Taking the Fifth(79)

Glancy lapsed into gloomy silence. The only sound in the car was the grinding thumps and bumps as I eased my newly clumsy Porsche over the rough uneven terrain.

Suddenly I felt Glancy’s hand on my sleeve. “Look, over there.” He pointed off to the side of the runway, where a shadowy line of small planes sat outlined against a slightly lighter sky. “Is that him?”

I turned the car to the left, letting the headlights illuminate the row of planes. For a fraction of a second, the glare of the headlights caught the frozen figure of a man. His face was turned to us, his eyes squinting, blinded by the sudden light.

It was Wainwright, all right. He was in the act of lifting a heavy suitcase, ready to load it into the plane’s passenger seat. He paused for only an instant before he heaved the suitcase into the plane and ducked down to kick the restraining wooden chocks away from the plane’s wheels.

“He’s gonna make a break for it,” Glancy said. “Let me out.”

I stopped. Taking his gun from his pocket, Glancy flung open his door. The light came on in the car. I saw Glancy fall to the ground and roll into the tall, wet grass that lined the edge of the runway.

Feeling vulnerable and exposed, I ducked down and leaned across the car seat to pull the door shut behind him and turn off the damnable light. That action probably saved my life. If not my life, at least my eyes.

I was facedown on the seat when the splatter of bullets sliced through the windshield and thumped into the leather seats behind me. The overhead light went out when a bullet smashed into it.

“Jesus Christ! He’s got a machine gun!” I yelped, feeling sudden trickles of blood where flying glass had bitten into the side of my face and the tops of my hands.

B. W. Wainwright was playing for keeps, and he planned to kill anyone who got in his way.

“Are you all right?” Glancy was calling to me.

“I think so. Just cut up, that’s all.”

The plane’s engine turned over and it lurched out of line onto the runway. Behind us there were more headlights as Sergeant James pulled onto the field. And off to the east we could hear the wail of sirens as the patrol cars, alerted by James, let out all the stops, bringing reinforcements.

I sat up. Outside the car I caught sight of Glancy slithering forward on his belly, holding his gun, taking aim. He fired off one shot and then another, but they made no difference. The Tomahawk kept moving. It was on the runway now, taxiing away from us. Glancy got to his feet and started after it on foot, but there was no way he could close the distance.

Shoving the Porsche into gear, peering blindly through the shattered windshield and broken headlights, I started after them both, the moving plane and Roger Glancy. The Tomahawk bounded over the bumpy field like a fleet-footed deer while I struggled to catch up. It was a losing proposition.

Down the runway, I saw Sergeant James’s sedan make an attempt to cut Wainwright off, but that didn’t work either. In seconds the plane was airborne, wobbling slightly as it cleared the end of the field.

I bounded out of my car and stood watching in helpless frustration as the plane gained altitude. Glancy came puffing up to me.

“Damn,” he said over and over. “Damn, damn, damn!”

Sergeant James pulled up beside us. He was holding his radio’s microphone to his mouth, issuing orders, asking for help. It was the only thing to do.

“Where do you think he’s headed?” I asked.

Glancy shrugged, squinting to watch the plane’s blinking lights as they disappeared. “California, maybe. That’s where he’s from.”

James got out of his car and came over to me. “I’ve called for a state patrol plane,” he said. “And we’re trying to get a fix on him from the air-traffic controllers at the airport.” He paused. “Beau, you’re hurt. You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing,” I said. “Just some glass cuts, that’s all.”

He took me by the shoulders and turned me so I was facing into the headlights of one of the arriving patrol cars.

“Holy shit!” Glancy shouted, grabbing me by the arm and shaking me. “Take a look at that!”

I turned and looked in the direction he was pointing, the direction Wainwright’s plane had gone. A brilliant explosion was lighting up the top of Cougar Mountain like a giant candle.

“He must have hit something!” James exclaimed. “Let’s go. Leave your car here!”

I turned off the idling engine of the crippled Porsche and hustled into James’s Dodge. Glancy was already crammed into the backseat. James turned a credible wheely and bounced us across the field to the road with the two patrol cars right behind us.