Okay, back toward my selected landing place. I spoke into the radio’s microphone. “Tufa Tower traffic, Reptile. Anything?”
“Negative, Reptile.”
Midway between the ranch compound and the jagged, rocky ridge, something strange caught my eye. I glanced forward at the engine cowling. Nothing. Maybe I’d glimpsed a black bird narrowly missing the plane.
A few seconds later I saw it again: a smoky curl drifting from the edge of the cowling. The paint there looked bubbled. Suddenly bright orange flames flickered upward.
Fuel-fed, not oil-fed-had to be from the color of those flames.
Panic made my limbs rigid, fused my gaze to the flames. I’d been in a serious emergency situation once before, but long ago-
Time telescoped as fear turned to rage. My life was back on track: I’d made my decisions and was set to enjoy the future. And now maybe I was going to die because Amos Hinsdale hadn’t properly maintained his crappy airplane.
Stubborn determination gripped me as I looked at the instrument panel. I was
My hands moved mechanically through the actions I’d practiced many times in simulated situations.
My altitude and airspeed were not enough to crest the ridge ahead to level ground or return to the airstrip. And that ridge was the worst possible place to try to land.
“Okay,” I said aloud, “I don’t care about saving the plane. What I need to do is keep the cockpit-and me-intact. Screw the wings, tail section, and landing gear.”
The terrain was treacherous, but I could use it to my advantage. Rock was an energy-absorbing medium; even the scrub pines would help stop the plane once it was down.
But what if the plane exploded on impact? I’d never see Hy again. Never see the other people I loved, never-
I was almost to the ridge now, its black, glassy rocks seeming to jump up at me.
There was a stand of scrub pines near the ridgetop. Perfect. The right wing would hit them, slow the plane before it hit rock.
Jarring impact. A shearing sound. Metal screaming. The plane slewed violently to the left.
My seat belt tore loose and I slammed against the door, then forward onto the yoke. Pain shot through my chest, but I clung to the yoke as if it were a life preserver, my eyes squeezed shut, steeled for the
The plane dropped downward, its landing gear crushed. Then, with a sound like a great sigh, it settled. Stones rattled, metal groaned, the windshield rained down.
The silence that followed was almost as deafening as the crash.
I raised my head and looked around. The right wing was gone, the plane’s nose buried into the ground, facing downhill. But the cockpit and I were intact.
The voice in my mind sounded like Hy’s. As if he’d been there all along, urging me on.
I grabbed my backpack from the passenger seat and pushed through the half-sprung door. Tumbled to the ground, pushed myself up, and took off running and skidding down the ridge.
At its bottom I looked back at the twisted wreckage of the Cessna. The elevators on the tail section had also been sheared off, the tail itself bent. The slope above it was littered with metal. There was still no fire or explosion, but I wasn’t going to wait around for either. As I moved away, I took out my phone: no reception.
Behind me I heard popping and crackling sounds. Then a loud bang. In a few seconds the wreckage was engulfed in flames.
Quickly I turned away. I’d walk to the ranch house and ask for help, playing out my cover scenario for real.
I set out for the ranch compound. In spite of the cold, the sun beat down and soon I began to sweat inside my heavy parka. I unzipped it and went on.
The pain in my chest was becoming more bearable, but every now and then a sudden, vicious stab would make me stop and catch my breath. I wondered if I had a cracked rib or pelvic bone.
The hiking boots weren’t ones I frequently wore. My toes and heels began to chafe against them. I promised myself a pedicure when I got back to the city.
As I approached the compound, my backpack tugged uncomfortably at my shoulders. I stopped, took it off, and removed Hy’s.45 to reduce the load. Time to have the gun at hand, anyway. I stuck it in the waistband of my jeans, had a drink of bottled water, put the pack back on, and kept going.
When I got to a small stand of Jeffrey pines, I dropped down onto my knees and took out the binoculars. Surveyed the bleak land that stretched in front of me, the cluster of simulated adobe buildings with red tile roofs. No motion, no life.
The sun was glaring down now. Sweat oozed along my rib cage. I shed the parka and left it on the ground. Began to creep along-alert for the presence of other slithering creatures. After all, Rattlesnake Ranch had been aptly named. This was the predators’ natural habitat.
House, hangar, and outbuildings clearly in sight now. Drained swimming pool showing through a long, tall hedge of hardy-looking evergreens. I picked up the pace.
Halfway there I paused to raise the binoculars. Empty landscape.
Last hundred yards or so. Parched, but unwilling to stop for water. Hand on gun. If someone had heard the crash, he could be lying in wait.
Emptiness.
I reached the hedge that screened the house and pool.
A hissing sound.
I drew the.45, tensing-and then saw droplets clinging to the plants and realized the hiss came from an automatic sprinkler system.
I slipped up to the hedge. The spray from the sprinklers felt cool on my face and bare arms. I moved through the prickly branches till I could see the house.
Patio on the other side of the pool, furniture covered. French doors, with blinds closed. Other windows, also covered from within.
No one here, but that was what I’d hoped for. I needed to get inside and call for help, so I might as well carry through with my original purpose.
Where was the garage? Not on this side. Try the other.
I followed the line of the shrubbery. More covered windows. Other small patios. A garden, mostly turned earth
