Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 51

Sandy, with considerable flourish, tugged at the corner of the cloth, and it fell away to reveal the new label of the Kinsolving Vineyards. There was enthusiastic applause.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Sandy said, "from this moment this vineyard has a new name. In the autumn, after our first harvest, we will make the first wines bearing this label, which my wife designed. Cara and I are so pleased that each of you could join us for this occasion, the beginning of a new marriage and the beginning of a new tradition in the growing and making of fine Napa Valley wines."

More hearty applause. No one showed the slightest interest in driving back to San Francisco, so the party continued. Sandy whispered to Mike Bernini to bring more wine from the cellars.

Shorty Barnum finished his runup and held short of the runway. "Cessna one, two, three tango foxtrot ready for takeoff," he said to Santa Monica tower. "VFR to Oakland."

"Cessna one, two, three, tango foxtrot, cleared for takeoff," the tower responded. "After takeoff turn right to three six zero and expect vectors to the VFR corridor."

Shorty lined up on the runway center line, did a final check of the panel, and pushed the throttles gradually forward. "Tango foxtrot rolling," he replied.

The twin-engined aircraft quickly picked up speed, then lifted from the runway and rose above Santa Monica Beach. Shorty set eight thousand feet into the altitude preselect, turned the heading bug to three six zero degrees, and punched on the autopilot. He took his hands off the yoke, and the airplane began to fly itself. He glanced next to him at Prendergast, or whatever his name was. The man had removed his hat and the wig was now clamped onto his head by a headset.

"That was very good, telling them you were a Cessna," Prendergast said. "Keep up the good work."

"Sure," Shorty said, and turned his attention to looking for traffic. He did not like flying through some of the world's busiest airspace VFR, and he had on the aircraft's nav lights, its strobe lights, and its landing and taxi lights. Tonight, he wanted to be seen by everything flying. He received a vector that put him on course for Oakland, and soon he leveled off at eight thousand feet.

Prendergast glanced at his watch by the glow of the instrument panel. "Yes, yes," he said. "Looking good."

"I told the tower Oakland," Shorty said. "Thought that would put us generally on the right heading. Now, you want to tell me where are we going?"

"A very nice little private field," Prendergast said, handing over a slip of paper. "These are the coordinates."

Shorty fed the coordinates into the Global Positioning System receiver in his panel, pressed the direct button twice, checked the heading, and looked at his chart. "We'll need to fly east of our course to get around San Francisco's Class B airspace," he said. "I want to talk to as few controllers as possible, and anyway, they'd just vector us all over hell and back if we tried to fly through their airspace."

"Good thinking, Shorty."

"GPS puts our ETA at one hour and thirty-four minutes; we've got a little tailwind."

"Very good."

"You a pilot?" Shorty asked. The guy certainly knew something about flying, but he wasn't sure how much.

Prendergast remained silent.

"I've got some music aboard," Shorty said. "What's your pleasure?"

"Please yourself," Prendergast replied, gazing out at the night. They were leaving the lights of LA. behind, and those of Santa Barbara lay ahead.

Classical, Shorty figured. He switched on the radio and pressed the CD button, and behind his seat, the player loaded a CD into the remotely mounted player. His passengers always loved this. Vivaldi's Four Seasons flowed into their headsets. Shorty didn't know a damn thing about classical music, but a woman of his acquaintance had suggested a few selections.

Prendergast nodded slowly and held up a thumb.

He's not American, Shorty thought. He says things like "please yourself." What the hell, he was making money; what did he care if his passenger wore a false beard and didn't talk?

Sandy moved Cara around the impromptu dance floor on the broad front porch, accompanied by a small band that Saul Winner had recommended. A few yards away, Saul himself danced, with Nicky's head on his shoulder. The party was mellowing, now, and half the guests had departed for town. Soon the others would begin to say their goodnights, and he and Cara could go to bed. Sandy was looking forward to his wedding night.

Shorty consulted the GPS and spoke up. "Your airport is dead ahead, fifteen miles," he said.

Prendergast, who had been sitting as stonily still as a Buddha, came to life. "The lights are pilot operated on one-two-two-point-eight," he said. "Five keys."

Shorty dialed the frequency into the radio. "What's the name of the field?" he asked. "I want to announce our intentions to any possible traffic there."

"No announcements," Prendergast said. "There won't be any traffic."

"What's the field elevation?" Shorty asked.

"I don't know; probably about the same as Napa," Prendergast replied.

They were descending through four thousand feet over the little town now, and Shorty looked up Napa's elevation: thirty-three feet. He flipped out his speed brakes, increased his rate of descent and eased back on the throttles. Five miles later he picked up the microphone and pressed the transmit key rapidly five times.

"There!" Prendergast said, pointing ahead and slightly to their right.

Shorty looked out and picked up the runway lights. "How long is the runway?" he asked.

"Thirty-five hundred, maybe four thousand feet," Prender-gast said. "You've got plenty of tarmac."

Tarmac. Another of those non-American words.

"Land to the northeast," Prendergast said. "The forecast winds at Napa were zero five zero at five knots."

"Gotcha," Shorty said, then began his final checklist. He increased his rate of descent again, and the speed brakes kept him from coming in too hot. He flipped on his landing lights and lined up with the runway. The runway numbers came into view and Shorty pulled the throttles all the way back. He made a smooth landing and applied his brakes immediately. Prendergast could be wrong about the runway length.

"Turn right onto the runup pad at the end of the runway, then do a one-eighty and cut your engines."

Shorty turned off the runway, spun the airplane around and shut everything down.

Prendergast popped the door. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he said. "Don't leave the aircraft, except to have a pee. When I get back I'll want to go immediately."

"Gotcha," Shorty said. He eased the back of his seat into a reclining position but held his head up long enough to watch Prendergast disappear into the woods not far from the end of the runway, the rays of a flashlight bobbing ahead of him… Then he lay back and closed his eyes. Sure was peaceful out here, he thought.

All the guests had left who were leaving. Sam Warren and his wife had retired to the guest room, and Cara was taking a bath. Sandy undressed, slipped into a dressing gown and went downstairs to turn off the lights. He walked out onto the darkened front porch and took a last look at the lovely evening. There was half a moon and it cast a beautiful light over the vineyards. He was very happy to be who he was and where he was. He turned and went back into the house, not bothering to lock the front door. Mike Bernini had told him that nobody locked their doors around here.

He turned off the living room lights and headed for the stairs, blinking and feeling his way until his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. His hand found the newel post at the bottom of the stairs and a millisecond later, something heavy and firm struck the back of his neck. He managed to hold on to the newel post for another second before it got darker, and he lost consciousness.