Marcia Muller - Burn Out

“Okay,” I said aloud, “I don’t care about saving the plane. What I need to do is keep the cockpit-and me-intact. Screw the wings, tail section, and landing gear.”

The terrain was treacherous, but I could use it to my advantage. Rock was an energy-absorbing medium; even the scrub pines would help stop the plane once it was down. If I landed correctly, allowing only the outer parts of the Cessna to be mangled…

But what if the plane exploded on impact? I’d never see Hy again. Never see the other people I loved, never-

Focus, dammit!

Lower flaps. That increases mobility. Bank a little here, not too much. More right rudder. Lift the nose slightly. Now hold it level.

I was almost to the ridge now, its black, glassy rocks seeming to jump up at me.

Hold it level.

Slow it down.

Slower…

There was a stand of scrub pines near the ridgetop. Perfect. The right wing would hit them, slow the plane before it hit rock.

Brace yourself!

Jarring impact. A shearing sound. Metal screaming. The plane slewed violently to the left.

My seat belt tore loose and I slammed against the door, then forward onto the yoke. Pain shot through my chest, but I clung to the yoke as if it were a life preserver, my eyes squeezed shut, steeled for the whoosh of igniting fuel.

The plane dropped downward, its landing gear crushed. Then, with a sound like a great sigh, it settled. Stones rattled, metal groaned, the windshield rained down.

The silence that followed was almost as deafening as the crash.

I raised my head and looked around. The right wing was gone, the plane’s nose buried into the ground, facing downhill. But the cockpit and I were intact.

You did it, McCone. You brought it down.

The voice in my mind sounded like Hy’s. As if he’d been there all along, urging me on.

Exit and get clear of the aircraft promptly, in case of explosion.

I grabbed my backpack from the passenger seat and pushed through the half-sprung door. Tumbled to the ground, pushed myself up, and took off running and skidding down the ridge.

At its bottom I looked back at the twisted wreckage of the Cessna. The elevators on the tail section had also been sheared off, the tail itself bent. The slope above it was littered with metal. There was still no fire or explosion, but I wasn’t going to wait around for either. As I moved away, I took out my phone: no reception.

Behind me I heard popping and crackling sounds. Then a loud bang. In a few seconds the wreckage was engulfed in flames.

Exit and get clear of the aircraft promptly…

Yeah.

Quickly I turned away. I’d walk to the ranch house and ask for help, playing out my cover scenario for real.

I set out for the ranch compound. In spite of the cold, the sun beat down and soon I began to sweat inside my heavy parka. I unzipped it and went on.

The pain in my chest was becoming more bearable, but every now and then a sudden, vicious stab would make me stop and catch my breath. I wondered if I had a cracked rib or pelvic bone.

The hiking boots weren’t ones I frequently wore. My toes and heels began to chafe against them. I promised myself a pedicure when I got back to the city.

As I approached the compound, my backpack tugged uncomfortably at my shoulders. I stopped, took it off, and removed Hy’s.45 to reduce the load. Time to have the gun at hand, anyway. I stuck it in the waistband of my jeans, had a drink of bottled water, put the pack back on, and kept going.

When I got to a small stand of Jeffrey pines, I dropped down onto my knees and took out the binoculars. Surveyed the bleak land that stretched in front of me, the cluster of simulated adobe buildings with red tile roofs. No motion, no life.

The sun was glaring down now. Sweat oozed along my rib cage. I shed the parka and left it on the ground. Began to creep along-alert for the presence of other slithering creatures. After all, Rattlesnake Ranch had been aptly named. This was the predators’ natural habitat.

House, hangar, and outbuildings clearly in sight now. Drained swimming pool showing through a long, tall hedge of hardy-looking evergreens. I picked up the pace.

Halfway there I paused to raise the binoculars. Empty landscape.

Last hundred yards or so. Parched, but unwilling to stop for water. Hand on gun. If someone had heard the crash, he could be lying in wait.

Emptiness.

I reached the hedge that screened the house and pool.

A hissing sound.

Snake!

I drew the.45, tensing-and then saw droplets clinging to the plants and realized the hiss came from an automatic sprinkler system.

Come on, McCone-after what you’ve just been through, an encounter with a rattler is nothing.

I slipped up to the hedge. The spray from the sprinklers felt cool on my face and bare arms. I moved through the prickly branches till I could see the house.

Patio on the other side of the pool, furniture covered. French doors, with blinds closed. Other windows, also covered from within.

No one here, but that was what I’d hoped for. I needed to get inside and call for help, so I might as well carry through with my original purpose.

Where was the garage? Not on this side. Try the other.

I followed the line of the shrubbery. More covered windows. Other small patios. A garden, mostly turned earth and weeds, with a border of dried-out sunflowers. Finally a garage, large enough to hold at least three cars. There was a window in the rear, blocked by what looked to be cardboard.

The dead sunflower border of the garden provided shelter. I went to the garage window.

Cardboard, yes. A flattened carton with the words WOLF SUB-ZERO REFRIGERATOR printed on it. A box the appliance had been delivered in, not yet discarded. It didn’t quite fit the window; I peered through the crack to its side.

A wall of shelving. A gray SUV; I couldn’t make out what kind.

Chances were Hanover had a security system on the house. What would be the responding agency? The sheriff’s department? Not likely; they were too shorthanded to provide emergency services every time the system malfunctioned and set off the alarm, as sensitive ones are inclined to do. And none of the big outfits like ADT operated in this area; I knew because Hy and I had considered security for the ranch, then dismissed the idea. The ranch buildings hadn’t been subject to a break-in in all the time Hy had owned the property. If Hanover had any kind of security, it would probably be a loud alarm to repel intruders. Or a private patrol that came by once or twice a day.

Take a chance, McCone. If that boat trailer of Bud Smith’s is in this garage, you’ve got Hanover nailed.

Still, I hesitated, thinking of the damage I could do myself and the legal case against him if I was caught.

I felt around the window frame. Flimsy aluminum. Billionaires will spend a fortune on the most ridiculous things, such as toilets that wash and dry your butt, but when it comes to the basics, like a garage window…

I tugged at the frame. And the window slid open.

No clanging alarm. Nothing but silence.

I pushed the cardboard aside, peered into the garage.

Door leading into the house. The SUV I’d partially seen earlier-a Saab. Gardening supplies and tools. Hot-water heater and furnace.

And an empty boat trailer.

First piece of evidence.

I pushed the window open wider and climbed-wincing at the pain in my chest-into the garage.

First I looked around to see if there were any junction boxes to indicate I was wrong about a silent alarm. None, and the circuit breakers were all on and clearly labeled. I turned my attention to the trailer. The dusty license plate secured to it was Smith’s, all right.