High Risk 11.4

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[Continuing chapter eleven]

“Casey.” He struggled to sit up. “What happened?” He recognized Hogan’s voice.

“Telford,” Casey said. He looked around. “Where is he?”

“Took off a couple of minutes ago,” Hogan said. “Was he really trying to steal my Bristol?”

“That’s sure what it looked like to me,” Casey said. He looked around.

Tillman’s body lay, face-down, a few feet away; Hamilton and Desiree were crouched over him. He wasn’t moving, and Casey thought he saw red on the grass. “Sweet Jesus,” he said. “Is he dead?” As he said that, he registered the fact that the Bristol was still here; he was only a few feet from the fuselage of the big two-seater. “He took the Jenny?”

“Yep,” said Mitch. “Tillman’s not dead, but that could change any minute now. You okay, Casey?”

He carefully touched the side of his head. It felt enormous. “What did he hit me with?”

Mitch pointed to a spanner a few feet from where Casey sat. “I’m going to feel that for a few days,” he said. “What happened to Tillman?”

“We don’t know,” Hogan said. “I suppose he tried to help you, and in return got what you got. Casey, why the hell would Telford suddenly decide to steal my Bristol?”

“Mitch didn’t tell you?”

Mitch shook his head. “Didn’t get the chance,” he said. “Soon’s I said Loopy was trying to steal the Bristol, Mr. Hogan here was off like a shot.”

“He told us, though,” Desiree said. “You think Telford killed Lily?”

“Yes,” Casey said. He stood up and grabbed the side of the Bristol’s fuselage. “Mitch, prop me, will you?”

“What the hell are you talking about, Casey?” Hogan grabbed his shoulders, tried to push him away from the plane.

“If he’s flying that Jenny,” Casey said, “I can catch him in the Bristol.”

“And do what? This isn’t the Western Front, Casey. These ships aren’t armed.”

“I can at least find out where he’s going. Did someone call the cops?”

“Straebo’s taking care of that,” Mitch said.

“Good. Look, Hogan, he may be trying to get to Mexico. I’m almost positive that Telford killed Lily. He as much as admitted it to me when he hit me. If we can’t catch him, force him down maybe, he’s going to get away with murder.”

“You just took a solid clocking,” Hogan said. “I’m not sure you should be flying.”

“Don’t forget, Mr. Hogan,” Casey said, “I’ve done this sort of thing lots of times before. If I could fight the Huns hung over—and still drunk, at least once—then I can certainly chase Loopy Telford.” He stepped up onto the Bristol’s lower wing and hauled himself into the cockpit. “Now, somebody prop me. We can’t afford to waste any more time.”

He felt a thump as he adjusted the throttle and flipped the mag switches, but it wasn’t until the Rolls-Royce engine was roaring and the Bristol had started to roll forward that Casey checked over his shoulder—and saw Desiree in the rear cockpit. “What the hell are you doing there?” he yelled. She didn’t answer, just gripped the sides of the cockpit, glaring at him; she wasn’t even wearing goggles. She had ruined his plan: he had counted on bringing Telford back in the empty rear seat. He turned around again to watch where he was going; as the Bristol rolled down the field he screamed every obscenity he knew at her, his anger magnified by the knowledge that she wouldn’t be able to hear a thing over the sound of the engine.

Well, it was too late to throw her out and too damned bad if her weight slowed him down. She had wanted a joy-ride; he would give her one.

A check of the radiator temperature gauge told him that the engine hadn’t fully warmed up yet, but he’d let Hogan worry about any negative consequences. He pushed the throttle all the way forward. The Bristol shook like a wet dog, then leapt forward. The takeoff run was a bit longer than would have been the case with a Tommy, but not by much, and he was off the ground with half the field still ahead of him.

Climbing would waste time; he throttled back a touch and leveled off once he was sure he’d clear the trees. Besides, Telford would be easier to spot against the blue blankness of the sky, something Casey could guarantee by staying low. If he climbed above Telford the Jenny would fade into the patchwork of fields, roads, and buildings below.

He turned south, doing only the most cursory of checks to the north and east. He saw nothing in either direction, and hoped that that meant his guess was correct and Telford was making straight for Mexico. If he’d gone north or east and Casey had missed him, Telford could fly close to two hundred miles before he had to refuel. Los Angeles appeared beneath Casey’s wings.

He saw a speck to the south-east. He steered toward it, watching the air-speed indicator climb to a hundred and twenty. That was more than half again as fast as Telford could manage in the grotesque Jenny; if the speck was indeed Telford, Casey would catch him in under ten minutes. If that’s not Telford, he thought, I won’t know it until I’m practically wing-tip to wing-tip with him. But he didn’t have much choice.

He wondered only briefly if Desiree was feeling any discomfort, or if in some perverse way she was enjoying herself. There was too much else to think about; foremost was the question of what exactly he’d do if he did manage to catch Telford. If the man was drunk or afraid or both he might just give up and land as soon as he saw Casey on his tail. But it was equally possible that he’d ignore him. Do I have the nerve to ram him if that’s what it takes to bring him down?

And if Telford refused to land, what then? The Bristol’s tank was only half-full; that wouldn’t allow Casey to reach San Diego, much less follow Telford over the border. Which meant that wouldn’t even be able to abandon Desiree in Mexico in order to bring Telford back. It was too bad; he’d enjoyed the fantasy for the moment it had lasted.

Whatever was going to happen would have to happen soon: Casey saw in silhouette the huge, ugly comma-shaped rudder that marked Straebo’s Jenny. Opening the throttle a bit, he pitched the Bristol’s nose up to gain some height.

Despite the drop in speed caused by the climb, he still had to throttle back; the Jenny was moving so slowly in comparison with the Bristol that he risked overshooting. Casey nudged the throttle and stick in concert until the Bristol seemed to hover, just above and behind the Jenny. Telford did not look back, and gave no other sign that he was aware of Casey’s presence; the Jenny continued its dogged way toward San Diego, and Tijuana beyond.

I’ll make him see me, Casey thought. Sliding the Bristol down and to port, he opened the throttle just enough to bring him alongside the Jenny, staying just far enough away that if Telford lost control Casey could get out of his way before their machines collided. For a few seconds the two biplanes thundered southward in parallel. Then Telford looked left.

At this distance Casey could make out Telford’s features clearly. Even with the upper part of his face obscured by goggles, the distress was evident; Telford’s mouth drooped so much that for a second Casey thought the man might have started to cry. With his right hand, Casey reached over the side of the Bristol and made elaborate down-pointing gestures. It was a signal any Great War pilot would recognize, but Telford did not acknowledge it. For a while, he simply stared at Casey. Then he pushed his goggles up, exposing his face to the slipstream. He wiped his eyes; he had been crying, after all. He’s given up, Casey thought. Either he doesn’t realize he could still get to Mexico, or he just doesn’t care.

Then the Jenny disappeared behind him.

Cursing, Casey looked over his shoulder; the Jenny’s nose was up. Telford had stalled the Jenny in order to cause him to overshoot.

Casey slammed the throttle forward again, and the Rolls-Royce responded with a roar. Ailerons and rudder to the right, Casey began a wide turn that would bring him back around and behind the Jenny again. As he turned, he continued shoulder-checking, to ensure that Telford wasn’t trying to stunt his way free.

The Jenny was now in a shallow dive, its prop turning slowly. He’s shut off, Casey thought. He’s going to set her down.

It took Casey almost thirty seconds to swing back around and catch up to the Jenny again. Telford, he saw, had one hand outside the cockpit. Was he smashing something against the side of the fuselage? He’s not going to land and then come after me with a broken bottle, is he?

Casey was so caught up in trying to see what it was that Telford was doing with his right hand that the orange-white flash caught him completely by surprise. Only when the Jenny’s fuselage suddenly sported long feathers of flame did Casey realize what he was seeing, what had happened.

He didn’t shut off, Casey thought. He just held down the blip-switch. For nearly a minute, letting petrol fill the cowling and splash along the fuselage, before Telford released the switch, bringing on the spark that turned the Jenny into a biplane torch.

Casey couldn’t bring himself to look away. He held the Bristol in a tight, circling turn, watching as the burning Jenny arced down, describing a shallow curve that ended with another bright orange splash against the green of a marshy field near Long Beach.

Next     Prologue    Chapter One    Chapter Two    Chapter Three    Chapter Four    Chapter Five
Chapter Six    Chapter Seven    Chapter Eight    Chapter Nine     Chapter Ten    Chapter Eleven