriaa.”
Geaxi seemed unfamiliar with the name Zuriaa.
“She is also known as the ‘Pearl,’” Opari said.
“Ahhh,” Geaxi sighed, recognizing the name. “The Fleurdu-Mal’s rejected apprentice, no?”
“Yes, and mine in some ways, I am ashamed to say. Her mind has broken. We are all in danger.”
“But I never saw or felt anyone else in the hangar,” Geaxi said. “The two Maori were by themselves.”
“Yes, and this is…
“Two birds with one Stone,” I said suddenly, not even realizing I said it out loud.
“You are not making sense, Zianno,” Geaxi said.
“Opari?” I asked. “Could Zuriaa have always known of the Fleur-du-Mal’s obsession with the ‘Prophesy’ and with Star?”
“Yes, it is possible. She was his shadow for many years.”
“If Zuriaa’s mind has…fractured, and part of her, or all of her, truly believes she is the Fleur-du-Mal, then that part would be in St. Louis for one reason—to kill Caine and determine his fate! That’s why she is not in the hangar!”
I spun on my heels and sprinted for the corner of the giant sailcloth curtain, pulled it back, and ran through the hangar, under the wings of the second biplane, then around the second curtain and back to the side door where Owen was waiting outside talking to a promoter. Opari and Geaxi were right behind, not even breathing hard. I waved for Owen to follow. We raced through mechanics and tools and ladders, taking a shortcut back to where Carolina and Sunny Jim and the others sat with Caine. The sun was low in the sky and I had to shield my eyes to find them. Finally, fifty yards away, I could see them through the maze of people and planes. We ducked under the wing of the last plane. They were sitting in a circle and they had a blanket spread between the folding chairs. Ciela was reaching in her basket, handing out pieces of chicken to everyone. They seemed to be moving in slow motion. Caine sat in Carolina’s lap and Sunny Jim sat next to them. He was showing Caine how to pound the pocket of Mama’s glove. He held Caine’s hands in his, guiding him. Then, in an instant, Ray leaped up in front of Caine. He screamed a name I had never heard before. He screamed, “Ikerne! Ikerne!” I looked to where Ray was looking and saw a paradox. Standing ten feet away with legs spread, facing Carolina and Caine, was the Fleur-du-Mal, except I knew it was not the Fleur-du-Mal. It was Zuriaa. She looked and dressed exactly like him, down to ruby earrings and ponytail with green ribbon. She had a stainless-steel throwing knife in one hand and her arm was cocked and ready to release. But she was frozen, mesmerized, staring at Caine and not blinking. Ray’s voice held her and the name he uttered had kept her from throwing.
“Zuriaa!” Opari yelled out. “Put the knife down! Now!”
Opari’s voice woke her. She blinked violently and gasped for air, then turned and stared at Opari. They locked eyes and I saw the vicious and fierce hatred in Zuriaa come alive. Her green eyes flamed with psychotic rage. Ray took a tentative step forward. She backed up instinctively, without looking at him, still focusing on Opari. Her throwing arm never moved or dropped. She took one more step back, then pivoted suddenly to find her target. She let the knife fly and it zipped past Ray’s head, directly toward Caine’s chest. In the same instant, Sunny Jim raised Caine’s hand and caught the knife in the webbing of Mama’s glove, six inches from Caine’s heart. A great catch from a good first baseman.
Just then the entire crowd around Lambert Field exploded with applause and a tremendous roaring cheer. Someone had made a perfect parachute spot landing in the center ring. Zuriaa yelled a phrase or a curse in Chinese, then turned and vanished, a blur of green and black and red.
