“Yeah.” Riff flexed his aching wrist. “How’s about this girl? What do we do about her?”
“What do you think? We take her with us until we’re sure we are out of trouble.”
Riff blew out his cheeks. He was nervous and unsure of himself.
“Think we’re going to get away with this, baby?”
“I don’t know, but I do know we’re going to try,” Chita said in a flat, cold voice.
Ahead of her, in the headlights of the car, she saw a cheaply painted sign that read: Boswick Air Taxi Service. Two Miles.
She swung the car off the highway and drove up an uneven dirt road that eventually led to the airport.
Chapter Twelve
Vic knew the Cadillac was nearly out of gas when he had returned to Wastelands. He knew, before the Cranes reached Boston Creek, they would have to stop to refuel. They had a ten-minute start on him. Providing he drove fast enough and providing there was a little delay when they refilled the tank, he had a good chance of catching up with them. He had no idea what he was going to do when he did catch up with them, but all he could think of right at this moment was to be with Carrie.
He had made his decision when Harper had told him the Cadillac was heading towards Boston Greek. When Harper had entered the ranch house, Vic had run to the garage. He found Moe’s Lincoln: the key in the ignition lock. As he switched on, he saw with relief that the gas tank was half full.
He drove as he had never driven before. There was plenty of power under the Lincoln’s hood and the car shot down the long drive at well over ninety miles an hour. The gate stood open. Vic slammed on the brakes. The tyres screeched as he swung the car out on to the dirt road, then he shoved the gas pedal once again to the floorboards.
It seemed only seconds before his headlights picked out the main road. Again he slowed. He daren’t risk a smash. But once on the main road, he settled down to hurtle the Lincoln towards Boston Creek at its maximum speed. Three times he flashed past approaching cars who hooted at him: the drivers shocked at his speed. The speedometer needle was steady at one hundred and two miles an hour, the maximum he could get from the roaring engine.
Hunched over the wheel, his heart pounding, Vic regretted refusing Dennison’s offer of a gun. When he finally caught up with the Cadillac what was he to do? Both the Cranes had guns. How was he to get Carrie away from them?
He overtook a car that, at the speed he was travelling, seemed to be standing still. Again he heard the indignant blast of a horn as the driver, shaken, made his protest.
Vic kept on. Minutes later, he saw a flashing sign that was spelling out the word G-a-l-t-e-x: the first service station on the road. It would be here, if he had any luck, that the Cadillac had had to stop for gas. He slowed, swung the car into the circular drive and brought the car to a screeching stop.
A big man in the Caltex uniform came hurrying out of the office. Vic got out of the car.
“Brother!” the attendant said. “You sure scared me. You going to a fire?”
“Did a blue and white Cadillac stop here for gas about ten minutes ago?” Vic asked, trying to steady his voice. “Two women and a man in the car?”
Happy to have information to give, the attendant nodded. “Why, sure. They left about five minutes ago. Friends of yours?”
Vic drew in a long breath. Friends? He thought of Carrie.
“Did they say where they were going?”
“One of them — one of the girls — asked where the nearest air taxi service was,” the attendant told him. “I put them on to the Boswick airport: a couple of young guys run it... nice fellas... I thought I’d do them a good turn.”
“Have you a telephone?”
The attendant raised his arms helplessly.
“It’s been out of order all day. Sorry, but there it is... the times I’ve had to tell folks...”
“You wouldn’t have a gun you could lend me?” Vic asked as he began to move back to the Lincoln.
The attendant stared at him.
“Gun? What do you mean?”
“Never mind,” Vic said and slid under the driving wheel.
“What’s this about a gun?” the attendant demanded, coming up to the car.
“Never mind,” Vic snapped and sent the car roaring along the highway. He knew where the Boswick airport was. He had often passed the signpost on his way to Boston Creek.
So they were going to try to get away by air, he thought.
If he could rely on the gas attendant, they were only five or at the most ten minutes ahead of him, they couldn’t charter a plane and take off under an hour. He was now certain to reach the airport while they were still there.
As soon as he saw the lights of the airport, he would have to turn his headlights off. He would then have to approach slowly so they wouldn’t hear the car’s engine. He would have to leave the car some distance from the airport and then approach on foot. His only weapon, he reminded himself grimly, was the weapon of surprise.
Ralph Boswick a heavily-built, sandy-haired young man, replaced the telephone receiver, took his big feet off the desk and stood up.
His partner, Jeff Lancing, lolling in a discarded aircraft chair, looked at him inquiringly.
“Who was that?”
Boswick lit a cigarette, striking the match on the seat of his cavalry twill pants.
“Believe it or not... the F.B.I.” he said and grinned. “Seems kidnappers could arrive here. A man and a woman have snatched a woman and could be heading our way. They’re nuts! For the past week, no one has headed our way!”
Lancing, short, barrel-chested and dark, slightly older than Boswick, looked sharply at his partner.
“They give a description?”
“Oh, sure. The man is tall, powerfully built and dark. He’s wearing a black leather outfit. The woman is his twin sister. The other woman has reddish hair and she’s pretty. They say the kidnappers are armed and dangerous.”
Lancing got to his feet.
“This is just the place they might come to!” he said. “Dangerous, huh?” He went to the desk, pulled open a drawer and took from it a .45 automatic.
Boswick laughed.
“Be your age, Jeff! That iron isn’t safe to fire. It hasn’t been cleaned or oiled in years, and besides, we haven’t any slugs for it.”
Lancing hesitated, then with an embarrassed grin, he put the gun back in the drawer.
“We’d look pretty dumb if they did come here,” he said.
“They won’t,” Boswick said. “No one comes here. Jeff... I hate to say this, but I’ve been looking at our figures. If something doesn’t happen soon, we’re going to be in the hole. This idea of ours isn’t working out.”
“The trouble with you,” Lancing said, “is you’re always looking for the fast buck. Everything takes time. You see, in a couple of months, we’ll be in the black again.”
“If we go on like this,” Boswick said, taking a file from a drawer in the desk, “we’ll be sold up. I mean it, Jeff. Here, take a look at these figures.”
With a resigned sigh, Lancing came to the desk. Together, the two men began to go over the bills that they owed. They worked for the next hour, then Lancing tossed aside his pencil and stood up.
“I didn’t realize it was this bad,” he said glumly. “What are we going to do?”
“What other mugs have to do,” Boswick said, shrugging. “We’ll have to find another mug. We...” He paused as the door leading into the small office swung silently open. A girl, her hair carelessly dyed blonde, wearing a flowered cotton dress with a full skirt, her eyes very alert and watchful, stood in the doorway.
The two men stared at her.