mile to the runway, still no outside lights were visible. Flint’s right hand was poised on the throttles. Seconds ticked off on the elapsed time readout. One more second and he would push the throttles open, declare a missed approach. Intense runway approach lights began to glow fuzzily. Suddenly Flint saw four dim dots of light on either side of the runway, not distinct but enough. He pulled the throttles back as his left hand kept the nose up until the main tires squealed. Then he let the nose wheel touch. Reverse thrust and brakes applied, Flint’s eyes were on the directional gyro which did not vary from 240° as the aircraft slowed noisily. He might get chewed out for too many decibels of reverse thrust, but it was better to awaken the neighbors at 2:27 A.M. than run out of runway in the fog.
Flint used some of the final two thousand feet of runway to slow down to taxi speed. Soon he saw the dim outline of Terminal One, recently refurbished and brightly lighted. The airport serves both military and civilian aircraft. Ground control directed the Sabreliner to the military part of the field, assigned a parking spot at the edge of the military buildings. A pickup truck with “Follow Me” in bright florescent lights slowly led the way.
With the plane secured, and refueling underway, Ava borrowed Flint’s phone and called Gina. Thirty five minutes later, Gina herself unlocked the gate to let Ava and Flint enter her garden and then the house. Ava brushed her teeth and turned in. Flint accepted a blanket and pillow from Gina for use in the library where he would sleep on one of the leather sofas.
Flint draped his blazer over the back of a strait backed chair at the desk and removed the very heavy army .45 from the right hand pocket. The MP officer had not asked for it. As Flint examined it closely for the first time, he noticed how perfect the piece was—no scratches, quiet slide, magazine came out smoothly, not like the government issue model he had qualified with many years earlier in the Marine Corps. Someone had spared no expense in assembling this one from specially prepared components.
As he laid the pistol carefully on the desk top, Flint’s phone sounded. Laura Syms said, “hi, Flint.”
“Hey Laura. It’ll be 4:00 A.M. here in a few minutes. Where are you? What’s up?”
“I’m at Casa Chapala, a Mexican café in Austin at the corner of San Jacinto and Caesar Chavez. Do you know it? I’m waiting for Zeta and her partner Christine to meet me for dinner. It is nearly 9:00 in the evening here.”
“Say hi to Christine for me,” Flint requested. He had met Christine and Zeta in Punta del Este, Uruguay two months earlier in a story that has been told in Erotic Resolution . “Ava and I landed a little over an hour ago in Naples. We just got to Gina’s house.”
“Zeta told me that a moment ago. She tracked your phone’s GPS. I’m calling to tell you that I have a bad feeling about Freddy.”
“Gina said she can’t locate him,” Flint said.
“I haven’t told you till now, but I sometimes get strong intuitions that usually turn out to be right. I have one of those now. But I don’t know if it means Freddy is dead . . . or if it means he is not to be trusted. I keep thinking I hear him whispering. I’m not sure if I hear him say “help” or if he is saying “hate.”
“When did the whispers start?”
About noon my time, nine hours ago. The fifth time was right before I dialed you. I had parked in the Chapala lot behind the café. I closed my eyes for a few seconds and thought I could see his face moving away from me—but not distinctly. Then I heard more than the other four times. Something like “har, hate, help”—I heard separate words that were almost identical sounding.”
Flint thought a second and
Flint used some of the final two thousand feet of runway to slow down to taxi speed. Soon he saw the dim outline of Terminal One, recently refurbished and brightly lighted. The airport serves both military and civilian aircraft. Ground control directed the Sabreliner to the military part of the field, assigned a parking spot at the edge of the military buildings. A pickup truck with “Follow Me” in bright florescent lights slowly led the way.
With the plane secured, and refueling underway, Ava borrowed Flint’s phone and called Gina. Thirty five minutes later, Gina herself unlocked the gate to let Ava and Flint enter her garden and then the house. Ava brushed her teeth and turned in. Flint accepted a blanket and pillow from Gina for use in the library where he would sleep on one of the leather sofas.
Flint draped his blazer over the back of a strait backed chair at the desk and removed the very heavy army .45 from the right hand pocket. The MP officer had not asked for it. As Flint examined it closely for the first time, he noticed how perfect the piece was—no scratches, quiet slide, magazine came out smoothly, not like the government issue model he had qualified with many years earlier in the Marine Corps. Someone had spared no expense in assembling this one from specially prepared components.
As he laid the pistol carefully on the desk top, Flint’s phone sounded. Laura Syms said, “hi, Flint.”
“Hey Laura. It’ll be 4:00 A.M. here in a few minutes. Where are you? What’s up?”
“I’m at Casa Chapala, a Mexican café in Austin at the corner of San Jacinto and Caesar Chavez. Do you know it? I’m waiting for Zeta and her partner Christine to meet me for dinner. It is nearly 9:00 in the evening here.”
“Say hi to Christine for me,” Flint requested. He had met Christine and Zeta in Punta del Este, Uruguay two months earlier in a story that has been told in Erotic Resolution . “Ava and I landed a little over an hour ago in Naples. We just got to Gina’s house.”
“Zeta told me that a moment ago. She tracked your phone’s GPS. I’m calling to tell you that I have a bad feeling about Freddy.”
“Gina said she can’t locate him,” Flint said.
“I haven’t told you till now, but I sometimes get strong intuitions that usually turn out to be right. I have one of those now. But I don’t know if it means Freddy is dead . . . or if it means he is not to be trusted. I keep thinking I hear him whispering. I’m not sure if I hear him say “help” or if he is saying “hate.”
“When did the whispers start?”
About noon my time, nine hours ago. The fifth time was right before I dialed you. I had parked in the Chapala lot behind the café. I closed my eyes for a few seconds and thought I could see his face moving away from me—but not distinctly. Then I heard more than the other four times. Something like “har, hate, help”—I heard separate words that were almost identical sounding.”
Flint thought a second and
Similar Books
