“I don’t know what frightened them,” Lee lied. Jake was coming, his footsteps in the alleyway.
Lee knew that this moment with her would lead nowhere, that it was fear that had done this, that she would not have touched him otherwise, would not have clung to him. The dark spirit had done this, and silently he cursed the haunt—and yet he would not have missed this one perfect moment even if he burned forever in Satan’s hell.
It was now that the cat appeared beside Lee’s boot and then leaped to the manger and into the partially filled grain box. He didn’t startle the mare, in fact only then did the Appaloosa settle down completely, nose in beside the cat, and begin carefully to nibble up her oats. The cat rubbed against her then he slipped out of the manger again and down into the stall. Wading across the straw bedding, he rubbed against Lucita’s ankles, his purrs calming the three of them as Jake opened the stall door and stepped in.
“I found nothing.” He looked pale; he looked at the mare, so quiet now, and reached to stroke her neck. “They’re both calm now. Whatever was there, it’s gone.” He looked at Lee, at Lucita. “Whatever that was—a cougar or whatever thehell it was, I hope it doesn’t come back. I took the electric torch, looked for tracks, couldn’t find anything. I’ll try again, at first light.” He touched Lucita’s cheek, took her in his arms as Lee turned away and moved out of the stall.
17
Lee had been at work for nearly two weeks when he discovered the perfect escape from whatever crime he ultimately planned, a foolproof way to vanish from Blythe, to slip from the cops’ grasp without a clue for them to trace. It was midmorning, he was inching the truck along beside the field below the levee keeping pace with the pickers, when above him atop the levee an unfamiliar truck came rattling along fast. It passed him and, some distance beyond, turned down the side of the levee onto an open dirt strip, stopping in a swirl of dust. Two men got out, began dragging heavily loaded burlap bags out of the truck bed. He was trying to make out the lettering on the truck’s door when a buzzing sound made him look up, the racket grew to a deafening roar and a yellow biplane flashed so low over him that he ducked.
The plane banked steeply, flying treacherously low as it swung back toward the strip. The engine cut to an idle, the left wing dropped, the plane side-slipped at such a steep angle Lee was certain it would crash. The pilot in the open, rear cockpit looked down unconcerned. At the last minute he straightened the plane, touched down, and rolled lightly to a stop just beside the truck.
Lee put his own truck in neutral, got out, and walked over to take a look, watching the truck driver and his partner as they began to empty their bags, one after another, into a hopper in the front cockpit, releasing a heavy white powder that smelled like the bug poison they used in prison to keep the roaches down, or like the white cricket bait scattered like snow on the streets of Blythe. The name on the truck was Valley Dusters. The pilot slid out of the rear cockpit, pulled off his helmet and goggles releasing a tangle of brown curly hair. A young man, fancy white scarf tucked into the collar of his black windbreaker, clean tan slacks, black boots. He looked at Lee questioningly, not quite belligerent but with a lopsided half-smile.
“I thought,” Lee said, “you were going to drive that booger straight into the ground.”
The young man smiled.“I guess you’re not a pilot. These babies are handy as hell, you can outfly a hawk in one of these.” He looked Lee over. “You look like a horseman. You ever been up higher than a bronc’s back?”
“Never have, never intend to.” In prison he’d watched pilots buzz the walls once in a while, that always brought men out into the yard, staring up, wishing they could grab on, catch a lift out of there. Some guys claimed that in the future huge planes would fly all over the country, more and bigger even than the planes that had helped win the war, planes that would carry hundreds of passengers clear around the world. Already there were a few such flights, out of San Francisco and L.A. But this little yellow plane seemed a different breed, so small and handy it was free to land anywhere,in a pasture, an open field, the pilot could come and go as he pleased.
“It’s a war surplus trainer, a Stearman,” the young man said. “I’m Mark Triple.”
Lee put out his hand.“Lee Fontana. I work for Delgado.”
Triple nodded.“Come take a look.”
Lee moved around to study the big radial engine, then stared into the open cockpit at the worn canvas seat cushion, the black instrument panel with its cluster of dials that looked only confusing to him. He couldn’t imagine leaving the earth in this little machine, a man would have to be crazy. Yet the idea, the freedom such a plane offered, deeply excited him.
“I put a bigger engine on it,” Triple said. “Four hundred and fifty horse. Carries a good load, but I’m going to get a new plane that will carry more dust, handle more fields without reloading. There’s a growing demand for crop dusting.”
Jake had talked about how much this method of distributing insecticides saved in produce, about the higher yield to the fields when the crops weren’t ruined by insects. It looked like a good business, all right. It would have to be, if this young a man, who couldn’t have been in business long, was already buying a new and bigger plane. How much, Lee wondered, would that set him back? Compared to a car or truck, a plane had to cost a fortune. He smiled at the kid, encouraging him. “Looks like you’re doing all right.”
Triple laughed.“Just getting started. Going back to Wichita in a few weeks, there’s an aircraft plant there, and there’s a guy back there wants to buy the Stearman.”
Lee studied the pilot.“Which way will you go to Wichita?”
“Up through Vegas, to say good-bye to a girl there. Then on direct to Kansas.”
“Saying good-bye’s kind of final.”
“I’m going on to Florida, hook up with a friend. Tired of working for others, we plan to start up our own dusting business.”
“You won’t be coming back to California?” Lee asked with interest. “How long would a trip like that take?”
“Here to Vegas, a little over an hour. Vegas to Wichita, given good weather, maybe nine or ten hours.”
“Nice,” Lee said. “Time was, it took folks months to make that journey. I guess, the way you work, on your own and all, you don’t keep time schedules like an airline would, you’re not beholden to anyone?”
Triple smiled, studying him.“I don’t keep any schedules, and I work my own hours. As long as I do the work, my time’s pretty much my own. I have my own hangar, I work when and where I’m needed. I check in with the home office once a week and send them a bill, and that’s about it.”
Lee nodded.“Your hangar … You keep your plane nearby?”
“The abandoned military airfield—that flat stretch west of town up on the butte. I contract to Valley Dusters out of San Bernardino. I’m pretty free now, I guess, but I want my own operation, I want to do things my way.” He glanced up at the two men, who had finished the loading. “Have toget moving,” he said, swinging up into the cockpit. “Nice meeting you, Fontana.”
“Will you be back this way?”
“Next week,” Mark shouted, revving the engine. “Dust again next week.”
Lee wanted to ask him more but Triple was on his way, the engine roaring. Lee stepped back beside his truck, watched the yellow plane taxi, gaining speed, watched it lift at the far end of the field like a great bird leaping up, even with the weight it carried. He watched it bank sharply, heading back low, dropping its nose along the far side of the levee, where acres of young bean plants stretched away.
With its wheels just above the green rows it spat a white cloud of dust that settled quickly down on the long lines of bright leaves. At the other end of the field, Triple flew under a power line then climbed and turned, came back under the same line to make another pass. Lee stood with his hand over his nose and mouth, choking on the insecticide—but deep in thought, thinking where that plane could go without any record of takeoff time or destination. Soon he was coughing hard, but the idea that gripped him was more urgent than his sick lungs—a crazy idea, but he thought it might work, and a hot excitement surged through him. Mark Triple and his yellow plane could be, Lee thought, his one sure ticket to freedom.