Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (102 page)

He reached for the paper, unfolded it as though there might be something he'd missed, and the waiter cleared his throat.

"Dr. Ballard?"

"Yes?"

"There's a telephone call for you, sir. Long distance."

Jerry looked up sharply. Long distance was never good. Good news could wait for a letter, or a telegram. Only bad news demanded long distance tolls. Not Alma, surely — not Mitch, either, or Lewis, please, God, let it be none of them. He hauled himself gracelessly out of his chair. "Where can I take it?"

"This way, sir."

Jerry followed him out of the dining room to the row of telephone cabinets in the hall between the front desk and the men's room. They were empty except for a portly man talking prices, and Jerry eased himself into the nearest, letting the door fold shut behind him. Please, God, not Alma, he thought again, and lifted the handset.

"Number, please."

"This is Dr. Ballard. I believe you have a call for me."

"Yes, Dr. Ballard. Please hold."

There was clicking and then silence. Jerry closed his eyes. Not Alma, not any of them….

"Jerry?"

It was Alma's voice, distorted by the crackling wires, but unmistakable, and he released a heavy sigh, opening his eyes. "Al. Yes, it's me. Is everything —?"

"Everyone is fine here," she said firmly.

"Then —" Jerry stopped himself with an effort. She would tell him what was wrong as soon as he stopped talking. "Sorry. Go on."

"Stasi ran into some old acquaintances of hers the other day," Alma said. "They wanted her to look you up — something to do with your current job."

"Oh?" Jerry felt a cold chill run down his spine. He could guess exactly what sort of people Stasi's "old acquaintances" were likely to be. "And she told you about it?"

"Yes." Alma's voice was firm: she trusted whatever Stasi had told her. "Apparently they were interested in a particular item, some sort of small tablet. And Lewis has a bad feeling about this whole thing."

Jerry leaned back in his chair. "It's a medallion, actually. I think I've already had an encounter with the gentlemen." He chose his words carefully, aware of all the other people who could be listening in, the Club operator, the long distance operators, the operator back in Colorado Springs. "It was — unexpected — but it didn't come to anything in the end. We, the Met, still have the item in question."

"That's good news," Alma said. "But not so good that you had to deal with them already."

"I think they're pretty well dealt with," Jerry said. "Iskinder and I sent them off with a flea in their ear."

"They might try again," Alma said. "Stasi had the impression they were pretty determined."

"I really don't think so," Jerry said. "We were — very firm."

"That's good."

"Do you have any idea why they might have wanted it?"

"I was hoping you could tell me," Alma answered.

"It's a bit complicated for the phone," Jerry said. He paused, trying to think of the right way to phrase it. "It's not all that valuable in and of itself — there are literally hundreds like it in collections all over the world. It's more of a means to an end."

"Ok," Alma said, in a tone that suggested she wasn't really following.

"I think they wanted it so as to get at something else," Jerry said.

"Oh. Ok, that does make some sense. Does it belong to anybody in particular?"

Jerry frowned, not sure where the question was coming from. "No, not at all."

"No particular correspondences?"

Jerry lifted an eyebrow at the choice of word. "None that I know of. Would it be worth researching that?"

"It might be," Alma answered.

"I'll do that, then. And I'll let you know what I find out." Jerry paused, trying to think of the next most important question. "Do you have any idea if these gentlemen were working for anyone in particular? Or are they independent agents?"

"A guy named Bill Pelley," Alma said. "Stasi says she did some work for him in the past."

"Pelley," Jerry repeated. "Not Mr. I-Was-Dead-for-Seven-Minutes —"

"That's him," Alma interrupted, her tone a warning, and Jerry stopped. "Stasi says he's serious, Jer."

"Right."

"I mean it," Alma said.

"I know," Jerry answered. "And, believe me, I'm taking it very seriously."

"Good," Alma said. She paused. "Well, since you're all right —"

"You don't want to stay on the line," Jerry said. "Not at long distance rates. But — everyone's all right?

Alma's voice softened. "We are, I promise. And I'm glad you're ok, too."

"I'm fine," Jerry said. "And I'll be back for Christmas before you know it."

"Yes. I'm looking forward to that."

"So am I."

"Good," Alma said. "I have to go now. Just — be careful, Jerry."

"I will," Jerry answered. "My love to everyone."

"'Bye now."

"Goodbye." Jerry replaced the handset, then stared at the waxed wood paneling without really seeing it, trying to fit these new pieces into the puzzle. Pelley, of all people…. The man was a charlatan — except that he wasn't, not entirely. He was working with established traditions, but in the service of something else, something that Jerry couldn't quite name, but that raised the hairs at the back of his neck. He'd read a few of the man's articles, had pegged him as another would-be esotericist with a nativist axe to grind. And, while that might be true, it seemed there was more to him than that. The sooner Jerry could arrange to ward the medallion, the better.

T
he approach into Woodward Field over the Great Salt Lake was one of the most spectacular pieces of scenery Mitch had ever seen. He'd flown this route just about once a week for the last seven months, and on and off for ten years before that, but it never got old no matter how routine the flight.

This morning's flight was routine, taking off from Colorado Springs on schedule at 8:30, four passengers in the back of the Terrier, for a four hour flight to Salt Lake City. One of them was Doc Saunders, on business at the university hospital. Three of them were missionary boys on their way home, a yearlong sojourn in Texas that ended just in time for Christmas, and they were heady with excitement, laughing and looking out the windows, clean shaven faces and voices that still broke. He'd been that young once.

As they climbed for altitude over the peaks, used to the location of every updraft, he wondered what they saw when they looked at him. Probably the old guy, Pops in his battered leather flight jacket, aviator sunglasses worn in the dead of winter against the snow glare, smoking under the wing waiting for the passengers to board while the boys crowded on. He supposed he was that guy now.

And there was the Great Salt Lake, improbably tropically blue and strange, cerulean shading to azure, like some bizarre jewel set among barren mountains and snow. City and farmland were dusted with snow, unbearably bright in the noon sun. The ridge lines stood out rocky and black. The lake -- there were no words for it, clear and endless, deep sapphire in its center. It looked like another planet must look, improbable and gorgeous. No, he'd never get tired of this, dropping down to five hundred feet to skim over the surface of the lake like an oversized water bird, the Terrier's shadow chasing just ahead of them like an eagle stooping after fish. If the Terrier could have whooped she would have. Mitch couldn't help but think that she enjoyed it as much as he did.

The paved asphalt runway came up and they glided onto it perfectly. Salt Lake City took good care of their airport. The runway was neatly plowed and salted.

"Hope y'all had a nice flight," Mitch said, cutting the engines and coming back to let down the stairs.

"It was super, Mr. Sorley!" one of the boys said. "How long did it take you to learn to do that?"

"About twenty years," Mitch said.

"It would be worth it, wouldn't it?" the boy said. His whole face was alight. He's got the bug, Mitch thought. Once you got the bug, you never got over it.

"I reckon it is," Mitch said solemnly. "You boys have a good Christmas."

He left the baggage handlers to load cargo. He'd check it, of course, but might as well let them unload and load before he balanced it. They'd fuel the baby too, and of course he'd check that too. He had two hours on the ground in Salt Lake before he started back, three passengers this time and more cargo, a bunch of boxes that looked big on the cart but he bet weren't heavy, consigned as they were to Anna Maria's Millinery in Colorado Springs. Hats didn't weight much but they took up a lot of space.

Mitch stopped well away from the fuel truck parked by the hangar and felt in his breast pocket for his cigarettes. Four hours there and four hours back, with two hours on the ground between made for a long day, but not too much to take solo. It made sense for him to take the Wednesday Salt Lake trip because it wasn't an overnight. The Santa Fe/Albuquerque run was always an overnight, which made it awkward for him and Al to do it together. Or at least more expensive, as they had to spring for two rooms. It made more sense for Lewis and Al to take that one and for him to take Salt Lake. Not that he minded. It was a beautiful damn trip.

He lit his cigarette and took a long drag. Lewis's dream nagged at him. Lewis dreamed true. They all knew that. And when Diana wanted to show him something it wasn't unimportant. Mysterious, maybe, but not unimportant. And Stasi. She hadn't told him about the job, about of all people Pelley wanting her to burgle the Metropolitan Museum of Art for him! Well, why should she? It was none of his business. He hadn't told her that Henry had offered him a job. He hadn't told anybody. He needed to think about it himself. Alma would say it was his decision. Her friendship wouldn't waver whether he flew for Gilchrist or Republic, and he'd still be part owner. Only he'd have a lot more money to put into the company if he wanted to. And Stasi…. It wasn't like she was his wife. She didn't have a right to know. It wasn't her life on the line too. So he didn't have a say in what she did either.

Mitch blew smoke, watched it dissipating in the wind that skimmed over the field. Pelley. The man had made the hair on the back of his neck stand up all out of proportion to the things he'd said. He was just a nut. He was some guy Henry knew who had his own gig about Ascended Masters. Yeah, he'd been rude to Lewis but it was more than that. Mitch had disliked him the moment he saw him. And this business of trying to get Jerry's Hellenistic medallion — there was something else going on. He'd had to leave before they were through talking about what Jerry had said, the little Jerry had said on the phone, because he had to take this flight to Salt Lake. But something was seriously rotten.

Mitch flicked his friendly Ronson again as if relighting his cigarette. It was a very small fire, but it was fire. It was fire you could keep in your pocket. It was fire you could have anywhere. Nobody ever thought anything about a guy lighting a cigarette. It wasn't occult. He cupped the flame with his other hand as though keeping the wind off, feeling its miniscule warmth. Not the patterns of the past that Jerry read. Not the future as Stasi and Lewis saw it, but the patterns of the present, the warp and weft of the moment that is, all the pieces that tie together in invisible ways, pattern and synchronicity, energy flowing like fire following lines of gasoline.
Show me
, Mitch thought. Just a little push of energy, a bead of fire flowing down lines, a spark jumping inside an engine to begin combustion, a tiny push from him, a tiny boost from a miniature flame, part of the much greater dance of energy that was the cosmos.
Show me the pattern.

He held the thought in his mind, nursing it to the last wisp of burning tobacco. And that too was a tie, a strength. These were Camels, made in his hometown. This was North Carolina tobacco, drawing its magic from red clay soil since the Indians had first used it for ceremony. His ancestors lay in that soil, their flesh become one with it, generation after generation on back. They were part of the land now, men and women who had worked it and loved it and died for it. Their blood was dust, except where it ran through him. This tobacco was part of him, drawn from the soil, drawn from blood and flesh made mineral again, pattern on pattern on pattern.
Show me
, he said again, not compelling but asking. He had the right to ask.
Flame, show me. Smoke, show me, spirit and fire.

In the diner. He could feel it like a trace, like a line of brightness leading across the tarmac to the airport diner, another piece of the puzzle. Ok then. Mitch smiled and ground the butt out carefully with his boot. Time for some lunch.

The diner was busy, every table pretty much full, tin plated ceiling and walls decorated with pictures of airplanes. Right in front of the door was Lindbergh and the Spirit of St. Louis. They'd stopped here on their tour after they'd flown the Atlantic, had their pictures taken on the field with all the local worthies. Yeah, Salt Lake was somewhere if Lindbergh came here! But that wasn't it, not today. Mitch looked around. There were a couple of stools at the counter, but the line pulled to his left instead, toward the booths….

"Hey Mitch!" A guy raised his hand in greeting. "How's it shaking?"

Yep. Right there. Mitch grinned and threaded his way among the tables to the booth. "Hey, Danny. It's going pretty good. You?"

"Pretty good. Hey, come on and take a load off. I just got here." Danny Carpenter flew for Western and he was based out of Los Angeles, flying the Salt Lake route a few times a month. Bingo, Mitch thought.

"Sure," Mitch said, sliding into the opposite seat and taking his jacket off. "If you don't mind."

"I just ordered," Danny said. "My grub hasn't come yet."

And there was the waitress looking harried. The diner was doing a good business. "Take your order?"

"Coca-Cola, please," Mitch said. "And if you've got it today, one of those good meatloaf sandwiches."

"We got it." She didn't look up from her pad. "Sides are on the board over there."

Mitch craned his neck. "Ok, mac and cheese and green beans."