Shoot Him If He Runs

18

Teddy Fay drove down to the docks in Markstown and found the freight shipping company. He followed the signs to the receiving platform, gave the foreman his shipment number and waited. Shortly a forklift appeared, bearing two cardboard-and-wood crates, and loaded them straight into his vehicle. Teddy signed for them and started back.

On his way he passed a large hardware store and turned into their parking lot. He bought a small chain saw and a five-gallon gasoline tank and a can of two-stroke motor oil, loaded them into the truck and went on his way. He stopped at a filling station for gas and filled both his vehicle and the spare tank.

Three-quarters of an hour later he backed the vehicle alongside a pair of cellar doors. Using a hand truck, he managed to get both crates inside, then he went back for the chain saw and the gas tank. He garaged the vehicle, then got the crates open to look at his new toy. It seemed sensible enough. He had ordered the thing to be shipped in a half-completed state, and he read the instructions for completion carefully before beginning work. It never ceased to amaze him that most people never read the instructions, until they got into terrible trouble putting things together. Teddy loved instruction manuals, especially when they dealt with assembling something.

He finished reading the manual, put down a pad for kneeling on the concrete floor and set out the few tools necessary for assembly. There were three basic parts that had to be joined; two had come in the long crate and one in the short one. First, he went through the whole thing, making sure all the bolts had been properly torqued at the factory, then he joined the three parts, tightening the main bolts only with his fingers. When he was satisfied that everything was properly assembled, he removed the main bolts and set them next to the thing in a teacup, ready to be used when needed. He’d have to get it out of the cellar before it could be finally assembled.

That done, he filled the tiny fuel tank of the chain saw, went upstairs and outside and walked around to the other side of the building. A ravine ran along one side, and a concrete spillway about four feet wide, meant to handle the overflow from the cistern during the rainy season, ran from the building down to the ravine. Two fairly tall trees had grown from one side of the ravine and, bracing himself carefully, he started the chain saw with a couple of pulls of the cord and cut down both trees, leaving them to wash down the steep ravine with the next rain.

He went back to the house, cleaned the chain saw, poured the remaining fuel back into the spare tank and put the chain saw away. Everything was ready for when it might be needed.

Finally, he picked up the DVD that had come with the equipment and inserted it in his computer. It took him, step by step, through the operation, and every bit of it made perfect sense to him. He would run the drill over and over in his mind at odd moments of the day, to keep it fresh in his memory.

Stone drove out to the St. Marks Airport and found the fixed-based operations now called Wells Air Services. He found Don Wells in the service hangar, working on the engine of a Cessna 150.

“Good morning, Don, my name is Stone Barrington; I’m a friend of Thomas Hardy.”

Don, a short, thick black man, wiped his hands with a greasy rag and shook hands. “Any friend of Thomas’s,” he said.

“I just need a little information. About how many privately owned airplanes are based here?”

“Well, except for the King Air, which is owned by the government, all of them, I guess.”

“How many?”

Don did some counting on his fingers. “Seven,” he said.

“Are all of them owned by local residents?”

“Yes.”

“How many of the owners are white men?”

“Ah, five.”

“Do you know all of them personally?”

“In a manner of speaking. Some of them have been customers since before I bought the business.”

“Any new airplane owners in the past few weeks?”

“Two of them,” Don replied, “a Bonanza and a Cessna 140.”

“Who owns them?”

“The Bonanza is owned by one of the casinos, or, I guess, by one of the people there. His name is Brent; he’s one of the top people in the company, I think.”

“Can you describe him?”

“About thirty-five years old, five-ten, well over two hundred pounds, dark hair.”

“And who’s the owner of the 140?”

“He’s fairly new on the island, older fellow, a retiree from England. His name is…let me think a second…Robertson.”

“Description?”

“Close to six feet, slim, thick salt-and-pepper hair, early seventies, I’d say. Nice fellow.”

“Where is the airplane?”

“I’ve got four T-hangars,” Don replied. “It’s in one of them.”

“Could I have a look at it?”

“Sure. Follow me.” Don led the way outside and down a row of hangars, stopping at one of them and entering the combination for its padlock. He hauled the door upward to reveal the airplane.

Stone walked slowly around the aircraft, then opened the pilot’s door and climbed in, looking at the instrument panel. Stone was impressed. The Cessna 140 was the predecessor of the 172, the world’s most popular airplane, and it qualified as an antique. This one was in beautiful condition and seemed to be entirely original; all the equipment-radios and flight instruments-was period stuff.

“This is really something. Do you know where he got the airplane?”

“He said he had owned it for more than forty years, since it was new. When he bought his house here, he had the wings taken off, then shipped the whole thing in a container to St. Martin, where they put the wings back on. Then he flew it over here.”

“Well, thanks, Don. It was a treat just to look at this machine.” Stone made a note of the airplane’s British registration number.

“Anything else I can do for you?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You a pilot?”

“Yes, I am.”

“What do you fly?”

“I’ve had a Piper Malibu Mirage for a few years, and I’m having it converted to a turboprop right now.”

“Sounds hot.”

“It will be.”

“Well, I’ve got to get back to work; gotta have that 150 finished today.”

“Thanks very much for the information,” Stone said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep our conversation to yourself.”

“Sure, I will. Say hello to Thomas.”

“I will, Don. Good day.”

Stone got back into his car and headed back to the inn. Holly could get Lance to check out the registration number of the 140.