of being picked up driving into town and he couldn’t fly, because he was sure the airport would be staked out.
There seemed to be no way for him to get to Tampico, without running the risk of getting caught and yet if he didn’t, J.P. would surely die. The killer had shown him, with daylight clarity, that he intended to continue tormenting him. And the killer had shown an amazing ability to ferret out his close friends and do away with them in a gruesome manner.
Evan and Sherry murdered in New York. Danny murdered on the river in Texas. Tom and his new wife, killed in broad daylight in Pasadena. Christina, Torry and Swell, vanished in the night. And if he didn’t do something, J.P. would be next.
He left the bathroom, picked up the shirt he’d worn the day before and as he was putting it on a thought hit him. He could fly to Tampico in Christina’s plane. It would be the last thing anybody would expect. But first he would have to get the keys. They were somewhere in her house and that meant he had to go back.
He did a few stretching exercises to get his blood moving and to calm his nerves. Then he went out into the day and headed toward her house. There were four police cars blocking the street, a crime lab van sitting in the front driveway and a crowd of gawking onlookers.
He joined the crowd, acting like another innocent bystander, and watched. After awhile two of the police cars left. Some of the crowd left. One of the remaining two police cars left. Two uniformed policemen draped a yellow banner across the front door bearing the words Police Line Do Not Cross. The last black and white left. More of the crowd left. The crime lab van stayed and Rick wandered away with the last of the crowd.
He felt so useless, with nowhere to turn, no one to turn to, no friend he could count on for help. He was truly alone, like he had never been before. Everybody he loved was either dead or gone and if he failed to get to Tampico in time, failed to find the boy once he got there, and failed to stop the killer, then J.P. would be dead, too. He didn’t know how he would or could save the boy, much less get to Tampico. It all seemed so impossible.
And even if he was able to get the keys to the plane, he still had to get to the airport. He damn sure couldn’t take a taxi. The last thing he needed was for an underpaid cabby to alert the police. He also couldn’t rent a car, for if he was worried that the police had given his description or possibly his photo to the city’s cabbies, then they also would have the rental companies covered, too.
And once he got to the airport, he had to fly the plane, something he hadn’t done in over ten years. And he not only had to fly it, he had to fly it over five hundred miles, at night. And even if he accomplished that, he still had to land. Ten years was a long time, and landing an airplane, even a small Cessna, required experience and perfect precision.
He thought of Ann and how she had always encouraged him to try the impossible. She was the one who had pushed him to branch out into CDs, to learn to fly, to learn off road racing, to race, to travel to the most dangerous parts of the world. He imagined hearing her clear voice.
“ Bury your doubts. The keys will be there. You will be able to fly the plane. You will get there in time. You will find J.P. and you will save him. Be positive, be strong, get mad, get even.”
Hot anger burrowed into the river of blood running through his veins. It was now, more than ever, clear to him that J.P. had seen a Bowie knife on the porch the day Ann died, and that meant that the man who had J.P. was somehow, someway responsible for Ann’s death. He had taken away the life of his love and Rick was going to make him pay.
He found himself wandering back toward Christina’s, where he saw that the crime lab van was still there, but he hadn’t really expected it to be gone. They would more than likely be there most of the day, he thought, and then he saw it, parked two houses away from Christina’s. A beautiful 1956 Chevy Nomad.
An idea began to form, but it would mean some shopping. He smiled to himself, despite his desperate situation, because it felt good taking action, acting instead of reacting. He walked up to Second Street, the trendy shopping area of Long Beach’s Belmont Shore District. McCain’s Records was just opening and Elliot’s Hardware next door already had customers inside and down the street was the small, but high priced Kornyphone Stereo Store next to Howdy’s Candies. He’d be able to get everything he needed in just a few blocks and satisfy his sweet tooth as well.
At McCain’s he bought Brainwashed, the George Harrison CD that came out shortly after his death. He bought a portable CD player to listen to it at Kornyphone’s and at Elliot’s he bought a claw hammer and a screwdriver. He decided to pass on the candy, instead buying a ham and cheese to go at the Toasted Deli and then he went back to the motel, where he ate his sandwich, then stretched out on the bed nearest the door and listened to the gentle Beatle till he fell asleep.
He didn’t wake till well after dark.
He approached Christina’s empty home with caution. It was a clear night. The neighborhood was quiet. The crime lab van was gone, but the yellow police warning tape was still pasted to the front door. He kept walking and turned the corner when he reached the end of the block. Less than a minute later he turned a second corner and approached the house from the alley behind.
When he came to her back gate, he ripped off the yellow banner, opened it and went into the backyard. He walked to the back door like he belonged. He stepped up to the porch, wrapped a wash cloth that he had lifted from the motel around the hammer’s head and, like he’d done it a thousand times before, he tapped the laundry room window, sending shattering glass inside to cover the washer and dryer.
With his arm in the window, he was able to reach the security latch that helped keep the back door locked. He had no problem with the double deadbolt, he simply used the key Christina had given him over five years ago.
He didn’t have to look long or hard for the keys. They were on a key hook next to the refrigerator. He pocketed the key ring, then left through the back door, going out the back gate.
He retraced his steps up the alley and around the block, till he was again in front of her house. He continued on, till he came to the ’56 Nomad, where he again brought the washcloth covered hammer into play, swinging it against the driver’s side windwing, sending shards of safety glass over the front seat as he had sent glass over the washer and dryer. And for the second time in a matter of minutes, his arm snaked in a window where it didn’t belong to unlock a door.
He swept the glass from the seat. Then he took the screwdriver out of his back pocket and reached under the dash, pushing the metal end of the screwdriver into the ignition, making a connection between the positive and negative posts. The car started just as they all did during fifth period lunch when he had been in high school. He would not have been able to hotwire any car made in the last thirty years, but in the good old days, when everybody left their doors unlocked, any kid with a screwdriver or the tin foil from a pack of cigarettes could start a car.
He drove back to the motel, where he retrieved Dark Dancer. He left the key on the television, hopped back into the car and settled back for the short ride to the airport, listening to oldies but goodies on a push button radio that was just about a half a century old.
Fifteen minutes later he was standing in front of the red Cessna he’d sold to Christina so long ago, during better days.
He unlocked the door and climbed in. He set the caged bird in the back seat, removed the control wheel lock, checked to make sure the ignition switch was off and turned the master switch on. He visually checked the flaps by flipping the flap switch, raising and lowering them. He tried to think of what to do next. Then the folly of what he was attempting hit him. His hands started shaking. He started to sweat. He studied the controls. Did he pull the carburetor heat out or leave it in? What was the frequency for ground control? It had been too long. He had no business flying. It was a stupid thing he was doing. There was no way he was going to get to the runway, much less take off.
He flipped the master switch off. He needed help and there was nowhere he could turn. Then he thought of the Flight Room. A cafe with a bar across the street from the airport. Pilots used to hang out there. He bet they still did.
“ Hang in there, Dancer,” he said. “I’ll be back.”
Ten minutes later he took a seat at the only empty table on the cafe side of the Flight Room. The bar was through a red curtain, past the restrooms at the back of the cafe. He’d have no use for anybody over there. Any pilot worth his salt wouldn’t fly tonight if he was already drinking.
“ Can I help you?” The voice had a musical lilt to it. He looked up as the waitress handed him the menu. The Flight Room had been in the same location, serving pilots as long as he could remember. It hadn’t changed. Even
