Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (68 page)

The realization shocked him back to himself, and he reached for the clipboard, shaking his head. That was ridiculous. He’d never even been to the city, there was no reason for the wave of reluctance that washed over him. Maybe it was something he’d eaten, or maybe he was coming down with something — maybe he should let Alma fly today.

He considered that for a moment, then shook his head. The Terrier was his baby, and this was a straight speed run, no need to worry about fuel consumption. Better he take the controls and let Alma do the dead reckoning — she was better at it than he was. And then he could rest up in New Orleans. He could always skip the party that had been laid on for the competitors and get a good night’s sleep — they were staying at the fanciest hotel in the city, the rooms ought to be something else. He’d be good for the pylons then, and for his share of the last leg into Coconut Grove.

He glanced over his shoulder as the cockpit door opened, and Alma slipped into the seat beside him, one hand full of flimsies from the Weather Bureau.

“Any good news?” he asked, and Alma grinned.

“Well, no bad news, anyway. Clouds and drizzle all the way, but it’s not a front, so we shouldn’t have thunderstorms to worry about. The ceiling’s only 800 feet here, but it’s supposed to lift by the time we get to New Orleans.”

“Could be worse,” Mitch agreed, and began the start-up procedure.

They were first out, trundling out onto the soggy runway to the approval of the crowd. Mitch could see them waving and clapping as he turned the Terrier into the wind, lining her up on the runway.

“Flag,” Alma said, and he opened the throttle, feeling the engines roar up to speed. The Terrier lifted easily, and he banked wide over the field, settling onto the heading that would take them to New Orleans.

T
o Alma’s relief, the ceiling stayed high enough that they never had to resort to dead reckoning. She took over the controls after the first hour, settling just below the cloud deck; the air was rough, but not unbearably so. They hit harder rain near Greenville, flying in and out of sudden downpours that rattled on the cabin and momentarily obscured the windscreen, but by then they were following the Mississippi, and even the rain couldn’t hide that landmark. The weather cleared as they approached Vicksburg, but she stayed on the line of the river for a little longer, until she was sure the clearing was going to last, before striking off cross country. Mitch had the list of landmarks ready, calling them off as they approached, and by then the ceiling was almost 1300 feet. She lifted the Terrier again, gaining the better view, and at last she saw the wooden beacon tower that marked New Orleans Airport.

Of course, it started to rain again, not hard, but a thin sprinkling that would make the sod runway thoroughly slick under the tires. She swore under her breath, hoping the rain wouldn’t actually reach the ground, but it still streaked the windshield as she put the Terrier into a gentle descent.

“Want me to take it?” Mitch asked, and she risked a glance at him. He was looking better, his color and expression more normal than it had been, and she suppressed a grimace. It wasn’t that she couldn’t, she was perfectly capable — but this was his baby. He was the one with the most hours in the Terrier, and there was no point risking a stupid accident. It was one thing to lose a race through bad luck; she’d be damned before she’d lose it to a mistake.

“Yes,” she said, and circled the field, gaining a little height while they made the switch.

Once Mitch had the controls, she leaned against the window. The field’s flagman was out, signaling that they were good to land. She pointed, and Mitch banked the heavy plane, lining it up on the longest of the two runways. It was still spitting rain as they came down, trails of liquid crawling along the window, and the Terrier rocked in the unstable air. Mitch controlled it easily, shedding speed until they were almost stalling, set the Terrier down with a thump and a bounce before it finally settled. Alma felt the brakes catch and the tires slide and grip and slide again before they finally caught. Mitch let them run the full length of the runway, bleeding speed to nothing, before he turned and began the slow progress back to the terminal.

Alma took a deep breath. She could have done that, yes. She knew her limits, and that landing was within them, but — Mitch was so damn good. She tapped his shoulder lightly, won a quick glance and a fleeting smile.

“Nice work,” she said

T
he reporters clustered around Alma, Jerry stuck in the press, while Lewis went with Mitch to the desk of the Hotel Denechaud to check in. It was quite a place. Everything was marble and velvet and gold mirrors, just like pictures of palaces from newsreels, though none of them were in living, vibrant color like this. It made Henry's house look normal.

"Sure is something," Lewis said to Mitch under his breath.

"Yeah." Mitch always managed to look more confident than Lewis felt, probably because he was a university man, but even Mitch looked wary and uncomfortable today.

Lewis signed the register carefully, "Mr. and Mrs. Lewis Segura, Colorado Springs, Colorado." This time it was 100% true.

The desk clerk handed Mitch two keys. "You and Dr. Ballard have adjoining rooms with a shared bath," he said. He leaned forward confidentially, dropping his voice. "Mrs. Sorley has already checked in."

"She has?" Mitch blinked.

"Yes, sir. Several hours ago." The desk clerk twitched an eyebrow. "She said she wished it to be a surprise."

"Oh," Mitch said.

"What?" Lewis said.

"Mrs. Sorley?" Mitch said.

"Yes, sir." The desk clerk seemed to be expecting a tip, probably for giving them the keys, so Lewis gave him two bits.

"Thank you," Lewis said, taking his own key. "Let's give Jerry his."

"Right," Mitch said. He looked confused.

"What the heck?" Lewis asked. "Mrs. Sorley?"

"Probably some racing fan," Mitch said. His brow furrowed. "Or somebody working for another team who wanted to get in our rooms."

"We don't keep anything important in our rooms," Lewis said. "Anybody who wanted to sabotage the plane would be at the field."

"What else could it be?" Mitch said. “It can’t be the countess, anyway.”

Lewis lowered his voice. That was an unwelcome thought, all right. “We do still have the necklace —“

“Yeah, but she’s on her way back to LA.” Mitch actually sounded faintly sorry about that, but Lewis was careful not to look surprised.

"A reporter, maybe," he said. He paused. " You don't actually have a wife, right?"

"No, of course not." Mitch scanned the massive lobby again. "I don't think."

Lewis stopped short of Alma and the crowd of reporters. "You don't think?"

"I don't. I'm not married." Mitch squared his shoulders and plunged in among the reporters. "Jerry, here's your key. Lewis and I are going to check the rooms."

He turned away before Jerry could ask, and Lewis frowned. Something was not ok — well, something was wrong with Mitch as well as with the rooms, but he knew better than to push. Trying to push Mitch was like pushing a brick wall.

They rode up to the fifth floor in silence, the elevator operator deferentially silent. Lewis took a deep breath before he flung his door back fast, but there was nothing in the room except two beds piled high with pillows and expensive-looking linens. Feeling increasingly foolish, he checked the bathroom and the closets, and then under the bed. There was nothing, not even a scrap of paper, and he opened the door again to see Mitch peering out of the room opposite.

“Anything?”

Mitch shook his head. “Not even a mash note. Must’ve been a reporter.”

“Jerry’s room?”

“Nothing there either.”

“I don’t like the idea that someone’s got a key to your room,” Lewis said.

“Me, neither. Maybe we can change rooms,” Mitch said. He pulled the door closed behind him, and tested the door. “Damn reporters.”

“Yeah.” Even as he spoke, Lewis felt the hairs prickling at the base of his neck. Something was definitely wrong — but at least they’d be getting rid of the necklace tonight, handing it over to Henry. That would be one less thing to worry about.

Chapter Thirteen

T
here were no rooms to spare at the Hotel Denechaud. The entire hotel was booked because of the race, and after a long conversation with the front desk clerk, Mitch had decided it was too much trouble to try to find people willing to switch with him and Jerry. It was only for one night, and if it did have something to do with Henry’s necklace, well, they were giving it back to Henry tonight anyway. It wasn’t like anyone was going to try to attack them, not in a place like this. And besides, he didn’t really want to have to explain about the key and the person who claimed she was his wife, especially not when Jerry was listening. Because if it was Miss Rostov — though of course it couldn’t be. She was on her way back to LA, and even she wouldn’t have tried a lie like that. Even Gil wouldn’t have tried something that outrageous, though it would have been kind of fun to see how Miss Rostov would have tried to pull it off. He put that thought aside with unexpected reluctance. It was five thirty, and he just had time for a shower before the evening got started. It felt good to stand under the hot water, to let the steam ease all the kinks in his back out, to ease the aching muscles in his belly from so many long flights back-to-back.

And it felt even better to be in first place. Into New Orleans at 3 pm, six hours and eight minutes out of Little Rock. When they'd left the airport the second place team hadn't even gotten in yet, more than an hour behind. Yep, Mitch thought. Alma's plan was solid and they were going to roll this race up. Two more legs to go — a short stunt run to Pensacola, and then the long leg from Pensacola to Miami — but with the kind of lead they had somebody was going to have to sprout rockets to catch up.

It would be a beautiful evening in New Orleans, carefree and fun with that $25,000 prize almost in reach. There was a party in the main ballroom of the Hotel Denechaud, which looked like it would live up to its reputation as one of the finest hotels in America, and they were the guests of honor. This was pretty much what it was like to be on top of the world. He ought to try to relax and enjoy it.

Mitch turned off the water and got out, reaching for the towel. He rummaged around in his shaving kit for his toothbrusth and toothpaste. The tube wasn't there. And now that he thought about it, he could visualize just where he'd seen it last — sitting on the edge of the sink at the hotel in Little Rock that morning. "Aw, damn," Mitch said. Well, Jerry wouldn't mind if he borrowed his. Tying the towel around his waist, he went out into the other room. Jerry's suitcase was on the stand, the shaving kit on top. He unzipped it. Where did Jerry…? There was the familiar Colgate tube.

A silk handkerchief twisted, dislodged by his hand, and fell to the floor with a heavy sound, the molten thud of something in it. Mitch leaned over and picked it up. It was the necklace, smooth links of wrought iron like flowers, cool and dark, like the scent of jasmines on a rainy night. It was beautiful.

And familiar. He'd seen it before. He'd seen it before so many times.

Mitch picked it up, weighed it in his hands. The scent of jasmine, the sound of the rain…

Rain like a drum. Rain coming down and down and down, washing blood into rivulets on the street, sliding down the storm drain toward the river. The river just rolled on, oblivious to blood or night or anything. Rain crushed the jasmines, leaving them bloodless and pale against the cobblestones…

And then there was nothing but rain.

"A
l, have you seen Mitch?"

Alma was putting her shoes on to go to dinner when Jerry barged into their room without knocking. "No. Should I have?"

Lewis looked over from the dresser where he was dealing with an uncooperative Windsor knot. "I thought he went to take a shower."

"That was hours ago," Jerry said.

"Maybe he went down to the lobby or something," Lewis said.

"He's gone," Jerry said. "Suit, shoes, hat, and Henry's necklace."

Alma jumped up, one shoe on and one off. "What?"

"The necklace is gone," Jerry said. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. "It was in my shaving kit wrapped up in a silk handkerchief. The handkerchief was on the floor next to my suitcase. The necklace is gone. And so is Mitch."

Lewis frowned. "Maybe someone stole it and he went after them."

"Without calling us?" Alma stood on one foot to fasten the straps on the other shoe. "Mitch wouldn’t do that." She looked at Jerry. "That thing exerts a powerful pull."

"That's what I'm worried about," Jerry said, meeting her eyes.

"Oh crap," Lewis said.

"He's not a woman," Alma said sensibly. "Putting it on won't kill him."

"But who knows what it wants him to do?" Lewis said.

Alma felt the dread expanding in her stomach. "I don't know, but it can't be anything good. We need to find him right now." She looked at Jerry. "Before something awful happens."

T
here was a streetcar and then another. Dusk crept in, and lights shone down from windows above, shadows barred from the louvers of each shade. He walked through the city just as he had so many times, alone in the dusk, listening to the devil's music. The sound of jazz followed him, dip and turn, wail and recall, and the sweet soft notes of a woman's voice.

No one turned to watch him. Why should they? He was an ordinary-looking man in a gray suit, a plain fedora, clean shoes. No one noticed Mitchell Sorley.

The clear blue notes of a tenor sax drifted out into the street and he paused. The devil's music for certain, it crawled under your skin, wiggled into your brain with promises that even New Orleans could not fulfill. The world is full of promises that can't come true. The world is full of things that begin only to die, flat and faded and utterly pointless. There are hungers wine can't quench, that friendship can't quiet. Jazz celebrates them all.