Выбрать главу

Prendergast nodded slowly and held up a thumb.

He's not American, Shorty thought. He says things like "please yourself." What the hell, he was making money; what did he care if his passenger wore a false beard and didn't talk?

Sandy moved Cara around the impromptu dance floor on the broad front porch, accompanied by a small band that Saul Winner had recommended. A few yards away, Saul himself danced, with Nicky's head on his shoulder. The party was mellowing, now, and half the guests had departed for town. Soon the others would begin to say their goodnights, and he and Cara could go to bed. Sandy was looking forward to his wedding night.

Shorty consulted the GPS and spoke up. "Your airport is dead ahead, fifteen miles," he said.

Prendergast, who had been sitting as stonily still as a Buddha, came to life. "The lights are pilot operated on one-two-two-point-eight," he said. "Five keys."

Shorty dialed the frequency into the radio. "What's the name of the field?" he asked. "I want to announce our intentions to any possible traffic there."

"No announcements," Prendergast said. "There won't be any traffic."

"What's the field elevation?" Shorty asked.

"I don't know; probably about the same as Napa," Prendergast replied.

They were descending through four thousand feet over the little town now, and Shorty looked up Napa's elevation: thirty-three feet. He flipped out his speed brakes, increased his rate of descent and eased back on the throttles. Five miles later he picked up the microphone and pressed the transmit key rapidly five times.

"There!" Prendergast said, pointing ahead and slightly to their right.

Shorty looked out and picked up the runway lights. "How long is the runway?" he asked.

"Thirty-five hundred, maybe four thousand feet," Prender-gast said. "You've got plenty of tarmac."

Tarmac. Another of those non-American words.

"Land to the northeast," Prendergast said. "The forecast winds at Napa were zero five zero at five knots."

"Gotcha," Shorty said, then began his final checklist. He increased his rate of descent again, and the speed brakes kept him from coming in too hot. He flipped on his landing lights and lined up with the runway. The runway numbers came into view and Shorty pulled the throttles all the way back. He made a smooth landing and applied his brakes immediately. Prendergast could be wrong about the runway length.

"Turn right onto the runup pad at the end of the runway, then do a one-eighty and cut your engines."

Shorty turned off the runway, spun the airplane around and shut everything down.

Prendergast popped the door. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he said. "Don't leave the aircraft, except to have a pee. When I get back I'll want to go immediately."

"Gotcha," Shorty said. He eased the back of his seat into a reclining position but held his head up long enough to watch Prendergast disappear into the woods not far from the end of the runway, the rays of a flashlight bobbing ahead of him… Then he lay back and closed his eyes. Sure was peaceful out here, he thought.

All the guests had left who were leaving. Sam Warren and his wife had retired to the guest room, and Cara was taking a bath. Sandy undressed, slipped into a dressing gown and went downstairs to turn off the lights. He walked out onto the darkened front porch and took a last look at the lovely evening. There was half a moon and it cast a beautiful light over the vineyards. He was very happy to be who he was and where he was. He turned and went back into the house, not bothering to lock the front door. Mike Bernini had told him that nobody locked their doors around here.

He turned off the living room lights and headed for the stairs, blinking and feeling his way until his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. His hand found the newel post at the bottom of the stairs and a millisecond later, something heavy and firm struck the back of his neck. He managed to hold on to the newel post for another second before it got darker, and he lost consciousness.

CHAPTER 52

Sandy's dreams were awful; they spun violently in his head, and he couldn't get make them slow down. Then his eyes opened, and he wondered where he was.

His cheek lay against soft carpeting, and there was a large, dull pain in the back of his neck. He lifted his head, and the pain increased. He was on a strange staircase; he could feel the bannister next to him, but he couldn't see anything. There was no staircase in the New York apartment, so where could he be?

He had a sudden memory of dancing, so he began there and worked his way forward. He was dancing, then he was shaking hands with people. Sam Warren was there, saying good night and climbing the stairs. The stairs were in the house at the vineyard! He got to his knees. What the hell was going on? He struggled to his feet and held onto the bannister, willing his feet to climb the stairs. Why? What was the rush? What was waiting for him upstairs?

He climbed faster, his breath coming in short gasps, his neck hurting. Cara was up there somewhere. He paused at the top of the stairs to get his bearings. Their room was to his right, wasn't it? He tried shaking his head to clear it, but that made his neck hurt even more. He stumbled toward the bedroom.

The door was open and moonlight flooded the room. Had the lights been off? He looked toward the bed. Someone tall was standing there, shaking his upper body in an odd way. Then he realized that two people were standing there, and one of them was doing something to the other. "Cara!" he shouted, then moved toward them.

"Sandy, help me!"

The two figures separated and the tall one fled past him to the door. Sandy grabbed weakly at the man, and for a moment, he had hold of a raincoat sleeve, then something heavy hit him in the face, and he went down. Before he blacked out for a second time he heard, as from a great distance, Cara's scream.

Shorty Barnum was jarred awake by the shaking of the airplane. Someone was opening the rear door. "Prendergast?" he asked, blinking rapidly.

"Yes, let's go," Prendergast said, latching the rear door and falling into a seat. "Get the bloody thing started." The man was breathing hard.

Shorty checked the circuit breakers out of habit, then picked up his checklist.

"For God's sake, man, let's get out of here!" Prendergast shouted from the backseat. He sounded less American than ever.

Shorty fired up the two engines and checked the panel gauges. The engines were still warm from their flight up from L.A., and everything was in the green. If Prendergast was in such a hurry, he wouldn't bother with a runup. Shorty eased the throttles forward and taxied onto the runway. Still rolling, he pushed the throttles to wide open and let the airplane gather speed. A moment later they were rising through the darkness, and it was not until then that Shorty realized that he had not bothered to turn on the runway lights. Still, he had had plenty of visibility from his landing and taxi lights.

He got the landing gear up and trimmed for his climb. He set nine thousand feet into the altitude preselect, chose a heading that would take them east of San Francisco airspace, and switched on the autopilot. As he climbed, his attention was attracted to flashing red lights on the ground. They were on top of a car, and they were moving in the direction from which the airplane had just come. A police car or a fire truck, he thought. He couldn't hear any sirens over the engines.

When Sandy woke up his head was in Cara's lap, and a strange man was speaking to him.

"Mr. Kinsolving? Can you hear me?"

"Yes," Sandy said and tried to sit up.

"Just lie still, darling," Cara said, and he let his head fall back to the warm nest.