Dream Town

Chapter 73

Archer wound up the old Packard and hit the road heading south toward the California state line. Paley had a head start, but he figured he could make up time in a car versus a boat. Four miles and then turn left, that was what Green had told him. And if she had lied to him, he would go back and probably shoot her in a spot far worse than she already had been.

But he should have known there was a landing strip up here. Steve Everett had described what the lake looked like from the sky, which meant he had flown directly here.

The road curved and Archer was now running parallel to the lake. It was long and majestic, and there was only one boat on it. And it was the boat he was chasing right now; it was ahead of him. But not that far ahead of him.

However, the boat was moving like a rocket, and Archer could just make out the man at the wheel. Paley was a daredevil, for sure. He had that boat moving at its absolute limit of speed. The lake surface wasn’t all that smooth, because the wind was creating some chop. The boat’s bow was a battering ram, lifting into the air and coming down hard. Paley seemed unfazed.

Archer felt a grudging admiration for the man and he could understand how so many Nazi pilots had fallen victim to his skill and fearlessness. But that was where the admiration ended. He was the reason Willie Dash had almost died. He had put Jake Nichols in a wheelchair. Archer was not going to let him get away a third time.

He pushed the Packard even harder, but its horsepower just couldn’t match that of modern vehicles.

If only I had the Delahaye.

When he looked back over at the lake he could no longer see the boat. But Archer knew where Paley was going. He just had to get there in time.

He reached the turnoff and took it on maybe two wheels, he wasn’t entirely sure. What he was certain about was that when that part of the Packard slammed back to earth, the rear axle cracked.

“Son of a bitch!”

He leaped out of the car and took off at a dead sprint, but feeling he had lost the battle.

No. No excuses, Archer. You finish this right now.

He redoubled his efforts, running faster than he had since the war. After a half mile he saw his destination up ahead. A private airstrip that Green and some other Lake Tahoe wealthy families had probably put in so they wouldn’t have to make the long journey from LA by car, or fly into Reno with the plebeians. It had one small wooden shack, a set of fuel pumps, but no employees that he could see. It was basically just a long strip of asphalt; that was his Mecca right now.

When he reached the runway, he was sucking in cold air so hard his lungs couldn’t process it, and his head started to pound and he felt nauseous.

Then he saw the plane was on the tarmac and the props were already spinning at a high velocity. Despite running flat-out, he had arrived perhaps too late.

Archer looked frantically around and saw which way the windsock was blowing.

Thank you, God. Because you gotta come straight at me, Paley.

He took up position in the middle of the runway strip about halfway down, a gun in each hand as the big Beechcraft pivoted, made its turn, and lined up squarely in the middle of the tarmac as it prepared to take off into the wind gusts coming in behind Archer. He eyed the right prop and then the left. Man versus machine, David versus Goliath.

The plane rocketed down the runway toward him, its engines shrieking with rising thrust. Through the cockpit windscreen, Archer could see Paley, but there was no sign of Bonham.

Paley only had one chance — to lift off before he came within range of Archer’s weapons.

Archer knew this, and so he started sprinting right toward the aircraft. He couldn’t see Paley’s expression at this tactic, but he didn’t imagine it would be a happy one.

He was within two hundred feet of the plane. He was aiming for two things with each weapon: the tires and the props. He opened fire with the .32 he’d taken from Lamb. When he tried to fire it again, it banged empty. He tossed it down and aimed his .38. As he ran ever closer and fired again, one of his shots hit a blade on the right propeller. It sheared off, and destroyed the exact synchronicity that propeller engines required. The plane started to zigzag wildly as Paley struggled to control the aircraft. Another chunk of the damaged prop soared across the runway. Luckily, Archer ducked and it passed over him.

Archer knelt, took careful aim, and shot out the left front tire of the gyrating plane. The rubber ripped apart and sprayed across the tarmac. Archer wasn’t lucky or fast enough this time, and a piece of the rubber whipsawed into his left calf. He fell flat to the asphalt, groaning in pain.

This was actually a good thing, because the Beechcraft came back around like a lame-winged duck, and hopped over him at that point. It soared a bare twenty feet into the air before coming back down far too hard on the runway. The struts on the landing gear collapsed, and the plane pitched to the right. The right-side wing struck the tarmac and cracked in half. The engines died and the props stopped spinning. Fuel started leaking onto the tarmac, creating an ever-growing pool of highly flammable liquid.

The Beechcraft was officially no longer airworthy.

Hobbled by the strike from the tire remnant, Archer limped slowly over and approached the plane on the pilot’s side. He pointed his gun at the glass.

Paley straightened, and looked at him through the side window.

“Out, now,” Archer ordered. “Before that fuel ignites.”

The man slowly opened the door and stepped out, holding his right arm stiffly against his body. His left shoulder was set at an odd angle and there was blood on his shirt. There were also twin gashes in his head and the blood was trickling down his face. Lacquered in this crimson, his scars seemed to pulsate with hate.

“Where’s Bernadette?” Archer asked.

Paley chuckled. “In the lake.”

Archer glanced in the direction of one of the deepest lakes in the world, where the current temperature would kill a person in a few minutes.

Bernadette Bonham was no more. He looked back at the still-grinning Paley.

Archer didn’t even bother to ask him why he’d done it. He knew the answer.

It was just in the man’s nature.