The Choking Rain (The Adventures of Captain Swashbuckle Book 1), page 20
"Oh my goodness! I almost forgot! I have to speak to Chief Willoughby right away!"
"What for?" the Professor demanded, and even Damien was moved to speech.
"I think he's a little busy at the moment, Kate. Don't you think it could wait a little while?"
At another time, that tone would have earned him a blistering retort, but right now she was too worked up to care.
"Oh no, I have to talk to him now! I know who the mastermind is behind this whole thing!"
It didn't take long to determine that the only men left in the house no longer cared who found them. Ted followed the riot squad throughout, at length kneeling down beside the man who had died on the second floor landing. He shook his head.
"I wonder what happened to this one?" he muttered to a cop standing over him, riot gun at the ready. "Kate wasn't carrying a gun, so who shot him?" He looked up at his brother officer, but found no answers. Further musings were interrupted by a shout from down the hall.
"Hey, we got a live one!"
Jones lay where Kate had left him. He was still unconscious, but stirring, his breath coming in rasps. One of the cops leaned out the window to call for an ambulance. Ted followed him to the window where the boards had been torn down and looked outside. The story was plain.
"This is where the girl was kept prisoner," he told the others. "She must have hit him when she escaped."
One of the cops chuckled. "That little piece of fluff did this ? This guy's practically sittin' in with the heavenly choir."
"Don't kid yourself. She could do that to me, if she wanted to."
They waited in silence for the ambulance until the all-clear was reported. It turned out there had been a rat-hole in the rear of the building, and the rats had cleared out.
"We were in Willoughby's office when the call came in about Ted's car being found," the Professor explained. "Then I heard somebody outside the office making a phone call, but I couldn't hear what he was saying." He stopped to grin in self-congratulation. "I used to eavesdrop on the other team's signals in the huddle, when the breeze was right. So I figured if I couldn't hear what the guy was saying, he didn't want to be heard. That made me suspicious, and when I told Willoughby, he put two and two together and we got down here in a hurry. With the cavalry."
"You don't know who made the call?"
Chief Willoughby shook his head. "No, Miss Reinhold. But both Kane and I have harbored suspicions for some time that somebody in the department was working both sides of the street. I didn't know it was somebody in this squad," he finished bitterly. They were in his office: Ted, Kate, the Professor, Damien. The door was closed.
"Chief," Ted interjected, "I think it's time we find out just what Kate has to tell us."
"Agreed. But remember this: Whatever is said here goes no further. I've never done this before; I've never involved civilians in an investigation. But this is a special case. I can't even trust my own department. And whatever I think of your methods--and I don't need to tell you--you have succeeded in shaking up this gang, whoever they are. That's more than I've accomplished."
Kate began with Jones's appearance at the O'Donnell house, and briefed them on everything that had happened since. Ted took lengthy notes, but let her tell the story in her own way. The few attempts by the Professor to interrupt were waved off. As usual, Damien said nothing.
When she reached the part about Krausen, Willoughby leaned forward eagerly. The soft scratching of Ted's pencil grew more frenzied, but he never asked her to so much as slow down. When she told them about Jones's visit, the Professor stirred uncomfortably in his chair. Willoughby, after he heard how Kate handled herself, never looked at her quite the same way again.
"…I knew I had to get out right then, so I went to the window. I thought perhaps I could climb outside and reach the fire escape from the ledge. That's when I saw Ted. I screamed, and when I turned around another one of Krausen's men was opening the door. I knocked him down and ran down the hall. By the time I reached the stairway, I heard two more coming up the stairs and tried to hide in one of the rooms. That's when I saw them."
During the narrative, Willoughby had poured coffee. Kate paused to take a sip, perhaps unconsciously, for effect. It was the first time she had stopped since she began.
"I opened the first door I saw, hoping the room would be empty, but it wasn't. There were two men inside. They were as surprised as I was; we all froze for a second. That's when I heard the voice come through the ventilator duct. It was Krausen. I wouldn't have known him, except for his accent. He said: 'I understand. But first we must execute our plan against the ambassador.' Then the other men reached the landing and that seemed to break the spell. I turned to run, and one of the men I had seen inside the room took a shot at me. It missed me, and hit one of the men coming up the stairs." Ted nodded to himself as he wrote. "I ran down the stairs, and that's when Ted came in and found me.
"I didn't recognize the man who shot at me, but the other man in the room was Leslie Bryant Overton."
The scene at the Grand Central Air Terminal resembled ants swarming over an ice cream cone. Reporters' cars formed a solid line from Airway Boulevard to the hangar, hoping to get a quote from the mayor before his flight to the state capitol in Sacramento. Unfortunately for them, an equally solid line of cops blocked them at the hangar door.
"Aw, come on, flatfoot," one of the scribes whined. "All we want is a couple of shots of Hizzoner steppin' on the plane."
"Nothin' doin'. Nobody goes near that plane except the mechanics and the crew." And that seemed to be the end of it.
Inside the hangar, the mechanics were just leaving the plane. The mayor and the chief of police stood at the foot of the steps, waiting to enter. The pilot and co-pilot were already on board.
One of the mechanics stopped for a moment as he stepped to the ground, wiping his greasy hands on a rag. He glanced uneasily back at the plane.
"She's in fine shape, Mr. Mayor, but I still don't like the idea of you flying out of town. Shouldn't you take a bodyguard or something with you?"
The chief shifted uncomfortably, causing the mayor to smile.
"I've got a bodyguard right here, son," he assured the mechanic. "I don't need anybody else to handle these mobsters." He flashed another election-winning grin. "But thanks anyway." He shook the grease monkey's hand and climbed into the plane. The chief followed. They found seats, and a few moments later they heard the door shut behind them. As they left the hangar and began to taxi to the runway, the co-pilot stuck his head through the door leading to the cockpit.
"Evening, Your Honor…Chief. Sorry we couldn't arrange for a stewardess, but we'll have you in Sacramento in a couple of hours." With a wink and a nod, he disappeared back to his job.
Very quickly they were airborne. Normal airport traffic had been halted for this special flight. They flew up through the clouds, wet and black with rain, but even when they broke into the open there was no relief from the deepening twilight. There was nothing to look at out the windows; the lights on the ground were blocked by the cloud layer.
His Honor leaned back in his seat, hands in his lap, thinking about his report to the governor. The chief thought uneasily about that same report, and how it might affect his own job. His eyes roamed the cramped cabin, seeking some distraction.
"Hey, they left us some coffee." Gratefully he reached down and picked up a steel thermos and two chipped mugs. "No-frills flying," he grunted, but poured coffee for the mayor and himself with a sigh of satisfaction. The mayor took it without comment, lost in his planning. Whatever was in the coffee, they never tasted it.
Two mugs fell from nerveless hands at almost the same moment, rolling off their laps and collecting new chips as they hit the floor.
The plane hit some turbulence, bouncing wildly like a roller coaster without a track. The passengers didn't notice, but the pilot and co-pilot experienced a few bad minutes. When it was over, the co-pilot tried to open the door to the cabin. It wouldn't budge.
"Hey, it's stuck."
"Probably from the turbulence," the pilot advised. "This is an old plane. Shake a little. It'll come loose."
The co-pilot threw a worried look back over his shoulder and indicated the passenger cabin. "What about our friends in there?"
The pilot shrugged. "They ain't goin' nowhere."
After a few anxious moments of jiggling the door, it came loose.
"I got it."
"Told ya," muttered the pilot under his breath. "Idiot."
The mayor and the chief of police were snoring softly in their seats. The co-pilot picked up the half-empty coffee jug and weighed it in his hands reflectively. After a moment he turned back to the cockpit, then hesitated again.
"Uh, Jerry?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you think it'd be okay if we used the coffee?"
Jerry turned halfway in his seat with an incredulous look on his face.
"What're you--nuts? There's enough dope in that coffee to--"
"No, no, I mean would it be okay to use that coffee instead of water? You know--on them?" He finished with a sheepish backward jab of his thumb.
"Wally, you didn't--you forgot the canteen, didn't you?"
Wally nodded. "Yeah."
"Damn it, Wally! You know what the Kraut'll do to us if he finds out you blew it?"
"I told ya, Jerry, I can use the coffee--!" Wally whined. "Don't ya think?"
Jerry shook his head in disgust and turned back to his job. "Go ahead."
Wally turned back to his work, sweating a little. Jerry wasn't kidding about what would happen it they blew this job. He approached the chief, sitting in the aisle seat, and opened the jug. Just then the plane bounced again and he was barely able to hold his hand over the mouth of the container and keep the hot coffee inside. As it was he burned his hand and yelped.
"What's the matter now?" called Jerry.
"I burned my hand! The plane bouncin' almost made me drop the jug!"
"Pour some coffee into a mug," Jerry advised after a few moments. "That way if you spill it, you won't lose it all."
"That's good," Wally agreed. "It'll be easier to pour it on them that way, too. I don't want to make too much of a mess. It wouldn't look right."
"Now you're thinking."
In a moment he had a few ounces of coffee in the bottom of one of the mugs. He leaned over, bracing himself against more turbulence, and spilled it carefully on the chief. Then he settled back expectantly.
"Jerry…"
"What?"
"It ain't working."
"What? Oh, hell!"
"I guess coffee don't work the same. What're we gonna do?"
Jerry was silent for several minutes while the airplane droned northward.
"Okay, here's what we're gonna do," he called back finally. "First, you're gonna stay right there in case one of 'em wakes up. If he does, hit him."
"But we're not supposed to touch them," Wally protested.
"Don't worry, it ain't gonna matter. We're gonna fly out over the ocean and dump their bodies. Then we're gonna land this bird in some farmer's field out by Modesto. Then we're gonna disappear, too. They'll never figure it out!"
The trip out toward the ocean was accomplished without further conversation until Jerry decided it was time to lug the bodies to the door.
Wally did as he was told and returned forward for instructions. "When do you want me to dump 'em? I'm afraid they're gonna start waking up."
"Might as well be now. We're a couple of miles past the shoreline and we're gettin' further out all the time."
"Gee," Wally marveled, "I ain't never killed a mayor before. Nor a chief of police, neither."
Jerry felt the plane rock as his partner opened the door. He toyed with the idea of tilting suddenly, maybe ridding himself of all three liabilities at once, but he shrugged. Wally wasn't so bad. Not bright, but not bad. And he oughta be done by now…
As if on cue, he heard a sudden scream from the rear of the plane, which was just as suddenly cut off. Looking out his window, Jerry could see a flailing body falling further and further behind as it sped to its deadly rendezvous with the black water below. As it was lost to sight, he turned back to the controls.
"I guess Wally was right," he murmured. "One of 'em was waking up."
25. The Ghost Ship
Jerry felt the plane shift again as Wally closed the hatch, and he felt his own shoulders go loose.
"Geez, I'm glad that's over," he breathed to himself. He'd not have told Wally, but killing the mayor and the police chief hadn't really sat well with him either. Now they had to take it on the lam--the heat from this job was going to make San Bernardino in the summertime look like a day at Santa Monica pier. Krausen had said something about a trip south, but even Mexico wasn't going to be safe after this one. Maybe… Brazil?
"Hey, Wally, whattaya think of headin' down to Rio for a while after we get our dough?" He chuckled. "We're gonna need a nice long vacation."
A soft click sounded near his right ear, and he felt a cold, round spot appear on his neck. The laughter died in his throat.
"The only place you're going is back to L.A.," an unfamiliar voice whispered from very close behind him. "Start banking south."
A stab of sweat trickled down Jerry's scalp and made an end run around the barrel of the gun touching his neck. Fast as he perspired, his thoughts ran faster still. He licked suddenly dry lips and followed orders.
"Look, uh, Chief." His voice stumbled as he made a stab at the identity of his unseen captor. "Chief, we can work this out. Now, you've got the drop on me, but I--I can fly this bird, ya know? And that gives me an advantage, I figure."
"You figure wrong," advised the voice.
"Oh, I don't know about that, Chief. Maybe you can fly, maybe you flew in the war or somethin', but this is a whole lot different. And it's nighttime now. This ain't no picnic at night." Jerry waited. He wanted to rub away some of the sweat from the back of his neck but he couldn't. The tension had returned to his shoulders. "And we've been havin' some terrible turbulence, you know. You ever flown a bird like this through turbulence?"
The gun pressed a little deeper into his flesh. "Don't even think of trying anything."
After that encouragement, Jerry didn't try anything but flying straight and level. The downdraft they hit was a real one.
Jerry rode with it, pushing the yoke forward and sending the plane into a power dive. The man with the gun crashed into the instrument panel, his head smacking the inside of the cockpit windshield, but he didn't let go of the gun.
Pulling back with all his strength on the yoke, Jerry brought the plane level again. The other man fell back past him, but with both hands controlling the plane Jerry couldn't make a grab for the revolver. As soon as they were level, he locked the wheel and surged out of his chair.
The man lay against the open doorway, shaking his head. Jerry couldn't see the gun; it must have been knocked from his hand. There was no time to look for it. Jerry leaped forward without a second thought.
Sensing the shifting of the plane, the man moved aside just enough to keep his head from being slammed into the wall. They both spilled out into the passenger aisle. Jerry grunted as they hit the floor.
The aisle was cramped; there was almost no room to move. They rolled from side to side, bouncing off the seats, never changing places. Jerry couldn't get any leverage for a knock-out blow, and the other man was some kind of wrestler, grabbing and twisting his limbs painfully. He had more arms than an octopus, and absorbed the constant punishment like a sponge.
Jerry got his hand under the other's chin and used his leverage to gain his feet. Without looking back, he half-leaped, half-stumbled toward the cockpit. If he could lock himself in, he could buy some time.
He saw the gun!
It lay at his feet. It must have fallen under something, then slid out again when the plane shifted. He grabbed it blindly, twisting to bring it to bear.
Suddenly he stopped, finger on the trigger.
"Hold it!" he cried wildly, bracing himself in the doorway with his free hand. It was the first opportunity he'd had to get a good look at his opponent. "Hey--who are you?"
It wasn't the police chief or the mayor--and it sure as hell wasn't Wally. He was the kind of man you'd lose in a empty room, nondescript brown hair, regular features, average height and build. His shoulders, as he slowly stood and caught his breath, were stooped and round. Only his eyes stood out--bright and alert, flicking about searching for an advantage, or even a chance. Jerry gulped. He had seen eyes like those before--on the faces of men he was working with, the kind who did it for the enjoyment, not the money. Even when they were on your side, you never turned your back.
The man, dressed in mechanic's coveralls, was breathing easily now. Still, he said nothing.
"What'd you do with Wally?" He got no answer, which was all the answer he needed. He raised the gun. "Well, then, you can just go find him." He squeezed the trigger.
The airplane bucked violently again, climbing against its will in the grip of an updraft. The shot went wild and the other fought his way uphill before Jerry could get off another. They crashed to the floor again--to the sound of a second shot. Both bodies jerked as one.
A moment later, one stood: Jerry remained behind. His killer scrambled to pull himself into the still-rising cockpit and into the pilot's chair.
He pushed lightly on the wheel to steady the plane while he got his breath back. "Let's see now," he murmured. "How do you fly one of these things…?"
Juan Jose Maria Sepulveda's junker had been old when his father bought it almost ten years ago. It rattled like the earth when she was angry, and it made more noise than Juan's mamá when papá spent too long in the cantina . Perhaps that was why Juan did not hear the sky falling on Highway 99 outside of Bakersfield.
Or perhaps it was because Juan himself was coming home late from the cantina , and there were no other cars on the road, which was fortunate for all, because when the sky fell and Juan ran his flivver into a ditch, he was able to pull it right back out again. Any respectable car would have been wrecked.
