Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

“Just a minute. I’ve got to fly the plane. Mountains ahead.” I had to think of something to take Rita’s mind off the ordeal she’d just been through, or I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the task at hand. “Look in the glove box. See if there’s an owner’s manual in there, something that will tell me how to fly this thing.”

“Oh, my God! What have I gotten myself into? I had a better chance with Moran.” I glared at her and she started fumbling in the glove box. “Damn you, O’Brien.”

The plane meandered. I turned the control wheel and applied a little rudder and the plane drifted back on course-the imaginary line I had drawn on the map in my mind.

“There’s no manual in here…” She raised her head. “You were kidding, weren’t you? You really don’t need a book. Do you?”

“Don’t worry; I know how to fly the thing. I was kidding. But seriously, I know you’ve just been through hell. We both have, but we survived.”

Rita stared out at the horizon, taking a moment to compose her thoughts. “Jimmy, I was scared, really scared, and when I saw you I almost lost it. I knew you came to save me and I knew we were both going to be killed. Jimmy, you were foolish to…”

“Hey, I couldn’t sit there and do nothing. But anyhow, I’m proud of you, proud of your courage and the way you didn’t fold up when it mattered. Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m fine now, I guess,” Rita said. “But in the future can we just stick to DUI cases, maybe a little petty theft when things get dull?”

“As long as we don’t do any corporate law. I’ve met enough big-time crooks already.”

We flew at five thousand feet over the Calico range. Glancing down, I saw the complex, structures scattered like tiny toy blocks in the valley way off in the distance. I didn’t mention it to Rita, but I was worried about landing the plane on that short strip. I thought about flying to Barstow or someplace where they had a longer runway, but I knew I’d get lost. For now I was doing fine, the Cessna cruising along as smooth as a Coltrane riff.

I took a quick look at Rita. She sat quietly, alone with her thoughts. “So, Rita, it’s just you and me alone up here with a pouch full of diamonds.”

“Yeah, and one dead guy in back.” She turned to me. “He liked diamonds too, Jimmy.”

“I thought diamonds were a girl’s best friend.”

“Right now I’d settle for a friend who knows how to land an airplane. How many lessons did that blonde give you anyway?”

“Ooh, that hurts.” I frowned and thought, is she reading my mind? “Hey, it’s your fault we’re here.” I shook my head. “You and your writ. What in hell were you thinking? Just what kind of writ were you trying to serve anyway?”

“Oh, I wasn’t trying to serve papers or anything. That was just an excuse. I wanted to see what was going on.”

“You wanted to see what was going on?”

“Whoa, Jimmy, it wasn’t idle curiosity. Remember I told you I got a look at Professor Carmichael’s research paper?”

“Yeah, so?”

“The guy was a geologist, an expert in borax. I won’t bore you with the details, but basically he couldn’t figure out how the mines in the Calico area-Moran’s mines-could make a profit. He knew the ore wasn’t rich enough to support an operation as large as his. So he did a little investigating on his own. He came out here secretly and took a look around. And when he saw the kids working, well…”

I eased off the Cessna’s throttle, which put us in a slight descent. “He figured out that with no labor costs, Moran could get rich.”

“Yeah, and he planned to break the story on the college TV station. His last hurrah, before the station was sold to Bickerton.”

“So Robbie killed him before the expose could air,” I said, following Rita’s thread.

“I think Moran sent Robbie to kill him.” Rita nodded. “I think it was all planned. Even Robbie’s religious fervor was an act. Then Moran eliminated Robbie, getting rid of that loose end and framing you at the same time.”

“I’ll agree that Moran killed him, or had him killed,” I said. “But Robbie wasn’t acting. No, he was seriously unbalanced. No one could be that good of an actor.”

“Think about it. The breakout, when Robbie got away, went too smoothly, had to be preplanned.”

“We may never know, Rita. But, I’m just glad it’s over.”

“Well, it’s not quite over. You still have to land this plane.”

We flew beyond the Calico Range and soared down into the valley, approaching the borax works. I made a low pass over the complex and glanced at the ground. The shootout looked to be done. The police had taken over the facility. They had the guards lined up with their hands on their heads. Numerous teens stood in small groups talking with officials, and on the road coming from Rattlesnake Lake Base I saw a line of police vehicles with flashing lights speeding toward the facility. A couple of Sheriff’s Department prisoner transport buses led the parade, and trailing far behind was what appeared to be Hammer’s car. Sol’s black limo stood next to the small clapboard office.

I made a sweep over the runway, which from the plane looked about as big as a postage stamp. Rita glanced at the strip, then at me. “You can do it, right, Jimmy? I’m not worried.” She tried to smile, but what appeared was more of a grimace.

“No problem,” I said. “But just in case…”

“In case? What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Just tighten your seatbelt.”

I grabbed the radio mike. I was familiar with transceiver-type radios from my days as a cop. Susie had explained the protocol of emergency aviation transmissions, the use of the 121.5 VHF frequency. I pressed the “to talk” switch. “Hey, is anybody out there? I need help!” I released the switch.

The speakers came to life. “Aircraft calling on 121.5, this is Los Angeles Center. Say your position and identification.”

“I’m over the old borax works, somewhere west or maybe north. Aw… south of Barstow.”

“Unknown aircraft transmitting on the emergency frequency, are you a pilot?”

“No, and that’s my problem,” I said, turning away from Rita and speaking in a low voice. “I don’t know how to land this thing, but I’ve got to put down on the runway at the borax works.”

“Are you declaring an emergency?”

“Damn right I am.”

“Roger that. Now hold tight and answer my questions. First, how many souls are on board?”

“Two right now. One just departed.”

“What?”

“Two, two people on board. But I have to land this plane. It’s a Cessna 172.”

“Don’t worry. I have a private pilot’s license. I’ll talk you down.”

“Can you do that?”

“Yeah, piece of cake,” the guy said. “Those 172s practically land themselves.”

I glanced at Rita, who gave me a weak smile and tried to pretend that all was fine, but the look in her eyes told me she had a few concerns. “Okay, let’s go for it,” I said to the controller.

“That’s the spirit. Now, first we’re going to dispense with the formalities. Forget about radio protocol. Just speak in a normal manner. Do you roger that? If so, answer in the affirmative.”

“Ten-four,” I said.

“We don’t say ten-four. Cops say ten-four.”

“Roger, that’s affirmative.”

“Look, sir, just talk normally so I can understand you,” the controller said. “Now, do you see the runway?”

“Yeah, it’s down there. I’m circling over it.”

Rita tapped my shoulder. “Jimmy, that’s not the runway, it’s a road.”

“Shut up, Rita!”

The loudspeaker interrupted. “Say again.”

“Not you, I was talking to Rita.”