Burn Out

Saturday

The morning air was crisp, the sky clear. The projected snowstorm had blown past in the night and was currently blanketing parts of Tuolomne County.

Amos Hinsdale arrived at the UNICOM shack as I was preflighting Two-Seven-Tango. “You leaving?” he asked, genuine disappointment in his voice.

“No, just going out to take a look around.”

“At that ranch, you mean.”

I hesitated. Could I trust him? Yes, I could: in Amos’ world there was a brotherhood of pilots, and last night he’d allowed me to join it.

“That’s my approximate destination.”

The lines around his eyes crinkled. “Be careful. You got plenty of fuel?”

“Yes. I filled up at Independence yesterday.”

“Stop in when you get back. I’ve still got a couple of Canada Drys on ice.”

“Will do.”

“And keep tuned to the UNICOM. If there’s any unannounced incoming traffic, I’ll contact you. Code word Reptile.”

We smiled at our little intrigue and shook hands before I climbed into the plane.

I turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed and then a warning light flickered. Electrical system failure. There was a backup battery, but I didn’t know how much charge was left on it; recalling the way the engine had sounded when I’d returned here after my overflight of Toiyabe, I realized I might have been flying on battery for some time. Would I have missed the warning light then and also on the flights to and from Independence? Doubtful, but lately I never knew…

Well, I couldn’t take Two-Seven-Tango up without a certified mechanic’s okay. And I was no mechanic; neither was Amos.

I removed the key from the ignition, got out, and said to Amos, “Which of those rental planes of yours is the better?”

It was a thirty-seven-year-old Cessna 150-the type of plane I’d trained on-with a banged-up exterior, ripped-up interior, and crazing-small fractures-on the windshield. It preflighted well, though, and started strongly. The gauges were all functioning, and no warning lights flashed. I gave Amos a thumbs-up sign and taxied toward the runway.

A thousand acres of ranch land is a lot of territory to explore, even from the air, but I’d devised a plan. First I checked the house and outbuildings, putting the plane into slow flight, scanning for signs of habitation. None visible. Then I flew over the long airstrip-well paved and equipped with all the bells and whistles of a small municipal airport, including a large hangar. The hangar’s doors were closed; a faded orange windsock at midfield drooped limply. Easy landing day, no strong crosswinds. But I wasn’t planning on using this runway.

I kept flying to the southeast, looking for a landing place that was far enough away from the house that I wouldn’t attract attention in case someone actually was in residence, but also within a reasonable hiking distance. A long ridge crossed the terrain, rough-surfaced and dotted with small obsidian outcroppings. On the other side of it I found a flat, open area that once must have been cattle graze. I could put down and take off easily there. It would be a fair hike to the house, but I was wearing sturdy boots and had bottled water in my backpack.

Bottled water, binoculars, and Hy’s.45.

I didn’t want to land just yet, though. Instead I headed back toward the airstrip and house, thinking a second slow overflight might scare up anybody who hadn’t been curious enough to come outside the first time.

No one.

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.

Engine fire!

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.

Focus. Do what you were trained to do.

Stubborn determination gripped me as I looked at the instrument panel. I was not going to die-not now, not like this. Emergency procedures from my old training manual flashed through my mind.

Forced landing, engine fire: Shut off the fuel supply. Keep the ignition switch on to clear the fuel lines. Lower the nose to maintain your airspeed.

My hands moved mechanically through the actions I’d practiced many times in simulated situations.

Now look for a place to bring this piece of shit down.

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. If I landed correctly, allowing only the outer parts of the Cessna to be mangled…

But what if the plane exploded on impact? I’d never see Hy again. Never see the other people I loved, never-

Focus, dammit!

Lower flaps. That increases mobility. Bank a little here, not too much. More right rudder. Lift the nose slightly. Now hold it level.

I was almost to the ridge now, its black, glassy rocks seeming to jump up at me.

Hold it level.

Slow it down.

Slower…

There was a stand of scrub pines near the ridgetop. Perfect. The right wing would hit them, slow the plane before it hit rock.

Brace yourself!

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 whoosh of igniting fuel.

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.

You did it, McCone. You brought it down.

The voice in my mind sounded like Hy’s. As if he’d been there all along, urging me on.

Exit and get clear of the aircraft promptly, in case of explosion.

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.

Exit and get clear of the aircraft promptly…

Yeah.

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.

Snake!

I drew the.45, tensing-and then saw droplets clinging to the plants and realized the hiss came from an automatic sprinkler system.

Come on, McCone-after what you’ve just been through, an encounter with a rattler is nothing.

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 and weeds, with a border of dried-out sunflowers. Finally a garage, large enough to hold at least three cars. There was a window in the rear, blocked by what looked to be cardboard.

The dead sunflower border of the garden provided shelter. I went to the garage window.

Cardboard, yes. A flattened carton with the words WOLF SUB-ZERO REFRIGERATOR printed on it. A box the appliance had been delivered in, not yet discarded. It didn’t quite fit the window; I peered through the crack to its side.

A wall of shelving. A gray SUV; I couldn’t make out what kind.

Chances were Hanover had a security system on the house. What would be the responding agency? The sheriff’s department? Not likely; they were too shorthanded to provide emergency services every time the system malfunctioned and set off the alarm, as sensitive ones are inclined to do. And none of the big outfits like ADT operated in this area; I knew because Hy and I had considered security for the ranch, then dismissed the idea. The ranch buildings hadn’t been subject to a break-in in all the time Hy had owned the property. If Hanover had any kind of security, it would probably be a loud alarm to repel intruders. Or a private patrol that came by once or twice a day.

Take a chance, McCone. If that boat trailer of Bud Smith’s is in this garage, you’ve got Hanover nailed.

Still, I hesitated, thinking of the damage I could do myself and the legal case against him if I was caught.

I felt around the window frame. Flimsy aluminum. Billionaires will spend a fortune on the most ridiculous things, such as toilets that wash and dry your butt, but when it comes to the basics, like a garage window…

I tugged at the frame. And the window slid open.

No clanging alarm. Nothing but silence.

I pushed the cardboard aside, peered into the garage.

Door leading into the house. The SUV I’d partially seen earlier-a Saab. Gardening supplies and tools. Hot-water heater and furnace.

And an empty boat trailer.

First piece of evidence.

I pushed the window open wider and climbed-wincing at the pain in my chest-into the garage.

First I looked around to see if there were any junction boxes to indicate I was wrong about a silent alarm. None, and the circuit breakers were all on and clearly labeled. I turned my attention to the trailer. The dusty license plate secured to it was Smith’s, all right.

Next I checked out the Saab. It too was dusty but nearly new, its interior clean and smelling of good leather. In the glove box I found a registration card in the name of Trevor Hanover. There was a trailer hitch, also nearly new, but with scratches that showed it had been used to tow something.

Gingerly I got down on my hands and knees and examined the tires. Well-defined tread. I ducked to look at the undercarriage. Pine needles caught there, similar to those in the grove where I’d found Smith’s Forester.

That was hard evidence.

It’s a little-known fact that, like humans, trees possess distinctive DNA. I’d once been involved in a murder case in the White Mountains, where a cone from one of the ancient pines that grow there was the star witness that ultimately convicted the killer.

Now for the house.

I tried the knob on the door leading to the interior. It turned smoothly and silently. Beyond was a large laundry room, with tile counters and top-of-the-line appliances. Through a connecting door I stepped into a kitchen that would have been the envy of any celebrity chef.

Another pain in my chest. I braced myself against a counter till it subsided. Even though the house’s interior was cool, I was sweating profusely. For a moment I felt disoriented, my sight blurring.

I’d covered a lot of terrain in bad shape. I was dehydrated and could have internal injuries.

There was a wall phone; I should pick up the receiver and call-

A sound came from somewhere deep in the house.

I shook my head, thinking I’d imagined it. The sound came again. I drew the gun, haltingly crossed the kitchen to a swinging door, and pushed it open. Beyond was a huge formal dining room. I stood in the doorway, steadying myself and listening.

The sound continued, a kind of faraway drone. And now I could identify it: someone talking-in spite of the deserted appearance of the house. Hanover? He could have flown in again, stashed the plane in the hangar.

I waited till my equilibrium returned. Then, gripping Hy’s.45, I went through the gloomy dining room full of heavy, antique furnishings that might have come from one of the state’s original land-grant haciendas, and paused at an archway on the far side. The voice had stopped.

Several seconds of silence. Then I heard a thump and a cry of frustration. It sounded as if it had come from the other side of the hallway I was facing.

I checked out the room opposite: a formal parlor, full of the usual uncomfortable furnishings and a grand piano. Empty.

The hallway was long and tiled, running from a large foyer by the front door, with many arches opening to either side; at its end, a wide staircase swept up to the second story.

I moved along the tiles, back against the wall, both hands steadying the weapon.

First archway: a den. Real he-man’s room, with stuffed animal heads, a TV that took up a whole wall, and a pool table. No one there.

Second archway: kids’ room. Toys, games, another big TV, jukebox-contemporary replica of those from the fifties-and comfortable furnishings.

Third archway: crafts room. Sewing machine, easel, paints. Canvases stacked against the wall. Supplies arranged in plastic storage boxes on shelving. The topmost painting was a good, though bleak, portrait of the surrounding high desert. It was signed “B. Hanover.” Betsy, the soon-to-be ex-wife.

I heard the voice again-subdued, more a mumbling now. Coming from behind the wide staircase. I glanced briefly into the rooms beyond the other archways as I moved ahead.

At first I saw nothing but the high backs of a leather couch and chairs and a wall whose French doors were covered with blinds; probably they were the ones I’d seen overlooking the pool area.

The mumbling continued. I moved into the room, slipped along the wall to the right. The furnishings were arranged in a U, with a handsome distressed wood coffee table in the center. Magazines were fanned out on it, next to a cordless phone unit whose handset was nowhere in sight. Beneath the table was a white, intricately woven area rug.

And on the other side of the coffee table, a man was down on all fours.

A bucket lay on its side next to him; water pooled on the hardwood floor between the rug and the French doors. The man was rubbing at a rust-colored stain on the rug. Back and forth, back and forth, pressing hard. Like a male version of Lady Macbeth.

“Buddy, Buddy, Buddy…”

I brought the gun up but didn’t speak.

“Why’d you say no to me, Buddy?”

He kept rubbing.

“Why, Buddy?”

I thought he sensed my presence then, because he looked up. But it was just reflex. The handsome face I’d seen in his publicity photos was crumpled and his mouth worked spasmodically. His eyes were dark, bottomless pits. I’d seen that look on people in shock, but never so extreme as this.

This was a man whose interior had been totally shattered.

Slowly I relaxed, lowering the gun. Neither Trevor Hanover nor Davey Smith was a danger to me or anyone else. Wherever this man had gone, he wasn’t coming back.

His mouth worked some more, and then he lowered his head and continued scrubbing.

“Buddy, Buddy, Buddy…”