Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (74 page)

"Yes," Jerry said, but closed his mouth over any further complaint. There was nothing more he could do here.

"W
hat in the merry hell?" Alma's scathing voice cut across his sleep, and Mitch woke with sunshine in his eyes.

"Um?" he said, squinting. It was way, way too bright for his pounding head and he felt vaguely nauseated. He was leaning back against the wall inside a mausoleum in Lafayette Cemetery with the sun streaming through the open door, his arm around a disheveled looking brunette in a torn silk dress, with pretty much zero recollection of how he got there. Except that from the smell it must have involved rum. "It's not what it looks like?"

"I am going to kill you and suck the marrow from your bones," Alma said.

"Oh please don't," the woman said, untwining from where she'd been using his shoulder as a pillow. "It's not every day one has a lunatic fugue."

"You?" Lewis said disbelievingly, to the brunette, and Mitch looked down at her as well.

"Hey," he said slowly. "I know you."

Alma snorted. "I should hope so! What in the hell happened here? No, wait. Don't tell me. Tell me this instead. Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Mitch blinked again. He had the feeling this was a trick question. "Um, no?"

"Twenty minutes after seven," Alma said sharply. "Seven. AM. Our takeoff time."

And then it all came flooding back. "Crap."

"Lewis and I have been hunting for you for the last eleven hours," Alma snapped. "We've been hunting through the cemetery for two hours, wondering if we'd find you or your dead body. And instead we find you canoodling in a mausoleum with our little stowaway!"

Mitch got to his feet, which was a bad idea both because it made him dizzy and because it involved dropping Stasi on her behind. "We have to get to the airport," he said.

"No kidding!" Alma shouted. "Right this very minute we are losing our first place lead! And where the hell have you been?"

"I can explain," Stasi said, getting to her feet. "I'm not sure he remembers where we've been."

"I wish I didn't," Mitch said. Which he did. A lot.

Alma pulled herself up to her full height, dirty man's shirt, black eye and all. "You can explain on the way to the airport. And I'll decide if I'm going to kill you myself."

T
hey took a cab out to the airfield in the dawn light. The sun wasn’t fully clear of the horizon, spreading molten between the distant trees, throwing elongated shadows. The light was brassy, tilting everything to yellow, even the still water in the ditches that ran beside the elevated road.

The same light caught the white-washed hangars and the beacon tower, darkened the sod as though it were soaked with rain. Henry directed the cabbie to the main hangar, and they climbed out. Henry left Jerry to supervise getting the suitcases to the plane, and disappeared into the shadows.

"Say," the cabbie said, as Jerry fumbled for a tip. "I didn’t realize y’all was Gilchrist."

Jerry paused, forced a smile even as he found a third quarter in his pocket. "That’s right."

The cabbie grinned. "Hell of a lady, Mrs. Segura. We been listening on the radio. I’m sorry I didn’t get to drive her."

“Thanks,” Jerry said. He couldn’t think of anything helpful to say, so he handed over the tip.

"Thank you, sir." The cabbie touched his cap. "Good luck."

We’ll need it, Jerry thought. The other teams were starting to arrive, loading their planes, turning over engines. He craned his neck every time another cab pulled up, but it was only more of the contestants, or reporters.

Where the hell were they? And what the hell was wrong with Mitch? He shook his head. He’d been in pretty bad shape himself when he’d come to Colorado Springs the first time, still recovering from the infection that cost him his lower leg. Gil had told him once that Mitch had had a bad time since the War, but at the time, Jerry had still been too weak to think much about it, to ask questions. By the time he’d been well enough to notice much more than people’s general presence, Mitch had seemed ok and the chance had passed. Had there been something he should have seen? Something he should remember? Gil had said — Gil had said that Mitch spent some time traveling before he’d come to Colorado, that it was a touchy subject, something Mitch didn’t want to talk about. No, didn’t want to remember — couldn’t remember? Surely not that. That would be… potentially very bad.

Henry came striding back across the hangar, waving off a reporter, his coat flying open unbuttoned. “Anything?”

Jerry bit back a profane response — did Henry think he’d smuggled the team into the Terrier? “No sign yet.”

“Call the hotel,” Henry said. “I’m going to try to get the referees to let me start fueling without them.”

Jerry pivoted on his artificial leg, stalked across to the pay phone by the door. Luckily, he still had a handful of change, and fed it into the machine at the operator’s instructions, then waited while she raised the hotel switchboard. The operator was polite, but unhelpful. No, Mrs. Segura hadn’t left a message for him, nor had Mr. Segura or Mr. Sorley. She rang their rooms, and Jerry listened to the bell jangle on and on without an answer until the operator came on again.

“I’m sorry, sir. There’s no answer.”

“Thank you,” Jerry said, and hung up. He hadn’t felt a knot of fear like this since Italy, waiting for the balloon to go up, not knowing for sure if they’d get support, or even if their spotters had found the right targets… He shook the thought away, and turned back toward the plane.

“Dr. Ballard.”

At least it wasn’t Carmichael, Jerry thought, and forced a smile. He kept walking, the reporter falling into step at his side.

“Mrs. Segura and the rest of the team — it’s less than an hour till they’re due to take off. Any idea when they’ll be here?”

Jerry shook his head.

“Any idea where they’ve gone?”

“Into the city,” Jerry said.

“Any word on why?”

“I can’t answer that,” Jerry said — it was literally true — and waved to Henry. “Any luck?”

Henry nodded, his face grim. “I’ve got them to agree to fuel her up, and I can move her to the start line if I have to, but anything more — like flying her myself — disqualifies us.” He stopped, shoving his fists into his pockets. “No word?”

Jerry shook his head again. “They haven’t been back to the hotel.”

“Goddamnit!” Henry glared at the hovering reporter. “Look, buddy, you’d better clear out. There’s nothing for you here.”

“Missing aviatrix? In a city where all kinds of weird things happen?” The reporter was careful to stay out of reach, Jerry noticed. “That’s a story, Mr. Kershaw,”

Henry controlled himself with an effort. “I’ll grant you that,” he said, and his voice was almost his usual good-tempered baritone. “But that’s happening there, not here. We’re as much in the dark as you are, Thompson.”

“The team owner doesn’t know?” Thompson asked. “Come on, Doc, you must know something.”

Jerry shook his head, not trusting himself, his hand tight on the crook of his cane.

“Nope,” Henry said. “We don’t know anything.” He paused. “You want the real story of the morning? The referees are over there right now trying to decide if they’re going to disqualify Gilchrist altogether if they miss their start time. There’s a story for you.”

“Yeah?” Thompson cocked his head in disbelief.

Henry nodded. “Check it out for yourself.”

Thompson backed away, and Jerry looked at the other man. “Is that true?”

“Oh, yes.” Henry’s fists were clenched again, and he looked more than ever like a baited bull. “Some of the sponsors feel this is showing disrespect for the event, and Alma traipsing around with her harem in tow — her husband and her boyfriend and God knows what they think you are — that doesn’t exactly make this easier.”

“You know damn well that’s not true,” Jerry said.

“I know.” Henry had the grace to look abashed. “I do know that. But Winchell’s been making hay with it, and some of the sponsors are a little skittish. A sexy vamp is all well and good, but they don’t want to be associated with actual immorality. Luckily Altner just thinks it makes everything more exciting, and he’s putting up most of the money.”

“Will they be disqualified?” Jerry asked. They’d staked everything on the race, just as much as Jezek had. If they didn’t win — if they got kicked out because of Henry’s damned necklace — If they’d just managed to get rid of the thing in San Angelo the way they’d planned — He swallowed his anger, knowing it was useless here.

“I think I’ve talked them out of it,” Henry said. “I hope I have. But, remember, whatever happens, they still have to get to Pensacola by noon.”

N
one of it made much sense to Lewis, and by the time the cab tore up to the airport terminal at 8:33 Lewis didn't feel he was much the wiser. He had a few points — the guy who hired Stasi to steal the necklace had tried to shoot Mitch, who was apparently in a lunatic fugue and thought it was 1919, but Stasi had gotten him away and dragged him into the cemetery. Mitch might or might not be the New Orleans Axeman. Mitch mostly sat with his head back against the seat and his eyes closed, looking grim and gray and ill, interjecting little into the narrative.

Meanwhile the clock was ticking, their lead evaporating.

The sound of a trimotor taking off split the air as the cab pulled up, Lewis paying the driver without waiting for change. "Who is it?" he asked, not looking up from what he was doing.

"Comanche," Alma said. "They were in seventh."

Mitch muttered something under his breath and staggered out of the car.

"Darling, can you walk?" Stasi asked, running around to get under his shoulder.

"The hangar. Now," Alma said, taking off at a run through the doors.

"This is not going to be pretty," Lewis muttered, leaving the countess to drag Mitch along. Even if Jerry had gotten the plane fueled, the preflight was going to take a few minutes. He hurried along in Alma's wake.

She broke into a sprint across the flight line, running for the Terrier pulled up on the apron outside the hangar. At least someone had gotten it fueled and ready to go. Jerry was standing on the tarmac. With Henry. Henry must have pulled the plane out. He'd been a pilot himself, and while he couldn’t fly the race without disqualifying them he could do that much. But thunderclouds were friendlier than the look on his face.

"Lewis, take the seat," Alma shouted back to him. "I’ll get clearance."

"What in the name of heaven?" Henry demanded, grabbing Alma by the arm. "You people! What the hell?"

"I can talk or I can fly," Alma snapped back. "Jerry, get Mitch onboard."

"Where have you…?" Jerry started, and Alma cut him off with a look.

Two of the reporters who had been photographing the Comanche plane taking off hurried over, getting between Lewis and the door with cameras. "Mr. Segura, why does your wife have a black eye?"

Lewis punched him.

It was quite a roundhouse. The reporter went down, limbs flailing.

Henry threw his hat on the ground and stomped on it.

Lewis dove through the hatch and into the cockpit, flipping the ignition as he went. Preflight and warm up. He could do that while Alma spoke to the referees, got them to phone the tower.

She was right behind him, sliding into the co-pilot's seat. "Get us out of here as quick as you can," she said.

"You don't have to tell me twice."

Lewis was dimly aware of voices in the compartment behind, but he tuned them out. Nothing mattered but the plane. Nothing mattered but the flight, cold and adrenaline-fueled in the bright morning just like he'd been on many a flight line during the war. Just get it right, Segura. Just get it perfect.

And it was. At 9:08 the Terrier soared into the air, an hour and thirty three minutes behind the leader, in dead last place.

"W
e are completely screwed," Mitch said, leaning his head back against the seat.

"Would you like to tell me what happened?" Jerry's voice was completely even.

Mitch closed his eyes. "I was going to borrow some toothpaste," he said. "Out of your shaving kit. The necklace fell out and…" He shook his head, a bad idea as it brought the nausea back. "I don't know what happened next." It was all foggy, bits and pieces of memory. "I went to a bar. I walked around town for a while. I ran into Stasi." Mitch stopped. And then he'd been convinced it was 1919, that twelve years had completely disappeared. Gil was alive and was wiring him from Colorado, asking when he was going to come out and go into business with him. He was living with Jeff and Milly. It had all made sense, all seemed logical at the time.

"And then?" Jerry asked gently.

"I don't know."

Jerry leaned over and patted his shoulder. "Why don't you try to get some sleep? There isn't anything we can do until we get to Pensacola." He heard Jerry get up heavily and go to the cockpit door, leaning in with it half ajar, heard the sound of his voice but no words were distinguishable over the sound of the engines. No doubt he was talking to the others, talking about him.

The seat beside him gave again and Mitch looked up. "You're still here?"

"I seem to be," Stasi said brightly. Her hair had fallen down and her silk dress was ripped and she looked decidedly the worse for wear. "I love fleeing town with the clothes on my back, darling! It's what I live for."

"You didn't have to."

"Lanier was trying to shoot me, and between you and me, he didn't look all that sane himself, if you understand what I mean. And I've heard Florida's lovely this time of year. Pensacola, is it?"

"It is," Mitch said. His mouth tasted like ashes. "We were in first place. Now we'll be lucky if we can stay in the race at all."

Stasi glanced out the window. "I suppose it's a big prize."

"We have to win a purse," Mitch said. "We're flat broke. The company is going under if we don't place. We're going to have to sell off the planes and my car." He took a deep breath. "We could have won."