Джон Макдональд - Flight of the Tiger

The man slumped sideways and Ben yanked him out of the seat, scrambled over him, slid behind the wheel. The plane teetered in a sickening instant of stall and then fell away, and in the instant before he could see the ground Ben had the quick fear that there would not be air room enough to come out of it. But the river was far below. He shoved the wheel forward and regained air speed quickly and brought the plane back around onto course in level flight. The small red plane had moved an astonishingly short distance. It seemed to Ben that a great deal of time had passed. Yet he knew that, at the most, it had taken not more than twenty seconds.

Ben turned. John Cassidy lay still, his head half under the seat where Ben had been before the attack on Brath had started. Helen was on her knees, sitting back on her heels, and he saw her turn John’s head gently. She got up and came to him, bent close to him. “He’s breathing, Ben, and there isn’t much blood. It’s all here,” she said and touched him above the right ear with her finger tips. “We’ve got to get him to a doctor.”

Ben cautiously released the controls. The plane maintained level flight. He handed her the gun. “Keep it pointed at Brath.”

She took it gingerly. He slid out of the seat and went back to where John Cassidy lay. The slug had grooved his skull. The pulse felt slow and steady. He pressed firmly around the wound with his finger tips and he could feel no telltale shift or movement of the bone. The shift of Ben’s weight had put the plane into a shallow climb. He went back and slid into the seat.

“I think he’s okay, Helen. We can find a field and land. Or we can go to the farm.”

Her smile was tremulous. “I know what John would say.”

“Our luck is good so far. Shall we push it?”

“They won’t expect it to be like this.” She waved the gun. Brath surprised both of them by suddenly snatching at her wrist. He was quick, but her quickness was feline. As he started to sit up she reversed the automatic, held it by the barrel and hit him briskly and decisively on the crown of the head. As she did so she held her mouth in that prim expression of a woman threading a needle. After he fell back she began to shake.

Ben tilted the nose down. He had been flying the plane automatically, aware only that it was quick and responsive. Now he saw the insect lines of traffic on Route 9, and he picked out Rhinebeck far to the south. He angled south and finally found the farm. He thought of landing the ship, and with the thought his hands became clumsy. The little plane had been a sound and stable device, and now it felt frail and unsupported, trembling aloft as though it were one of those early craft of sticks and string and fabric. He felt the sweat on his hands. To him, after the planes he had flown, this one should have presented no more difficulties than a motor scooter. His sickness made him feel naked and afraid in the air; it turned familiar heights into dizzying voids, and it took all the cunning from his hands.

He forced himself to become familiar with the simple instruments and controls. As he lost altitude he looked for a wind-direction check and saw some sheets on a clothesline far below. The plane bounced hard in an updraft off a hill. In the grass on the flats just south of the farm, he found the wheel tracks from the plane’s earlier landing. He went by the farmhouse, just to the east of it, at about three hundred feet. He banked to come back into the wind and caught a glimpse of a man who had run out of the farmhouse and stood, shading his eyes and staring up at them. At that distance it looked like Davey Lemon.

He throttled back and dropped the plane, fishtailing it a bit, and then felt that his depth perception had gone wrong and he was flying it into the ground. He pulled the wheel back and the plane waddled and dropped hard and bounced, and then it was down and he thought for a moment he would be sick to his stomach. He taxied it closer to the house and cut the motor and sat numbed in the silence.

“They’re coming,” Helen said.

He saw them, two of them, two heavy men trotting from the farmhouse, and one of them was Lemon.

“It’s Gorman,” Helen said. “Ben, what will we—”

He took the gun from her and pulled back the slide just far enough to see the brass gleam in the chamber, and then he eased it back. It wasn’t going to be enough merely to wave it around and make large talk. There would be no time to try to convince Lemon that Gorman and Brath had special plans for him. He remembered what John had said — that he should have shot when he had the chance. The trick now was not to alert them, to get the door open fast when the range was just right and see how fast he could make a hole in each of them. Gorman would be anxious to see if Helen was there. If he got a look at her, that might divert his attention for the necessary portion of a second. Ben moved to the door and worked the latch; Helen was close beside him.

He heard Lemon yell. “Paul! Hey, Paulie!” The voice was close. Ben shoved the door open hard so that the two of them were visible, and he saw that Lemon was just in front of Gorman. He swung the gun up and fired at almost point-blank range. Lemon yelled and spun and fell against Gorman’s legs. Ben caught a glimpse of the ludicrous expression of shock on Lemon’s face and he fired again, knowing as Gorman pitched forward that he had missed. He tried to correct and fire again, but once Gorman fell he kept rolling. He rolled with frantic haste until he was under the plane and out of sight. There was a sudden stillness. Lemon lay still in the grass, on his side, his back to the plane.

For a moment Ben stood wondering if he should drop to the ground and risk firing the moment he saw Eric Gorman.

Gorman spoke and his voice was startlingly close. “Both of you get out and walk directly away from the plane.” It was a command, an order given in strength and calmness.

Ben looked quickly at Helen and held his finger warningly to his lips. He knew the stalemate could be quickly and easily broken if he could reach the controls. He shifted his weight. The metal floor creaked. The sound of the shot was close, and it had a metallic sound. The slug punched a clean hole through the floor, and a ragged hole through the roof inches from Ben’s head. Distorted by impact, it made a fading whine into the quiet air. Ben fired at the floor, guessing Gorman’s location. There was silence. Ben could hear his own heart.

Gorman said, “I’ll fire at the first sound I hear. And if I hear the starter. I’ll put three shots up through the seat.” He was moving as he spoke. Ben heard the rustle of the grass. He could not judge Gorman’s location. He did not want to risk movement. The next shot might rip up into John Cassidy, or hit Helen.

She gasped suddenly and he looked out and saw, helplessly, that Lemon had rolled over. The man’s face was distorted with pain but he held a gun pointed through the open doorway aimed at Ben’s middle.

“Drop it, baby.” Lemon said in a thin strained voice. There was a dark stain on the shabby sport jacket, high on the right side of his chest.

It was Helen who spoke. “If you’re Davey Lemon, Brath told us they’re going to kill you too.” She spoke quickly and sharply, and then took a quick silent step to one side, nearer the doorway instead of away from it, and stood with her chin up, looking directly at Lemon.

“Hold him right there, Lemon,” Gorman said. “I’m coming out.”

Ben, watching Lemon closely, saw the man’s eyes shift toward Gorman, saw the uneasy flick of tongue along the lower lip, saw the wavering of the muzzle. When Lemon looked back at Ben. Ben nodded agreement to what Helen had said.

“Lemon!” Gorman said sharply.

The muzzle direction changed with a painful slowness and was aimed under the plane. “Let’s talk a little,” Lemon said.