Getaway (36 page)

“Okay,” he said. “I think I’m good to go.”

“Danny, are you sure?”

“Close enough. I flew her over from PVR myself, all fueled up, checked from nose to tail, and assuming Gary didn’t fuck with the plane, we’re good.”

“Assuming … Should we assume that?”

He shrugged. “He wanted me back in the fold, and he’d hate to waste a good bird. Anyway, I checked the big stuff. We’re just gonna have to fly with it.”

They exited the plane one more time, to remove the chocks and cowl covers and tailstand, Daniel moving slowly and deliberately, at one point grabbing a wheel strut to steady himself.

Gary had rolled over onto his back, was muttering something Michelle couldn’t make out. “I guess he’s not dead,” she said.

She crouched down unsteadily next to him. Patted his shorts. Grabbed his wallet from the back pocket and then his BlackBerry from a clip on the waistband. Daniel gave her a hand up, and she stood. Dropped the BlackBerry on the ground. Stomped on it with the heel of her foot, again and again, feeling the plastic crack, grinding it into the dirt.

“We should take the clubs. Maybe do a quick wipe-down on the Jeep, at least get rid of your prints.”

“I can do that. Why don’t you watch him?”

There was a bottle of Windex in the plane, and with that and a clean rag she wiped down the Jeep’s doors and the steering wheel and the dashboard, and finally the rear hatch, while Daniel stood by Gary, gun in hand, swaying slightly. She thought he looked very pale, but in the darkness it was hard to tell for sure.

She managed to pick up the bag of clubs, staggering a little from the pain in her hip and ribs, and carried it over to the plane. Then she went back for the club she’d used on Gary. A wedge, she thought, recalling her brief flirtation with the sport.

For a moment she stood over Gary, starring down at him, resting the club on her good shoulder. He was conscious now, and when he saw her, he made a noise low in his throat and tried to sit up, then cried out and fell back, one hand clutching at his temple.

“Bitch,” he said. “You bitch.”

She smiled at him. “Don’t tempt me, sweetie.”

“You wanna
ride shotgun?”

“I guess.” She slid into the copilot’s seat. The cockpit smelled of oil, leather, and hot wire. “What do I need to do?”

“Nothing. Just relax.”

Right, she thought, looking at his pale face in the darkened cockpit, the bloodstained shirt, his swollen fingers fumbling on the switches and dials. “What if you pass out?”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“What if it does?” she insisted. “At least show me what to do.”

He hesitated, and then he nodded. “Yeah, okay. Once we hit cruising altitude, I’ll give you some flying lessons.” He grinned. “It’s fun. You’ll pick it up in no time.”

She wasn’t so sure about that. But she had nothing to lose from trying.

“What about Gary?”

“His car was on the other side of the building. I took his keys
and his phone and the keys to the Jeep. Should slow him down for a while anyway.”

“But he’ll come after us.”

“Probably.”

The engine started with a rumble and a whine increasing in pitch as the propeller on the nose began to swing counterclockwise, then clockwise, joined by a lower buzz, growing louder as the plane taxied slowly from the field to the strip.

“Here we go,” Daniel said.

The plane bumped down the strip, picking up speed, the propeller now a blur, and she almost didn’t notice when the wheels were no longer touching earth; they seemed to hover over the strip for a while and then suddenly rise into the night sky.

Now they were above the darkened mountains. She could see the lights of a small town nestled between the peaks, a little cluster of them, like a gathering of stars.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“Next time I’ll take you up during the day. We could follow the coast, like from L.A. to Seattle. It’s amazing.”

He looked so pale, but maybe it was the light in the cockpit. Was there fresh blood on his shirt? She couldn’t tell.

“Are you going to be okay, Danny?”

“I think so. If I can’t hang, we’ll stop. I promise. But I want to get across the border first, if we can.”

“Then what?”

“There’s people who owe me favors,” Daniel said. “And buddies of mine I don’t mind owing. Maybe they don’t have the juice that Gary does, but they’ve got some pull. Maybe it’ll be enough.”

What if it isn’t?
was the obvious question to ask, but she didn’t feel like asking it. She had the sudden notion that they could just fly like this forever, stopping now and then for fuel, taking off again, going where they wanted. That wasn’t the way life really worked, and she knew that. But for now she would pretend it was.

We’ll land where we land, she thought. And I’ll take it from there.

[ACKNOWLEDGMENTS]

One of the
best things about being an author is that I get to work with a lot of great people. It’s like finding one’s tribe.

Many thanks to Dave Barbor, Kerry D’Agostino, Holly Frederick, Cathy Perifimos and all the great folks at Curtis Brown, especially my agent, Katherine Fausset—your support, creative insight and unfailing good humor are deeply appreciated. Besides, you like Drew Brees. This is important.

I feel so fortunate to have landed at Soho Press, where I get to work with passionate, talented and, what can I say, really nice people. I don’t know who I’d rather crash a party with than the Soho Criminals. Thank you, Bronwen Hruska for continuing the fine tradition of founding editor Laura Hruska and for adding your own vision and talent to a wonderful company. Thank you, editor Juliet Grames, for your editorial insight and for understanding that sometimes I need to be talked off a ledge. Thanks as well to Mark Doten, Michelle Rafferty, Scott Cain, Ailen Lujo and Justin Hargett for your support and hard work. Thanks also to a group of Soho authors who unfailingly support each other and are just a blast to be around. Cara Black, who went out of her
way to offer her friendship and advice, Tim Hallinan, the King of the Novel Café and the person I would always want to be on a panel with, Leighton Gage, Henry Chang, James Benn, Stuart Neville, Lene Kaaberbøl, Agnete Friis, Jassy Mackenzie—it’s a pleasure to be your label mates.

Thank-you, David Shoemaker, for designing a cover that I’m thrilled has my name on it, and my amazing web designer/host Ryan McLaughlin, who has been such a pleasure to work with over the last few years, and to copy editor Maureen Sugden, for her incredibly thoughtful and detailed attention to my MS and for understanding way more about commas than I ever will.

I’m incredibly fortunate to also be published by HarperCollins UK—and I have had so much fun working with editor Jane Johnson, editor Emad Akhtar and the rest of the team there. Thanks for the blingin’ gold foil! I hope to meet all of you in person some day soon, so we can settle once and for all where the “rug” in “rugby” comes from.

In my own life I’m fortunate to be surrounded by wonderful writers who have helped me immeasurably. Purgatory, Hellions, the Pit, the Fiction Writers Co-op, and of course, the Writing Wombats—all of you have been an unfailing source of cheer and support. Special thanks go out to beta readers Sherrie Super, Clovia Shaw, Sue Layborne, Jenn Nelson, Judi Fennell, Steve Prosapio, Christy Gerhart, Carol Galante and Gretchen McNeil. Other writers in my life whose support, emails and tweets have helped me on many a late night include Jenny Brown, Denise Dumars, Toni Dwiggins, David Fitzgerald, Jennifer Hillier, Jennifer Hubbard, Elizabeth Loupas, Jan O’Hara, Pat Shaw, and Robin Spano.

Other friends and associates who have enriched my life, bought me booze and generally made me happy to be around, including: John Amussen and Andrea Bailey, Maryelizabeth Hart, and the folks at Mysterious Galaxy, McKenna Jordan and staff at Murder by the Book, Maureen and Ed and the wonderful Ashland Mystery Reader’s Group, my fellow Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers
of America, Ben Lucas, Billy Brackenridge, Bill Galante, Richard Burger, Lisa Gollin, John Clair, Tess Amato, Jordan Foster, Ebbins Harris, Tommaso Fiacchino, Tony Mandracchia, Todd Tatum, Sarah McCarry, Jim Bickhart, Anne Fishbein, Vivian Archer, Joe Touch, Deb Baumann, Callista Card, and Pete Sloman. I hope I haven’t forgotten anyone, though I’m sure that I have. I would be nowhere without my friends and family, and I’m grateful every day that all of you are in my life.

The wonderful folks in Puerto Vallarta who helped me with research and generally made me feel welcome, including: Tom Williams, Chuchi TresPesos, Heidi Di, Katherine Hardin, Maureen Power Marugan, Christine Vincent, Doug Danielson and the PV Writers group.

I owe special thanks to: Brian Thomas, for house-sitting and making sure the felines were fed and happy. Mimi Freedman and Jon Hofferman, my Buffy night companions and videographers. Dana Fredsti and Bryn Greenwood, for their multiple reads, editorial assistance, and in Bryn’s case, her ability to “literary it up” when I was panicking about creating readers guides.

I’m saving the most important thanks for last.

There are two people who deserve special kudos: Pilar Perez, who introduced me to the city of Puerto Vallarta and without whose friendship this book never would have been written. And Nathan Bransford, my former agent, who would not let me get away with a single flabby sentence or lazy plot point. It’s a working relationship that I will always treasure.

Finally, I would be remiss if I did not make this disclaimer: Puerto Vallarta is a beautiful, culturally vibrant city, with great restaurants, beaches and scenery, and I would not hesitate to vacation there any time. My main character’s fictional bad luck should not be taken as a disincentive to visit this wonderful place.