Orchid Beach

CHAPTER

32

Jackson used a card with a magnetic strip to open the security gate at Orchid Beach Airport. This was Holly’s third trip there, but now they drove past the terminal building with its tower and stopped a quarter of a mile down the runway at a low, concrete-block building with a windsock on top. A number of light aircraft were parked outside. Jackson led the way in.

“Hey, Doris,” he said to the woman behind the high desk. “Is 123 Tango Foxtrot available for a couple of hours?”

“You’re in luck, Jackson, we had a cancellation.” She put the keys and a printed document on the desk for him to sign.

“Doris, this is Holly Barker, our new chief of police.”

“Acting chief,” Holly corrected.

“Well, hey there, honey,” Doris said, standing up and offering her hand. She was a buxom woman, pushing fifty, in tight pants with a pile of peroxided hair on her head. “Welcome to Orchid. I was real sorry to hear about Chief Marley’s death. Anything new on that?”

“Nothing so far, but we’re working on it,” Holly said.

“He was a nice man. Say, can I interest you in some flying lessons?”

“You might be able to a little further down the road, when I get my feet on the ground,” Holly replied.

“We’re about getting your feet off the ground,” Doris said.

Holly laughed and looked over Jackson’s shoulder.

“This is a document,” he said, “which commits my entire net worth to the flying club if I bend the airplane, and makes Doris my sole heir if I kill myself in it.”

Doris laughed. “How else can I ever retire?” she asked. “The way Jackson flies, it’s only a matter of time.”

“I’m beginning to reconsider this trip,” Holly said.

“Oh, he’ll get you back alive, honey,” Doris said. “I taught him all he knows about flying.”

“And most of what I know about life,” Jackson laughed. He picked up the keys and a clipboard. “Let’s get out of here.”

Holly followed him outside to a yellow-and-white airplane. “I’ve never been up in one of these,” she said.

“A Cessna?”

“In anything smaller than one of Delta’s jets, except for army helicopters.”

“This is a Cessna 172, the most popular airplane ever built,” Jackson said. “Come on, we’ll preflight her together.”

She followed him around the airplane while he wiggled things, peered into holes and checked the oil and fuel. “How much experience have you had at this?” she asked.

“I’ve got nearly five hundred hours,” he replied. “I’m working on my instrument rating right now, and I ought to have that soon, then maybe I’ll buy a good used airplane.”

“Five hundred hours sounds like a lot,” she said, seeking reassurance.

“Not really. A couple of thousand is more like a lot.” He helped her into the airplane and showed her how the seat belt worked.

“Have you ever carried a passenger?”

“Oh, sure. The airplane is a great seduction tool: by the time you get them back down, they’re so grateful to still be alive, they just fall right into bed with you.”

“Let’s see if it works,” Holly said.

Jackson climbed into the little airplane, switched on the ignition, pumped something, and turned the key and the engine started. He picked up a checklist from the floor and talked himself through it, flipping switches and adjusting controls; then he handed Holly a headset and showed her how to wear it. Five minutes later, they had been cleared for takeoff and were rolling down the runway. The airport was on the mainland, and as they climbed they could see the barrier island stretched out before them a few miles away. Jackson turned right, headed for the middle of the island, and when he reached it, turned north, flying at two thousand feet.

“How low can we fly?” Holly asked, hearing her own voice clearly over the headset.

“A thousand feet AGL—that’s above ground level—in built-up areas. Since Orchid is about twelve feet above sea level, that means about a thousand feet.” He pulled back the throttle and began a descent. “There’s Palmetto Gardens up ahead,” he said, pointing. “See the golf courses?”

“Got it,” Holly said.

“Jesus, look at the length of that runway,” he said, pointing at the airfield.

“Barney said it was six thousand feet.”

“That’s longer than the Orchid airport. We’re at a thousand feet, now.”

Holly looked around. “It runs from A1A to the river,” she said, “and a long way north and south. It’s a lot bigger than I thought.”

Jackson circled over the development. “Huge houses,” he said. “They must be on at least five acres each.” A foursome of golfers was looking up at the airplane.

“Uh-oh,” Holly said, pointing out her side.

Jackson turned the airplane in that direction, dipping a wing. A white Range Rover had stopped and the driver had gotten out and was looking up at them. He reached into the vehicle and came out with a pair of binoculars. “Okay, let’s see if he shoots at us,” Jackson laughed.

“Are we invading some kind of private airspace?” Holly asked.

“Of course not. They may have themselves an exclusive club down there, but up here belongs to everybody.”

“Fly on north, and let’s get away from that security guard. Look, that’s a hell of a big greenhouse. They must grow a lot of their own plants.”

“Looks like they grow their own vegetables, too,” Jackson said. “And there are some stables and a riding ring.” He pointed. “What do you suppose that is?”

Holly followed his finger and found a two-story building with a forest of antennae on its roof. “Looks like a NASA substation,” she said. “I count four dishes of varying sizes and there are at least a dozen other kinds of antennas. And look at that giant dish in back of the building. That thing must have a diameter of at least fifteen feet.”

“I visited CNN headquarters in Atlanta, once,” Jackson said. “They had dishes like that.”

“Okay, we’re at the northern extremity; let’s turn and fly south again,” Holly said.

Jackson turned the airplane and headed back for the golf courses, which were at the center of the development. The Range Rover was on the move again, headed toward the airport. “There’s the runway up ahead,” he said. “Let’s do a touch-and-go.”

“Are you nuts?” Holly demanded.

“Aw come on, what can they do about it? You think they’ve got antiaircraft missiles?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Holly said.

He had the nose of the airplane down, now, and the runway loomed large in the windshield. The word PRIVATE had been painted in huge letters in the middle of the asphalt.

“Jesus,” Holly said. “I don’t want to do this.”

“Nothing to it,” Jackson said as they crossed the threshold. The wheels of the little airplane touched down softly.

“Oh, shit!” Holly yelled, pointing ahead. A white Range Rover had pulled onto the middle of the runway and had stopped. A man in a uniform was standing beside it with his hands up, motioning them to stop.

Jackson pushed the throttle to the firewall and the airplane accelerated. The Range Rover seemed to be rushing toward them. He held the airplane on the ground until it picked up speed, then yanked back on the yoke.

Holly had just enough time to see the security guard throw himself to the ground before she covered her eyes. Jackson banked sharply to the right, and she looked back over her shoulder to see another Range Rover arrive and Barney Noble get out. “Oh, shit, it’s Barney! I hope he didn’t recognize me!”

Jackson was laughing maniacally. “Not a chance!” he yelled. He turned left and headed for the beach side of the island. He tuned in a radio frequency, picked up a microphone and said, “Orchid Flying Club, November 123 Tango Foxtrot.”

“This is Orchid,” a husky female voice replied.

“Doris, you might get a phone call this afternoon, asking about who’s flying the airplane.”

“Tango Foxtrot, have you been buzzing the nude beach again?”

“Not yet. Just tell anybody who calls that the airplane was stolen by some joyrider.”

“That ain’t far off the truth,” Doris said. “You bring that thing back in one piece.”

“Over and out,” Jackson said. “Boy, that was fun. Now let’s buzz the nude beach.”

“What nude beach?” Holly asked.

“Oh, I forgot, the police aren’t supposed to know about that,” he laughed. He turned out over the water, then descended another five hundred feet. “We can legally fly lower over the water. Here come the naked people!”

Holly looked out and saw a couple of dozen people disporting themselves on the sand and in the surf. They were, indeed, naked. “What on earth is a place like Orchid doing with a nude beach?” Holly asked as they whizzed past the bathers, who were grabbing for towels and making obscene gestures.

“Well, it’s not exactly an official nude beach,” Jackson said. “There are just a few adjoining property owners who have a few friends over now and then.”

“Sounds like you’re well acquainted with the spot,” Holly said.

“One hears things,” Jackson said, grinning. “Don’t worry, they’re outside the city limits, so you won’t have to arrest them. Look, there’s my place. Uh-oh, what’s that?” He was pointing to the parking area outside his house.

“Looks like a pickup truck,” Holly said. “A white one.”

“And somebody getting out,” Jackson said. He banked out over the water and turned back toward the house.

“What’s that flashing light on your roof?” Holly asked.

“That’s the strobe attached to my burglar alarm,” Jackson said. “It means that whoever that was has broken into the house. Hang on. The tide’s out, so I’m going to put this thing down on the beach.” He made another turn and lined up for landing.

Holly groaned and braced herself against the instrument panel. The wet sand was rushing at them.