The right wheel hit it. The whole plane trembled. There was a pause; then the engines revved louder. The pilot was going to push it. And with only one wheel blocked, and that at an angle, he would be able to roll over the chock within a minute.
“What the hell are you doing?” Russ yelled.
The Cheyenne was pivoting again, this time against the obstruction. She had maybe ten seconds left before it was free—nine—she threw herself on the tarmac and rolled under the tail—eight—staggered to her feet and ducked under the left wing—seven—took the second wheel chock and jammed it under the left wheel.
The plane seemed to hiccup. Its engines screamed in complaint as the pilot revved them higher. She could see the chock in front of the right wheel skid as the plane’s tire ground it out of the way. Her eyes went to the nose wheel—small, unpowered, there to hold up the plane on an even triangle of support. She stooped under the belly and ran, crouching so low, her knees were hitting her nose. The props roared, each less than two feet from her head. If the wheel got over the chock, the plane would turn and Russ would have to ship her home to her parents in Baggies. She flung herself on her belly and thrust the last chock beneath the nose wheel. Then she scrambled to her hands and knees, crawled forward a couple of yards, and lurched to her feet, well away from the spinning propellers.
For a moment, she could hear the voice of her survival school instructor. You like to live on the edge, don’t you, Fergusson?
Sir, yes, sir.
Russ grabbed her arm and hauled her behind him. “Now, who’s the idiot?” he hissed.
“It worked,” she said. She stepped away from him so she could see the cockpit windows. The height and tilt of them made it impossible to make out any details about who was sitting there, but she knew he—or they—could see her. She gestured, using the universal language of flight crews: Three. Wheels. Stop.
Nothing. She and Russ stood there in front of the immobilized plane while the engines roared fruitlessly on. She had just enough time to wonder if the cockpit’s side windows were sealed, or if they could open, and if so, whether someone would stick a gun out and start firing at them.
“Maybe we should—”
“Let’s move to—”
The cabin door opened. It was Opperman, his face a mask.
“Turn off those engines and get down from there,” Russ shouted. “I’m here to arrest Peggy Landry for attempted murder and conspiracy to commit murder.”
“I’d love to oblige you, Chief,” Opperman said. His eyes shifted toward something inside the plane. “Unfortunately, Peggy has taken possession of my gun and is quite determined to have me fly her out of here.”
“Christ,” Russ said under his breath. “This is why guns in the cockpit are such a bad idea.” He raised his voice. “Peggy, what do you want?”
Opperman held one edge of the door frame and moved to one side. And there was Peggy, pressing a handgun into his side. She wasn’t the cool, acerbic hostess Clare remembered from her party, nor the nearly hysterical victim from earlier today. This was a woman stripped to the bone. Her eyes were red-rimmed and teary, but not with remorse or self-pity. With rage. Peggy Landry looked ready to jump over the edge, not caring whom she took with her.
“Ms. Landry,” Russ said, raising his voice to be heard over the thrum of the propellers, “put down the weapon and come with me. There’s not any way you’re going to get out of this.”
“I might have said the same thing about you and the helicopter,” she said. “I understood it wouldn’t fly if the gas supply was compromised. But here you are.” Her voice was firm, but the gun in her hand trembled.
“The helicopter went down. It was Clare’s piloting that kept us alive.”
Clare thought it was more likely dumb luck. However, she wasn’t going to try to put her two cents in.
“Waxman?”
“He’s still hanging on. You pushed him into that ravine, didn’t you? Why?”
Opperman looked at Peggy, his expression pained. Clare couldn’t tell if it was from the news of his helicopter’s fate or Waxman’s. From what she had seen of the man, she suspected the former.
“He thought he knew things he didn’t. He was trying to blackmail me, the little weasel. He had discovered PCBs in the groundwater around the quarry pond on my land. He…was promised a job if he kept his mouth shut about it.” Her eyes flicked down, as if to make sure the gun was still firmly against Opperman’s waist. “He knew if the DEP found out, it would be the end of the project. He was threatening me! He threatened me!”
Opperman was shaking his head. “There’s no PCB contamination.” He spoke loudly enough for them all to hear. “Leo found contaminated water when he first came to the site, but the levels have been going down every time he tested. I was suspicious—I thought maybe he was setting us up. I hired a diver to check things out this past week. He found an empty chem-hazard container at the bottom of the quarry pond.” He looked directly at Russ. “My guess is that Leo seeded the pond with sludge from the Allen Mill cleanup site, or those antidevelopment environmental extremists did.”
“What?”
Clare’s amazement was so strong, she could almost believe her thought rang out loud. But it was Peggy who spoke, clutching at the door frame and the gun with equal fervor.
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘There’s no PCB contamination’? I saw Waxman’s test results. I know—if he—”
“I just found out myself,” Opperman said. “I hadn’t had the chance to tell you. I was going to talk to some people I know at the EPA on Monday and report the sabotage.” He looked at Russ again. “Of course, I thought—we all thought—that if there was residual contamination from when the quarry was used for storage, we’d have to shut down the project.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me any of this when I interviewed you Monday?” Russ’s voice cracked with frustration.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Peggy added, jabbing Opperman in the ribs for emphasis.
He stiffened against the gun’s prodding. “I told you—I just found out myself!” He looked at Russ. “And when you spoke to me, I thought Bill had been killed as a result of a sexual encounter gone wrong. How was I supposed to guess there was some connection to a confidential business situation?” Clare was amazed that, even held hostage, Opperman managed to play the autocrat. “Besides, I already suspected tampering from that tree-hugger group. And we certainly know where your sympathies lie, don’t we?”
Clare could feel the tension radiating from Russ, but he ignored Opperman’s jab. “Ms. Landry,” he said, “did you order Bill Ingraham killed?”
“The son of a bitch was going to pull the plug on the project,” Peggy protested. “He was going to fold up and go home because of the goddamned PCBs….” For a moment, she looked lost. “I would have been left with nothing. With nothing!” She practically howled her words.
“Russ,” Clare said in his ear.
“I know.”
She had seen suicidal people before, people driven to the brink of utter hopelessness. That mad despair was in Peggy’s eyes.
Evidently, Opperman saw it, too. “Peg,” he said, almost too softly to be heard over the engines’ roar. “Let’s sit down and talk about this. I can help you. I know some of the best lawyers—”
“You!”
Now the madness turned outward.
“You! Always being so damn helpful! Always telling me everything’s going to turn out all right! Well, it hasn’t, has it? My life is ruined! And I swear to God yours will be, too!”