Tail Spin

didn’t know she was coming, he wouldn’t worry. She said, “I don’t think there’s anything more either of us can do except make it to Parlow and get some help.”

“Have you been here before?”

For the barest instant, her face froze before she said, “No, I haven’t.”

He studied her through a haze of pain, watching her hair curtain her face as she looked down, that braid cupping her cheek, then slowly nodded. “It’s okay, I haven’t, either.” He wasn’t stupid, he’d seen the shock of panic in her eyes, heard the lie, and wasn’t that strange? Who cared if she’d been in a little town in Kentucky? He ran his fingers through his dark hair, making it stand on end. “Parlow’s bound to have medical facilities, an ambulance.”

“Seems likely,” she said, and the way she said it—too studied— another lie.

Parlow would have a police chief or a sheriff, Jack thought. He really didn’t want to involve local law enforcement, but given his and Timothy’s current condition, he doubted he’d have a choice.

Walking beside the two-lane road was slow going. Jack was a big man and she had to take a lot of his weight to keep him upright and moving. After twenty steps, Rachael, now panting, said, “Stop a moment.” She leaned him against an oak tree beside the road. “This rest stop is as much for me as it is for you. Okay, okay, we don’t have much farther to go, we can do it.”

“Sorry, I forgot, what’s your name again?”

“Rachael—ah, well, last names aren’t really important, are they?”

His cop antennae flashed red again even though the Devil was pounding nails into his head. At least his leg was hurting a bit less so his brain could function a bit more. He wanted to ask her who she was and what she was afraid of, but he said, “I guess that would depend on why you don’t want to tell me. Do you think I’m going to hit on you and you don’t want me to follow you home?”

Hit on her? Her? “I guess your head injury is making you blind.”

“Oh no, a man is never blind when it comes to a woman. Well, unless he’s dead.”

She laughed, shook her head at him, pushed her hair behind her ear. The braid fell forward to dangle alongside her cheek again. He’d have told her it was sexy, if he’d had the strength. She said, “I saved your bacon— drop it. Well, to be honest here, you saved your own bacon, but then you dropped it and I picked it up. I figure you owe me.”

“Yes, ma’am, I surely do. I wonder if Parlow has a hospital.”

“Oh no—well, who knows? There’s probably a community hospital not far from here. We’ll see, won’t we?”

Got you on that one, kiddo.

“Ihope you’re not dangerous,” she said, looking straight ahead, her shoulders and back hurting now from supporting so much of his weight. She looked up to see an amused look on his face. “If you weren’t leaning on me, like a drunk, you would look dangerous with your face all black like a night-ops soldier.”

“Nah,” he said, swallowing down bile and wishing he could simply fall over into those nice soft-looking bushes on the side of the road. No, he had to get help for Timothy, but the dragging pain was pulling him under. Concussion, he knew, remembering too well getting his brains knocked stupid in a college football game. Not pleasant, but he’d get through it.

She said, “Hey, I see a house. We’re nearly there, Jack. Hold on. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me your last name?”

“Nope. Can you help me another fifty yards?”

She was panting hard. “Sure, I was on the high school wrestling team.”

He laughed, the pain in his head flashed hard and hot, and he thought he’d bite the big one right there.

They finally reached the small white house she recognized very well. Two goats eyed them with little interest as they shuffled up the weed-choked drive She remembered dogs, mongrels, a good half dozen, lazing in the sun. Jack said, “Thank the good Lord, I see phone lines.”

Rachael wanted to tell him not to hold his breath, that in her childhood Mr. Gurt had been known for not paying his bills until his creditors camped on his doorstep.

There’s no way Mr. Gurt will recognize me and blurt out my name, none at all. Trouble is, dammit, I’ve never been a good liar, and from Jack’s reaction, I must really suck at it. I’ve got myself back on track, I’ve got to try to sound honest and straightforward, I’ve got to think before I simply bleat out everything. I can do this, I’ve got to, no choice. If it gets back to them somehow that I’m alive, that I’ve been seen, they’ll come after me again.

Rachael didn’t think there was much likelihood of this happening, but they had such power, so many resources, she was afraid to take the chance. No, she would remain dead until she was ready to take them on. Well, first she had to make sure it was Quincy and Laurel, then she’d get them. As for right now, she was safe. You couldn’t get safer than dead. Showtime.

Her knock was answered by Mr. Gurt, now a very old man indeed. He was still wearing ancient blue jeans tucked into scuffed army boots. The same ones? He stood in the open doorway and squinted at them out of suspicious old eyes that didn’t have a hint of recognition. Thank you, God, thank you, God.

But how could he not recognize her when he looked exactly the same to her, down to the sour look on his seamed old face? She looked into those rheumy eyes and realized he had no clue who she was.

“Yeah? What do you two want?”

Seems pretty obvious to me, you old coot, she thought, but since Jack was hanging on by a thread, she pushed her hair back from her face and said, “We’ve had an accident. Could we use your phone? We left our friend unconscious in the car. He’s hurt pretty bad.”

“What’d your husband do, missus, drink too much and drive you off the road?”

“Actually, he fell out of the sky at my feet. Please, sir?” Mr. Gurt huffed, waved them in. Well, this was something. As a kid, she’d been in his house only once, with her mother, to bring Mr. Gurt Christmas cookies.

They stepped into deep shadows and smelled oatmeal and vanilla. She heard a dragging sound that had her heart galloping until she saw a very fat pug trotting toward them, his leash clamped in his mouth, the leather strap dragging along the floor.

“Don’t get yourself in a dither, Marigold, and don’t piddle on the floor. Let’s get the folks on the phone, then I’ll take you out.” He led them into a living room where the smell of fresh lemon wafted in the air. Every surface was covered with old-fashioned lace doilies and antimacassars, yellow with age. He said, “Marigold hates the outdoors, weirdest thing I’ve ever seen. Just doing her business makes her nervous so I gotta be with her. Even Oswald and Ruby scare her.”

“Oswald and Ruby?” Rachael asked.

“Two goats chewing on God-knows-what in the front yard. There’s the phone. I paid the bill no more than six weeks ago so the buggers can’t have turned it off yet. I threatened to get me one of them newfangled cellular phones, but the gal at the phone company laughed, said there might not be a signal here until the middle of the century, aeons after I’m croaked. Don’t do no long distance, all right? Marigold, hold your water, I’m coming.”

Jack took the phone out of her hand. “I’m sorry, but this is priority.” He dialed Savich’s cell.

“Savich here.”

“Savich, it’s Jack.”

There was a brief pause. “Jack, let me say it is very good to hear your voice. You okay?”

“A little banged up, but I’ll live.”

“Dr. MacLean?”

“He’s unconscious, smacked his head good when he fell. He’s got a gash on his chest and I think a couple of broken ribs. We had to leave him in the backseat of Rachael’s car. We’re in Parlow, Kentucky, close to the Virginia border.”

“Who’s Rachael?”

“She watched me bring the plane in, helped me get it together.” He looked over at her as he spoke. She was twisting the skinny braid.

“All right. It turns out Parlow is where we’re heading, that was where they marked your mayday.”

“That’s a helicopter rotor I hear. Where are you?”

“We left Quantico fifteen minutes ago. It’ll take us a couple of hours to get to you. Bobby’s heading to a private airfield owned by a Judge Hardesty just off Route 72, close to Parlow. There’ll be a car waiting for us there